Chapter 8
‘So how was it?’ Harriet said when she answered.
‘Yeah, it was good.’ Nicola smiled, thinking back to yesterday’s adventure. ‘Limoges really is gorgeous, especially all lit up for Christmas.’
‘Buy anything?’
‘One or two bits.’ She told Harriet about the market, the bauble ride, the ice skating.
‘You see? Now I’m jealous. I’m stuck in gloomy old England and you’re living in a Hallmark movie!’
‘Hardly!’
‘Are you sure this French guy isn’t a little too attentive?’ Harriet teased.
‘Of course not!’
Harriet laughed. ‘Still, it might give Steven an incentive not to take your passport with him next time he goes back to Blighty. The thought of attentive, handsome French men hovering around.’
‘I never said he was handsome!’
‘Is he?’
‘Well, yeah,’ she admitted.
‘I rest my case.’
Nicola laughed. Then: ‘It does make me sad, though, the idea of having Christmas on my own. I know Mum can be a bit extra at this time of year, but I suppose it’s like that old saying, “You don’t know what you’ve got till it’s gone”,’ she said.
‘It would be nice to have a little of her enthusiasm here at least. Do you think they might consider hopping on a plane?’
There was a pause. ‘Mum hates flying, you know that. And Christmas, well, you know how important it is for her. She’s outdone herself with the decorations this year. I think she’s looking forward to a traditional one.’
‘Yeah. I suppose I just wondered if she might consider it now she knows I’m stuck?
I know it’ll be a real break from tradition, but we could all be together, have a French Christmas.
I’ve nailed the fire-lighting and to be honest, I’d probably even crank the heating a little higher in your honour, so it’d be cosy.
And I’d cook turkey and all the trimmings. ’
‘You could ask?’ Harriet said doubtfully.
‘But you think it’ll be a no.’
‘You know it’s not personal, Nic.’
‘I know.’
* * *
Nicola ended the call and sighed. She’d come back from the market on a high, but now as the silence settled around her again her mood had started to plateau.
She opened the brown paper bag perched next to her on the kitchen table and pulled out the long woollen scarf she’d treated herself to.
It was a soft pink and as she wound it around her neck she felt warmth flood her body almost immediately. Definitely time to light another fire.
She stood to unpack the rest of her purchases. A couple of pastries, a small box of handmade chocolates. Another scarf that she’d bought to add to Steven’s presents. And last of all the angel, its tiny, serene face making her smile.
The light caught on the angel’s halo and the little figure almost shone.
It was definitely cute – perhaps antique.
She’d have to find out more about it. For now, she placed it on the kitchen windowsill, where it would get the most sunlight.
She looked out over the angel’s head and into the garden.
The snow had fully thawed and the sun was shining, giving the illusion of warmth.
Although she knew that she’d need to wrap up if she went out anywhere.
Remembering the old Christmas cards she’d found, she took another look at them. Concentrating carefully and holding each card up to the bright light of the window, she could pick out more of the words. A name here, a date there.
In all honesty, she’d hoped to find more interesting items in the box, but the rest had been a continuation of the previous finds. Bills, invoices, the odd scribbled postcard. A photo of a baby in black and white. Nothing that told any sort of story, and certainly nothing with any value.
Sighing, she lifted the final box onto the table and opened it up. Inside, she found what looked like a green blanket, or felt cover of some sort. But as she drew it out, she realised it was a coat, old-fashioned, cinched at the waist and flaring to around calf-length.
She slipped her arms in it for fun, buttoned it up and looked in the mirror.
And actually, it looked quite cute. Nicola had always envied people who wore quirky, vintage fashion, who had their own sense of style.
But she’d never really found anything that suited her when she’d tried to shop in second-hand stores.
But this coat looked great – and here in a new country, perhaps it was time for a new style too. She twirled in it a couple of times before hanging it up on the coat stand to air.
There was nothing else in the box. Disappointed, she reduced it and shoved it into the recycling bin. Then, sitting at the table, she wondered what she was meant to do now.
It was so hard to fill her days – hard to find the impetus to do some of the decorative jobs needed around the house, hard too to even find the will to put up a few Christmas decorations.
It was a bit like cooking for one – these days she threw some very odd concoctions together, figuring that it was ‘only for her’.
But perhaps it was time she treated herself with a little more kindness.
‘Right,’ she said to herself sternly. ‘We’re going to be positive from now on, Nic. Whatever happens.’ She’d been keen to see what being self-sufficient felt like; but there was a huge difference between self-sufficiency and being lonely.
Just then, as if she’d conjured it somehow with her words, she heard a scuffling sound.
She froze, ears pricked like an animal, waiting to hear it again.
But there was nothing. The second she moved, however, she heard it again, and once more froze, waiting.
And there it was. A distinct scratching sound.
Too large to be a mouse. Oh God. It couldn’t be a rat, could it?
They’d joked about mice and rats and how they’d had to get used to the countryside.
And she doubted that a rodent could hurt her, no matter how ugly or…
wriggly it was. She’d just imagined she’d have Steven to deal with that kind of thing.
Spiders, wasps and any other pets were firmly His Domain, ordinarily.
But here she was, completely alone, with only a porcelain angel for company and a neighbour who wouldn’t come running, even if he did hear her screams. She was going to have to man up. No – woman up.
Feeling her heart rate increase, she began to search for the source of the noise.
It wasn’t coming from any of the kitchen cupboards, thank God, or from the little utility room.
She made her way towards the kitchen door, which opened onto a small hallway.
The sound was definitely louder here. A scrabbling, then a pause.
Another scrabbling, another unbearable moment of silence before it started again.
As she entered the hall, her socked feet making almost no sound against the smooth wooden floor, she heard another sound. A squeaking? No. It didn’t sound harsh or rodent-like. More pitiful than anything. And it was coming from just outside the front door.
For one, fevered moment, she wondered whether someone had left a baby on the step. It happened sometimes in movies, didn’t it? But as her ear adjusted even more she realised what she was hearing was something else entirely.
Cautiously, in case it was simply a clever rat who’d learned to disguise its squeaks to gain entry to the homes of unsuspecting women (probably too much of a stretch for a rat, but she was no expert and certainly taking no chances), she opened the door and, bracing herself against the icy blast that instantly rushed through the gap, bent down to inspect the small, shivering bundle sheltering in the front porch. A tiny black kitten.
She picked it up and it offered no resistance.
It was ice-cold and she instinctively gathered it to her for warmth.
Holding it carefully, she checked the rest of the porch, then outside to look for any siblings or an errant mother.
But there were no other animals in sight.
She made a kissing sound in the direction of the garden, smacking her lips together, in case a distant mother cat was just out of sight, but no.
‘Madame?’ The voice was barely audible in the cold afternoon air.
She looked over, her eyes straining against the bright light to see the small figure of Monsieur Rémi gesticulating at her.
At first she wondered whether he was calling to her about the kitten; perhaps he’d seen something?
But then she realised that from his distance all he could see was the strange English woman who’d moved in next door, standing in the cold without a coat, sending loud kisses out into the world.
‘Are you well?’ he called. And it wasn’t a simple question about her health. He was asking, she was pretty sure, whether she’d lost her mind.
‘It’s all OK!’ she cried in French. ‘It’s frozen.
My little cat!’ She tried to open her hands slightly to reveal the tiny kitten inside, but Monsieur Rémi seemed to be frozen to the spot, eyes wide.
He then turned abruptly and disappeared into his house at a speed she wouldn’t have thought possible.
A little mewl in her hands brought her attention back to the kitten. She brought it inside, determined to at least warm it up. No doubt as soon as it got its energy back it would bite her – cats seemed to have a real dislike for her for some reason – but for now, it needed her help.
Inside, she gave the cat a little water, lifting droplets to its lips from her finger.
Then, thanking her lucky stars that she’d been slow to get rid of all the packing boxes, she lay a fluffy towel in a small cardboard one, poked plenty of air holes in the sides and top, then lay the kitten on the soft cotton, stroking it gently all the while.
Exhausted, the kitten curled up on its makeshift bed.
Its fur still felt cold to her touch and she hoped it hadn’t been out in the winter weather too long.
It looked up at her, its eyes a startling green.
‘It’s OK, darling,’ she said. ‘I’m taking you to the vet.
And we’ll see if we can get you looked after. ’
She moved to close the lid, but the tiny animal let out a pitiful mewl. Reaching down again to reassure it, Nicola touched its soft fur. ‘We’ll have to give you a name,’ she said, looking at the pretty cat’s face to see what might suit it.
Then she noticed the light from the little porcelain statue on the windowsill.
‘How about we call you Gabrielle?’