One Saturday evening his friends were invited to the farm. Catherine and John had promised to spend the evening in Lodeve, to see a film and have a meal in a restaurant, staying away until twelve. When driving towards the farm they heard the music. They stopped the car and got out. Leaning against the car they saw the young people dancing in the farmyard.
Catherine took John’s hand. ‘You don’t know how much it means to see Michael acting like any normal young man. Maybe he will just grow out of his illness, given a year or two. And maybe you made the right decision for us all to come here. Tonight it feels like it, standing here.’
He pressed her hand. ‘I hope so. Nothing else matters than seeing Michael happy, really. He’s made himself accepted, with such an ease and in a foreign country. Shall we drive on? We can’t stand here all night
‘Yes, some of them have a long drive home. Thanks for being patient with me.’
‘I think it is the other way round.’
* * *
John had come to a truce with Madame Popougnot, who in any case openly adored Michael and loved to share her recipes with him. His son wrote each of them neatly into his large recipe‑book and cooked them while she praised him endlessly. Madame Popougnot and John talked about lavender production for hours as they walked over the fields.
‘The lavender we grow here is perhaps the finest in the world. It becomes the clean and pure nature in a bottle,’ she explained in her idiosyncratic English, which he was just able to follow. ‘But this is a dangerous area for lavender growers. The flower take longer to ripen, as the level we are on from the sea is not high enough. The best yields of essential oil are obtained when 80% of the flowers are in full bloom. We have to harvest within a few days. Rain and storm can ruin so much hard work. It is a strong, wild essence we produce, which you can feel and smell far away. Because it is expensive, people think it is not easy to grow. But it is when we watch out. We should know better what the wholesalers in Grasse wants. Most of the essences are now exported to the big multinational companies, so we need to adapt.’
Her deep knowledge of the different varieties fascinated John, though it was not perhaps surprising given that her family had for three generations produced lavender for commercial use.
He dug up samples of plants and kept them in large pots so as to learn their characteristics and study their growth. He took cuttings from specimens which appeared especially vigorous and tried them under glass. He had a greenhouse built, where he loved to experiment. Madame Popougnot sold him her lavender farm and they solemnly considered if the distillation should be done there next year, instead of the crop being sent to Grasse.
John handled his other business interests in less than half a day a week. He studied Erick’s reports but never telephoned or interfered in the Mallorcan enterprise.
Catherine’s days were occupied by caring for the horses, preparing them for races. She and Lebrun had also reached an understanding. In exchange for his help with the heavy work in the yard, she allowed him to help when the horses were taken for training at the local airfield. Stopwatch in hand, he timed the gallops. Catherine accepted his gallantry towards her as a compliment, but of no real significance. She knew that he was an inveterate gambler who would bet heavily on the first horse she entered for a race, should she stay in France long enough..
She could see that John was content with his life here, but she knew she would move back to England instantly if Michael ever decided to leave.
Living here alone with her husband was unthinkable.
CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN
_________________________
`Lodeve, France, March 1986
‘John! John!’ cried Catherine running out into the yard. ‘Michael’s collapsed. We must pick him up.’
There was a phone call from Montpellier. Michael had fainted in class. Although he had now regained consciousness, he was not in a fit state to drive.
John immediately became unnaturally calm and efficient. He did not trust the doctors here. After making sure that his wife was all right, he got straight on the telephone to the Royal Marsden in London.
When they arrived at the college, they found Michael in the first aid room. ‘I’m all right. I could have driven home,’ he protested. ‘It was probably something I’d eaten.’
‘I’ve spoken with the hospital,’ John said firmly. ‘We’re flying to London immediately.’
‘That’s ridiculous! You’re making a lot of fuss about nothing. I’m not going.’
‘It’s not..., and you know it.’
Catherine was fighting back tears. ‘Please do as your father says, Michael.’
‘OK, OK.’
John had already arranged for a private plane to fly them to Heathrow. His son began vomiting heavily on the plane. They arrived at the hospital in the late evening, to be told that Michael would have to stay there a week for tests.
* * *
On the day of the final one, John went to the hospital. Michael was expected home the next day and Catherine had decided to stay on the Estate. John was told that the last test would not be finished for two hours. He went for a walk, and when he came back the consultant asked him to come to his office for a talk. As soon as John heard these words, he knew it was serious.
‘I’m afraid Michael is not getting better,’ the consultant began. ‘The precursor cancer cells are spreading fast. His liver is affected.’
John’s eyes filled with tears.
‘A week ago the tests were not good, but I needed this last one today to confirm the direction the disease is taking.’ The consultant hesitated, then said, ‘I’m very sorry. In our opinion, your son has between two weeks and two months to live. He doesn’t know, yet.’
John could not say anything. He fumbled for a handkerchief and blew his nose loudly.
‘I understand you live abroad?’
He nodded.
‘As things are now, Michael should not leave the hospital.’
‘Will he be in any pain?’
‘No. We can at least help with that.’
‘I must tell my wife.’ But how on earth could he break this devastating news to Catherine?
‘Michael’s illness has been very hard for her to cope with,’ the consultant said, ‘it’s better for your wife to know the truth now, so she can come to terms with it.’
‘And what about Michael?’
‘From my experience with terminally ill patients, I’d say that it is wrong to try to deny him the truth. One can’t pretend about such a matter. I suggest you and I tell him together.’
‘Why did it happen to me?’ Michael’s voice was anguished, his face bleached white by shock after the consultant had broken the news and left him alone with his father.
‘I wish I could answer that.’ John fought to keep his voice steady. He sat as close as he could to his son, holding both his hands, fruitlessly willing his own warmth and vitality into Michael’s wasted body.
‘I’m not afraid,’ he said after a while. ‘Does Mum know?’
‘I’ll tell her when I get back.’
‘That won’t be easy,’ he sighed and lay back on his pillows, trying to keep up a brave front. ‘Poor Dad. She’ll blame you, you know, which isn’t right. This has nothing to do with any of your schemes.’
‘I know that. It doesn’t matter, Michael.’ The compassion and understanding of his dying son were more than John could bear. It would be easier somehow if Michael began to rage over the injustice of it all.
‘There was just so much I wanted to do with my life! Finish studying, start a restaurant and make Mum proud, go fishing with you again in Wales, travel through India, sleep with Syhne... Now, I’ll never see her or the farm again. It’s not bloody fair!’
‘I know, Michael. I know. Shall I ask the nurse to give you something?’
‘Dope me quietly out of existence, you mean? Yes, that’d be easier all around, wouldn’t it? Well, no thanks, Dad. If a few weeks is all I
have left, I want to stay fully conscious every minute that I can. There are things I have to do still. People I have to talk to...’
John sat with him a while longer. When Michael felt calmer he asked to be left alone as he had to make a phone call to France.
‘How do you say goodbye for ever and ever and ever? He asked, looking at his father.
John stopped at the door, barely able to breath for the anguish he felt. ‘I don’t know.’
‘Well, I’ll tell you, Dad, you just have to say it. One word after the next.’
‘Are you sure you are up to that, just now?’
‘Time is running out. Can’t leave anything for a second.’
‘I could stay while you phone.’
‘No thank you. You worry about Mum.’
Syhna, the doctor’s daughter, understood exactly what he was telling her and begged to be allowed to come to London and visit him, but Michael wouldn’t allow it. There were some farewells that were better done from a distance.
* * *
When John broke the news to his wife her reaction surprised him. He’d expected tears, fainting fits, debilitating shock. Instead Catherine flew into a rage which lent colour to her pale cheeks and kindled her eyes.
‘It was all for nothing!’ she screamed. ‘I tried and tried and still I’m losing Michael.’
John tried to calm her down, painfully aware that those ‘efforts’ included their failed reconciliation, but for several hours he couldn’t seem to reach her. She shattered objects in her room and swore and screamed aloud until she was hoarse. Then, quite suddenly, she washed her face in cold water, put on a clean blouse and started to pack a suitcase.
‘I’ll be sleeping at the hospital from now on,’ she told John, after getting Keith out of bed to drive her up to London. ‘Call in some time, when you’re not too busy.’
‘I’ll stay in a hotel close by,’ he said unable to argue.
They both knew this was goodbye. Only Michael had kept them together and when he left there would be no further need to pretend a love that neither of them felt.
‘I won’t see you again, Mum – Dad ever,’ Michael said the last afternoon, feeling himself drifting deeper and deeper into a welcoming blackness.
He died peacefully in his sleep the night after his twentieth birthday, John and Catherine were at his side, divided by a gulf of failure and bitter regrets.
* * *
At his funeral in Cerne Abbas, the whole village turned out to watch the coffin being taken into the church.
John tried to be supportive to Catherine, but she turned away from him and relied completely on her parents.
Catherine blamed him for Michael’s death. This was God’s way of punishing them, she felt, for the life John had chosen, the things he had done and for her acceptance of what she’d known all along was indefensible.
* * *
Catherine made it quite plain she expected John to leave Cerne and return to France.
He did not say anything. He was past discussion. He leaned back in his favourite chair in the room he had known all his life and closed his eyes.
‘I loved you once, John. Maybe I’ll never love anyone else the same way. But you’ve not really changed as you promised,’ he heard his wife say. ‘I believe you just pretended all the time to Michael and me. You have become a recluse but you’re still in the mire, up to your neck. . I don’t want to live with a man like that. I can’t bear seeing you, in fact go back to France. Now.’
‘Give me a few minutes with you to sort out some practical things and you’ll never see me again.’ He paused, then went on, ‘ I’ll contact my solicitor tomorrow and begin divorce proceedings. I’ll give you a lump sum and monthly payment for life.’
‘And the Estate?’
‘It’s yours. With the interest from your settlement, you’ll be able to manage comfortably. I hope you’ll tell me if you want to sell one day.’
Catherine stared at her soon to be ex‑husband. He had lost weight and his eyes looked burnt out.
‘Yes. Make the arrangements. I agree.’ She walked from the room without a word of tenderness or goodbye.
John sat looking out over the lawn. It was getting dark and nothing moved outside. Half an hour went by. He felt so very tired. In need of peace and solitude. Tears started running down his face. He did not bother to wipe them away. He could manage without Catherine and she would be better off without him, but when he thought of Michael’s funeral, just a few hours ago, he wondered if it was worth living. His heart started to beat slow and heavily, his breast began to hurt and he could not breathe. He pressed himself back in the chair and passed out for a moment.
Eventually he got up from his chair and walked out of the house, leaving the heavy front door standing ajar. For the last time he passed under the stately trees lining the long drive and made for the road past the dark churchyard.
In a passing lorry he hitched a lift to Southampton, where he caught the ferry to France as a foot passenger. He arrived at the farm near Lodeve a week later, tired, dirty, unshaven and footsore. And to his own surprise feeling free at last.
CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT
_________________________
Lodeve, France, April 1986
For a week John did not answer any phone calls. Some days he stayed in bed. Others he got up while it was dark and walked out of the house, staying away all day.
On the lavender farm he did not talk to anyone. Grief prevented it. He was able to live as he pleased, but did not know how to begin now that his reason for existing had been taken away.
He still had not been back to Michael’s fishing spot at the river. Several times he started to walk there, but gave up when he found his heart beating painfully and his body shaking. Many times he considered if he should get in contact with Cecilia, but never took the initiative.
Then Arthur arrived unexpectedly. ‘You shouldn’t have come,’ John protested.
‘I had to. You’re my friend. You need me. I’m staying here for a little while.’
‘Away from your beloved Mayfair? I must be in a bad way.’
Arthur was the soul of tact and discretion. He asked endless diversionary questions about lavender growing, accompanied John on long walks and answered all the phone calls. He tried to phone Catherine, but was told by the housekeeper that she was not to be disturbed.
‘Come with me to Michael’s place,’ John said eventually.
‘Whatever you say, John. Come on, let’s do it now.’
The two men walked slowly, without speaking, to the river. John sat down again under the tree where he used to watch Michael fish. He tried to speak to set Arthur at his ease. This was no picnic for him either. But his friend folded his hands on his chest, pulled his hat down over his eyes and proceeded to fall asleep – or pretend to. Winston sidled closer to John and eventually lay down beside him, his chin resting on his master’s leg.
Every day after that, escorted by the dog, Arthur and John walked to Michael’s place.
‘Does life always grow more sad?’ John asked one day. ‘Or is it only mine?’
‘Everything changes,’ Arthur replied. ‘The older you get, the more you gamble on each new risk or initiative. If anything goes wrong, you might not have time to make a comeback.’
‘My ambition was so important to me once. Now it seems my whole life has been one wrong turning after another.’
Arthur shook his head. ‘People like you have to follow their ambition or they die a little day by day. At least you had the guts to make your choice.’
‘That doesn’t mean it was the only one I had,’ John said wryly, ‘or that it was right.’
After a week, Arthur said, ‘I’ve been here long enough. You’re getting fed up with me. But before I leave, I’m afraid there’s a matter we have to discuss.’
‘You’ve waited long enough to bring it up. Had to make sure I could take it, eh?’
‘Two journalists paid me a vis
it in the shop a few days before I came, asking if I knew where a John Forbes lived.’
‘What did you tell them?’
‘That I had heard you lived in Spain, but had lost contact with you.’
‘Journalists? Which newspaper?’
‘Daily News. Someone’s obviously trying to make a quick killing out of a story about you, and we’d better do something about it. I don’t know how they linked me with you, unless they’ve seen us together. Maybe a picture from the funeral in the local paper?’
‘I’d hoped I was yesterday’s news. Court hearing was publicity enough.’ He was silent for a moment, then murmured, ‘The Daily News, you say? Look, telephone Erick and let him know what’s happened.’
‘What can he do?’
‘We own the bloody newspaper, so far as I know.’
Arthur stared at him. ‘Own the Daily News? Isn’t it one of Randolph Purcell’s rags?’
‘Yes. And we own Purcell Industries.’
Arthur gaped. He could only shake his head, speechless.
John smiled. ‘Sorry, I should have told you before now.’
‘You can still shock me.’ Arthur rose to his feet. ‘Does this mean you’ve achieved your final goal? Are congratulations in order?’
‘There’s a way to go yet, but we’re getting there. Thanks to Erick. Underneath that calm Scandinavian exterior he’s as driven as I am.’
An hour later, he confirmed that the two journalists had been taken off the story. It was unlikely Purcell had given them the lead, as John’s name had never been mentioned to him. Erick promised to look into it further.
‘Why don’t you pop over and see us, John? You could do with a little holiday.’
‘I’ll think about it.’
‘Just do it. Your friends want you back on your feet.’
‘All right, I’ll come.’
‘You promise?’
‘OK, yes, I promise. Anything for a quiet life!’
* * *
The day after Arthur left, Madame Popougnot gave John a note from Cecilia. She said how deeply sorry she was to hear of Michael’s death, and gave him her best wishes for the future. He sat for a long while holding the letter, staring at her fine and level handwriting.