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A few days later, Jacques showed her the garden he’d created for his mother. It was to the side of the farmhouse he shared with his father. There was a meadow full of pink and purple wildflowers, interspersed with white and cerise roses, and everywhere there were pillars and posts with bird baths and nesting boxes. Off to the side was a bench, which they sat down on.
‘Papi helped me make the boxes, to help the birds roost,’ he said.
Huginn flew from his shoulder to go and investigate one of the bird feeders.
‘I’ve never known anyone who loves birds the way you do,’ she replied. ‘To be honest until I met you I never thought of them having personalities like Huginn.’
‘They’re all so different. I’m going to study them professionally one day. I want to be like Heinrich Gätke, he wrote my favourite book, Heligoland, an Ornithological Observatory. He was a painter who went to go live on the North Sea island, Heligoland, in 1841 and while he was there he became fascinated with birds, realising it was an important area for bird migration. I’d like to go there and study at the Institute of Avian Research when I’m older.’
She touched a poppy, felt its soft folds, and said, ‘You won’t look after the vines like your father?’
He shook his head, then pulled a face. ‘No. I’m not looking forward to breaking that news to him.’
Her eyes widened. ‘He doesn’t know that’s what you want?’
He shook his head. ‘He does. But he also thinks it’s a phase I’m going to grow out of,’ he sighed. ‘He’s always talking about “one day when you’re older and you run the farm…” I’ve tried to make him see that this might not happen but,’ he shrugged, ‘it’s like he doesn’t want to hear.’
Elodie didn’t know what to say except, ‘He’ll want you to be happy, though.’
Jacques sighed. ‘I don’t know. One day I’ll have to confront him on that, but not today.’ Then he looked at her, raised a brow and said, ‘Pétanque?’
She nodded. Pétanque was always a good idea as far as she was concerned.
As the summer moved to autumn, they spent most of their afternoons together, going for long rambling walks often accompanied by Huginn, though sometimes other birds visited too, ones that Jacques had helped over the years, like a great tit named Charlie, and Sofia, a starling, whose wing he’d once helped set.
Elodie told him about Paris, and how the city never slept and what it was like living with her maman, who had many friends and used to visit cafés and attend parties and was so much fun. ‘I see Grand-mère in her – that fun side.’
Though her mother’s fun side, she would realise later, was much wilder, a streak of rebellion that bordered on recklessness. But ten-year-old Elodie just remembered the fun, the parties, the late nights, the fashionable, beautiful people. Grand-mère was fun in a more earthly way.
One winter’s morning, as the Mistral, the famous north-westerly wind that blew in from the south, made its presence known, Elodie was snuggling in the farmhouse kitchen next to the warm range with Pattou the cat on her lap. His whiskers twitched in his sleep, and she was trying to resist the urge to feel the soft pads beneath his paws.
‘I have something for you,’ said Grand-mère, coming in from the living room with something behind her back and her lips curling up at one side, like she was imparting a secret.
‘What?’ asked Elodie.
‘This,’ said Grand-mère, showing her a small book that was covered in red-and-white check fabric. It was bound with a red ribbon.
‘What is it?’ asked Elodie in surprise.
‘Open it.’
Elodie opened it and saw that on the first page it said, ‘Recipes’. Below this was an inscription from Grand-mère:
For Ma Petite, with love. Here’s to a life filled with good food and company, for you will be richer than a king with these to dine on.
When she flicked through the book, though, it was full of blank pages.
She looked up in surprise. ‘But – it’s empty?’
Grand-mère grinned. ‘Yes, for now. Well, I have had some news – it’s not official yet – so let’s not get carried away but it does seem likely that you will be getting to stay with me for a while longer.’
Elodie’s smile widened. She wanted nothing more. While the idea of her father was intriguing – she’d heard stories of him when she was little, stories of a handsome, dashing soldier – even in her mother’s colourful prose she couldn’t quite disguise the image of someone who was aloof, and slightly cold; an image that had regrettably only strengthened after he’d failed to come collect her after her mother’s death…
She wanted to meet him, but the truth was, she loved it here.
‘I thought that since you’ll be staying longer, perhaps I could start teaching you, officially. So that perhaps when you’re older, well, who knows? You could take over or—’
‘Work with you?’
