Parting of the Waves Page 3

  Gil surfaced an hour later looking none the worse for wear and, to Bridget’s disgust, was soon cooking up a huge fry-up. She declined his offer of a bacon and fried egg sandwich and instead went upstairs to scour through her wardrobe for the second time. This time she was in luck. Although she preferred to pack afresh each trip, Bridget kept a few clothes permanently in France, and it was one of these items she hoped would save the day. She pulled open the bottom drawer in the chest next to her bed and there it was. Bingo! She had almost forgotten about the lace burgundy top she bought on a whim several years ago. It was one of those purchases that she hadn’t been sure of when she got it home so it had lain, unworn and forgotten under a pile of gardening clothes. It would be perfect under her dress. It would probably still be on the warm side if the weather forecast was accurate, but it would be much cooler than the jacket. Rather than pass up the opportunity to wear the jacket, Bridget would take it with her as the autumn evenings could be decidedly chilly, even after a blisteringly hot day.

  Relieved that she’d solved her dilemma, Bridget turned her attention to the christening cake. She’s been so pleased that Heather had liked it. It had been a first for Bridget so she had been unusually apprehensive when it came to decorating it. She’d scoured the internet for ideas before settling on a simple, but she hoped, classical design. The icing would be white and the top would simply have Thomas’s name and the date of the christening piped in blue. Around the sides would be a frieze of blue teddy bears. Bridget had telephoned Helen the day before and they had agreed that she would take the cake around on Sunday morning, the day of the ceremony, for safe-keeping in her fridge.

  Bridget hurried downstairs to remind Gil that they needed to be setting off for Helen’s soon. He had almost finished clearing up his breakfast things and had put some more coffee on. “I’ll have a cup when that’s ready Gil, and then we need to pop the cake over to Helen’s.”

  “Ok, just let me know when you're ready to go, but if you’ve got things to do I could take it myself, there’s no need for both of us to go, is there?”

  “What and let the box get thrown about all over the place? No thanks. I’m going to hold it safely on my lap. And make sure you drive carefully!”

  *

  Bridget had asked Gil to be ready to leave for the ceremony just before two. They had debated whether they should walk or take the car. Although it wasn’t very far to Helen and Doug’s town-house just off the square, the thought of walking home in new shoes after a hot day didn’t appeal to Bridget one little bit. Gil had complained that if they took the car it would mean he would have to watch what he drank. Bridget retorted that a Sunday afternoon christening was hardly the place to get drunk. Gil hit back with “I’ve no intention of getting drunk, but you can’t expect me to nurse half a warm beer all afternoon can you?” They had agreed on a compromise. They would take the car but if, and for Bridget it was still a big “if”, if Gil was over the limit, they would try and get a taxi back. Heaven knows if they would find one in St Rémy on a Sunday afternoon out of season, they were like hens teeth at the best of times.

  “You look nice love” Gil said to his sister as she came downstairs just before two. “Those colours look good on you.” Bridget too was secretly over the moon with how she looked, in spite of the last minute changes to her outfit. She was particularly pleased at how the cut of the dress flattered her “plump’” figure, as she called it. Even her normally unruly, mousey hair was behaving itself today. The gods were indeed smiling on her.

  “Thanks Gil, you don’t look bad yourself.” He was wearing a new pair of beige chinos and a checked dark green and beige short-sleeved shirt. “How thoughtful of you to match your shirt to my dress.”

  Looking down at his shirt and then at Bridget’s dress, Gil was perplexed. “I don’t know what you mean, I had no idea what you were going to wear. This shirt was the first one I pulled out of the wardrobe.” He gave his own version of the Gallic shrug.

  Bridget shook her head in dismay as she picked up the gift bag containing their presents for Thomas (a silver money-box in the shape of a classic car from Gil and a blue hand-made teddy bear from Bridget) and followed her brother out to the car.

  *

  The garden of Helen and Doug’s elegant town house looked wonderful. A small marquee took pride of place just beyond the swimming pool and where a handful of early arrivals were enjoying a glass of champagne in the welcome shade. Neither Gil nor Bridget knew any of them but just as Gil was about to ask a woman in a flowing yellow dress where to find the champagne, Helen Faulkner came to his rescue.

  “Gil, Bridget, how lovely to see you both again” she said, kissing the pair on both cheeks. “Let me get you some champagne. We’ve had to keep it in the house out of this heat. It’s a bit of a trek back to the kitchen but there’s nothing worse than warm champagne is there.”

  Bridget could think of a hundred things much worse but though it best to bite her tongue. “Champagne would be lovely Helen.” Bridget knew that her friend would be dressed to the nines and she wasn’t disappointed. Helen’s deep lavender sheath dress looked to be made of silk and, if Bridget was not mistaken, the same fabric had been used to make a bow on the front of her ivory heeled sandals. Her pale blonde hair was styled in her trademark chignon. Bridget’s earlier confidence in her appearance suddenly evaporated as next to the svelte Helen, she had felt fat and frumpy again. Oh well, no use fretting, she told herself, you’re here to enjoy yourself, not to take part in a fashion parade, so less of the self-pity.

  As Helen returned with the champagne, the guests of honour arrived. The Lloyd-Jones trio were all dressed in blue and white. Heather in a blue and white floral tea-dress and Tony in navy chinos with a blue and white striped shirt but it was baby Thomas who, quite rightly, stole the show. Resplendent in an antique, ivory christening gown with matching bonnet trimmed with pale blue lace, he looked adorable.

  “Oh look Gil, Heather and Tony are here” Bridget exclaimed popping her champagne glass down on a table. She rushed over to her friends hoping for a cuddle with Thomas before he was whisked away. “He’s absolutely gorgeous Heather” she gushed as she took her first peek at her new god-son. Nervously she took him in her arms as Gil took photos of the group.

  “Thankfully he’s got his mother’s looks” said Tony, visibly swelling with pride.

  Gil declined Bridget’s offer to hold the baby, insisting he felt much safer holding the camera. Bridget reluctantly handed Thomas back to his parents who made their way to the marquee to show him off to some more of their friends.

  As Helen joined the group, Gil asked where Doug was.

  “He’ll be back in a moment, well I hope so anyway” Helen replied as she looked around anxiously.

  The words were no sooner out of her mouth when Doug appeared, with an elderly woman on his arm.

  “Oh it’s Béatrice!” Bridget gasped.

  Béatrice Blanchard, Doug and Helen’s neighbour, had been instrumental in solving the killings in St Rémy, by pointing Bridget in the right direction. The two women had formed a strong bond and had been friends ever since.

  Bridget rushed forward to greet her old friend, who seemed equally pleased to see her, and the two women embraced each other warmly.

  In Bridget’s eyes, Béatrice hadn’t changed at all since they last met. Dressed as usual in black from top to toe, the old woman nevertheless managed to look as cool as the proverbial cucumber in the stifling heat. As Bridget felt the first beads of perspiration running down her face, she looked at her with renewed admiration.

  “Still not married then I see?” Béatrice asked, via Helen, who translated for the pair.

  “No not yet, but I’m still looking!” Bridget replied with a broad smile.

  “And how is that handsome brother of yours? Is he still single too?”

  “I’m afraid so Béatrice, he’s around here somewhere.”

  “Then I will have to snap him up myself” said Béatrice with a
hearty chuckle.

  Right on cue, Gil arrived after helping himself to another glass of champagne. “I think you might have pulled old son!” said Doug with a laugh. “Play your cards right and the widow Blanchard could be yours!”

  “Oh Doug, do stop it” said Helen. “That’s no way to talk about Béatrice. It would serve you right if she understood what you said, she does speak a little bit of English you know.”

  “Quite right darling, as usual” said Doug trying to look contrite but failing miserably. Suddenly spotting the arrival of the Reverend Waterson, Doug took his opportunity to make his escape.

  The ceremony was wonderful. The proud parents and both pairs of new godparents looked on as Thomas David Lloyd-Jones was baptised. True to form, he wasn’t best pleased when water was poured over his head and made sure everyone knew it.

  “So what made you choose the names?” Doug asked later as he joined Heather and Tony at their table in the marquee.

  “Well as Thomas will hopefully be going to school here in France, we wanted a name that would work well in both English and French.” Heather explained.

  “So you aren’t going to put him down for Eton then?” Doug said with such a poker face that no-one knew if he was serious or not.

  “I don’t think so!” Heather retorted. “Besides not having the money, I’m not going to let this little one out of my sight until he's at least twenty-one! As for David, that was my dad’s name, and also Tony’s grandfather’s name so we’re proud to carry on the tradition.”

  “That’s really nice. I keep forgetting though that your family were from Wales too” Helen said to Tony “although your surname is a bit of a give-away!”

  “Well you say that Helen” said Heather, “but do you know that Tony had never even set foot in Wales until he met me. He was a Londoner through and through until I told him I was going to take him to a real capital city!”

  “Yes I have to admit that weekend in Cardiff was pretty memorable, and not just for the sights of the city!” Tony said cheekily.

  To spare Heather’s blushes, Helen announced that the buffet was now laid out in the kitchen and everyone should help themselves. “It’s a shame we couldn’t lay the food out in the marquee but with this heat it wouldn’t be wise.”

  Doug filled a plate for Béatrice and topped up her champagne glass. Bridget was pleased to see that her friend still had a hearty appetite.

  “Time to cut the cake I think Heather” said Helen after the buffet had been demolished. “I think we should bring it out here so everyone can get a look at Bridget’s handiwork. We can pop it back inside once everyone’s had a slice.”

  Although all the guests agreed it was a shame to cut into such a beautiful cake, they nevertheless enjoyed the rich fruit cake topped with royal icing. “Everyone uses the ready-rolled stuff these days but this is proper icing” said Heather, taking a huge bite. “Thank you so much Bridget, I take my hat off to your skill and creativity” she added, raising her glass.

  It was Bridget’s turn to blush now. “Oh, anyone could do it, it just takes a bit of patience and practice” she said modestly.

  As seven o’clock arrived, Heather declared it was time to take Thomas home for his bath before bedtime. “He’s already had a later night than usual and I don’t want to upset his routine too much if I can help it. Heaven knows it took me long enough to get him into one!”

  “He’s got a routine?” Tony asked with a laugh. “Who knew?”

  “Would you two like a lift home?” Heather asked Gil and Bridget. “I’ve only had one small glass of champagne as I’m breastfeeding, so I’m chauffeur for the day.”

  “Well if you’re sure you’ve got room, that would be wonderful thank you Heather. My feet have swollen up like balloons in this heat” said a very relieved Bridget.

  “If it’s going to be too much of a squeeze, I don’t mind walking back” said Gil. “Besides, Doug’s been telling me about a thirty year old single malt he’s been saving. To wet the baby’s head of course.”

  Oh dear, through Bridget. Someone’s going to have a sore head in the morning. Saying her goodbyes, Bridget saved her dearest friend to last. As she gave Béatrice a hug, she couldn’t help wonder if it would be for the last time.

  CHapter Four

  Bizarrely, it was Bridget rather than Gil who slept in late the next morning. She had fallen asleep almost as soon as her head had hit the pillow the night before only to wake up a couple of hours later. She couldn't understand why her head was spinning when she’d had only a couple of glasses of champagne. As she made her way to the bathroom to take an aspirin, she concluded it was the effects of the heat and strong sun that had caused the problem. Now wide awake, it took her ages to get back to sleep again.

  Several hours later, she peered at her alarm clock from beneath the duvet and was horrified to see that it was almost ten. Not that it mattered, she was on holiday after all, but she didn’t really do lie-ins as they upset her routine. Hearing no sound from Gil’s bedroom as she made her way onto the landing, she assumed that he was still sleeping off the effects of the single malt. Thoughts of “I told you so” filled her head. Bridget was therefore taken aback when she got downstairs to see Gil sat outside, having already had breakfast, judging by the crumbs left on his plate.

  “Morning” he said cheerfully as Bridget stepped out onto the terrace. “I was just about to come up to see if you were ok. I was getting a bit worried, I didn’t realise you’d been knocking it back yesterday.”

  “Yes I’m fine thanks, and for your information I only had two glasses of champagne. Knocking it back indeed!”

  “Whatever you say, your secret’s safe with me!” said Gil, tapping the side of his nose.

  “You can be so annoying at times Gil Honeyman. Anyway, how are you this morning after your boozy session with Doug?”

  “Never better. I was up early so I went and got the car from Doug’s and stopped at the boulangerie and bought bread and croissants for breakfast. I’ve had mine but there’s plenty left for you. Oh and I got us a paper too if you’re interested.”

  “Ok, thanks, but I think I’ll have a shower before I eat, I’m not really hungry just yet. I’m still feeling a bit woozy.”

  “Well if you can’t take it…” said Gil with a chuckle.

  Bridget stepped into the kitchen and seeing the newspaper on the table, promptly folded it up and hit her brother gently over the head with it. Or maybe it wasn’t as gently as she had intended.

  “Ouch, what’s that for?” said Gil rubbing his head.

  “For being insolent to your big sister” said Bridget, trying not to laugh.

  As she had hoped, a shower had a restorative effect so, feeling refreshed, Bridget took her breakfast out onto the terrace, picking up the folded newspaper on the way. It was a day old but Bridget didn’t mind. She wasn’t overly interested in the headlines, preferring to look for an interesting article or two. She flicked through the pages but, finding very little to catch her eye, started at the beginning again. As she got to page five she gasped. How on earth did I miss this the first time, she said to herself. She read the article and glanced at the accompanying photograph. Then she looked at it again, bringing the page nearer her eyes this time. “Well I never” she said out loud. Gil had by now retreated indoors to do the washing up, so rushing into the house and not seeing him in the kitchen, Bridget shouted up the stairs.

  “I’m just getting changed into my gardening shorts, won’t be a tick” Gil called back.

  Two minutes later, Gil joined Bridget in the kitchen. “What’s the matter? It sounded urgent.”

  Bridget thrust the paper into Gil’s hands. “Recognise anyone?”

  Having fished in his shirt pocket for his reading glasses, Gil studied the item Bridget had pointed out. Under the headline “Hopes fade for British woman believed to have fallen from cross-channel ferry” was a photograph of a couple pictured in a pub garden holding up wine glasses to the camera and smiling bro
adly.

  “Blimey, it’s that couple we got talking to on the ferry!” Gil continued to read some more of the article aloud.

  “Fifty-five year old Sheila Cresswell was last seen by her husband shortly after they boarded the 20.30 crossing from Calais to Dover on Friday evening. Mrs Cresswell immediately went up on deck while Malcolm Cresswell went to the ship’s main bar. He ordered drinks for them both and when his wife didn’t return, he went up on deck to look for her. After failing to find her, he alerted a crew member who instigated a thorough search of the ship. Neither the search nor the ferry’s CCTV produced any trace of Mrs Cresswell”.

  “Wow that’s awful, that poor woman. There’s no hope of finding her alive of course” said Gil, clearly shocked by what he had just read.

  “Yes it’s terrible. But it’s not her.”

  “What do you mean, it’s not her? Of course it’s her. Who else would it be?”

  “I made the same mistake as you when I first looked at the photo. It’s the husband all right, or Malcolm Cresswell as he’s apparently called. But the woman, Sheila, is not the women we met. It’s very like her I have to admit. I was sat opposite her remember so had a better look at her face than you. The woman in the photo has the same wavy hair but her hair is parted on the right, the woman on the ferry had hers parted on the left. If I’m not mistaken either, the woman on the ferry was left-handed. I noticed when she undid the zip on her jacket. The woman in the photo is holding her wine glass in her right hand.”