Chapter 22
22
I’d never realised that something as simple as walking to the car and getting in could be so difficult.
And, of course, it wasn’t an ordinary car, where possibly I could have slipped down into the seat, it was a truck, where I needed to haul myself up what felt like an impossible distance. And I couldn’t walk without wincing either. So, in the end, I borrowed a spade to lean on as a makeshift walking stick, the handle padded out with my lovely red sweater – so elegant – and Luc supported me on the other side while I hobbled around like some decrepit old tramp. And then he helped me get up into the passenger seat, as though he was loading ballast.
At last, between the two of us I got there, and he swung my legs round so that he could close the door. But then, before he did, he gave me a look that was filled somehow with both humour and sympathy.
‘You poor thing, and you were just trying to do something kind,’ he said and he leaned forward and kissed me.
I thought it quite possible I was going to explode with the shock.
Then he closed the door and went to get into the driver’s seat.
‘Okay?’ he said, looking over at me.
‘Mmm, yes, absolutely,’ I said, my voice a bit croaky.
Inside my heart was thudding at unexpected and ridiculous levels. It was the first time any man had kissed me for years. I started thinking about how long it had been, and then stopped myself, because it really didn’t matter any more.
He drove back, very slowly, avoiding all the worst potholes and divots in the road, because every time we hit one, I would yelp with pain, and he would apologise.
‘Promise me you won’t do this sort of thing again,’ he said. ‘Next time, ask me to help.’
Next time… I didn’t think there would be a next time. Would there? I wasn’t planning on lugging plant pots or heavy furniture or coal sacks any time soon.
I’d been in France for weeks now; I guessed I should really be thinking about going home. I was only allowed to stay until the beginning of April. Surely this was not the time to develop a crush? Or if not that, then an unrealistic attraction?
There were probably a lot of middle-aged women in the area, who would have formed an orderly queue if they thought Luc was out in public at last. The line from Dirty Harry was going around my brain; a man’s got to know his limitations. Or in my case, a woman.
Back at Potato Farm, Isabel was outside, pegging out some washing and trying to keep Marcel and Antoine from dragging it off the line again, she turned and waved as the truck pulled up.
‘Everything okay?’ she said cheerfully.
‘We have a slight injury,’ Luc said as he came to open my door and help me down again.
I stood with my knees bent trying not to crouch too much.
‘I think I’ve pulled a muscle,’ I said.
There was a lot of fuss and exclamations from my sister at that point, and between them they helped me shuffle into the kitchen where I sat gratefully on a chair. Eugénie was already there, sitting in state at the other end of the table with her usual espresso.
‘You idiot,’ Isabel said, dithering around me, not quite sure what to do, ‘what on earth have you been doing? Where’s your car? And why are you so muddy and damp?’
‘Don’t ask,’ I muttered.
‘And, to be honest, you don’t smell too good either,’ Isabel said.
‘Wet clothes are bad for the soul, and for the lungs,’ Eugénie said, putting her cup down, ‘you always seem to be wet; I have noticed this. Is this something English people like to do?’
‘No, it’s not,’ I said wincing as I tried to get comfortable.
Eugénie’s interest peaked. ‘And you have pulled a muscle? What were you doing? Back problems have plagued me all my life. You can ask me anything. It was the potatoes at first when I was younger. Hours spent in the fields, you young people have no idea what hard work can be. I was underneath a doctor for weeks. Months. Crying with the pain, unable to lift a spoon. But you’re not as bad as I was, I can tell.’
‘I’ll be fine,’ I said, ‘just a tweak.’
‘Even so, you will need an operation, I know all about this. I expect you will be in a plaster cast from your neck to your knees, if there is no paralysis. I had a friend with back problems, by the time she was eighty-three she was in a wheelchair. Perhaps the good doctor here can advise you? His prescription tea worked a miracle with me. Eight whole hours I slept, it took me two days, but it is better than I am used to.’
‘I think just some simple painkillers and rest,’ Luc said, ‘and no one is to upset you.’
‘Then I will pray to Saint Gemma Galgani, who is the patron saint of back injuries,’ Eugénie said kindly, ‘and I will mention it to the priest when I see him. He is a great prayer, much better than the new curate. Père Phillippe knows what he is doing. Well, after fifty years, he should.’
‘I’d appreciate it,’ I said.
‘But tell me what happened,’ Isabel said.
Luc made a move towards the door.
‘I will unload your plants and put them in the greenhouse,’ he said, ‘and then I will leave you to it. Perhaps a good book to read, in a comfortable chair. And no lifting heavy objects in future.’
He gave me a twinkling smile and just for a moment rested one hand on my shoulder.
Like some silly teenager, I imagined I could feel that slight pressure for a long time afterwards.
I spent the next half hour going over the morning’s events and was rewarded by sympathetic and enthusiastic wincing and tutting from Eugénie, and dire warnings not to be so stupid in future from Isabel.
After a while I decided I really did need to go to my room and change into some clean, dry clothes, only to realise that I wasn’t going to be able to get up two flights of stairs in less than an hour.
‘No problem at all,’ Isabel said, ‘I said I needed someone to test out the shepherd’s hut, so we will put you in there while you recover. There’s everything you need in there, and I will bring clothes and toiletries down from your bedroom for you. It’s the perfect solution.’
In a day that had been filled with disappointment, failure and pain, this sounded like a fantastic idea, and so Isabel helped me limp out to the shepherd’s hut, where I sat in a chair that was exactly right. Not too low so that getting out of it would be a problem, and not too soft, so that my sore back had some support.
‘I’ll go and get your things. Stay there,’ she said.
‘I don’t really have much option,’ I replied, and she laughed.
‘I’ll bring your laptop out too so you can check if the broadband speed is okay.’
Eugénie came and looked inside and sniffed her disapproval.
‘I would not like to be abandonée in pain and suffering in a shed,’ she said, ‘although my parents knew someone who had to live in a barn when their house was bombed in the war. No heating, no running water, nothing. The only good thing was the Allied soldiers. The British brought food parcels and the Americans brought chocolate and nylon stockings. So not all bad, I suppose. Their daughter, Giselle, married one of them and went to live in Oklahoma. I watched that film several times, but I didn’t see her at all.’
‘Here we are,’ Isabel said cheerfully, her arms filled with some of my belongings, ‘let me have your muddy things when you are ready, and I’ll wash them. Mamie , when I was upstairs I saw the postal van outside your house, are you expecting anything?’
‘Vitamins, toilet rolls and bandages de soutien ,’ Eugénie said, buttoning up her coat with excited fingers, ‘I buy them off l’internet.’
I raised a questioning eyebrow at Isabel.
‘Support bandages,’ she murmured.
I changed into some clean clothes with a lot of wincing and complaining, and then settled myself into the chair again. Looking around, I was pleased with what I saw. The hut was small but well designed and looked very attractive with all the things Isabel and I had put into it. The kitchen was just a small fridge, an electric hob and tiny oven. There was a sink, and a bathroom with a loo and a shower, which had been put into the space with considerable ingenuity. It was perfect.
Isabel left me with my laptop, a cafetière of coffee, biscuits, some painkillers and a hot water bottle to rest in the small of my back, and all things considered, I didn’t feel too bad.
But what was I going to do with myself, once the novelty of doing nothing in particular wore off? A couple of cars arrived at the brocante barn, and I could hear Isabel’s chatter and laughter in the distance. I wondered if she was selling anything, and wished I could be there with her to help. But perhaps I could help in a different way.
I opened up my laptop and started typing.
Isabel popped in to see me every few minutes at first, and then realising that actually nothing much was happening, and two paracetamol hadn’t instantly cured me, left me to it. So I spent a reasonably enjoyable afternoon on my laptop doing some research. At the back of my mind there had been a niggling thought that she was selling some of her treasures for far less than they were worth, and it didn’t take me long to find out I was right.
‘Look at this,’ I said when she came in with my dinner on a tray. The aroma of the beef casserole was wonderful, but I had information for her that was equally as tasty.
‘That iron cat door stop, that you used to prop open the linen cupboard. I noticed it had a maker’s mark on it; Hubley. Which means it could be valuable. How much are you selling it for?’
‘Five euros.’
‘Then put an eight in front of that. Trust me, it’s worth a lot more than five,’ I said. I turned the screen towards her to show her one that was identical and had sold in Paris for one hundred and fifty euros. ‘And that one had some slight damage.’
‘You’re joking?’
‘And the enamel petrol signs. What price have you put on those?’
Isabel shrugged. ‘Twenty euros. But I know those are really old because they used to be in the garage in town. Where Louis’ father worked. You can see the shotgun marks on them from when Louis used them as a target.’
‘Then they are genuinely old, not just modern reproductions. I’d suggest you put two in front of that. There are some here that sold only recently for five hundred dollars.’
Isabel looked absolutely gobsmacked for a moment.
‘Some of them are rusty, and the enamel is damaged.’
‘That goes to reflect how old they are. The Train Blu sign is incredibly rare, and worth about five hundred euros. You can’t possibly sell it for twenty. And the blue glass ashtray, that’s vintage from the SS France . The biggest ocean-going liner until the Queen Mary 2 was built.’
‘One euro?’ Isabel said hopefully.
‘Twenty, if not more,’ I replied.
‘Flipping heck,’ Isabel said rather shocked.
‘And you remember that odd, sort of oblong piece of lace?’
‘The one that came in the house clearance?’
‘It’s called a fichu , hand-made lace and its worth at least a hundred euros, maybe more. I’m just about to look at the prices online for embroidered French linen sheets. Those ones with the monograms that don’t look as though they have ever been used. I think you’re going to be surprised,’ I said, ‘no wonder people are paying to ship them back home. They are really valuable.’
‘I had no idea,’ Isabel said, ‘I suppose I should have looked. But when people just throw these things out, how am I to know?’
‘Leave it to me,’ I said, ‘I’ve got the time to do the research.’
‘That’s a bit boring, isn’t it? Wouldn’t you prefer a good book?’
I laughed and then winced as my back gave a warning twinge.
‘Actually, it’s not. And I’m finding out so much about French history. It’s easy to go down rabbit holes of research, like Bill said about cyanide.’
‘Ooh, that reminds me, I’m going to pop in and see if he’s killed anyone yet. Well, if you’re sure? Now then, eat your dinner before it gets cold. Darn it – I’ve forgotten the bread. I’ll be back in a jiffy.’
‘I can do without,’ I said, but she had already gone to fetch it.
I had a few mouthfuls, and it was delicious. With a rich, slightly smoky taste that could only have come from the addition of a lot of red wine. I’d watched Isabel cooking quite a few times since I’d been here, and most of her recipes seemed to need a good slosh of wine at some point.
I heard her footsteps returning on the newly laid gravel path.
‘I am going to start using more wine in my cooking when I go home,’ I called, and spooned in another mouthful.
‘I hope that will not be too soon,’ Luc replied.
I swallowed hard with the shock of seeing him.
‘I’ve come to bring you your bread,’ he said, ‘you know no meal in France is complete without it.’
He put his mobile phone and a little wicker basket down on the table in front of me and sat down in the other chair.
‘How are you feeling?’
‘Not too bad,’ I said, ‘still a bit sore and stiff. I don’t think I will be going out dancing any time soon.’
‘That is a pity, you must tell me when you are up to it, although as I cannot dance at all well, we might give the whole thing a miss.’
I laughed. ‘That would probably be a good idea.’
Luc looked away, and then examined his wristwatch, polishing the glass with his thumb. He seemed nervous, unsure of himself.
‘But I suppose we could just go out to dinner one evening, when you are feeling better? I mean, if you liked the idea, and you weren’t busy. You might not want to, and I would understand perfectly if you didn’t.’
I looked across the table at him rather astonished. Was he actually trying, in his reticent way, to ask me out? And what should I say? Yes, please? Don’t worry about it? Where are we going and what should I wear? I had nothing which could be described as evening wear in my suitcases.
Honestly, what on earth was the matter with me?
I was behaving like some giddy schoolgirl, not a strong, confident woman who had no interest in men or their invitations to dinner.
Although, of course, we might go to some glorious place by the river and the evening would be warm, the air sultry, and there might even be a little pipistrelle bat swooping about in the sky. (I like bats. They eat a whole shedload of mosquitos, which mean there are fewer around to bite me.) And there would be a candle in a wine bottle on the table, and we would have a simple meal of unparalleled flavour. Perhaps there would be a young chef, on his way to Michelin glory, who would come to ask us if everything was okay, and we would nod and smile and…
‘Yes, okay. I’d like that,’ I said at last, realising that my imagination had got the better of me and he was still waiting for my answer.
‘Really? That’s very good,’ he said, smiling, obviously relieved, ‘so you can’t go home any time soon. Some of the best places are opening up now, ready for the new season’s visitors. I will give it some thought. Now, please, eat your food, it will be getting cold.’
The trouble was, eating in front of him when he was just sitting there, was unbelievably embarrassing. Knowing me I would spill something down myself or drop my cutlery on the floor.
‘I just wanted to find out if you were being well looked after,’ he said, ‘I felt terrible that you had hurt yourself, when I should have been there to help you.’
‘You didn’t know I was just going to drop in,’ I said, taking a tiny, manageable spoonful of the casserole, ‘I should have rung first. But I didn’t have your number, and Isabel was busy.’
I took his mobile phone off the table and then I rang my own number.
‘There, now you do have my number,’ I said, ‘and I have yours.’
‘Yes, so I do,’ he said.
I couldn’t believe what I had just done and by the look on his face nor could he.
‘Right then, I’d better go and leave you to your meal in peace. Nothing worse than someone watching you eat, is there?’
‘No, you’re right,’ I said, rather relieved and surprised that he understood.
He stopped in the doorway. ‘Would you like me to call in and see you again? Just to make sure you are all right, and you don’t need anything?’
‘Yes, that would be great,’ I said.
‘You’re sure?’
‘Yes, absolutely.’
He sounded startled, though why he should be, was anyone’s guess. It was rather disarming.
Then my spoon wobbled, and I dropped a particularly juicy chunk of beef on my shirt.
‘Oh, for heaven’s sake! And I was being so careful.’
He laughed and closed the door behind him, and I sat chewing thoughtfully on my bread and wondered what I was going to do next.