CHAPTER 7
The next morning I have no idea if I slept at all. I’m awake with the birds. My pillow is dry as are my tired, sore eyes. And I have a banging headache. But I can smell the lavender. I slide out from under the light covers and walk to the window in the blast of air from the fan and push open the shutters, just as I do every morning. The warm, scented air fills my lungs and my soul. I think about Rhi, and Stephanie, both hurting right now, and Fabien too, missing such a big person from their lives. I look at the lavender and the early-morning mist weaving its way through it. It helped me through a difficult time once before, I remember, breathing in its heady fragrance. Let’s hope it doesn’t let me down now.
I have a farm full of pickers, waiting to pick. Fabien is right. I can’t let everyone down. It’s the last thing Henri would want too. These people deserve an explanation about last night.
I get dressed in an old T-shirt and shorts, working clothes for the day ahead, and go down to the kitchen. I pour a large glass of water, take two painkillers and swallow them. I turn on the coffee machine, then grab my purse and run down the long drive to meet the bakery truck.
I buy an armful of baguettes and a large bag of freshly baked croissants. The bakery-van owner, Adèle, talks about Henri and how much a part of the community he was. She asks me to let her know when the funeral will be. ‘We must live every day to the full,’ she says to me, ‘but also be prepared for life to be turned upside down.’
I head back up the track, the lavender either side of me waving in the light breeze as if it’s cheering me on, putting purpose into my steps.
Back in the kitchen, the coffee is nearly ready, filling the kitchen with some sense of normality. I grab a pile of plates and cups and take them outside to the terrace.
Stephanie arrives in her van and walks over to meet me on the terrace.
‘Bonjour!’ We kiss each other and little Louis. Tomas has gone to school with JB, his father.
‘I came to see how you are,’ she says.
I shrug. ‘How are you?’
‘Sad,’ she replies.
‘I know.’ And I hug her. ‘Me too. But he’s here with us. He’d want us to get this harvest in, and that’s what we’re going to do.’
She nods. ‘He would. I’ll come to help after I’ve done my deliveries.’
‘You don’t have to. You could have some time off, with the bistro still closed.’
‘I want to. Like you say, it feels as if he’s here, with all of us, and I want to hold on to that. With the bistro shut, this seems like the closest I can get to him, with Rhi and his friends, looking at the town he loved.’ We gaze out at the roofs and the bell tower on the church where the bells chime.
My throat prickles, but still no tears come. ‘Let’s get the pickers ready. Breakfast, then work.’
We go round and tap on all the doors of our pickers in the barn and Jen’s camper van to let them know that breakfast has arrived.
‘Hi, Ed. Breakfast on the terrace.’
‘Maria? Marco?’
‘Keith and Graham?’
I knock on each of their doors in the barn.
They all seem wary, and I’m guessing they’re wondering what kind of burned offerings I’m going to serve up this morning. Hopefully, the buttery, flaky croissants, still warm baguettes, with pale unsalted butter and homemade myrtle and apricot jam, will be just what they need.
‘I feel I owe you an explanation,’ I say, holding my coffee cup against my chest, which is still tight with tension. I breathe in the restorative steam, which evaporates like the early-morning mist as the group sit around the table, helping themselves to the croissants and bread.
‘Not for me. I think I’m slightly gluten intolerant,’ says Graham, holding up a hand as the basket is passed round.
‘Oh, sorry, I should have asked,’ I say, kicking myself. Usually I would.
‘It gives him gas,’ says Keith, matter-of-factly.
‘Keith! Do you have to be so graphic!’ snaps Graham.
‘Mind if I have yours, then, mate?’ Marco says politely, and reaches for another croissant. ‘Starving after missing dinner last night.’ And I see everyone cringe at the reminder of last night’s disaster.
‘I was just explaining!’ Keith looks hurt, and Graham is cross as he brings out a packet from his rucksack.
‘I have my own crispbreads, thank you,’ he says, ignoring Keith. They shuffle on the bench, turning slightly away from each other.
‘I should’ve thought,’ I say again apologetically. Keith and Graham look like they’re not speaking to each other. I want to make this better – make it fun, like it always has been.
I look at the dissipating mist from the lavender. If only my brain fog would clear in the same way. ‘Like I said, I owe you an explanation for yesterday.’
‘No, no, really,’ says Maria.
Ed shifts uncomfortably in his seat.
But I know I owe them an explanation. Before I can say anything, though, Marco butts in. ‘Well, you did promise on the Facebook page we’d be fed well,’ he says, smiling, clearly trying to make light of the situation and tossing a hunk of buttered bread into his mouth. But far from making things better I feel everyone shift uncomfortably. Graham and Keith scowl at him.
He’s right, though. And usually they would be. But nothing about these last few days has been usual.
‘The thing is, we’ve had some bad news. A member of our community. A friend. A partner.’ I look at Rhi, who’s very pale. ‘A soul mate.’ We manage a tiny smile, a reminder that it’s okay to think happy thoughts about Henri, not just the big sad one. ‘You could say our family. He’s died.’ My throat tightens, and I take a big gulp of coffee. For a moment no one says anything.
‘Does that mean you’re going to cancel the harvest?’ says Marco, tossing more bread into his mouth. ‘I mean, I’m sorry and all that, only we’ve got a schedule we need to stick to.’
‘Oh, no!’ says Keith, looking as upset as if he’d known Henri personally.
‘We’d totally understand if you did,’ Graham says, spreading butter on his crispbreads and putting his knife neatly beside his plate.
‘I need to get the new clutch sorted before I can move on.’ Jen is clearly worried.
‘Our next stop isn’t for another three weeks,’ Marco says. ‘But there doesn’t look like there’s much to do around here if we’re not picking.’
‘Sssh.’ Maria taps his forearm. At first he seems bemused, then slowly reads the others’ faces and closes his mouth.
‘No, no.’ I raise my hands. ‘Someone pointed out to me that the one thing I should be doing right now is the harvest. It’s the one thing we can rely on at the moment.’ I look at Rhi and attempt another smile. She sends a watery one back.
‘So, have breakfast, drink your coffee and meet me up there.’ I point to the field where the mist is lifting and the sun is rising. ‘There’s a hut where I’ll hand out secateurs and explain everything to you. We’ll be cutting the lavender into bundles, tying them and getting them up to the barn where we’ll hang them to dry. I think a morning in the lavender field could be what we all need. It’s a beautiful place to be,’ I say, with a smile. Because it is.
‘Yes!’ They seem cheered.
I stand up and take my coffee to the edge of the field to inspect the blooms there. Rhi follows me. ‘It’s time,’ I say, running my hands over them. I lift my hand to my nose, remembering what Serge from the neighbouring farm had taught me when I started with a few of his plants here. ‘Too early and we won’t get the full scent. Too late and buds will drop from the dried bundles,’ I say, picking one of the stems and sniffing it. Everything is changing. Serge has retired and Henri has gone.
‘The harvest is the one thing right now we can rely on. Come rain or shine, good year, bad year, it will keep coming round,’ I say, still inspecting the blooms, putting all my focus there, in the moment. It’s the only way forward.
I hear Fabien’s voice in my head: Henri wouldn’t have wanted you to let these people down. They’ve come to work … food and lodgings. Where else would they go right now?
I’m clutching my cup. Ralph barks.
‘It’ll be fine,’ Rhi says.
‘I know. Fabien said so too.’
We wander slowly over the stony ground between the rows of lavender.
‘Is everything all right between you two?’ she asks.
I stop and turn to her and she looks at me, puzzled. ‘I …’ I hesitate. ‘I’m not sure,’ I finally answer. This harvest, this sunrise, are the only things I’m really sure of.
‘I wish I hadn’t told him to go. It’s my fault he’s not here. I pushed him away, told him to go on the tour. And I really wish I hadn’t. I told him the money would be useful and I didn’t mean it like that. I was just looking for a way of persuading him that it was okay to go.’
‘And now he’s there?’ she asks.
‘And now he’s there … I think he quite likes it.’ I look at Rhi. ‘I miss him. I want him to come home.’
She stares at me. I know she doesn’t have the answers.
‘Come on,’ says Rhi, eventually. ‘Let’s get this harvest in. It’s the only thing we can do. We’ll do it together. It’s what Henri would have said.’