Chapter 6
She felt ridiculously excited the next morning when she woke. Lucien had called after the lesson to suggest they go to the Christmas market in Limoges. He had some time off work and needed to get a few items for Christmas. ‘I can’t go with my wife, as these are secrets for her,’ he told her.
It was daft, probably, to be excited about going to a market. But it was more than that – the gesture of friendship meant that Lucien was becoming more than just a pupil. And she needed friends now more than ever.
As Lucien’s car appeared in the drive, she grabbed her purse from the dresser and the two cards caught her eye.
Later, she’d have a proper look at them – perhaps even ask Lucien for help. It would be interesting to know what the letters were about, who they were to, and why someone had kept them tucked away for so many years.
Opening the door, she raised a hand to wave at Lucien as he got out of his car to let him know he needn’t try to negotiate the rather slippery ground between her and where he’d parked.
The snow had all but disappeared but what was left was now frozen solid, making even crossing the driveway a little hazardous.
She tentatively lifted her foot and placed it down, making sure she had purchase before lifting the next, and managed to get to his Clio without incident.
Opening the door, she climbed in. The car was old and had definitely seen better days, but the inside was spotless and smelled of pine needles and something else – a hint of cinnamon spice.
‘It’s the scent of Christmas,’ Lucien told her as she turned to him.
‘What?’
‘The smell. I saw you crinkle your nose. It’s an air freshener. It’s meant to make us feel festive.’ He smiled his easy smile and she found herself responding.
‘I was wondering!’
‘If you don’t like it, I can…’
‘No. It’s lovely actually. Reminds me of…’ She struggled to translate the word in her head. ‘Um, gingembre pain?’
‘I am not sure what you mean?’ Lucien looked amused. Then, ‘Ah, pain d’épices? A sweet bread that is flavoured with spice?’
‘That’s the one.’
He laughed.
‘I’m sorry, my French is awful.’
‘No, it is very good,’ he said, starting the engine.
They were soon out of Eymoutiers, travelling along the road that stretched between their small town and the city of Limoges.
The fields fell away into valleys, mists still lingering over the ground in places.
Sometimes they’d pass through a small village, where houses and the odd restaurant lined the side of the road, then they’d be back into deep countryside that stretched as far as the eye could see.
The view was topped with the blue of a clear sky, and although she knew it was bitterly cold outside, it was easy in here, with Lucien’s heating turned up full blast to pretend for a moment that it was a different season altogether.
‘Do you usually go to the Christmas market?’ she asked him. ‘I hope you’re not making a special trip for me.’
He glanced over. ‘Yes, I try to. But it is good to have an excuse to go. It’s hard at the moment to get time away from the house. And nice to have a break from everything there.’
‘Really?’
He shrugged, non-committal. ‘Oui. There is much to do.’ Which didn’t leave her any the wiser. Something in his tone though made her feel she shouldn’t probe further. Instead, ‘And you’re a carpenter?’
Another glance. ‘Well, yes. I make furniture. Tables, chairs, bureaux, that sort of thing.’
‘Wow. That’s quite a talent.’
He grinned. ‘You haven’t seen my work yet of course. It may be all wobbly legs and splinters.’
She laughed; it felt good to joke along with someone.
She’d had nothing but formal conversations for weeks.
Even with Steven, really – practical stuff about his work and her progress in France.
Chats about lighting fires and sweeping floors, about gardeners and ride-on mowers, and whether it was worth replacing the oven. ‘I doubt that very much,’ she said.
They were silent for a moment, then Lucien turned on the radio.
A woman was speaking rapid French, too fast for Nicola to follow, although she caught the words ‘snow’, ‘cold’ and ‘Noel’.
Then, to her surprise, the familiar sound of George Michael singing ‘Last Christmas’ filled the car – one of her favourite Christmas classics.
Before she could start singing along though, Lucien snapped off the radio, cutting George off mid-flow.
‘Oh!’ she said, surprised.
‘Sorry.’
Nicola looked at Lucien, saw the clench in his jaw. ‘Not a fan?’ she suggested.
‘It’s just that song… It… There are memories.’
‘You had your heart broken sometime?’
He shook his head. ‘No. It’s just… I can’t really explain.’
‘It’s fine. Not everyone likes Christmas music.’ Although she was a bit disappointed – after all, they were on their way to a festive market; a little Christmas cheer would have helped to set the mood.
‘I do like Christmas music normally,’ he assured her.
‘You don’t like it when it’s sung in English?’ she offered.
He laughed. ‘No, it is not that. In fact, most of the music I listen to is American or English. Occasionally French of course, too. No, it is just that particular song. I can’t really explain.’
‘It’s fine.’
She looked out of the window and they fell into silence for a moment.
A couple of minutes later, Lucien flicked the radio on again and the car was filled with the sound of ‘White Christmas’.
He nodded, as if to say that was better, but she decided not to ask him why this festive favourite passed muster while poor George had been silenced mid-lyric.
* * *
There was something wonderful about hearing the familiar festive song as Limoges finally came into view – the white, tall buildings visible from the final hill before they made their way down into the city itself.
The lights were up in the shops and on the streets and although it was still only morning, they still gave everything the feeling of joy and light.
They drove through a series of narrow streets lined with old-fashioned boutiques which opened out, giving way to more modernity, until they made it to a car park close to Place de la République where the market took place each year throughout December.
It was a shock exiting the warm car into the cold morning air, and she pulled her coat tightly around her as they made their way along a narrow cobbled street lined with half-timbered buildings, their lower floors transformed into tiny shops and boutiques, the upper floors quaint and untouched.
‘Have you been here before?’
‘To Limoges, yes. But not to this bit.’
‘Ah, but this is the best bit!’ Lucien said. ‘These buildings have been here over five hundred years. They are beautiful, non?’
‘They really are.’
She matched his pace as they made their way up to the Place de la Motte, a cobbled open area where part of the Christmas market was being held. And suddenly as they emerged into the space, her senses were flooded with the scent of hot chocolate, spiced breads, music and bells and colour and light.
There were wooden huts with vendors serving warm wine, chocolates, hot waffles or churros, crêpes filled with chocolate or confiture; other stalls boasted handmade wooden goods, knitted hats and warm woollen scarves.
And in the centre of it all stood a Christmas tree, at least four metres high, decorated with rotating baubles and turning as some music played.
‘Is that a ride?’ she found herself saying, an almost embarrassing level of excitement in her voice.
Lucien turned to her, grinning. ‘Why, you want to have a go?’
‘Hell yeah!’ she said, lapsing into English. She’d always loved fairgrounds: Ferris wheels, bumper cars, carousels. This ride looked pretty tame in comparison to some, but the way it rotated, bringing passengers up and down as it went, moving in time to the music, was somehow charming.
He laughed. ‘You realise that most people take their children on. And we might be the only adults in a bauble.’
She flushed. Then, ‘What about them?’ she said, pointing her gloved finger at a couple sitting in one of the ride’s red shiny baubles, its open side revealing them sitting side by side, not a child in sight.
As they watched, the couple moved closer to each other and kissed and she found herself looking away, feeling suddenly as if she’d suggested she and Lucien do the same.
‘OK, you’re the boss.’ Lucien smiled and joined the small queue that wound around the base of the tree.
At the front he bought two tickets, despite her protestations, and before she knew it, she was sitting in a ball of plastic – a gold one – on a smooth inner bench, a bar across her lap to stop her from falling.
The music began to play and they were lifted smoothly into the air, then down again, turning all the time.
She looked out over the rest of the market, earmarking stalls she’d like to visit, watching people mill around or sit at the selection of tiny tables drinking coffee, paper bags full of gifts at their feet.
She looked at Lucien and saw that he was studying her face, a smile stretched across his features.
‘What?’ she asked self-consciously.
‘Nothing. It is good to see you smile. You looked so unhappy yesterday.’
‘Thanks. I think… it just feels festive. I feel as if… I don’t know, maybe Christmas won’t be so bad after all.’
‘A two-euro ride did all that for you? That is very cheap therapy!’
She laughed, her eyes turning again to the market stalls, the people. ‘Well, it might not last. But it’s nice to feel a little bit of Christmas magic. Usually I’m drowning in Christmas by this time of year.’
‘You can drown in Christmas?’
‘I know, it sounds far-fetched but you haven’t met my parents.’ She explained about the Santa’s grotto her parents’ home turned into every year from November. ‘I thought maybe once my sister Harriet and I had grown up they’d tone it down. But if anything, it’s got worse!’
‘But you like Christmas?’
‘Of course. Just… I’m hoping to create something a bit more… low-key. Tasteful.’
He gestured at the market. ‘Then you have come to the right place.’
They were silent for a moment, looking over the stalls from their vantage point. Then, ‘Enough about me, anyway. Who are we buying presents for today? Your wife?’
She noticed his jaw tighten. ‘No. Just Matthieu, my son, today. My wife… well, it is complicated.’
‘Oh, I thought you said…’ she began, then thought better of it. ‘I’m sorry about that.’
‘It’s nothing,’ he said. ‘Really.’
She glanced at him and he smiled, but there was something forced about it. ‘Something wrong?’ she asked. ‘Can I help?’
He shook his head. ‘I don’t want to be melancholy today.’
‘OK.’
‘Well,’ she said as the ride spun to a finish. ‘At least you can let me buy you a hot chocolate. It’s only a small thing, but I find the right amount of cocoa and sugar can work wonders.’
Again, that tight-lipped smile. ‘Thank you,’ he said. ‘That sounds lovely.’
As they exited the ride and made their way to one of the vendors in the market, she saw him shake himself.
And when he turned to her again, his smile seemed more relaxed; genuine.
Perhaps it was the ride, she thought. Some people really hated them, didn’t they?
Perhaps he’d been a bit nauseous. But something about the way she’d felt when she looked at his forced expression remained.
She couldn’t get rid of the feeling that behind his positive demeanour, Lucien was unhappy.