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With Florian slouched in the seat next to me, sulking, I’d interviewed and appointed a very nice, and quite handsome office manager, named Pierre, who was already whipping the salt cooperative into shape. Pierre and I developed an extremely good rapport during the interview, which I liked to think, with a little thrill, was the source of Florian’s ill humour. As if he ever needed an ounce of worry in that regard.
I kept myself busy. Not stressy busy, more like allowing my hours to be filled with things I enjoyed. What with my art group, the book club I’d joined, and odds and ends with Marcus, very little time remained for melancholy.
Unless I found a spurious cooperative-related reason to visit him, I tried to stay clear of the path weaving past Florian’s salt flat. The one time I’d caved and shared lunch with him, he hadn’t seemed to mind. I had a feeling he was mulling things over. I was prepared to wait.
My sleep had settled down too. Less of a freestyle shuffle and more solid blocks of seven or eight hours, with only the occasional jolt awake at 3 a.m. And even then, my nightmares had blunted teeth. Regular online sessions with a grief counsellor helped. A persistent belief that suicide was a self-fulfilling prophecy faded, to be replaced with an understanding and acceptance that if I was going to do it, I would have done. But I hadn’t, even in the depths of that shadowy abyss. And somehow, I managed to draw strength from that.
Being on the island also helped, even if Florian hadn’t fallen back into my arms. Call it the fresh sea breeze, the healthy diet, the simplicity of my life here, or a combination of all three, but I was cautiously happy. My forest green was focused, flat, and calm, and when my mother’s yellow came calling, it was a welcome visitor. Memories of our time together still held a bittersweet edge—I suspected they always would. But no longer brought me to tears.
I’d been assisting with the cooperative’s finances for a couple of weeks before I spotted a familiar figure on one of my beach walks. Like a Regency gentleman, I’d taken to a daily promenade—usually after a brief check-in with Pierre. It improved my appetite and helped me sleep. I tended to avoid the popular stetches of sand in favour of plodding around the bleaker, less trodden Loix headland. Seemed Papi had the same idea.
He walked with a stick now. A little slower than before, but with a sense of purpose; not as if he’d lost his way. A posy of spring flowers dangled from his free hand, wrapped in a sheet of damp newspaper, and picked by him. As he trudged towards me, lost in thought, I stepped to the side of the narrow coastal path so we wouldn’t collide. He gave me a nod.
“Hello. Um… hello. It’s… it’s…”
“Charles,” I prompted. “Florian’s friend.”
He squinted at me. “That’s right, Florian’s friend. Charles. The Belgian.”
We shook hands, then stood back, both waiting for small talk from the other. Never my forte.
“Good salt weather, isn’t it?” he said, tilting his head up to the sky. Patchy sunshine tried to break through the cloud, helped along by a brisk onshore wind.
“Yes, I bet Florian is glad of it, after all that rain.”
“Yes, but there’s always plenty to do out on the flat, even in the rain.”
This I’d found out for myself. Since taking on my new, very part-time role, I’d discovered salt harvesters didn’t spend the off-season with their feet up twiddling their toes. Late autumn was taken up with sorting and grading the yield, now piled into the hangar, and arranging for shipments to be sent out all over France. And then, when the hangar had been stripped bare and cleaned, there were the marshes to maintain. Drainage systems to repair, tile banks to rebuild. Tractors to tinker with and ecosystems to protect. To think that a year ago I’d assumed the whole thing was a piece of theatre for the entertainment of tourists.
“Which way are you walking?” I enquired.
“The same route I do every day.” He pointed with his stick. “Along this bit, then across that cove, around the headland and back. Takes me an hour and a half; I stop at the cove for a rest and a chat to Beatrice for a few minutes.”
What would Florian make of that? I fell into step alongside him. Being careful on the uneven ground took up most of Papi’s faculties and he was quiet as we walked, which was fine with me. But not so preoccupied that he didn’t spot an avocet way before I did, standing high in a rock pool, on white stilted legs.
“Florian’s the one for birdwatching,” he remarked, as a flock of black-headed gulls took off from the shoreline. “The boy knows them all, and where to find the nests. Comes from spending all day out on the marshes.”
“I… ah… didn’t know that.”
I wondered what else I didn’t know about Florian; I hoped to discover everything one day.
We reached the cove, not a beach exactly, more of a sandy outcrop separated from the path by a steep layer of rocks and pebbles. The pebbly shoreline deterred swimmers and holidaymakers, especially with a fine, wide sandy beach less than fifty yards farther up the coast. Fixed to one side of the path, a worn wooden bench overlooked the cove, providing excellent views across the bay, as far as La Rochelle on the mainland in one direction and up to Les Portes at the top of the island in the other. I couldn’t have chosen a better rest stop myself.
With a sigh, Papi sat at one end of the bench, hitching his trousers up his thighs to get comfortable, in the way old men did. Propping the stick up next to him, he crossed his feet and began unwrapping his parcel of flowers.
“Daises today, Beatrice,” he announced cheerfully, as if I wasn’t there. “From that little patch by the back wall that gets the morning sun. Not many, because we haven’t got too many in bloom yet.”
As he arranged the flowers on the bench next to him, he motioned me to sit. “She likes yellow flowers the best.” He resumed conversing with his dead wife. “I’ve brought one of Florian’s friends with me today, Beatrice. A nice lad. Charles.”
I smiled to myself. I was a good many years down the line from being a lad. For an instant, I was inclined to stay standing, make my excuses and walk away. Because I’d stumbled upon a private moment, a secret ritual that even Florian was unaware existed. Then he spoke again.
“Beatrice and I were married for fifty-eight years. I know she’s listening, that woman couldn’t keep her ears and nose out of anything. Have a seat, take the weight off. Don’t mind me.”
I sat at the other end of the bench, the little bouquet resting between us. A peaceful feeling settled over me, in a wash of faded yellow, complementing his gift of pale daisies. How often did any of us rest on a bench, doing nothing, staring out at the ocean? Papi was silent too, his faded pale green gaze, so like Florian’s, lost in his own memories. Not miserably contemplative, just… accepting that this was how things were.
A handful of dead blooms lay scattered at our feet, their stems wrinkled and brown. After a few minutes, Papi leaned down and began collecting them together. I reached to help him, and soon they were all bundled up in the newspaper. “Yesterday’s,” he commented. “They need to go on the compost heap when I get back.”
He regarded the loose parcel in his gnarled old hands, strong hands that had done their fair share of raking over the years. Gazing out across the bay, he smiled. “My boy Florian doesn’t like me talking to her. I think it upsets him. He thinks I don’t remember she’s dead.”
