Chapter 11
Dear Antoine,
It seems so unfair that you are away from me this year. I know it is only one season and that you need to study, but it feels longer to me.
I am worried about the protests – I hope you are keeping safe. I know they say it is calm now, but I hate thinking of you there all alone. Please try to ring me at the tabac on Tuesday if you can. It would be wonderful to hear your voice!
I will be thinking about you on Christmas Day, and thinking forward to next year when we will be together – and married!
All of my love, Marion
Christmas 1968
My beautiful Marion,
Thinking of you and your family and wishing you a wonderful Christmas!
Just five more months until we can be together. I am counting down the days, the hours, the minutes, my love.
I know you are missing me, and I am missing you. But I want to give you the wonderful future you deserve. And that means I must work hard and get my training contract finished.
Then I promise I will never leave your side.
Merry Christmas.
Antoine
It had taken her some time to decipher the writing, but she finally had. She’d translated it word by word, and now corrected her grammar and made as good a job as she could of making sense of her rudimentary translation.
The little glimpse into this couple’s life in the past was interesting – she wondered what had become of them, whether they still lived locally.
The house had sat empty for a decade previously, and the owners they’d bought it from had used it as an occasional holiday home.
Perhaps someone in the village remembered the old inhabitants.
It felt wrong to throw the cards away, so she tucked them, and the photo, into a drawer. She had one last box to go through from the attic; perhaps she’d tackle it later.
According to the map, Saint-Léonard-de-Noblat was just a twenty-minute drive from Eymoutiers.
She’d checked and double-checked the route online and felt relatively confident she could get there in one piece.
She’d popped a post in an online group for ‘expats in France’ and had several local Christmas markets recommended to her – but Saint-Léonard seemed to have the best all round write-up.
The town had a medieval church, and many of the old streets still followed the pattern laid out almost a millennium ago, the buildings quaint and historic, the streets cobbled and lined with tiny boutique shops.
The market took place along the pedestrianised streets and would include local producers and makers, as well as a visit (apparently) from Father Christmas himself!
The first flake of snow settled on her windscreen when she was just a couple of kilometres out of Eymoutiers, then the second.
She put on her wipers and carried on – the weather had predicted a sprinkling of snow, but the meteorologist on the local radio station had assured listeners that it wouldn’t affect travel.
Nicola had mentioned the snow to Lucien during their drive to the Limoges market, but he’d told her that she shouldn’t let worries about the weather stand in her way.
‘Here, we are used to the snow. As soon as it settles, the locals are out to plough the roads,’ he’d told her reassuringly.
‘Yes, perhaps some of the people in the smaller villages get cut off, but here in the town you are on a major route – we always manage to get through.’
She turned from the main road down a slightly smaller one that took her downhill, past fields and trees and the odd modern house.
Her satnav informed her that she still had ten minutes to go, and she was beginning to feel confident, looking for the church steeple among the distant buildings that lay scattered before her, just visible between the trees lining the route.
Turning on the radio, she switched to her Christmas playlist and began humming along with The Pogues and their angry, loving, beautiful Christmas classic. She had practically made it.
Of course, that thought tempted fate. Suddenly, a big fat snowflake landed on her windscreen.
Then another and another. Snow began to fall in earnest, gradually carpeting the road in front of her and making visibility difficult.
She stopped the car briefly, checked the route, wondered when the snowploughs that Lucien had mentioned would spring into action.
According to her satnav, she was only eight kilometres out of Saint-Léonard now. It seemed sensible to continue, with caution, rather than stay on this minor, fairly deserted road.
Snow showers in the UK had been relatively predictable. The snow would land wetly, melting away on contact with the ground, or stop after a sprinkle, leaving most of the road or grass verge visible, half-hiding piles of autumn leaves, or resting lightly on tree branches.
This snow seemed an entirely different beast here. It was thick, insistent, and landed on the road in fat, stubborn pieces, refusing to melt on contact. Soon the road was completely covered, her tyres crunching through the white, slippery covering.
She turned off the music, needing to concentrate fully. Another car passed her going the other way, its headlights cutting through the iced air. It seemed to be proceeding far more quickly than she was, making its way up the hill towards the main road.
Although there was no way of communicating with the other driver, seeing another vehicle increased her confidence – it had come from Saint-Léonard. The roads must at least be passable.
But, as she rounded the corner, a flash of red met her eye.
Startled, she pushed her foot hard on the brake, almost sending the car into a skid.
She stopped just in time and put on her hazards, her heart thundering.
In front of her was a small hatchback, its tyre tracks skidding to the left, its front wheels embedded in a mound of snow.
If she’d been going any faster, they’d have collided.
The road was ominously silent in the fallen snow, and the car still; she couldn’t see any movement inside, no footprints in the snow near the door.
Had someone had an accident? Was she the first one on the scene? What was she meant to do in a situation like this? Nicola climbed out of the car, the snow immediately seeping through the stitching of her leather boots, soaking into the edge of her jeans and making her instantly damp and cold.
She was just making her way to the driver’s window, hoping she wasn’t going to find someone who was badly injured, when the car revved into life, reverse lights shining, its wheels whizzing in their snowy trap, sending lumps and drops of snow cascading through the air like confetti at a wedding.
Nicola let out a small yelp at the sudden noise and movement, then moved forward again, relieved that the driver was clearly OK.
When she got to the driver’s-side window, it was half covered in white, icy mounds.
She knocked on it and the blonde-haired occupant turned sharply, her mouth forming an ‘o’ of surprise.
Then their eyes met and Nicola saw that it was a young woman – possibly in her early twenties at most. The window slid down, the snow falling off as the glass disappeared into the car door, and the woman looked at her and made a face. ‘I am stuck,’ she said simply.
‘Yes,’ Nicola said, then, ‘Can I help?’ Although she had no actual idea what she might be able to do.
‘Oh, yes please,’ the girl said, looking relieved.
‘Sure…’ Nicola said. ‘Um, how?’
‘My father is coming, but he lives in Limoges so might be almost an hour in this weather. But I have a rope in my trunk,’ the woman explained.
Fifteen minutes later, they’d managed to fix a tow rope to the bar on the back of the woman’s car, and tie it as best they could to the one on Nic’s.
She’d turned her car and now, both women back in the driver’s seat, she was edging forward, praying that the rope would hold, that her own car wouldn’t lose purchase on the road, that this would be as easy as Chloé, the driver, had told her it would be.
She felt almost entirely out of her depth. In England, she knew, she probably wouldn’t have stopped. Because there would have been other road users, more qualified than she, and she would have left it to them. But here, with so few cars on the road, she’d been forced to step up.
She gently applied her foot to the accelerator and her wheels began to spin uselessly in the snow.
She stopped, applied the brake, then tried again, nudging the pedal more lightly this time.
Her car began to jerk forwards, the movement stiffening as the rope was stretched to its limit.
Then, as she gradually increased pressure, she moved forward, dragging Chloé’s car backwards and – yes! – out of the snow.
She stopped her engine, applied the brake and got out. Chloé was already exiting her own car. Delighted, she threw her arms around Nic. ‘Oh, you have saved me!’ she said, grinning.
‘I didn’t really do anything.’ She shrugged.
‘Well, it meant a lot to me. Here.’ Chloé turned, rummaged in the glovebox of her car, drew out a cellophane-wrapped packet of pain d’épices. ‘Have these. My mother makes them to sell. They are delicious.’
‘Oh. Thank you.’
‘And take my card.’ The girl drew a small business card from her pocket. On it was written Chloé Fontaine and the address of a shop premises in Saint-Léonard. ‘If you need anything.’
Nicola nodded, took the card. ‘Thank you.’
‘You are from here?’
‘No. Well, yes. I’m English – you can probably tell from my accent – but I live in Eymoutiers now. Just on the edge, close to the small lake. Blue door.’ Nicola drew a breath but forced herself to go on. ‘If you’re ever passing you should… well, call in.’
‘Oh yes! I know the one.’ Chloé nodded and slid back into the driver’s seat of her car. ‘And thank you again.’
‘Thank you. I mean, you’re welcome.’
Nicola watched the little car disappear into the snow, which still lay thickly on the ground. The flakes falling from the sky had thinned a little, and came down like icing sugar, coating everything but not adding to the snow’s depth.
She was wet, cold. Her arms and torso were dry under her coat, but the bottom of her jeans were soaked; she had soggy socks.
She toyed with the idea of turning her car around and driving home to dry off.
But she decided instead she’d continue, find herself a fresh pair of socks to change into from one of the boutiques, and make the most of the Christmas market she’d come to see.
Climbing into the car, she turned the heating up full blast and switched on the radio again.
Elton John was singing his Christmas classic and she lifted her voice to sing along.
Elton soon gave way to George Michael and she sang ‘Last Christmas’ too, thinking briefly back to when Lucien had snapped off the radio. What had that been all about?
She’d seen a social media challenge in years gone by called #Whamageddon where players would see how far into December they could get without coming across the popular song in a shop or supermarket.
Perhaps it was something as simple as that that had made Lucien’s reaction to the likeable song so unexpected.
As she drove, bright lights were suddenly visible around the corner and moments later an enormous tractor dragging a snowplough passed her, raking a thick, clear track through the snow on the other side of the road, revealing grey tarmac under white.
The driver raised his hand in greeting and she waved back at him, grateful to know that her route home would be cleared.
When she arrived, she managed to find a space near the old church, just squeezing in next to a shiny new Nissan and an old Land Rover.
Seeing it was now 10.30 a.m., meaning 9.
30 a.m. in England, she thought she’d try calling Steven who’d be home after his night shift, probably eating before falling into bed.
She rang his number, pleased that she’d at least have a couple of anecdotes to tell him for once.
But her call went straight to his voicemail.
She tried again, but the same happened. He was probably calling his mum.
Or maybe he’d accidentally left his phone on ‘do not disturb’.
She left a voicemail instead. ‘Hi, Steven! Hope your shift went well. I’ve just had quite the adventure in the snow here!
Will tell you everything later. Give me a call, yeah?
Love you.’ Then, slipping her phone in her pocket, she got out of the car and made her way towards a wooden Christmas tree with an arrow pointing her in the direction of the festive market.
In the distance, she could hear the sound of a violin picking out a Christmas melody, and the air already had a hint of warm wine and spice on its breath, brought from the food and drink stalls just a short walk away.
‘Right,’ she said to herself. ‘Socks.’ And walking quickly, hoping to warm herself up a little, she made her way to the centre of town.