An Unlikely Liaison

By Hattie Fontaine

There are two layers to this story, past and present. A middle-aged teacher reflects upon her life and the fantasies and obsessions which have led her to make some seriously wrong decisions.
And yet those same wrong decisions have led her, against all the odds, to meet the love of her life. From different races and contrasting backgrounds, the couple embark upon a new, exciting life together, at the dawn of the new millennium.
Little do they know that they are about to unravel the mysteries of a secret past and discover a family, of whose existence they were completely unaware.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse UK
• Release date: Feb 11, 2014
• ISBN: 9781491889770

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© 2014 Hattie Fontaine. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

Published by AuthorHouse 12/30/2013

ISBN: 978-1-4918-8976-3 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4918-8949-7 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-4918-8977-0 (e)

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Contents

Early Summer 2011

The Early Sixties

Late Summer 2011

The Late Sixties

Autumn 2011

The Early Nineties

The Early Seventies

A Very Franglais Wedding

Places of Birth

Mark

Isaac

Born Again

July 2013: School Swansong

Long Lost Family

Mid-Life Crisis

Being Nannie

Family Reunion In La Reunion

Tante Murielle

Further Revelations

Fond Farewells

Early Summer 2011

I AM ON A PLANE, WONDERING why the seats are arranged in groups of three. My husband, Pierre, is by the window to my left and the seat to my right is, for now, unoccupied. I watch the other passengers jostling down the aisle and ramming hand luggage into the cubicles above the seats. It is not a graceful business, with a lot of strenuous pushing and armpit exposure. I am hoping no one too large or extrovert will choose the seat next to me.

We are returning from Faro, after a much-needed holiday in the Algarve. I feel I am hovering between two worlds, one of light and colour and the other a familiar grey. In Lagos, the summer sky is postcard blue and the villas are like cakes, this one lemon, this one apricot, coffee, meringue, all with balconies and little shutters. They are framed by luscious palm trees and arrayed with bursts of climbing flowers in rich raspberry or cherry.

In my head runs a slideshow of holiday images. A young mother is on the beach, with her two little girls and rather surly partner. When I hear her speak, she turns out to be Scottish. She reminds me of myself at that stage of my life, fussy, over-solicitous of her daughters, trying too hard to amuse them, to appear to be a good Mum. She seems likeable, though, and friendly. I look at her well-groomed, dark hair and try to imagine her back at home. She is dressed for the office, instead of the beach and there is the older daughter in school uniform, the younger one in the buggy, all ready for the day.

Back on the beach, I notice that she and the surly partner barely speak to one another. They seem to communicate via their children. Why does he look so unhappy in such a beautiful place, with his beautiful wife and daughters?

I am distracted, on the plane, by the proximity of a bulky man in a sweat-stained pink shirt. He hovers briefly, then, thankfully, is called by his wife, who has found somewhere for them to sit together. A bald man, in his sixties appears with two young children. Sit there, he says to one of them and now the seat to my right is occupied by a little boy in a baseball cap. I smile at Pierre. When I need to move, I will be able to squeeze past this child without even having to disturb him.

I take a discreet look at the boy. His thin brown legs dangle from his checked shorts. The word Portugal is embroidered, multi-coloured on the back of his tee-shirt. He and his little sister have delicate, oriental features, possibly Philippine, Indonesian or Thai. He is exploring the pull-down table in the seat in front of him. Could the bald man, who is obviously British, be his grand-father? There is no sign of a mother. The boy is drawing imaginary shapes on the table with his fingers. He has no books or toys. Shall I talk to him? Not yet, I decide. I want to try to doze.

There is that exciting moment when the plane takes off and we all look down at the swiftly diminishing view below, the airport, roads, fields, farms, coastline, and then Portugal disappears. The little boy accepts a free magazine from an air steward and, surprisingly, gets absorbed in an article about holidays. Pierre has closed his eyes and I close mine.

The next image in the slideshow is again at the beach. On the next sunbed, beneath a parasol, sits a very overweight Portuguese lady in a black one-piece swimming costume. She is unselfconsciously playing with her grand-daughter, radiating warmth and affection. Later that afternoon, she would allow the child to sleep, lying face down upon her ample front, taking care not to move or disturb her for an hour or more in the baking heat; an image of unconditional love.

I look over at Pierre who is snoozing now. I take the opportunity to observe the familiar face, the broad African nose and generous lips, the little flaws in his black skin, the strong shoulders and muscular arms, the solid back and slightly rounded belly. We met at the start of the new millennium, which seemed significant, as it was to herald a new life for both of us. Pierre had lived alone for several years and I was recently separated from my first husband. I had put my life on hold until my children were reasonably independent and now I was ready to live again. Destiny brought us together against all the odds and to destiny I am grateful. I love Pierre’s French accent and the little errors in his English, like I’m not interesting, instead of interested and the way he refers to his hair as they instead of it.

I realise I am not going to fall asleep, despite feeling so weary, so try to make conversation with the little boy.

Did you have a lovely holiday?

Yes.

Did you swim lots?

Yes.

He eyes me warily and busies himself with the buckle on his sandal. Having made this half-hearted effort to be polite, I reach for the novel I have almost finished. I calculate how many pages are left—only thirty-four. The story has been so absorbing I almost don’t want it to end. I read back a little, then a few pages on. A piece of the jigsaw unexpectedly falls into place, so neatly that it brings tears to my eyes. I actually have to blow my nose and feel quite foolish.

What’s that book about?

Now there is an unpredictable question, one, in fact, that I struggle to answer. How do you explain a dramatic series of events to an eight or nine-year old? I stall a bit, and then give him an over-simplistic summary. The boy looks distinctly unimpressed, perhaps wondering why this woman next to him would bother to read such an uninteresting book.

How many pages has it got?

I know this without looking.

Three hundred and seventy-four.

Mine has got two hundred and fifty-six. What’s your favourite colour?

I have several. Purple, maybe, or yellow. What’s yours?

Red. How many countries have you been to?

This takes a few minutes to calculate, by which time he has lost interest.

There follows a period of questioning which makes me feel like a guest on a chat show. What is my favourite football team? His is Everton. Book? His is Horrid Henry. TV programme? His is The Simpsons. Superhero? I have no idea; in fact, I’m surprised how little I know about myself. Do I prefer to sit in a car or a helicopter? What is my second favourite country? By the time we land at John Lennon airport, I am familiar with this young man’s family history. The bald man, who is fifty-six, not sixty, is his father and Matthew, the son, has adult siblings, as well as the five year old sister across the aisle. Matthew has been to four countries, one of which is Thailand. This explains his oriental appearance, but there has still been no mention of his mother. I mentally try to fill in the gaps. A Thai bride who left her two adorable children?

I look down at my wedding ring. My nails look shiny white in contrast to my tan. I am a hopeless sun-junkie despite the health warnings. On my right hand I wear another ring, a topaz, which I have been unable to remove for the last few days, as the heat has caused my fingers to swell. There were times during this holiday when I asked myself whether I am getting too old for the beach. I try to keep in shape, but there is no denying my thickening waistline. Tempted though I was to buy a one-piece costume this year, I brazened it out in bikinis, sucking in my tummy when standing. At the pool one day, I became aware that everyone, including Pierre, was younger than me and then, I spotted, at the bar, a little old lady. She wore a swimsuit and straw sun hat and must have been at least eighty-five. She was standing, totally absorbed in eating an ice-cream, clearly enjoying every lick. Her breasts were droopy, her skin saggy, but, unlike me, she had not covered up to enter the bar. She was living her life. And when she had finished her ice-cream, she joined the queue again, perhaps to buy another one.

Matthew had managed to get my age out of me and we discovered that I was older than his Dad, which was a sobering thought. When I revealed that Pierre is six years younger than me, Matthew stated, He’s supposed to be older. I guess that is more usual, certainly in the case of Matthew’s parents. I have been much more aware of my age since becoming a grand-mother last year. Every cliché I had ever heard about the joys of grand-parent status instantly shot into reality and I have to consciously restrain myself from extolling my baby grand-daughter to total strangers. I feel myself slipping into a stereotype, peering into pushchairs and being drawn into babywear shops. How did all this creep up on me? I was never meant to be this old.

England is as grey as I anticipated, in fact it is drizzling. We return to rain and riots. But this is home.

The Early Sixties

M Y