Chapter 9
9
Eugénie stayed for quite a while, eventually leaving when Isabel made very pointed comments about how tired I must be after my journey, and how I needed time to settle into my room.
This time it was me in the attic because Isabel said it was the most comfortable bed. A space that had been converted some years ago by Felix and his sons in to a large room under the bending beams of the roof. Half the room at the far end was taken up with exactly the sort of stuff one would expect to find there. Cardboard boxes sealed and taped up, a broken lampstand, which apparently Felix was planning to repair one day, some dining chairs with ragged covers and even an old wardrobe propped up on bricks. However, in the area I was to use, there was a beautiful old sleigh bed, which looked as though it was carved from mahogany, a painted chest of drawers and a blue velvet armchair.
‘The g?te you stayed in last time will be finished soon and then you can move in there,’ Isabel said, looking around with some uncertainty, ‘but this will be okay for now, won’t it?’
‘Of course,’ I said, looking up and hoping the roof didn’t leak.
‘The bathroom is at the bottom of the stairs, I will bring you a tray with a kettle and some tea things, so you don’t have to go downstairs first thing if you don’t want to. The dogs will jump over you if you do. I’ve got some tea bags for you. I wonder where they are…’
‘Brilliant, thank you,’ I said.
‘Right, I’ll leave you to get unpacked. I’ll be downstairs in the kitchen trying to get my head around lunch. Although I don’t expect Felix back before this evening. What would you like?’
‘Nothing much,’ I said, ‘I’m still full of coffee and cake.’
‘Perhaps I’ll just get a few things out then, and you can decide. Some bread and cheese or something.’
‘Sounds fine,’ I said, ‘you don’t have to go to any trouble.’
‘I wasn’t going to,’ Isabel said grinning, ‘you’re just as capable of making a sandwich as I am. Just relax.’
Yes, perhaps I should have taken that attitude with my family, instead of insisting I did everything. Maybe I had been my own worst enemy.
I sat on the edge of the bed after she had gone and looked out of the window. The fields stretched out below me, down the slope to where the little river ran. On the other side of it I could see a single house, and beside it a thin plume of blue smoke rising into the still air. It looked like there was a bonfire burning in the garden. Perhaps that was the old place that Jean-Luc was busy renovating.
I wondered what his life there was like. He had come from Paris after all, where presumably he had led a busy life. And yet he had chosen to live here, in the depths of the countryside, with no neighbours nearby. I wondered why he had done that.
And then I remembered how I had shouted at him, and been rude, and I felt my face grow hot at the memory. I hoped Isabel wouldn’t invite him over for dinner, and if she did, that he would make some excuse not to come. Or perhaps I could pretend to have a headache and retire to my room. No, that would be silly and childish. I would be complaining about the vegetables touching in the dish next.
And if I was honest, I had been the one in the wrong. I had been daydreaming, not concentrating on the road. It hadn’t been Jean-Luc’s fault. There was no reason why I couldn’t just apologise to him, talk to him in a reasonable way and be a bit braver about meeting new people. Starting with him.
I unpacked and only put a few things into the wardrobe, after all I was not sure how long I would be staying in this room, and then I found my phone. There were two messages from John telling me something of the glories of Manhattan and attaching a photo of his office, which seemed to have walls made of glass and an incredible view over other skyscrapers. The girls had settled in quite well and had already been invited to two birthday parties. Vanessa had contacted an old school friend called Beatrice and signed up for a gym and t’ai chi classes.
Sara had sent several messages, asking where the spare tea towels were kept, did I have various pieces of kitchen equipment, would I mind if the girls had a couple of friends for a sleepover and telling me that two glasses had been broken and were they very special or could she just get some from the supermarket.
I sent a message to them both and a photograph of the lovely view out of my attic window, telling only the briefest highlights of my journey, and then sent a message to Sara reassuring her that the glasses were nothing special, a sleepover was fine and not to worry about me.
Then I went back downstairs looking for Isabel and feeling surprisingly rather hungry. After so many weeks of full-on housework and activity, it felt very strange to have nothing in particular to do. No meals to prepare, no towering ironing pile, no need to go out for more milk or biscuits.
The kitchen was empty, the top half of the stable door open and for a moment I stood with my hands hanging, feeling rather unsure what to do. Should I go outside? Should I go back up to my room pretending I needed a handkerchief or something?
In the end I sat down at the kitchen table, liking the feel of the old wood under my palms. So many family meals and arguments and discussions had taken place around it, it had been worn smooth by many hands and cloths, newspapers, and dishes over the years, not by polish.
I looked around at the rest of the room, the worktops were cluttered with piles of catalogues, letters, a wooden box of seed packets, a large ball of twine and pieces of a broken coffee pot. There was a screwed-up tea towel in the sink, and two gigantic leeks, their roots covered with mud.
I remembered Stephen on one of his visits here, musing that perhaps we should stay in the g?te as this kitchen was a health hazard. But as I looked at it now, I thought it had a certain charm.
I could hear one of the dogs barking outside, an excited frantic noise that grew louder accompanied by the sound of a car coming up the drive. I felt a moment’s ridiculous panic, wondering what I would do or say if a stranger came to the house looking for Isabel and rattling away in French at a speed with which my schoolgirl studies would not cope.
Then a face appeared at the door: a man, tall, rangy and smiling, his thinning hair covered by a cotton cap.
‘Ah! Joy!’ he said.
It was my brother-in-law, Felix, a canvas bag over one shoulder, which he brought in and dumped on the table, spilling out a load of battered books and paperwork. The two dogs followed him in and sniffed around his feet until he nudged them aside with a knee.
‘Welcome, welcome,’ he said cheerfully, coming forward to kiss me on both cheeks, ‘I hope you have had a good journey. Has Isabel abandoned you already? This is very naughty of her.’
‘I’m fine,’ I said, ‘she was here a minute ago. I don’t think she can have gone far.’
‘Oh, she will be in the barn I expect, trying to make sense of um, um les nouveaux draps – the new linens she found in Morlaix. Such things that were going on a bonfire, so she says. You know your sister; she will never throw anything away if she can avoid it.’
‘I know,’ I said, remembering the state of her childhood bedroom, ‘she was always the same when we were growing up.’
‘And so, muddle, muddle everywhere, as you can see. And I am just as bad.’
He chuckled and dumped his woollen jacket on the back of a chair.
‘I have come home early, to see that you got here safely and also to go through some of the accounts,’ he pointed at the pile of paperwork on the table. ‘Lisa can cope without me for once.’
‘I’m fine,’ I said, ‘a very smooth ferry crossing.’
‘And you weren’t hurt when you had the accident?’
Good grief. Did everyone know everything? Were people on the phone all the time to each other – passing on gossip and interesting bits of news? It wasn’t like this at home, where everyone kept out of each other’s business. We got on okay but sometimes days could go by, and I didn’t see any of my neighbours. In fact, it had been three months before I found out the Robinsons two doors down from me, had migrated to New Zealand and the house had been sold to the couple who owned The Cheese Press gift shop.
‘It wasn’t exactly an accident,’ I said.
Felix pulled a face. ‘Well Henri said you were all over the place. He wondered if you were ill or had fallen asleep at the wheel?’
‘Henri?’
‘He was driving his tractor and said you were on the wrong side of the road. He would have stopped but he’s been having some trouble with his starter motor and once it stalls he has a devil of a job getting it started again.’
Ah, yes.
‘It was entirely my fault,’ I said, ‘I was just daydreaming, enjoying the scenery. I wasn’t concentrating. Anyway, no harm done.’
‘No, Jean-Luc said you were fine when I saw him in the village…’
For heaven’s sake. Did everyone know everything?
‘…Apart from your broken glasses. He said to tell you there is un opticien in Landivisiau who might be able to help you.’
Talk about Big Brother is watching you.
‘That’s fine,’ I said, ‘I have a spare pair.’
At that moment Isabel came in holding a straw basket that contained several eggs.
Her face lit up when she saw Felix and she put the eggs down on top of his paperwork and came across to kiss him. Felix gave her an affectionate hug and then patted her on the bottom. They had been together for nearly forty years and married for thirty. I didn’t know of any married couples who did that after such a long time together. My marriage certainly hadn’t been like that.
I felt rather wistful for a moment. What would it be like to be married to a man who looked at you properly, whose eyes twinkled with delight when you came into a room? I couldn’t for a moment imagine it.
‘Five eggs today,’ she said, ‘they are doing quite well considering the dark mornings. They’ll do better when we get into spring. I was going to make some leek soup for lunch, but the time has got away from me. Shall we just pop out and get something in the café? You remember that place, don’t you, Joy? I’m sure you’ve been there before.’
‘Good idea,’ Felix said absentmindedly, leafing through his paperwork, ‘I can do this later.’
‘You said that last week. And the week before,’ Isabel murmured.
‘ Mieux vaut tard que jamais … better late than never,’ Felix said, jangling his car keys, ‘ allons-y. Let’s go. I’ve just remembered, I need to speak to Louis about something anyway.’
We went to the village, Felix driving his old Renault at some speed down the middle of the country road in much the same way that I had done earlier. He said it was to avoid the potholes. I clung to the seat with both hands and hoped Henri and his tractor were not still around.
In the afternoon sunlight, the town looked charming. The bell in the church tower was tolling a single note, there were people queueing outside a shop with a faded red door and newspaper stuck over the windows, which Isabel reminded me was the local bakery; and some were already walking away with three, four or more long loaves from the afternoon bake under their arms. The French really must eat a lot more bread than I had realised.
At last, we pulled up outside an unremarkable little building with ‘ Bar des Sports’ painted in blue above the door and a couple of iron tables and chairs placed optimistically on the pavement outside, and yes, I remembered it. Stephen and I had been taken there once about ten years ago and the basic nature of the establishment (he had spent some time looking for a hygiene rating certificate) and the food had not gone down well with him. Particularly when he realised that the customer at the next table, white napkin tucked under his neck, was enjoying a couple of braised pig’s feet.
Anyway, Felix didn’t so much park the car, as leave it half on the pavement a few steps from the entrance, and we went in. It didn’t seem to have changed at all from what little I could remember. The interior walls and ceilings were still stained a distinctive nicotine brown, the grey marble tabletops matched the serving counter, and the chairs were a mismatch from several different decades. Behind the counter was a selection of spirit and liqueur bottles on wooden shelves stretching up to the ceiling, and Monsieur le Patron was dabbing a cloth at the ones at the front with no particular enthusiasm.
He turned around as we came in and his face broke into an expansive smile. He was evidently so overjoyed to see us that he came out from behind his counter to shake hands all round and even do the cheek-kissing thing with Isabel.
There then followed a long, chuckling conversation in French, most of which escaped me, after that we were encouraged to sit down at la meilleure table – the best table, after he had first turfed a fat tabby off one of the seats.
I watched my sister joining in, her French and her understanding of the conversation obviously fluent. I know she had lived here for most of her adult life, but I still found it a bit odd. I suppose parents seeing their adult child in a Hollywood blockbuster or performing at the Albert Hall must feel the same way. I stood proudly watching her, wondering what Miss Travis, who had tried and failed to teach us both French at school, would think.
There was something about her life that some – our parents and Stephen for example – might have seen as unsatisfactory, but I was beginning to realise it was far more colourful and – yes – happier than mine had been. I had not taken risks, not really stuck up for myself, not lived my life to the full. I felt a new determination growing.
Even in the short time since I had been here, I wanted to change, to feel real connection with my own life again, to have fun, before it was too late.
‘Now then, what shall we have?’ Isabel said. There was a laminated menu sheet wedged between a glass vase of artificial daffodils and a pepper mill, and she picked it up.
‘I don’t know why you are bothering to look,’ Felix said, ‘you know as well as I do, what you are going to have.’
‘Onion soup,’ Isabel agreed, passing the menu to me, ‘it’s the best.’
I looked at the menu uncertainly, pulling it back and forwards to try and get it into focus. I might have some spare reading glasses, in fact, I had several pairs, but they were all back in my room.
‘I’ll have the same,’ I said.
Isabel turned in her chair. ‘Louis, trois soups à l’oignon. ’
Louis flapped a hand at her. ‘ Bien s?r !’ Of course. ‘I’ll tell Paulette.’
Evidently we were all having the same thing.
‘Excuse me, I need a word with him,’ Felix said, wandering off to the bar where he was presented with a tall glass of lager.
‘So, how are you feeling? I’m so glad you’re here,’ Isabel said.
I reached across and squeezed her hand, feeling rather emotional.
‘So am I.’
‘You’re not fretting about Sara and the twins I hope?’
‘No. Of course not. Well, maybe a bit,’ I admitted.
‘They’ll be fine. I guarantee it. Sara needs time to get on with her life, to be independent. And she’s lucky to have found a place where she is able to do that. It was very generous of you to leave them there.’
I laughed. ‘Generous or stupid. Except Vanessa told me I’m not allowed to say stupid. So perhaps I’ll say foolish instead.’
Isabel chuckled. ‘Vanessa is such a good mother isn’t she. She makes my head spin. We weren’t like that, and the kids turned out okay in the end, didn’t they? Tell me all about John and his new job.’
Had I been a good mother? Stephen had been the disciplinarian; I had been the soft touch when the children were growing up. His response to most of their requests had been ‘ no’ , mine had usually been ‘ well, I’ll see’ , which was usually interpreted as yes.
Should I have been tougher on them? Should I have said something to Sara about her alcohol intake over Christmas instead of making excuses for her? Made a few comments about the rudeness of my granddaughters? Pulled everyone up for their untidiness? Asked for some co-operation instead of being such a martyr? Yes, I probably should, and I felt irritated with myself all over again.
Felix brought us a carafe of local red wine and we sat and chatted about things while the occasional customer came in for a drink or something to eat. Every time, there was a lot of handshaking and loud laughter and sometimes, Louis came out from behind the bar and slapped someone on the back in greeting. It was all very relaxed and pleasant, and I thought about the wine bar back home where Stephen had liked to go – The Oak Barrel – where everything was pale grey, coordinated and unremarkable. Much like our lives together, if I thought about it.
They liked to play Vivaldi or in the evenings some cool jazz in order to liven up the proceedings. The food was good but fussy, but that’s what Stephen had liked. Many times, I had gone home hungry after a meal there and had some toast and Marmite to fill me up.
We talked about Pierre and Sylveste and their landscaping business, how they had recently bought a new truck and were inundated with work.
Isabel explained. ‘There are a lot of second homeowners, who only come once or twice a year, and the rest of the time the houses are rented out to holiday makers. This area is very popular. Not too far from the ferry ports, near the beaches, lots of little towns to explore. Our g?tes are nearly always busy in the high season, that’s why we are getting a shepherd’s hut. Such a cute thing, just one bedroom, a tiny shower room, and everything you need. I wouldn’t mind moving in there, except Felix says I would have it looking like a jumble sale in no time.’
‘And the barn?’ I said. ‘The brocante . Is that going well?’
‘It could be better. I had such a lovely time in the autumn, going to flea markets and antique fairs. You can still pick up such lovely old things for a song around here. I just need to get the barn sorted out and presentable for the spring visitors. If you want to help me do that, I will love you forever.’
‘I will,’ I said.
I liked the idea of that. It was the one thing I hadn’t thought through when I decided to come here. I was so used to having something to do since I’d retired from teaching, even if it was looking after my husband when he was still around, housework, gardening or cooking for the Women’s Institute market, and the lead up to Christmas and the weeks that followed had been a lot of bustle and activity. Now I needed something new to focus on. If I didn’t, I could imagine myself getting very bored indeed, and while I didn’t have the energy of my younger self, I still had a very active mind.
I suddenly felt a surge of optimism. Whatever I did, it would be something different, not something that people would expect me to do. I would try to open myself up to the possibilities of travel or hobbies or people. I wanted my family to look at me with astonishment, perhaps even admiration.
What on earth are you doing, Mum?
Louis’ wife, Paulette, came through from the kitchen at that point with a laden tray that she deposited on the table between us. She was a well-rounded woman of about my vintage, with dazzling blue eyes, a beautiful smile and russet curls bound up with a chic, silk headscarf.
‘Enjoy,’ she said, ‘this is my best, my favourite, I make this with love, and it is all the better for it.’
There were three white, china lionhead bowls and the heavenly smell of French onion soup and toasted gruyère cheese rose up, making my mouth water. There was bread too, in a wicker basket, the crust crackled and golden. Paulette clasped her empty tray to her bosom and gave us a rather misty-eyed look before she went back to her kitchen.
‘Did I ever tell you she was once a Dior model?’ Isabel said.
‘Really?’ I said, watching her go.
‘So Eugénie told me.’
Felix came to join us.
‘Louis says he will put the posters up, for the bookshop and the French evening classes I’m going to run,’ he said, ‘There’s always someone coming in wanting to learn basic French, so why not? We could do with the money.’
There was a large, cheese-covered crouton on top of my soup, and everything was the temperature of molten lava. It was delicious. As I ate, I almost felt as though it was the first real food I had eaten perhaps in years. But it wasn’t just the food, it was the whole experience of that simple meal. The French-ness of it all. The modest red wine in the scratched glass carafe, the simple flavours, the unpretentiousness of the place. There was a quiet hum of conversation, none of which I could really understand. Occasional laughter. People coming and going. My sister opposite me, relaxed and happy. And I was there too, enjoying it.
Our parents had despaired of Isabel when she was growing up. She was always so unpredictable, so wilful while I had been the obedient child. When she had announced she was dropping out of university after two years to go and live with Felix Moreau in Aquitaine without the benefit of marriage, they had been horrified. All that promise and intelligence wasted so that she could go and live in some sort of hippy commune, they said.
I, meanwhile, had got my degree, taught in a private school where I had later married my head of department, and set up home in a leafy and respectable suburb. Which one of us had made the better life, I wondered. Perhaps my parents and Stephen had been wrong, it wasn’t all about exam results and money. Maybe there was more to life than just using the right cutlery, going to the best places, having the right beliefs. Perhaps there was more to life than that. But what was it? What was missing? I wanted – no I needed – to find out.