The Forget-Me-Not Sonata(140)

Leonora was shocked when next she saw him. Not only was his face smooth and clean but he was smiling. ‘Let’s take a look at what we planted last autumn,’ he suggested, walking with her around to the back of the house. Leonora felt uncomfortable for surely her sister was back, why else would he have made such an effort? He hadn’t smiled in a year. But she soon realized that the sudden change in his appearance as well as his humour were entirely his own initiative. He must have decided to get on with his life.

Then, just when Leonora was beginning to enjoy her deepening friendship with Florien, Cicely announced that the gypsies were leaving. ‘But Florien hasn’t mentioned it to me,’ she exclaimed in astonishment.

‘That’s because he’s still dreaming of your sister,’ Cicely replied, pursing her lips. She was awed by the masochism of the men who took her on. They were no match for Alicia; she was stronger and more resilient than any of them. She would always have the advantage for she didn’t have a heart to be broken.

‘When did Panazel tell you?’

‘This morning.’

‘Where are they going?’

‘I don’t know. They’ve been here for years, perhaps they want a change of scene.’

It was late evening. The sun was sinking over the ripening corn fields and the warm kitchen smelt of steak and kidney pie. Leonora was in her usual place on the floor with the dogs, having changed out of her muddy gardening clothes for dinner. They waited for Marcel to emerge from the attic. ‘Do you think Florien will go too?’ Leonora asked, trying to hide her sadness, but her voice cracked. She coughed to disguise it, then got up and poured herself a glass of water.

‘He’s an adult. I’m sure he can do what he wants,’ Cicely replied, straining the peas. ‘He likes it here, doesn’t he?’

‘Yes, I think he does. He’s certainly been a lot happier in the last few months,’ she said.

‘I wish I could say the same for Marcel.’ Cicely sighed. ‘He’s been broody for so long I can’t remember the last time he smiled.’ She wandered back to the Aga, glancing at the clock.

‘Marcel is always broody. That’s the way he wants to be seen. He’s like a caricature,’ said Leonora and laughed. ‘But he’s very handsome.’

‘You know, initially I fell in love with him for his looks. It was hard not to. But then, as I got to know him, I realized that a very tender man dwelt beneath that smouldering Gallic exterior. It’s an unconventional relationship. He’s young enough to be my son. He’ll probably run off with someone his own age in the end, but I have enjoyed him immensely.’

‘Don’t say that, Aunt Cicely,’ Leonora exclaimed. ‘He’s lucky to have you. He should be worrying that you’re going to run off with someone your own age.’ Aunt Cicely chuckled.

‘Goodness me, I’m almost sixty!’

‘And you’re still young and attractive. Love doesn’t stop just because you’re sixty. Daddy’s in his mid fifties and love hasn’t dried up for him and Mummy. I think it just gets better as one gets older.’

‘You’re so positive, darling,’ she said, then shook her head. ‘Let’s start. If broody Byron upstairs can’t come down on time for dinner he’s going to find his food has grown cold.’ Then she looked at Leonora and grinned wistfully. ‘I like the person I am when I’m with him and that’s half the battle.’

They started to eat in silence, Leonora worrying that Florien might leave with his family and Cicely quietly furning over Marcel’s absence from the dinner table.

In all these years he had never let her see any of his paintings. ‘My elusive creativity,’ he would say, locking the door behind him. She assumed it was because of shyness, but lately she had begun to wonder whether he did any painting at all. He had grown sullen and distant. At least Florien had snapped out of his mood; Marcel was still so tightly wrapped in his ill-humour, she could hardly make him out.

Dinner was finished and Leonora went to bed. She didn’t sleep much for her mind was like a flour mill, grinding all her hopes into dust. If Florien were to leave, what would become of her? In the morning she came down to breakfast to find the dogs in a state of excitement, chasing each other around the kitchen table. She frowned and fought her way through to the biscuit tin, then threw them one to quieten them down. When her aunt appeared with swollen eyes and blotchy skin she realized something serious had happened. ‘He’s left me,’ she wailed, crumpling into the armchair beside the Aga. ‘No wonder he didn’t appear for dinner. He’s left the attic empty but for a painting leaning against the wall. I haven’t looked at it yet, I can’t bear to.’