The French Promise (29 page)

She searched
her father’s face and he knew she was unsure of whether he was just placating her.

‘I mean it, Jen. You remind me of Mum every moment of the day but you’re also your own person and you’ve still got a lot of growing to do. I can’t wait to see who you’re going to be and what you’re going to achieve. Don’t ever feel that I’m not proud of you or not happy to be sharing this journey with you. You’ve
made it special already and of course it would be perfect if Mum and Harry were here with us too, but we both have to stop wishing they could be.’

Jenny suddenly wrapped her arms around his waist. ‘I love you, Dad. I know Harry found it easy to say it to you both but I don’t. But it doesn’t mean I don’t want to say it often. But I’m worried about you. You keep disappearing in your thoughts.
I’m nervous that you’re missing Mum too much.’

He held her close. ‘I miss her every minute of every day. I miss Harry so much it hurts. But I’m in control of that sadness, I promise. I just have things on my mind.’

‘About the business? The testing went so well …’

He nodded. ‘No, I’m not worried about the business at all, I promise.’

‘Returning to France after so long?’

Luc smiled. ‘I’m hesitant,
yes.’

‘I can’t wait to see Paris with you. I can’t wait to see your village and the lavender.’

‘The lavender will have gone wild.’

‘Who cares? It’s yours. And you said we’ve already claimed back the farm – it’s just a matter of sorting out some legal papers.’

Jenny was right once again. He liked the way she could slice away all the irrelevant anxieties, cutting straight to the bone of any issue.
What she didn’t know, of course, was his real reason for coming back.

The ferry lurched and suddenly they could hear French being yelled on the shore and men were scurrying about in the shadows. The morning was breaking sluggishly, hinting strongly at winter, and he was sure it would be a grey, drizzly day. Not a perfect welcome home or ideal for Jenny’s initial glimpse of Paris, but Luc was a
firm believer that everyone fell in love with the City of Light at first glance anyway.

Within forty minutes, passports had been checked and they were loaded onto the train, which was gathering speed through the rail yards before slithering through the back ends of suburbs, southward-bound for the great Gare Saint-Lazare in Paris that he remembered well.

Luc had booked them into the Grand Hotel. A short walk from the station, it had been the original Terminus Hotel built for the Grand Exhibition of Paris in the previous century. Another cavernous marble-clad foyer greeted them. Its dramatic double-sided staircase, which ascended from the back of the foyer into the gods through huge archways, was a flight
to a purpose-built walkway directly into Gare Saint-Lazare.

The head concierge saw them admiring it. ‘The only way in Paris to transfer from a hotel onto the ships without getting a drop of rain on you, sir,’ he’d pointed out with pride. ‘So from our lobby you can travel to Dieppe, then to Newhaven in England to pick up the cruise ship and on to New York.’

‘Oh, I see. Jen, this hotel was really
built to service the great transatlantic voyages between Europe and America.’

They’d checked in and while the porters sorted out the
collection and transfer of luggage, Luc and Jenny stepped into the lobby with its mirrored ceiling. Enormous crystal chandeliers hung from it, twinkling lights reflecting all around them.

Jenny gave a soft whistle. ‘This must be costing you a lot, Dad.’

Twenty-five francs per night didn’t seem overly expensive to Luc. ‘So long as you’re happy,’ he said, not wishing to burst the bubble.

‘I love it. It’s so … so …’ She couldn’t find the word for it.

‘So French?’ Luc finished for her with a grin. ‘This sort of grandeur and mix of styles is called
La Belle Époque
.’

Jenny cut him a glance of surprise. ‘How do you know that?’

He laughed. ‘You
think because I’m a farmer I’m uneducated?’

She frowned, shrugging.

‘Well, you’re in my part of the world now. You’ll see this grandiose styling throughout Paris, especially in the hotels.’

‘I’m impressed, Dad.’

There were two small elevators but they chose to climb a different marble staircase set back to the side of the foyer, up to their room on the second floor. It was a corner guest suite
so views were afforded from various angles.

‘We’re very close to L’Opéra,’ he explained to Jenny, who despite the cold hung out of the window, brimming with excitement as she gazed out at Paris. He pointed left. ‘We can walk it in a couple of minutes.’

‘And the Galeries Lafayette?’ she enthused.

‘Well, you have been doing your homework,’ he said.
‘Right there, in fact. In front of you. That’s
the back end but if you spat you could hit it.’

She smiled. ‘Even more exciting than Harvey Nicholls.’

‘Really?’

‘When I’m back at school, what do you think is going to sound more impressive? “I got this skirt in London” or “I bought this bag in Paris”?’

‘The second, of course!’ he said.

Jenny grinned. ‘I have to sleep before we go sightseeing.’

‘Groovy,’ he replied deliberately and
watched his daughter cringe.

‘Dad, don’t embarrass me.’

‘Embarrassing you is the last joy left to me,’ he said and tickled her.

‘Dad, no!’ she squealed, laughing.

He stopped, suddenly aware that other guests might not appreciate their noisy fun. ‘I’m having a shower and then I’m taking you to a very special place for an early dinner,’ he promised.

By the time he emerged from the bathroom in his
robe, drying his wet hair with a thick white towel, he found his daughter still fully dressed in her coat and sprawled in a deep sleep across her bed. It was early afternoon and the shower had woken him. He dressed hurriedly, locked Jenny into their room and headed down the few flights of stairs to find a phone.

After a brief discussion with the hotel switchboard operator and giving her the number
he required, he waited, all but holding his breath as he heard the whirrs and beeps of his connection go through and the line begin to ring.

‘
Allo?
’

Luc breathed; heard the switch operator click off once the
connection was made and closed his eyes momentarily. This was it; no turning back if he replied.

‘Is that Maximilian Vogel?’ he said.

‘Yes. Who is this, please?’

‘Lukas
Ravensburg.’

The silence was so palpable it was like a third listener on the line.

‘Are you still there, Mr Vogel?’ Luc asked, aware that his own heart was pounding.

‘I am. Please call me Max.’

‘All right.’

Neither spoke for a moment. It was hard to know where to begin.

‘I … er, got your letter. And I’m very glad you made it to France,’ Max said, breaking the drought awkwardly.

‘We’re in Paris
at present.’

‘How did your daughter manage the long journey?’

‘Well, thank you. It feels like an eternity ago. Jenny loved London, predictably, but Paris is the jewel she’s been looking forward to seeing.’

‘Who could blame her?’ Max said.

They’d run out of small talk so Luc opted to be blunt. ‘Would you like to meet me here or would you prefer me to come to you?’

He heard the younger man take
a breath. ‘I’m more than happy to catch a train and maybe it’s easier as there’s only one of me.’

‘I wouldn’t bring Jenny,’ Luc said, his tone perhaps too sharp. ‘Forgive me, but she knows none of this.’

‘No, of course not,’ Max said. ‘I’ll come to you. Can you make arrangements so we can talk freely?’

‘I’ll organise something,’ Luc said. ‘When?’

He heard Max blow out his breath at the
other end of the line. ‘How about if I leave Lausanne on Friday, get there in time to see you for Saturday?’

End of the week. Luc could give Jenny some days of sightseeing in that time. ‘That’s fine. We’re staying at the Grand.’

‘By the station?’

‘That’s the one.’

‘Shall I call, or …?’

‘No. I’ll expect you. I’ll wait in the lobby. Shall we say ten a.m.?’

‘I’ll be there. Er … Mr Ravens, how will
I know you?’

‘Don’t worry. I’ll know you. See you then, Max,’ he said and put the receiver back with a number of emotions tangling in his mind.

Determined not to penny-pinch as he had all of his life, it was with a keen sense of déjà vu that Luc took Jenny’s hand and helped her from the taxi as they drew up outside the Hotel Ritz in the Place Vendome. A flood of wartime memories washed through
his mind but he had prepared himself for the wave and refused to drown in it. Paris was French again and this hotel was no longer the stomping ground of Nazis or even Colonel Kilian’s special birthday surprise dinner venue for Lisette. This was simply one of Paris’s finest hotels where he would treat his daughter to the meal of a lifetime at the fabulous L’Espadon.

‘Ready, Jenny?’ he asked.

‘So
ready, Luc,’ she replied loftily and giggled.

‘I prefer “Dad”,’ he whispered.

‘Thank you for insisting I learn French,’ she whispered back in French.

He nodded and switched effortlessly and delightedly into his native tongue. ‘I knew it would come in handy,’ he replied.

‘Can you smell the real coffee?’

‘Of course. Wow, Paris smells foreign.’

‘That’s good.’

‘It reeks of elegance.’

He
smiled. ‘Come on. Let’s kick off our first Paris evening with a cocktail.’ She looked thrilled until he continued with, ‘Non-alcoholic for you, of course.’

Inside the Ritz, near the entrance from the Place Vendome – which he could recall being off limits to most people except Germans the last time he was in the city – he and Jenny, wearing her new miniskirt, took a seat in the cocktail bar. A
waiter arrived almost immediately.
‘Monsieur, mademoiselle, bonsoir.
Are you dining with us?’

Luc nodded. ‘We have a reservation for seven p.m.’

‘May I offer you an aperitif, sir? Young lady?’

‘Can you suggest a most elegant non-alcoholic cocktail for my daughter, please?’

The waiter frowned. ‘I shall speak with our cocktail bartender. And for you, sir?’

‘I’ll have a gimlet,’ Luc replied.
The man nodded, placed down some salted nuts and moved back to the bar.

‘What are those?’ Jenny asked, intrigued.

‘Pistachios. You shell, like this,’ he said, throwing the greenish nut with its blush of purple into his mouth. ‘Delicious.’

She followed suit, agreeing with him that the nuts were ‘scrumptious’.

Their drinks arrived. ‘This is a vodka daisy, miss,’ the waiter explained, ‘without the
vodka,’ he said, glancing at Luc. ‘Lemonade, lime and grenadine. I hope you enjoy it.’ Jenny smiled at the triangular-shaped martini glass, with the layer of bright pomegranate juice sitting beneath the fizzing lemonade and spritz of fresh lime. A curl of lemon peel twisted in the glass and a half slice of lime adorned its sugared rim. ‘Your gimlet, sir,’ he said, placing down Luc’s glass.

‘Thank you,’ Luc said. As the man left he raised his glass. ‘To you, Jenny Ravens. Welcome to my homeland … especially welcome to Paris.’

They clinked glasses and Jenny announced her faux vodka daisy to be ‘perfect’.

‘So,’ she continued, ‘did you and Mum come here?’

Luc shook his head, explained that the hotel had once crawled with the Germany Nazi hierarchy and that they were too poor anyway.
He didn’t want to lie, though; he’d made a promise to himself that he would be honest with Jenny about everything. All they had was each other and candour was the best currency for her strong personality. ‘Your mother did come here once, though, as a guest of a German colonel.’

‘We know Mum was a spy but neither of you ever opened up about the war years.’

‘It was a painful time, Jen. You can’t
imagine it. I can’t really describe it even. Death was around every corner. Your mother was the bravest of the brave … truly.’

‘Tell me how you met.’

‘You know that,’ he said, sipping and frowning.

‘I know Mum’s version. Tell me yours.’

He took a slow breath. Maybe it would help them both to talk about Lisette. He decided to tell his daughter everything
he could recall about that fateful meeting
in a tiny village one wintry evening in 1943.

‘It was not unlike the November evening we have now,’ he began.

His story, lengthened by her questions, stretched well beyond their cocktails, and almost through their exquisite seafood dinner. He’d skirted the truth of Lisette’s affair with Kilian but could sleep straight knowing he’d told no direct lie.

‘You must have been so jealous!’
she said, wide-eyed, carefully forking the last morsel of fish into her mouth.

‘I was! I had to sit out in that freezing car and wait for them to finish their meal and then drive him back to his hotel and your mother back to her apartment, pretending all the while.’

Jenny’s intrigued expression told him he’d certainly entertained her. He hoped she would ask no deeper questions, though.

The maître
d’ arrived at their table.

‘My swordfish was perfect,’ Luc replied, relief tumbling through him. ‘Please thank the chef.’

‘And I could lick my plate,’ Jenny answered in flawless French, which raised a twitch of a smile from the man.

‘May I send the dessert trolley?’

Jenny shook her head. ‘Not if I want to fit into the Paris fashions,’ she replied.

Luc could barely believe it. It seemed as though
Jenny was ageing in front of him.

‘Coffee?’ the man asked politely.

‘Please,’ Luc said.

‘For you,
mademoiselle
?’

‘Yes, black please,’ she said, despite Luc’s glare. When the man melted away, she admonished her father. ‘Come on, Dad. Don’t tell me French children aren’t drinking coffee from a young age. They drink wine from birth, Mum said.’

‘Your mother, as always, exaggerated.
I don’t like you drinking caffeine.’

‘Why? It’s really no different to the amount in tea, and we drink that by the gallon.’

He stared at her helplessly. ‘You exhaust me.’ She gave him a cheeky grin.

They left the Ritz feeling so full they both groaned. ‘Do you feel like a walk?’ he asked. ‘Or are you tired?’

‘I don’t think I can sleep after my nap this afternoon. Let’s walk.’

It was going to be
cold but they were properly rugged up and hand in hand they strolled through the hotel, past the bar made famous by Ernest Hemingway. ‘I’ll take you into the Tuileries tomorrow; they’ll lead us all the way through to the Louvre and then we can cross over onto the Left Bank and walk through Saint Germain, Jardins du Luxembourg and so on.’ They walked out through the side entrance of the Ritz into
rue Cambon and he heard Jenny gasp. ‘Dad!’

Luc whipped around, on edge.

‘Chanel!’ she finished, her tone filled with awe.

Luc breathed out. He’d forgotten the original salon was located there and watched amused as his daughter skipped over the small road to press her nose almost onto the windows filled with square bottles of the famous fragrance to pay homage. She reminded him of Holly Golightly
staring into the window of
Tiffany’s. What did I recently privately
vow about Chanel No.5 and my dead body?
he thought with an inward smile of irony. He managed to tear his child away from the fashion house with promises they would return when it was open and he led her back onto the rue Rivoli, to pass the Hotel de Crillon.

‘Look – bullet holes sustained during the Liberation of Paris.’
He pointed, privately amazed, remembering the exchange of fire.

Jenny was not nearly so enthralled. ‘What about the Eiffel Tower?’

‘I’ll take you there this week. The Parisians cut the cables so Hitler couldn’t ascend the summit – he’d have to walk. I gather he never did make the climb.’

‘Good,’ she said.

‘It’s hard to describe how this city looked in the forties, Jen. There were street signs
in German and swastika flags hanging everywhere. People were starving; they grew vegetables in those gardens where I suspect tomorrow you’ll see beautiful beds of flowers,’ he said, and glanced once again at the pockmarks standing out in stark relief beneath the Hotel de Crillon’s illuminated facade. They moved off the rue Rivoli and he walked Jenny back up through the fashionable district until they
stood on the steps of La Madeleine and admired her soaring colonnades.