CHAPTER 8
‘So, we’re picking this section first.’ I gesture to the sunniest spot at this time of the morning, at the bottom of the undulating field that rolls from the farmhouse, the terracotta terrace, towards the river. I can hear it murmuring as it meanders towards town, out of sight from here, but in the distance, I can hear the bells telling us it’s time to work. The smell is amazing, filling my head and lifting my heart. ‘It’s just about to bloom. We’ll collect it into bundles and they will go into the barn to be dried. It’ll be used as food flavouring and sold in bunches at the market.’ I pick off a few heads and pass them around for the pickers to smell. There, among the rows of lavender, with the early-morning mist lifting, the sun climbing into the sky, the scents of the warming soil, the lavender, the wild rosemary along the border, and the swallows circling overhead, I feel centred, where I belong. ‘Lavender is good for so many things, not just as part of the herbes de Provence we use in cooking here that give the local food such a distinctive flavour. It’s also good to aid sleep, but also for headaches, burns, spots, stings and bites. It’s used in creams, lotions, bath products, and even gets rid of the smell of pets in your home.’ I manage a smile as Ralph barks, then pants, as I give my usual talk, everything I learned from Serge and the internet. I can feel the sun on my face and the joy in my heart that this place has brought to me. It feels good to be here, doing the harvest, focusing my energy on it.
Stephanie waves as she leaves the farmhouse via the terrace to head out for her restaurant deliveries. I wave back, as if this was just another harvest. Although I know it’s not. The mistral seems to have changed that.
‘You use the secateurs to cut. Cut about an inch up the stem. That way, the lavender will grow back and keep blooming.’
‘How big is an inch?’ I hear Marco ask. ‘And how long are we going to be out here?’
‘Ssh.’ Maria frowns.
‘Drink water, wear hats, and ask me if you’re not sure about anything,’ I tell them. ‘I have to go into town, but text me if you need me. We’ll finish at lunchtime. It’ll be too hot to pick then. The afternoon’s your own.’
As the pickers start working in the field with Rhi as part of the gang, gathering the cut lavender into bunches ready for hanging along the beams in the barn, I tell her I’m going to nip into town to pick up lunch – cheese, paté and ripe tomatoes for a salad. At least I can’t get that wrong.
But, after the walk into town, when I’m standing outside the greengrocer, I’m staring into space again. Nothing excites me. I have no appetite. I pick up the tomatoes, lift one after another to my nose, but can’t seem to enjoy their grassy scent. I’m met by sad eyes and condolences from Gilles, the shopkeeper, asking if I know the arrangements for Henri’s funeral service. I offer him the same condolences. Henri was everyone’s friend as well as mine. It’s the same in the cheese shop: they want to know when and where the service will take place and ask after Rhi. I need to talk to her about what should happen. Everyone wants to know about the funeral. It seems the town will be at a standstill until we can have a service and come to terms with him being gone.
With a basket full of cheese, paté and ham, the makings of salad and more bread, my feet automatically lead me to the bistro.
I come to a stop outside, my shopping trolley standing beside me, a faithful companion. The window is still boarded up and I check my phone. No news on when the window will be fixed. I’ve agreed to the estimate, even though it made my eyes water and cleared out my bank account. I need to get into Henri’s desk and start looking for the insurance paperwork.
I rummage for my keys in my bag and let myself in. It feels dark and cool, against the heat of the day outside. The boarded-up window makes it darker than usual. It feels … dead, without the usual smells coming from the kitchen, the sound of pots and pans in use, the deliveries arriving and people popping in for coffee, a glass of petit rosé, then lunch starting at midday. It’s like a shell. The sooner I can get the window sorted the better.
I walk upstairs to the apartment and go to the desk. I open one of the drawers. Chaos. Papers, paperclips, a packet of Marlboro cigarettes and a half-eaten chocolate bar. I pull out the other drawers. They’re in much the same state. It’ll take a lot of work to go through Henri’s ‘filing system’. But not now. I can’t get lost in his papers now, or I’ll never be back in time for lunch. This is something Rhi and I should do together.
I go back downstairs, staring at the photographs on the wall. In the restaurant I pick up the reservations book and put it into my bag to take home with me. I’ll make sure I contact everyone in it. Henri’s is closed for the time being.
I go to the freezer and pull out the bouillabaisse I didn’t use when the olive tree hit the window. At least there will be dinner for the pickers this evening. Then I find a piece of paper and a pen and write on it: ‘Fermé pour les vendanges. Closed for the harvest.’ I add my mobile number for enquiries. At least by the time the harvest is done, the new window should be in place and we can reopen. I’ll need to. With the window to pay for, until I can find the insurance details, and the pickers to cook for, my bank account is stretched and I’m using the small overdraft facility. I need to get back into that kitchen and start bringing in some money.
I write out another sign, step out of the bistro and pull the door to behind me. Then I head up through town, past the brocante. I check in on JB, Stephanie’s husband, giving him a baguette for his lunch from the local sandwich shop. It’s filled with sliced salami and salad, which I know he’ll pick out. I tell him I’m not sure how long Fabien will be away for but reassure him that it won’t be long.
‘Everyone is asking about a funeral for Henri,’ he tells me, picking out the salad, then biting into the salami sandwich.
‘That isn’t far away either,’ I tell him. ‘I’ll get Rhi to start sorting things. Give the children a kiss from me,’ I add, as I leave the walled courtyard where furniture and bric-a-brac are piled up. They will be moved into the building at the end of the day and put out again tomorrow morning. It’s heavy work for little reward at the moment, but Fabien would never think of closing.
Part of me starts to feel better. He’ll be back soon and the bistro will be open again. Everything will soon return to how it was. Then, with my full trolley and the bouillabaisse, I stroll along the riverbank to where the project began, to the little hut there, the blue velvet sofa that I thought was an art installation and has now been replaced by various other chairs that people wanted to pass on to those who were without a home of their own. It looks beautiful, with festoon lighting hanging from the huge branches of the larch tree.
A couple of people are playing chess in the shade of the tree. I greet them and they say how sorry they were to hear about Henri and ask about the funeral. I tell them I’ll let them know as soon as I can. Then, wishing them a good day, I pull out the note from my handbag and pin it to the shed door, explaining that the riverside kitchen will be closed until after the harvest. Once the bistro is open again, I’ll be back, bringing the daily plat du jour after service has ended. Until then, with no food coming out of the bistro, there’s no leftover plat du jour. I feel wretched, but with the bistro shut, there’s nothing I can do. It won’t be for long. Just until after the harvest.
Then I return to the farm to serve up bread, cheese, paté and tomato salad. I cringe at the memory of last night’s dinner. At least tonight will be better, with the pot of bouillabaisse in my shopping trolley.
After lunch the pickers help to clear up. I don’t eat much, and neither does Rhi. But the pickers enjoy the food. The rest of the day is theirs as it’s far too hot to work in the field. Jen heads for her camper van, puts her laptop on the little table and sits on one of the chairs she placed under the tree. Graham and Keith head for their room for a siesta. Marco, the Australian, wants to find a bar. Ed is heading into town too. Maria looks up bus timetables. She wants to explore the countryside.
‘There’s my old bike, if that’s any help?’ I offer. ‘But I only have one.’
‘That would be great!’
Marco rolls his eyes. ‘Can we just go and have a beer or three? I’m parched,’ he says testily. ‘All this tramping around the place, it’s doing my head in.’
To be fair, he worked hard this morning, bringing the trolley up to the barn from the bottom of the field when it was full.
Maria looks embarrassed. I wish she didn’t. It’s fine.
‘Maybe tomorrow,’ she says, and follows him as he sets off down the hot, dusty driveway, talking with Ed, who’s joined them. I can’t help but wonder about Maria and Marco. They seem to want different things from the trip, as if they’re not quite on the same page. But, then, maybe people wonder about me and Fabien. What’s he doing with a woman ten years older than him, when he could be with someone closer to his own age? I think of him back with the band and wonder how he’s getting on.
I head up for a siesta, in the cool of my bedroom, missing Fabien. I decide to call him to check how he is.
The phone rings and he picks up. ‘Hello, chérie,’ he says, and I love hearing the smile in his voice.
I think I hear someone teasing in the background. He’s with the band. On the bus, I assume. There’s music playing, and lots of chatter.
‘How is everything? How are the pickers?’ he asks, clearly trying to ignore the noise around him.
‘We’ve started so that’s good.’
‘And the children?’ he asks.
‘All fine. Stephanie is sad, but she’s doing okay.’
‘Give them all a kiss from me. Say Papi loves them,’ he says.
Then I hear, ‘Grandpère,’ and laughter in the background.
‘What’s that?’
‘Oh, it’s nothing, just banter,’ he says, with a tiny edge in his voice.
‘Is he calling you “Grandpère”?’
‘It’s just a joke, Del. Look, I’ll call you later, when it’s quieter.’
I can barely hear him but tell him that’s fine and hang up.
I imagine the teasing now, calling him ‘Grandpère’. What do his friends think of him giving up music to work in a brocante and be a grandfather? More to the point, what does Fabien think of it now he’s back with the band? I shut my eyes to try to nap, but all I can think of is the age gap between us. It seems to be widening with every day he’s away.
At dinner that evening, on the terrace, the sun is setting over the lavender fields that slope away from the house. Everyone is seated at the table, glowing after a day in the sun, showered and refreshed. Except Marco, who just has glowing cheeks.
I serve up the bouillabaisse to appreciative murmurs.
‘This is more like it!’ Marco grins and rubs his hands together. Maria looks embarrassed again, but he’s not wrong and I take it as a sort of compliment.
‘What is this?’ asks Ed eagerly, his enthusiasm surprising me.
‘It’s bouillabaisse. I make it in the bistro. Nearly every week. It has, erm …’ I try to recall the ingredients in the order that I use them. I’m imagining myself back in the bistro kitchen, back to the day the olive tree fell into the window when I was cooking it. But my mind goes blank. Is this what they mean by brain fog? Is this the peri-menopausal thing that Carine suggested I get some supplements for?
‘It’s fish stew,’ cuts in Rhi, and I smile gratefully at her.
I watch Ed write something on his phone, then lean over the bowl and inhale it, as if it were a fine wine. Then he opens his eyes and smiles. We’re all watching him.
‘Sorry … It’s just it smells amazing! I’m thinking fennel and saffron … and a bit of orange?’
‘Yes!’ I say. ‘That’s it! And something else. But I can’t remember …’ The brain fog descends again.
‘So, how about we get to know each other?’ I say, as I dip my spoon into the bouillabaisse and lift it to my mouth. Just for a moment I’m back to when I first ate this at the bistro, when I thought life around me had been turned on its head and I’d done a totally mad thing by staying here. And that centred me, sitting at the table outside the bistro, having just started to make new friends in Henri and Carine and, of course, meeting Fabien. It was the start of a journey, a new chapter. I take a mouthful of seafood and garlicky rouille, then look around the table. The diners are a couple of mouthfuls in and all look around waiting for someone to start. I swallow, and smile.
‘As you know, I’m Del,’ I tell them. ‘Moved to France three and a half years ago. My husband, now ex, went back to the UK and I stayed here. I started making lavender bakes from a recipe book I found, sold them at the market and to restaurants in the town. Stephanie does that now and I run Henri’s bistro in town.’ This time I manage to say his name without a crack in my voice. Progress, I think. Thank you, bouillabaisse. Thank you, Henri.
‘And Stephanie is your daughter?’ Keith asks, leaning over his bowl, his ears sticking out like two little wing-nuts, keeping his glasses on. There is kindness in his voice, which I like.
‘She’s … It’s complicated. But, yes, she’s practically family. As are her husband and the two children. My partner Fabien is away at the moment. And you’ve met Rhi, one of my closest friends.’ I nod to her. ‘She’s one of the few friends who believed in me when I decided to stay on in this town. Others thought I was making a crazy decision.’ I smile at her and we take a moment to enjoy the memory.
Then there’s a lull.
Some are mopping up the juices of the bouillabaisse with chunks of bread, loaded with rouille, and taking sips of wine, poured from the jugs of red and rosé on the table.
‘I’m Maria.’ I can tell she wants to be brave and make others feel comfortable. ‘Marco and I are travelling, trying to decide where to settle. We’re looking at our options. We’re from Australia. Marco’s Australian through and through, from the Gold Coast. Me, I’m a bit more complicated. Adopted in the UK, my birth mother was possibly a Traveller. My adoptive father was Greek, my mother of Indian heritage, and we moved to Australia when I was eleven.’
‘They don’t need our family history. Next you’ll be telling them how many times a day I go to the dunny!’ Marco is laughing, and everyone else laughs with him. He’s certainly a character, I think, as he leans into Maria, giving her a playful nudge. She smiles away her initially hurt expression, as he reaches across her for more bread to soak up the juices in his bowl. He puts the bread into his mouth, chews, swallows and grins. ‘This is good!’ he says, pointing to his bowl. ‘Is there any more?’
I smile. ‘Merci – I mean, thank you. It’s one of Henri’s specialities.’ I look at Rhi and give her a little smile, which she returns. That’s good, I think. It’s good to talk about him. I reach to take Marco’s bowl and ladle in some bouillabaisse. ‘Anyone else?’ More bowls are offered up.
‘Henri taught me all his recipes. Never wrote anything down. All done on instinct, taste, touch.’ Just like when I met Fabien. It was instinct that brought us together. ‘It’s how we live around here, following our hearts.’ The words catch in my throat and I cough. ‘Who’s next?’ I ask, handing over another bowl and encouraging people to fill their glasses.
‘We’re Graham and Keith,’ says Keith, the shorter, more rotund of the two, with the sticking-out ears and glasses. ‘We’ve decided to tour Europe. Interrail. We’ve been together for twenty-one years.’ We all say things like ‘brilliant’ and ‘congratulations’. They smile, Keith a little more widely than Graham.
‘How long are you planning on travelling for?’ asks Marco. ‘I mean, presumably it’s like a holiday for you guys.’
‘Well, more like a gap year. Keith didn’t do that as a youngster. I did. Travelled all round this area,’ says Graham, ‘but Keith went straight to work in a care home. This is our time to do what we never did as youngsters.’ Keith swallows and coughs on a bit of bread. Graham pats his back swiftly and sharply, looking concerned. When he sees Keith’s fine, he puts his hands back into his lap and continues. ‘So, we’re taking in Provence, seeing the sights and enjoying the adventure.’ He smiles, but Keith doesn’t and suddenly there’s a moment’s awkward silence.
I fill it. ‘Great! Seize the day and all that.’ My heart twists as I remember pushing Fabien to go out and seize the day, when I should’ve kept my mouth shut. The atmosphere has dampened.
‘I’m Jen,’ she jumps in. ‘Fifty-two, widowed. I sold up and am living van life as a digital nomad, so to speak.’
‘Wow!’ says Maria.
‘That’s brave,’ I say.
She shrugs. ‘No. It was always sort of the plan to do something like this. My husband Trefor and I had talked about living in a motorhome. Throwing caution to the wind.’ She sips some red wine. ‘He just didn’t get to do it with me. I wanted to do it despite everything. So, here I am,’ she says, ‘looking for a new clutch. Seizing the day, as you say.’
‘What do you do? As a digital nomad?’
‘I work in marketing, getting opportunities for clients. I can do it from anywhere.’
The tension that has been hanging in the air since they arrived at the farm, when we’d just heard about Henri, and Fabien was leaving, seems to dissipate a little more. Refreshing, like a breeze after a punishingly hot day in the fields, as the cicadas set about their evening song.
‘I’m Edward. Ed. I’m on a gap year … first time round!’ He smiles at Graham. ‘Just taking some time out before I start work. I was supposed to be with someone but … they didn’t come. So I decided to go ahead anyway!’ He gives a short laugh. ‘But now I’m here I’m wondering what on earth I’m doing. I mean, I’m the sad single bloke!’ He’s trying to pick up the laughter again, but he looks a bit lost.
‘It’s excellent you came. Shows real strength of character,’ says Maria.
Marco frowns at her. ‘Strength of character?’ he scoffs.
‘Yes,’ she says. ‘When you don’t know whether you’ll fit in. It’s brave.’
He dips bread into anything she’s left in her bowl, and I can’t decide how I feel about him. On the one hand he’s fun and entertaining, but on the other, I’m not sure.
‘Well, I for one am really pleased you’re here. I need you,’ I say. ‘All of you! Let’s raise a glass to the harvest.’ And we do.
‘I’m Rhi.’
I didn’t think she’d want to talk. She’s been so quiet. She worked quietly, collecting and bundling the lavender, then hanging the first day’s harvest in the barn, keeping going, slowly and steadily. The group fall silent. ‘And I’m here because … because my partner Henri has died, and this is where I feel close to him.’
We nod.
‘To Henri,’ we say, and raise our glasses.
The pickers fall quiet, as the cicadas sing, lost in their thoughts. Looks like it’s not just me and Rhi who need this harvest and time on the land. Perhaps my other pickers have a reason for being here too. Once again, Henri is bringing people together. We may be starting this harvest on a better footing than I’d thought last night and I’m hoping for another good day tomorrow.