Chapter 13
‘Let me get this straight. You’ve now injured Père Noel and made your neighbour cry?’ Harriet asked, her voice wobbling with barely suppressed laughter. ‘You do realise it’s nearly Christmas, right? That you’re meant to be trying to spread cheer?’
‘Stop it,’ she said, feeling her own laughter bubble up at the ridiculousness of everything. ‘The poor guy, I felt so guilty.’
‘Why do you think he cried like that? Just touched that someone bought him a gift?’
‘Maybe. But it felt more— They weren’t happy tears, I don’t think.’
‘Oh, Nic. What did you do? Run off?’
‘Harriet! I wouldn’t just run off and leave an old man devastated. But he just kind of shut the door on me.’
‘That’s awful!’
‘No, it wasn’t like that… It didn’t feel like he was slamming the door in my face. It was more—he just gently closed it.’
‘Poor guy.’
‘You’re actually meant to be cheering me up, not feeling sorry for him!’ Nicola objected.
‘I know. Poor you, too. Oh, but Nic. It is funny, don’t you think?’
‘It’s one of those things that are so awful they become funny, if that’s what you mean.’
But it was nice to hear her sister’s voice, to find some humour in the strange events of yesterday, with its disastrous ending.
That’s what she missed about having someone living with her.
The way that you could debrief, reflect, be reassured about the things that happened in the moment.
By the time she spoke to Steven later, it wouldn’t feel so raw; it would be more like an anecdote.
But right now, if he were here, she’d be telling him everything, wanting feedback; advice.
She’d thought about ringing Lucien after Monsieur Rémi’s emotions bubbled over, but what would she say?
They were friendly, but they weren’t exactly confidants.
He’d texted to confirm his next lesson, but that was all.
And there wasn’t anyone else she felt could advise her on why Monsieur Rémi might have acted in that way.
This morning she’d slept in; she’d just exited the shower and changed into some comfy jogging bottoms and a sweatshirt, pulled on the new socks and felt like a new woman.
She’d made some coffee and toast and was just sitting down in front of the fire – which she’d lit expertly – when there was a knock at the front door.
She’d half hoped it might be Monsieur Rémi, here to explain or maybe even apologise. But another half of her would honestly prefer not to see him right now.
Opening the door, though, she found a small woman on her doorstep, her head almost engulfed by an enormous woollen hat, topped with a bobble. Her blonde hair escaped below in light wisps and she was grinning widely.
It took a moment to place her. Then, with a jolt of recognition, Nicola realised it was Chloé.
‘It is you!’ the woman said. ‘I thought this was the house you meant. And I saw Smith on the letter box and thought – ah, that must be the right one!’
‘It is a very English name.’
‘Oui, indeed.’
‘Do you want to come in? I’ve made coffee?’
‘No, I won’t disturb you.’ Chloé held up a bottle of cloudy liquid. ‘I just wanted to give you this. As a thank you for rescuing me yesterday.’
‘Oh. Thanks.’ Nicola took the bottle, squinted at the handwritten label.
‘It’s apple juice. From my mother’s shop,’ Chloé explained. ‘We have three trees in her garden and get the apples pressed each year. Otherwise, they just fall to the ground, and it is a waste. The juice is very fresh, you will like it.’
‘Thank you.’
‘Oh, and I wanted to give you this too.’ Chloé passed her a shiny leaflet. ‘I’m in a choir. We’re not professional, just for fun. But we are doing a concert at the church in Saint Matthieu this Sunday. It will be very festive, and I thought you might like to join us?’
‘Thank you.’ Churches weren’t ordinarily Nic’s thing, but she did like to go at Christmas, absorb some of the atmosphere churches took on when they were full, sing the carols that reminded her of school assemblies and family Christmases gone by.
‘Are you sure you won’t come in for a moment? It’s freezing and it’s no trouble.’
Chloé glanced at her watch. ‘Yes, why not. I have twenty minutes before I need to leave.’
Nicola led her to the chairs by the fireside and soon they were both sipping hot coffee, their feet up on a small table.
‘It’s very cosy here,’ Chloé remarked. ‘You live here alone?’
‘For now. My husband’s still in England. He’ll be joining me next year.’
‘Oh. I don’t know how you do it,’ Chloé said, shaking her head. ‘I’ve never lived alone; I think I would be afraid.’
With a small chirp, Gabrielle scampered into the room and jumped immediately on Chloé’s lap. She threw back her head and laughed. ‘But I see you are not alone after all!’ she said.
Nicola laughed. ‘Yes, my little Gabrielle would scare any intruders away.’
‘Gabrielle – it’s quite a name for a cat.’
‘She’s quite a cat.’
‘Is she named for the angel?’
‘Sorry, what?’ Nicola asked, confused.
‘You know. The angel Gabriel. Bringer of good news. A good omen.’
‘Oh. I didn’t even think.’
‘Well, perhaps she will bring you good fortune.’
They both watched as the little cat jumped on the back of the chair, then onto the table, the floor and began patting her paw against a tiny piece of wood that had fallen from the pile of kindling in the basket.
Then Gabrielle leapt to the windowsill, looking out into the garden.
It was after eleven but the winter air had a shadowed, muted quality.
‘Is that yours?’ Chloé said suddenly, and for a moment Nicola thought she was talking about the kitten as she stood up and moved towards the window. But instead of stroking the cat as Nicola thought she might, she picked up the angel.
‘Oh, that? Yes, I bought it at the Christmas market.’
‘In Saint-Léonard?’
‘No, Limoges.’
Chloé nodded, inspecting the base of the angel, running her finger lightly on its golden halo. ‘I have only seen a few of these. They are quite rare.’
‘Really?’
‘Oui. If you ever want to sell it, I will buy it for my shop,’ she said, grinning. ‘I sell antiques, curios.’
‘Is it valuable?’
‘Perhaps a little. But it is more—They are iconic. There were just a few made by a local potter back in the nineteenth century. People keep them for good luck.’
‘The stallholder did say they were lucky,’ Nicola said, pleased.
‘Yes. I don’t really believe in that sort of thing, but I have heard stories of owners who have experienced much luck after having one of these,’ Chloé went on.
‘One woman who could not have babies now has a family. Another, a man, I think, got better from an illness when they said there was not much hope.’ She put the angel down gently and began to stroke Gabrielle’s head lightly with a finger.
‘Of course, these things happen anyway without a lucky ornament, but it is still a very interesting history.’
Nicola nodded. ‘Well, I could use some good luck if it has any left to give,’ she quipped.
Chloé turned. ‘What is wrong?’
She felt embarrassed then, because her problems were quite trivial really. ‘Oh, nothing. I just hoped my husband would come for Christmas and now he won’t be able to because of work.’
Chloé opened her mouth to speak.
‘But before you say anything, he has the kind of work that he can’t just quit. He’s a paediatric nurse. In a children’s hospital.’
Chloé nodded. ‘Ah, then I see why you can’t question him.’
‘Exactly.’
‘Well, perhaps the angel will cure all the children, the hospital will close and your husband will have time to come over anyway!’
Nicola laughed. ‘Not sure an ornament could be that powerful, but you never know.’
They looked at each other. It struck Nicola that she was talking to Chloé as if they’d known each other for much longer than a day.
She’d worried that speaking French – and she knew her grammar needed a lot of work – and being culturally different might mean that she’d find it hard to get close to new people here, but there was an ease between them; they were similar people.
‘Actually, if you know a bit about historical artefacts, you might be able to help with these,’ Nicola said suddenly, drawing the two cards out of the drawer and showing them to her friend.
Chloé looked over them with interest. ‘These are cute,’ she said. ‘Where did you find them?’
Nicola explained the boxes in the attic.
‘This one could actually be valuable,’ Chloé said, holding up the one sporting a holly leaf. ‘It is from a designer in Paris from the sixties. An original, I think. You want that I buy it?’
‘Oh no. I’m just curious about them really.’
‘Yes,’ Chloé said, opening one of the cards and reading.
‘I guess it’s the people who wrote them I’m really interested in. I mean, two cards from the same year. Then nothing else. Did they never get together in the end? Did something happen? The woman – Marion – she seems worried that Antoine, the guy, won’t be safe.’
Chloé smiled, turning the cards over. ‘Of course, this is from 1968. There had been riots in Paris that year. But things had settled down by Christmas. I think perhaps she is worrying too much.’
‘Maybe. But why no more cards? Why just this year?’
‘Because they were together after?’
‘But surely they’d still… There would be other cards, from other years? If someone kept one, why not all of them?’
‘Ah, but if they were together they would not send cards.’ Chloé explained how, in France, cards were only sent to loved ones who were far away during the season.
‘Oh, so maybe they did come back to each other after all?’ Nicola wasn’t sure why the idea pleased her so much. Perhaps because she wanted her own happy ending too.
Chloé looked suddenly at her watch. ‘Merde, it’s getting late. I must go.’
‘Of course.’ Nicola stood, put her coffee down on the table. ‘Well, thanks for popping by.’
‘And you will come to the concert?’
‘Yes. I’ll definitely try.’
Her new friend nodded. ‘Good. You pull me out of a snowdrift, perhaps I can pull you out of feeling so… lonely. It’s not nice to think of people feeling alone at Christmas, even if they have the promise of a husband next year.
’ She smiled. ‘That’s why I always visited my grandparents, once a week at least. They became almost housebound a few years ago.
My grandmother was ill, my grandfather caring for her.
It was a hard life. And I know that I can make a difference, so I do. ’
‘That’s kind of you.’ Nicola thought about her own grandparents. Mum’s parents had died years ago. Her father’s were nice enough, but had moved to Scotland before she was born. Visits were once or twice yearly, and the bond between them had stretched thinner as a result.
‘It is normal,’ Chloé said. ‘Here, where we live quite rurally, it is important to look out for one another. And we know that, in turn, people will look out for us when we need it. It’s important. Especially in winter.’
‘Yes.’ Nicola walked Chloé to the front door, handed her the coat she’d hung on one of the coat pegs. ‘I can see that. Although there’s more going on here in winter than I first realised.’
Chloé grinned. ‘Yes, we like to hide away for warmth, but we are often together. There is always music and light somewhere.’
‘You just need to know where to look,’ Nicola said, brandishing the leaflet as proof.
Chloé glanced at the other coat on the peg – Nicola’s green felt find from the attic. ‘Oh, but this is beautiful,’ she said, fingering the material. ‘From the sixties, I think. Perhaps it belonged to Marion?’
‘Marion?’
‘The woman in the cards.’
Nicola nodded. She hadn’t thought of that. ‘Maybe,’ she said.
As she opened the front door, Chloé turned around. ‘We’ll see you Sunday? There will be hot wine.’
‘Sounds good. And mince pies?’ She wasn’t quite sure how to say this in French so attempted tarte au haché.
Chloé looked confused. ‘What are those?’
‘They’re little pies with haché – mincemeat – a mixture made of fruit. We have them in England.’
‘Like an apple pie? But with some meat also?’ Chloé’s nose wrinkled with distaste. ‘That sounds disgusting!’
Nicola shook her head, laughing. ‘No, not like apple pie. It’s more raisins and other dried fruit.
The mince part is—I think there’s suet. Some citrus juice.
I think they used to have some meat years ago, that’s why they kept that name.
But now… they’re just sweet. They’re kind of hard to explain.
I’ll try to bring some on Sunday if I can find the right ingredients. ’
‘Well, then, now you must come. I need to try your meat with currants. Although I am not sure I will like it. But there will also be gougères and probably some crisps.’
‘Sounds lovely.’
When they’d said their goodbyes, Nicola walked over to the angel again and picked it up.
She studied it – it wasn’t particularly well made, but it had a kind of handmade charm to it.
The face had a friendly, serene expression, and the halo was thick and generously coated with a gold sheen.
She looked underneath but couldn’t see any evidence of a maker’s mark.
She thought about the idea of good luck.
She’d certainly had some fortunate moments since acquiring the angel.
Bumping into Chloé had obviously been a blessing in disguise, and Lucien had moved from student to friend.
Even Monsieur Rémi had communicated with her more than before – although she’d since made him cry.
‘Now, if you could only sort things out so that I won’t have to spend Christmas alone,’ she told the angel, ‘I really might start believing in magic.’