Chapter 21
21
Luc drove me back to Potato Farm, and the early evening shadows lengthened across the fields and hedgerows. He pulled to a stop outside the kitchen door, and almost immediately, Isabel opened it and Marcel and Antoine shot out, sniffing eagerly at the wheels of his car.
‘Everything okay?’ she said, darting looks between us.
‘Fine,’ I said, ‘we went and had lunch somewhere after we had finished with the plants.’
‘Where did you go?’
I turned to Luc, and he mentioned one of the villages with the unpronounceable names and Isabel nodded.
‘Has the shepherd’s hut arrived?’ I asked.
She nodded. ‘Come and see it, it’s so sweet, I almost want to move in there myself. I mean, it needs sorting out and prettying up – you can be in charge of that – and bed linen and towels of course, but it’s like a little playhouse. When we have done that, I must take some pictures to put up on my website.’
‘I’ll put the spare glass in the greenhouse and then leave you to it,’ Luc said.
‘You don’t have to go,’ Isabel said.
‘I still have some painting to finish; I really want to get it all done before my things arrive. I’ve had them in storage, and now I think I want to get them back, so I can do some sorting out of the things that matter to me.’ He threw me a look. ‘Today has made me feel I should be organising myself at last.’
‘Well,’ Isabel said, as we watched the taillights of his truck disappear up the lane, ‘what was all that about? What did you say to him.’
‘Oh, nothing much.’
‘Liar, liar, pantalon en feu !’
I laughed. ‘We just had a chat about what mattered to us, how it was easy just to hang on to things that we didn’t need.’
‘And did you find out anything about him? His past?’
‘A few things, but I am loath to tell you because then the whole town will know.’
‘You are mean!’
We went back into the kitchen and the dogs flopped into their bed under the kitchen table, not interested in me any longer.
Luc and his past. What had I learned.
He’d known heartbreak, and loneliness, just as I had. He’d decided to do something about it, and I knew how much courage that took. I too was starting to hope that life had more to offer me than patiently waiting for something to happen. I was beginning to think about my life in a different way: I wasn’t going to be satisfied with being at the edge of other people’s lives, I wanted to be at the centre of my own.
‘Let’s just say that he is a really nice man, who perhaps, like me, has had a few setbacks, but is realising that there is still life out there to be lived.’
Isabel clasped her hands under her chin in delight. ‘I knew it! I knew you two would hit it off. I’m never wrong.’
‘Isabel, we didn’t hit anything off. We just moved your seedlings and had lunch. And you have been wrong many times. You thought David Cassidy waved to you in the audience when we went to that concert, and that he was going to ask you backstage and then he would fall in love with you, and you would get married. Now then, show me this shepherd’s hut.’
‘So, you’re really not going to give me all the juicy details?’
‘There aren’t any, and if there were I wouldn’t tell you because you would tell Felix and then Eugénie and then everyone within a fifty-mile radius would know.’
‘How very dare you! I wouldn’t. And anyway, I’m your sister, it doesn’t count if you told me. Do you know, Charles came to collect Eugénie in his car just after you left. He said he wanted to take her to Venice for her birthday, but I wasn’t to tell anyone. Can you imagine that pair walking around Venice and getting lost?’
‘I think you’ve just proved my point,’ I said, grinning.
Over the next couple of days while Pierre repaired the greenhouse, Isabel and I fussed about in the brocante barn, restocking as things were sold, and Felix reported that the damaged window in the bookshop had been replaced.
And so, with all these problems sorted out, we turned our attention to the shepherd’s hut. It had been connected up to the water and the drainage, and we wanted to make it look gorgeous. Isabel would just have put clean sheets and towels in there with perhaps a few decorative items. I had other ideas.
Fired up with the success of the newly renovated g?tes, I suggested that we theme the hut on flowers, pastel colours to match the pale green exterior and some of the beautiful porcelain crockery she had collected in the brocante . Even the tea towels I picked out were vintage in pale shades of blue and pink.
‘It’s not very masculine,’ she said at one point, ‘it looks like a she-shed. The sort of place where a writer would come to finish off their sweeping romance novel.’
‘Then advertise it like that,’ I said, ‘writers are always looking for somewhere peaceful and gorgeous to write. And when they aren’t doing that, they are taking pictures to put on Instagram. You must have seen them? #ruralpeace #inspiration. I read an article about a woman who writes medical romances, very successfully. She said she was inspired by always starting off her books in a treehouse in the Lake District.’
‘What’s that got to do with doctors and nurses?’
‘Nothing, but it was the location that she mentioned. And after that, apparently they were inundated with bookings because of her. Perhaps you should put something up on social media, to let people know what you have to offer?’
‘Well, okay,’ Isabel said doubtfully, watching me arrange a lace-edged cloth into a wicker bread basket. ‘I guess you could be right. I’ve done a bit of Facebook advertising before, but I’m not sure it made much difference.’
‘Instagram? TikTok? That sort of thing?’
‘No, not really, it never crosses my mind. Perhaps we could give it a go? Your idea about putting vintage things in the g?tes seems to be working. Cathy from g?te number one has already said she would like to buy the cups and saucers to take home. I don’t know what to charge her.’
‘That’s great. And let’s get those two g?tes some proper names too.’
‘Why? I’ve always called then number one and number two – ah, I see what you mean. What do you suggest?’
‘Something French and romantic. Clair de Lune , perhaps and La Vie en Rose .’
‘Oooh, that sounds nice, and I could replace the teacups she wants to buy with those pink lustre ware ones, to carry on the theme. And there are some sheets embroidered at the top with pink thread. I don’t think they’ve ever been used. I could put those in there.’
‘Excellent ideas,’ I said, ‘And we could get one of your boys to paint some cute nameplates for the doors.’
‘Sylveste, he’s the artistic one,’ Isabel said, ‘although his girlfriend Margot is an art teacher, she does a nice sideline painting empty wine bottles to sell in the craft market, she might be the one to ask.’
‘Even better,’ I said, feeling very pleased.
‘Well, the greenhouse is repaired, all the new putty has set, and we have cleaned the shelves in there. All I need now is my plants back,’ Isabel said with a meaningful look.
‘You mean you want me to go and get them?’ I said.
‘Exactly.’
I rolled my eyes at her in mock exasperation, but secretly, I rather liked the prospect.
Driving over to Luc’s house the following day, I felt a silly buzz of anticipation, I was looking forward to seeing him again. I was wearing some new jeans because I still hadn’t managed to get the concrete smudges out of the old ones, and a rather cute, checked shirt, in a nod to being a capable, workman type. I had scraped my hair back into a high ponytail and had bought a new, red sweater from the market, which said it was genuine blended 5 per cent cashmere. I didn’t think it would pass the Vanessa test, and it was made in a country I’d never heard of, but it was a terrific bargain. I tied it around my neck in a way I thought was French and attractive and I’d even put on some make up and a slick of lipstick. And on top of all that effort, I’d brought a small gift to thank Luc for his help.
Perhaps I was overthinking this? It wasn’t as though I was hoping for this to be a romantic meeting, was I? After all, we hadn’t really spent much time alone in each other’s company, but he did seem to like talking to me. And I liked talking to him. It was pleasant to be able to chat to someone who didn’t already have an opinion of me, or my past or what I was doing now. Perhaps we would chat easily with each other, as we had that day when we had gone out to lunch, and he might say some nice things to me. What sort of nice things, I wasn’t sure. Maybe he would pay me a compliment.
When I thought back, Stephen had seldom paid me any compliments and had always had a firm opinion about everything. Sometimes it felt as though he wanted to share them with me on every subject in order to persuade me that he was right. I think that was a man thing. Mansplaining.
I think a lot of men were like that, I remembered a man in our quiz team telling me the right way to make a Christmas cake, when I had been making them successfully for years. And Stephen, who had probably never cooked a meal in his life, once stood behind me and told me I was chopping the onions wrong. He didn’t exactly tell me not to make such a fuss when I was in labour with Sara and swearing, but he came pretty close to it.
Luc wasn’t like that. He just listened and laughed in the right places, which hadn’t always been my experience. It was really refreshing. Was that really enough to make me like him? Just because he didn’t argue? Was that a negative reason to like someone? Thinking about it, Isabel and Felix argued all the time, and they seemed happy.
As I got to his house, I slowed down, negotiating all the ruts and potholes in the lane, until at last I arrived. But it looked as though he wasn’t there. The space where he usually parked his red truck was empty and I felt ridiculously disappointed. I should have rung him or texted him first, Isabel knew his number, after all.
I knocked on the front door twice, but there was no answer. And then I peered through the window, where everything looked distinctly tidy and unoccupied.
I stood for a moment, enjoying for a moment the tranquillity of the place, the sun warm on my face, the air crisp and clear. I took in a few deep breaths and coughed. I’d always been a city dweller, maybe I wasn’t used to clean air. But perhaps I could begin to understand why he had moved here.
Oh well, down to work. I could move a few trays of plants just as well as the next person. I’d even put the seats down in the back of my car ready to fit everything in.
I went around to the greenhouse and slid back the bolt. It all looked very lush and healthy in there. Even in the last few days the plants had done well. Isabel would be pleased, and I was glad to feel I was helping when she had been so kind to me.
I started with some of the trays of seedlings, balancing one on each hand and took them to the car, where, of course, I had forgotten to open the boot or the car doors. So then I had to put everything down again, and mess about, moving the shopping bags and jump leads out of the way. And the compressor and the bottle of tyre gunk, which I would need if I ever had a flat tyre. I’d only ever investigated it once, and never managed to get all the tubes and cables back into the handy carry case. And whether I had the ability to use such a thing in an emergency was another matter. Perhaps I should watch a YouTube video when I got the chance. And weren’t Isabel and I supposed to be making a video for social media? Perhaps I should give that some thought too.
The next bit was fairly easy, four more trips with little pots and one hanging basket. All that remained were the bigger plants. I realised that I should have done this in exactly the reverse order, put the big ones in first and fit the smaller trays around them. So, of course, then I had to take everything out yet again.
After the first one I started to think that this had been a bad idea. I’m fairly strong but lifting an earthenware pot filled with compost and a reasonably sized azalea wasn’t easy, so I rolled it and dragged it to the car accompanied by a lot of grunting noises and complaints. How I was going to get it up and into the boot was anyone’s guess. Why were cars designed like that? Why was there a foot high lip into the boot? Wouldn’t it make sense to just have it flat, or even have some mechanism to raise things of this sort like they have on the back of removal vans?
Then I went back for another one that was even bigger. By the time I got it to the car I was regretting what I was doing even more, but I was determined not to give up. Eventually I pulled all five of the pots into position, perhaps if I had a little rest I would regain some upper body strength, enough to haul them up.
I sat down on the ground, with my back against the car wheel, and wiped my sweating face with a tissue. I was probably as red as my sweater with the effort of all this.
After a few minutes, my heart rate and my breathing had gone back to normal, and I decided to try again. What had Isabel said, you never know how strong you are until there was no option? And as there was no sign of any strong-looking person around to help me, there wasn’t an option.
‘Right,’ I said, addressing the azalea, ‘you’re a pot, I’m a strong capable woman.’
I put both arms around the top and heaved the pot up and, spilling damp compost all over myself and the boot of my car, but I got it in. Triumph! Success!
The second one was bigger, and I gave a mighty heave and the sort of gaaaaahhhh noise that an Olympic weightlifter might have made. This time it didn’t work. I lost my footing, my knees buckled, and I fell over backwards, tipping the pot, a lot of the compost and the plant, which I think was a rhododendron, all over myself.
I lay there stunned for a moment, pushing my hair out of my eyes, it seemed the ponytail wasn’t working, and then got up, spitting out dirt, brushing myself down, and using words that my children and grandchildren would have been surprised I knew.
I untied the sweater from around my neck where it had morphed into some sort of garotte, then I scooped up the soil and the battered plant and put them back into the pot. Interesting thought, perhaps I should empty the pots first? Put them into the car and then put the plants back in?
No, I was sure that wouldn’t be a very good plan, and then all Isabel’s plants would die, and all this would have been for nothing.
I had another sit down, wishing I had brought something to drink. A bottle of water perhaps. Maybe there was a tap somewhere, he probably had some sort of outside water supply. I wandered around the house again, and yes, there was a neatly coiled yellow hosepipe connected up to a brass tap. Perhaps I could scoop some water up into my hands. But my hands were filthy. Perhaps not. I rinsed my hands off under the water flow, which was spluttering and slow, the water pressure round here was always unpredictable, and then dried them by rubbing them down the legs of my new jeans.
Round the back of the house, I could see through the windows into the kitchen, which again, was tidy and clean. On the worktop there was a kettle, and I looked longingly at it and thought about how close I was to tea bags and a clean mug. There might even be chilled water in the big fridge, or little, glass bottles of Pellegrino Limone , which I loved.
I gave a sad little whimper and thought how thirsty I was yet again. And my back was hurting, too, I thought it quite possible I had pulled a muscle or perhaps it was worse than that and I had slipped a disc. I imagined myself in traction in hospital with the nuns Eugénie had mentioned, gliding around my bed, sneering at me and telling me how foolish I had been.
I sat down on the step outside the back door with a wince of pain, and realised there was nothing for it, I would have to squirt some water into my mouth from the hosepipe. The pressure wasn’t very good; I was sure it would be okay.
I lifted the hosepipe with its fancy, multi-spray attachment to my mouth and pressed the lever. There were a couple of pathetic splutters of water. Perhaps there was a kink somewhere in the neatly coiled hose. I gave an impatient tug and tried again. Of course, this time a fierce jet of water shot out and hit me in the face, making me rock backwards and fall, screaming, off the step onto the ground.
‘What on earth are you doing now?’ said a worried voice.
I looked up from my prone position on the grass. I’d managed to lock the hose and the water continued to pour out all over me. I was soaking wet, filthy dirty, my hair was all over my face and I felt more foolish than I had in my life.
‘Hello, Luc,’ I said, trying to wrestle the hosepipe away from my legs and sound as though this was an everyday occurrence and not one of the most embarrassing moments I had ever experienced, ‘I thought I’d pop over.’
‘To do what? Drown yourself?’ he said, turning the tap off.
He held out a hand to help me.
When I was younger, I used to be able to spring up unaided, now I needed someone to haul me up like a sack of potatoes and when at last I stood upright, my back felt very painful indeed. I tried to look unconcerned and not wince with pain as the water dripped off my hair and down my face. I’d put mascara on that morning, too; I bet I looked a sight.
‘I’m guessing you came to get Isabel’s plants back?’ he said.
‘That was the idea,’ I said, not sure whether to laugh or cry. ‘But I couldn’t lift them into my boot.’
He tutted a bit. ‘Are you okay? Not injured? Why didn’t you ask me? I would have brought them back.’
Who knows? For a moment I asked myself the same question, and then realised it was because over the last few years I had become used to sorting this type of thing out on my own. Had I wanted to seem capable or resourceful? Not expecting some man to come to my assistance. Well, that didn’t end well.
‘And what were you doing with the hosepipe?’ he added.
‘I was hot and thirsty,’ I said, rather sulkily.
At that point he roared with laughter and despite myself I could feel the corners of my mouth twitching, and then I laughed, too, although I was having to hold onto the doorknob, and little stabs of pain were radiating down one leg. Even so, as we stood there laughing together in the sunshine, it was the best feeling in the world. He wasn’t laughing at me; he was laughing with me.
‘Oh dear,’ he said after a moment, ‘I think you have hurt yourself.’
‘My back,’ I said, ‘I think I’ve done something silly.’
He unlocked the back door and helped me inside, where I made a trail of muddy foot marks on the clean stone floor, and then he sat me down on one of the kitchen chairs and went to put the kettle on.
‘A cup of tea, I think,’ he said.
If he had offered me a bottle of Veuve Cliquot, it wouldn’t have sounded any better.
‘Yes, please,’ I said, ‘and I’ve brought you a present, but it’s on the front seat of my car, if you want to go and get it. I don’t think my back is up to anything much at the moment.’
He came back with my gift of Mère Poulard biscuits in the cute tin with the swirly writing and put them on the table.
‘You mean these? That’s very kind,’ he said.
‘Well, you did say you’d run out,’ I said, wincing as I tried to get comfortable.
‘That’s so thoughtful, thank you. Do you need un antidouleur – a painkiller? Or perhaps something to rub on your back? Some liniment?’ he made little motions with his hands as though he was massaging an arthritic horse.
Oh my word, this really was one of the least romantic situations I had ever been in, and on top of that as my clothes dried I think I was beginning to smell rather rustic.
I sat and drank my tea and ate three of Mère Poulard biscuits, which really were rather good, while Luc moved all the plants into the back of his truck in about ten minutes. He came back into the kitchen and drank his tea.
‘All done,’ he said, ‘how are you feeling?’
‘Fine,’ I said, moving to check that I did.
And, of course, I didn’t. My back was jolly painful and the pains radiating down my leg were worse.
‘I think I’d better take you home,’ he said, ‘I don’t think you should be driving, do you?’
‘No, probably not,’ I said, feeling a complete fool.
I rubbed my hands over my face and felt dried mud meaning I probably looked terrible too.