CHAPTER 22
I’m so nervous that my hands are shaking. I don’t know why. I’ve been working as a cook in this town, just down that lane, for three years! At ‘l’expérience’ as it’s now called. It will always be Henri’s to me. I look down the pretty lane, with cream stone buildings either side and wisteria clinging to its walls, to where the olive tree once stood. All trace of it has gone, with the sign that used to hang over the bistro door.
I take a deep breath.
I look at the sign, surrounded by fairy lights, propped in pride of place on the far wall. I’ll make sure Zacharie sees that it should be back where it was on the bistro. His dad’s place. Back to how things were around here. I refuse to let him wipe out Henri’s legacy.
I have an idea.
I pull out a pen and find a piece of paper in Fabien’s office. I’m enjoying sitting at his untidy desk, taking comfort from it and remembering drinking coffee here on our first meeting. Now it’s full of crockery, and there’s a hotplate as well as the small gas burner. I take a moment to think what to write, then put pen to paper. When I’ve finished, I find an envelope and put it in. I stick down the flap and walk out of the office into the hot afternoon, out of the worn cream gates and down towards the bistro.
My chest tightens as I reach it, slowing, taking in the effect its makeover has on me. It’s strange seeing the place active at night. When it was Henri’s we just opened at lunchtime. By evening the bistro was closed, as if it had been tucked up for the night. Now it sleeps all day and is awake at night. I step forward quickly and slide the envelope into the letterbox. At least that’s still in the same place. Then I look up at the building.
‘I’ll see you again soon,’ I say. ‘Hang on in there.’
The door opens. ‘Have you come to book a table?’
It’s Zacharie.
‘Erm, no.’ I clear my throat and lift my chin. ‘I came to bring you something.’ I point at the envelope on the mat by his feet. He bends down to pick it up.
‘It’s an invitation,’ I tell him. He holds it in one hand and taps it in the palm of the other. ‘To our supper club.’
‘This evening?’
‘Yes.’
‘But I have a restaurant to run.’
‘Yes, I know. But I thought if you could get away just for a bit. You may like to see what we’ve done in memory of Henri. Join us for a glass of wine.’
He smiles again. ‘Of course. I wouldn’t miss it! How do you say … “Wild horses wouldn’t keep me away”?’
I’m not sure if he’s being sarcastic or if this is some kind of olive branch. ‘Good. I’ll see you there,’ I say, and hurry away. I don’t want to prolong the conversation. I’ve said what I need to say in the envelope, why it matters. A partnership between Zacharie and Henri’s could be fantastic. A blend of old and new. I just hope he takes in my idea for us to work together, blending ideas like we have here tonight. Nothing stays the same. Everything changes. We could make it work at Henri’s with change from both of us.
I hurry back to the brocante where the excitement is building.
‘Okay, let’s do this! Let’s get this fusion feast on the road!’ I say to Ed, who smiles.
‘Henri would have loved this!’ Carine says, behind me. She’s carrying a bunch of flowers held together with curling ribbon.
‘Oh, Carine, they’re beautiful! Merci!’
‘They’re not from me. They’re from Fabien, sent to wish you luck for tonight. He wishes he could be here.’
And my heart leaps. I wish he were here too. The longer he’s away, the more I seem to be falling into a routine without him and I don’t want that. I want him with me! I want everything back to how it was before the mistral. Henri’s, Fabien, me and our little stitched-together family. Just as it was.
But everything is changing: Stephanie and JB are in their little house, him helping her with the business, partners in life. I’m so proud of them, yet melancholy that everything has to change. But I can’t let that happen to Henri’s. That sign needs to go back to where it was. I need to prove to Henri’s son that it’s the best thing for the business and the town, and that we can work together. And this is how I plan to do it. Tonight will be a great success, serving Henri’s meals, classics, with a twist, a fusion of flavours from all of us and our food memories. It’s about feeling at home around the table, wherever you have come from.
I inhale the scent of the flowers, wishing Fabien was here. But I’m determined to make this happen, to get us all back to how we were, whatever it takes.
‘I found a beautiful vase,’ says Keith. ‘Thought it would work a treat for those blooms!’
I turn to him.
‘In fact, I’ve found a few vases. I thought we could separate the bouquet and add them to the tables. Spread the joy, so to speak.’
‘That would be perfect!’ I say, and hand him the flowers. That way Fabien will be here in spirit, at each of the tables. Suddenly music is playing.
‘I found an old record player and some vinyl,’ says Ed. ‘Reminds me of Sundays at home before lunch. My father loved to play his records in the front room on a Sunday.’
‘He sounds lovely,’ I say.
‘He is. He and my mum both are …’ He hesitates. ‘Just a bit stuck in their ways.’
‘Traditionalists,’ I suggest.
‘Yes. Church, Sunday lunch. Working at the factory. Taking their two weeks’ holiday in the same cottage every year. They just want the same security for me. And something to brag about to their friends!’ He laughs. ‘A lawyer for a son!’
‘I’m sure they’d be even better pleased to know you were happy,’ I say. ‘It’s hard to live your whole life just trying to make someone else happy. You have to live with yourself. Make sure you like the life you’ve chosen,’ I say, without stopping to think. I hope I haven’t offended him.
‘Like you?’
‘I don’t have children of my own, but I do know that what I want for Stephanie is for her to be happy, whatever she does, and the little ones.’
‘Sadly, it’s not quite like that in my family. And I’ve already let them down once by walking away from the house and the wedding. I’m not sure they could live with any more disappointment.’
I put my hand on his shoulder. ‘That makes you a very kind and thoughtful person,’ I say. ‘But be kind to yourself too.’
‘I will,’ he says, and we turn to help Keith.
The old rugs are pulled out and we add more mismatched crockery from the fifties to the collection Keith has arranged on an old dresser to give the place a real front-room feel.
‘This is looking amazing,’ I say, as the outside space is turned into something resembling a vintage tea room, with lace tablecloths, ironed and weighted down with worn but beautifully patterned plates and side plates. There are water glasses of differing heights, knives and forks of all different shapes and sizes. On each table there’s a vase of the flowers and a jug of water. There are tea lights in jam jars, waiting to be lit. Intricately woven rugs lie on the floor and each chair comes with its own history. Some are ornate, perhaps from a local chateau or a maison de ma?tre, others from humbler backgrounds, from the heart of a French country home, a little like mine, where families have joined together for meals at the kitchen table. And at the heart of this scene? The table. There are long farmhouse tables, where workers like the pickers would sit after a morning in the sun. There are dark-stained stately ones from formal dining rooms, smelling of beeswax, and some that would have had another purpose, like the sewing-machine tables with their ornate wrought-iron legwork. Machinists would have sat at them to create their garments, either in the home or the chateau, mending the linen, or in shops, running up local fashions. All of this, the tables, chairs, silver cutlery and worn patterned plates, is part of the history of the town, of the people who have lived and worked here, whose stories are woven into the fabric of the place. This is what Henri would have wanted. A place where everyone is welcome.
‘Is everything okay?’ Keith asks.
‘It’s fabulous,’ I tell him.
‘You haven’t seen it with the candles lit!’ He beams.
‘Let’s just hope people come,’ I say.
‘They will,’ he says. ‘Make somewhere welcoming and they will come.’
And they do.
The candles are lit, making it look like a magazine lifestyle shoot. The festoon lighting is twinkling. Bottle-openers and corkscrews of all varieties are lying on the tables, and people are opening the wine they’ve brought with them.
By eight o’clock, three nervous chefs are waiting inside the cool of the brocante warehouse. Outside, the barbecue charcoal has been lit, and my heart lifts and swoops as I see the mayor and his wife arrive with neighbours and Carine with Clémentine. They all come in with oohs and ahhs, taking in their surroundings and sitting at the long table Keith has reserved for them, with pressed napkins on top of the patterned plates.
The sound of popping corks heralds another table arriving. It’s the bakery-van owner, Adèle, with her husband, elderly mother and children. And they keep coming. Serge, the old lavender farmer, arrives on his own, and Rhi seats him next to Carine at the mayor’s table. The neighbours from the shops next to what was Henri’s bistro are here too. Samuel and his two companions, who helped on the field, arrive shyly and I usher them in, insisting they’re welcome especially after their work in the field that morning. My friend Lou and her partner, who live on a smallholding a few towns away, arrive with armfuls of flowers and produce from their land.
We hug each other hard, then Rhi is in Lou’s arms. ‘I’m so sorry about Henri,’ Lou says to Rhi. ‘And I’m sorry I haven’t been here sooner. But with the harvest …’
‘It’s fine!’ Rhi says, smiling. This is the old friend who would never have got her hands dirty, let alone chip a nail, before she met Alain at the riverbank clearing. He’d lost his way in life after his wife died but, thanks to the riverbank project and spending time at Le Petit Mas when I moved in, planting lavender, he and Lou had got together.
I put all the produce in the cool of the barn, and suddenly I’m wondering what to make with it, turning over ideas in my head as if I were having a conversation with Henri. Just like that, I’m remembering the dishes I made with him. The fog is lifting. I turn to Rhi. ‘He’s here. I’m thinking about what I can make with these courgettes and tomatoes. The ideas haven’t gone! He’s still here!’
‘And this is where we want him to stay!’ she says.
‘Very much so. And I need Henri’s son to see that too.’ I just hope my invitation to come tonight will do the trick.
As Edith Piaf sings from the old record player, Maria and Ed start to plate up her salad starter. It’s a mix of different flavours and styles, green leaves and edible flowers. She and Ed are working in harmony together. Jen is behind them, washing up. Graham is helping guests pour their wine and refilling water jugs.
‘Everything you see is for sale,’ says Keith, revelling in his role as scene-setter. One or two people raise their hands and ask about particular pieces, the gilt mirror and the candelabrum, and he writes ‘sold’ labels to tie on them.
I keep watching the gates, open and welcoming, as are the lights, the candles and the cheerful conversation over the music. But as we all pitch in to hand round the starters and baskets of bread, then take seats with our guests to eat with them, I take one final glance out of the gates. Zacharie is standing, arms folded, next to his new sous-chef, in chef’s whites. Just for a moment I wonder if he’s going to come and join us, even just briefly, to raise a glass to his dad. He stares back at me and I’m willing him to come and see what we’re doing. He lets his arms drop to his sides. Then, to my disappointment, he shakes his head and turns to go back to the bistro, laughing and slapping his sous-chef on the back. He’s not coming. My heart sinks as my fingers curl into my palms, frustrated by his refusal to see what this place is all about. His father, Henri.
The barbecue is served with carottes rapées, grated carrot in a thick French dressing topped with poppy seeds, chickpea salad and garlicky potatoes with a hint of cumin and coriander. Baskets of bread are replenished and I feel as if I’m back at the bistro. Food is enjoyed and diners ask to meet the chefs who cooked it and tell them how much they love it. Keith has sold two more mirrors he hung outside, reflecting the festoon lighting, the candles, and another pair of candelabra he’s used on the centre table.
‘Everything is for sale,’ he repeats happily, giving people prices for large tureens and jugs.
After cheese and a glorious trio of desserts, including Keith’s marvellous macarons, our diners reluctantly leave, promising to come back as soon as we’re open again. The wooden till drawer is full: everyone paid the suggested price and more. I grab some wine glasses from the box inside the barn and open two bottles of crémant, sparkling wine, a gift from the mayor, and take them to the nearest table.
‘I’ve loaded all the washing-up into boxes,’ says Jen. ‘I suggest I come back down in the morning, test-run the new clutch and pick it up.’
‘And the tablecloths and napkins for washing,’ says Keith.
‘Just the tables and chairs to go away.’
‘It’ll be like we were never here,’ I say, and hope that’s not the case.
There are a few desserts left that Keith made with Stephanie earlier today. I pick up two plates and two glasses of wine. The dessert that had the mayor in tears, reminding him of his childhood. A chocolate mousse, with nuggets of nougat, soft vanilla ice cream and a drizzle of warmed honey and crumbled almonds on the top, like the bar of Toblerone his father would bring him, taking him right back to his childhood, where most of us feel happy, safe, and where the troubles of today are a long way off.
‘What about same time next week?’ Graham says, enjoying the dessert.
‘I don’t know,’ I say. ‘We’ve made a lot tonight, enough to keep us going. The harvest will be over in a week or so.’
‘I’d like to stay for next week,’ says Maria. ‘I feel I’m only just starting to find myself.’
‘I’d like to stay too,’ says Ed, pushing away his phone as a message heralds its arrival. He tuts. ‘It’s my dad, wanting to know when I’ll be back. He saw the man who owns the law firm I’m returning to today.’
‘I love this. It’s just like being at my nan’s,’ says Maria.
‘My nan used to make us mulligatawny packet soup with extra curry powder and pretend she’d made it herself,’ says Keith.
‘What?’
‘And our parents would sit there glaring at us not to say anything. It was disgusting.’ He laughs.
‘Well, I don’t think we should put that on the menu,’ says Jen.
‘But barbecuing is what I loved most. I loved barbecuing when I was a child. We’d go camping in the woods. My dad would light a fire to see off the mozzies, and we’d sit in silence and watch the flames. I think that’s when I felt closest to my dad. Just us, in our thoughts, feeding the fire and cooking on it, fish we’d caught mostly. I felt happy then,’ says Keith.
‘Do you and your dad still barbecue now?’
He shakes his head. ‘No, we don’t really talk. He didn’t find my life choices very easy to accept. So sad. He missed out on so much with our son growing up, being a grandparent.’
‘Maybe you should invite him to barbecue again.’
‘Maybe I should …’
‘Well, we should definitely barbecue again next Friday for supper club,’ says Ed.
‘Maybe get some live music,’ says Jen.
‘Music?’
‘Yes – we saw someone busking at the market. Invite them here to play for the supper club.’
‘Del, are you okay?’ asks Ed.
‘Sorry, I was in a world of my own. Just thinking. About Zacharie. He didn’t come.’
‘No, but lots of locals did,’ says Rhi.
‘We haven’t persuaded him to change his menu yet,’ says Jen. ‘I say we keep going until he comes.’
This group, who were strangers not long ago, are now supporting me and each other as friends. I owe it to them at least to try.
‘I’ll be back,’ I say, standing, picking up two plates of desserts.
‘Where are you going?’
‘If the mountain won’t come to Muhammad …’ I march off towards the big gates, then across the road, looking both ways, the flash of the green cross of the pharmacy the only sign of life now. It’s hot. The ice cream is starting to melt.
I walk towards the familiar building that looks like someone I used to know but who has had fillers, a facelift, and changed their face completely. I reach the outside and stand there, trying to pick out features that used to be my old friends. Everything is … grey. It’s not warm and welcoming, like it used to be, more formal and standoffish. And, by the look of it, empty.
I take a deep breath and push open the door.