“Yes,” said Gaby glumly, “and I’ve inherited that. Can’t see a thing in the mornings till I’ve got my lenses in.”
“Well, Maman was only in her forties when she started to have to read large print books.”
“Thanks, Mum, that’s really cheered me up. Something to look forward to in ten years’ time. I wonder if Steve realized what he had taken on when he asked me to marry him.”
Having met the Martins, Carole was rather beginning to wonder that too.
“Still,” Gaby went on, “I must try and get out to Villeneuve-sur-Lot before too long. Ideally with Steve – if he can get the time off work. I really want to introduce my fiancé to Grand’mère.”
“I’m sure she’d like to meet him,” said Marie automatically.
The chasm of silence once again gaped before them. Carole gamely bridged it. “But that’s about all I know about your family. Oh, and, of course, that you were brought up in Worthing.”
Marie Martin looked alarmed. “How did you know that?”
“Gaby mentioned it.”
Marie’s daughter received a look of pained reproach for passing on the information. Carole persevered. “Which is of course very near where I live. Do you remember Fethering?”
“No. I don’t remember anything much about the area. I didn’t live there long.”
Which was a very clear ending to that subject of conversation. Carole struggled on. “But I do feel I still know very little about you. For instance, I don’t even know whether Gaby has brothers and sisters.”
“I have a brother,” said Gaby, looking at her mother, as if expecting to prompt further comment. But none came. The ball was back in Carole’s court.
“As you probably know, Marie, Stephen’s an only child. I sometimes think it’d have been nice to have had more, but…well, I had a full-time career andthen…” Time to bite the bullet. “I’m divorced. Did Gaby tell you that?”
“Yes, she did.”
But again Marie Martin didn’t volunteer anything else. No judgement, no reaction.
“So what’s your son called?” asked Carole desperately.
“Phil.”
“And is he older than Gaby?”
“Oh, no. Pascale came first.”
“I beg your pardon?”
It was Gaby, rather than her mother, who provided the explanation. “I was christened Pascale. Changed my name when I was in my teens. You know what teenage girls are like, unhappy with everything about themselves, about their home, about their family – so I became Gaby. And it kind of stuck.”
“Not with me, it didn’t,” said Marie, with more vigour than she had shown before.
“Well, I like the name. And the rest of the family have accepted the change, except for Grand’mère who still calls me Pascale. Anyway, all my working life I’ve been Gaby Martin, so that’s the way I’m going to stay.” This was said defiantly, but her mother did not rise to the challenge.
“So how old is Phil?”
“He’s twenty-nine. Only eighteen months younger than me.”
“It must have been hard, when they were little, having two children so close together.”
Carole had said it as an all-purpose platitude, but Marie Martin seemed to take the comment more seriously. “Yes,” she said. “Yes, it was a very hard time.”
“They go so quickly, the childhood years,” Carole went on, with continuing banality.
Marie nodded, but didn’t speak. Howard shadowed his wife’s nod, though Carole wasn’t sure that he could hear much of the conversation. His large face was impassive most of the time, only showing animation when someone looked at him or addressed a direct question. He sat still, isolated in the muffled world of his deafness.
“So what does Phil do?” asked Carole, sticking to her role as conversational initiator. “Is he in show business like you, Gaby?”
She laughed dismissively. “It’s hardly show business. But Phil doesn’t do anything like that. He works in a warehouse.”
“He’s a checker,” Marie added, as if this were important.
“And is that near you, in Harlow?”
“Near Harlow. Hoddesdon.”
“Ah.”
“He’s got his own flat there,” Marie volunteered, with something approaching pride. “In Hoddesdon.”
“Well, I’ll look forward to meeting him.” Carole saw a look pass between Gaby and her mother at this, but she couldn’t interpret its subtext. “I look forward to meeting all the rest of your family and friends at the wedding.”
“There aren’t many others.”
Gaby grimaced. “As I say, Grand’mère’s unlikely to leave France.”
“Very unlikely,” her mother agreed. “Which may be just as well.”
“Oh?” asked Carole casually.
She looked at Marie, but it was Gaby who supplied the explanation. “Mum means Granny would disapprove of my not being married in a Catholic church.”
“Ah yes, I’d forgotten you said your family was Catholic.”
“Brought up Catholic, but none of it means anything to me now.”
“Well, it should,” Marie asserted feebly.
“Why? Why do you say that? When did you or Dad last step inside a church of any denomination?”
“I may not be very good at church-going and what have you, but at least I’m not disrespectful to the church. And, when he was younger, your father was a very devout Catholic.”
Marie Martin was now, by her standards, quite animated, and Carole intervened to avert the incipient row. “Does this mean, Gaby, that you and Stephen have decided on the church where you are going to get married?”
“It looks like we have, yes. Most of the ones round Fethering were already booked for the fourteenth of September, but one vicar thought the wedding on that day was about to be called off.”
“Oh?”
“He sounded a bit vague, but he’s going to ring us in the next week when he knows for sure.”
“And which church is this?”
“The one in Fedborough. All Souls’.”
Carole knew it. She had also met the vicar, the Reverend Philip Trigwell, when she and Jude had become involved in an investigation into a human torso found in one of the town’s cellars. That he should ‘sound vague’ about arrangements was entirely in character. She had never met a man so indecisive or so unwilling to express a firm opinion.
“Oh well, I hope it works out. All Souls’ is a lovely church.”
“Yes,” Gaby agreed. “If we’ve heard from the vicar by the weekend, we’re going to come down on Saturday and check out some venues and caterers.”
“Maybe I’ll see you again then.”
“Maybe.”
The conversation was once again becalmed. “So,” Carole battled on, “I now know about all your immediate family, do I?”
“Except, of course, for Uncle Robert.”
“Oh yes – Uncle Robert.”
In her echo of Gaby’s words, for the first time Marie Martin displayed genuine enthusiasm, and also her French origins – the ‘t’ at the end of the name was silent.
“He’s Mum’s brother.”
“Always a very lively person to have around. And he’s always adored Pascale. Having no children of his own, he thinks of her almost as his own daughter. You’d like him, Carole. Everyone likes my brother Robert. Don’t they, Howard?”
Her husband nodded, though quite possibly he hadn’t heard the question.
“Yes, Robert’ll certainly be at the wedding. He’s areal live wire. We must get him to do a speech. He’s very funny when he does public speaking – just a natural at it.”
Inwardly Carole flinched. Over the years she’d suffered from too many public speakers who were naturals at it.
“Actually, I’ve had a thought…” Now her brother had been mentioned, Marie Martin seemed quite happy to take over the conversation. “Perhaps Robert could give you away, Pascale.”