Chapter 16
Nicola wrapped her new scarf around her neck, its ends draped over the front of her green coat.
She pulled a white knitted hat onto her head, smoothing the length of hair that protruded from underneath.
She’d put make-up on for the first time in what seemed an age and was finally feeling a bit more like herself.
It was having a bit more purpose, things to do.
Sure, it was only a carol concert, but she knew she’d see at least one friendly face there.
And Christmas was just around the corner – she’d started to experience a little of the magical fizz that crept over her this time of year, but it would be nice to fully immerse herself in something festive, maybe even join in on a carol or two, if they weren’t all in French.
And if they were, well, it would be good for her language skills to absorb it.
It was hard to find a space in the tiny car park close to the church, so she began to try driving down some of the back roads in search of a friendly kerb; the roads were narrow and cobbled and after a few hundred metres, felt as if they were closing in, like a moving wall in an old-style spy film.
She began to try to aim for the direction of the main road, there would probably be a car park along there to deposit her car; but on the last turning, the narrowest of all, she realised she’d made a grave error.
The road narrowed almost to a point and at the end, the tiny exit was blocked with a bollard. She had literally hemmed herself in.
Nicola wasn’t the most proficient at three-point turns in the first place, but short of crashing through the front window of a shop, there was literally no room to even attempt one. She’d have to reverse along the cobbles, around the corner and back to where she started.
The streets were alive with colour, radiating across the stone walkways from the still-illuminated windows of closed shops, and twinkling from strings of lights that snaked from window to window above.
Somewhere, she could hear the church bell chiming.
There were few people around, luckily, but those who passed – some looking at her curiously – seemed to be dressed mainly in dark clothing, meaning they were practically invisible in her rear-view mirror.
She wished Steven were here. She’d never concede that he was a better driver than she was, but when it came to manoeuvring into tight spaces and reversing, he definitely had the edge.
There was something almost sexy about the ease with which he’d wrap his arm behind her seat and turn, the wheel moving instinctively as they reversed at pace.
Her reversing style was slower, less certain, and often came with her pulling the kind of face you might when you think the balloon you’re holding could burst at any second.
She’d often found herself stuck trying to get into a space, with impatient drivers looking on, very nearly scraping the cars on either side as she hurried to get out of the way.
She’d thought in the past that there ought to be a sticker for her type of driver.
There were L plates for learners, obviously, and that odd P plate that new drivers sometimes decided to favour, to indicate to other drivers that they were newly qualified and presumably not to be too hard on them if they got into a pickle (hence the P).
There were ‘Baby on board’ signs for parents.
She needed an SP sign to warn other drivers that her spatial awareness was terrible, and if they drove too close to her in a tight situation they only had themselves to blame.
But short of driving straight into a bollard or abandoning her car altogether, she had little choice but to take a breath, put the car into gear and begin to stutter backwards down the road.
‘Oh my God, oh my God, oh my God,’ she whispered on repeat as she swerved slightly this way and that, trying to get a feel for the direction of travel.
She stopped, smiled and waved at people who wanted to cross behind her, trying to show that she was breezy, that this was a perfectly normal situation that she was perfectly capable of handling on her own.
What the passers-by didn’t know was what she was muttering under her breath out of a mouth that looked as relaxed and happy as she could muster.
‘That’s right, just stroll behind the car.
Sure! Take your time! Great idea, wearing a black coat to cross the road in the dark… ’
Eventually, she managed to extract herself from her cobbled prison and when she found herself on an ordinary two-way road, she almost cheered.
Turning the corner, she found that there was indeed a huge car park with several free spaces, meaning she didn’t need to use any more of her manoeuvring skills to get into them.
She wasn’t religious but in moments like these, she did begin to wonder whether there wasn’t a greater power up there somewhere, giving her a break.
By the time she reached the church, she could already hear the sound of voices singing and almost didn’t go in. But steeling herself and remembering that everyone was welcome at church, she gently applied pressure to the enormous wooden door and stepped inside.
The interior of the church was bigger than she’d expected, with modern wooden pews lined up in neat rows under historic arches that curved above.
Enormous candelabra twinkled overhead and the alter shone with gold.
She’d read that the church dated back to the sixth century and marvelled at how such a beautiful building had been constructed with the rudimentary tools people would have had back then.
People, all dressed in their warmest winter coats, lined the pews, clutching paper lyric sheets.
An organist played at the front, accompanied by a woman on a violin.
And the choir itself, dressed in what looked like ordinary clothing, lined two pews near the altar.
The song they were singing was in French, but the tune was familiar – possibly that of ‘While Shepherds Watched Their Flocks’, but she wasn’t 100 per cent sure.
A woman walked up and pushed a lyric sheet into her hand, smiling. ‘Welcome,’ she whispered, not wanting to interrupt the music.
Nicola nodded and slipped into a pew next to an old lady, who moved an enormous handbag out of the way to give her more room.
It was hard to keep up with the music. While her conversational French was OK and getting better each day, reading the words and setting them to the tune proved difficult.
But once in a while the carols would be in English and she’d join in with gusto.
Somehow the traditional songs always brought her back to the Christmases of childhood where they’d always attend a service on Christmas Eve.
She remembered how it used to feel standing in the church, knowing that waiting for her at home was a hot chocolate and her Christmas pyjamas, then bed early so that Santa had plenty of time to deliver.
It was this, the anticipation, that she liked more than anything at Christmastime.
The feeling of build-up, when everything seemed light, bright and positive, where everyone’s mood seemed more relaxed.
When your heart swelled with love for others and you looked with excitement to the big day when everyone would be together.
She’d missed out on a bit of that this year, what with Steven’s announcement and her own certainty that everything in Limousin had shut down for the season. Yet here she was with at least a hundred locals, welcoming Christmas with a smile on her face. All was not lost after all.
Hopefully Chloé wouldn’t be too disappointed that she’d failed to find anything with which to make mince pies.
Someone on a forum had helpfully shared a recipe to make her own mincemeat but she’d felt overwhelmed just reading the list of ingredients.
The most she’d ever done in the past was to spoon mincemeat from a ready-bought jar.
The idea of mixing her own currants and peel and suet was a bridge too far for this year.
During the last carol a scent began to fill the air.
She turned and realised that a woman had set up a table at the back of the church, placed an enormous urn on it which must be full to the brim with mulled wine.
There were glasses of orange juice too, and plates filled with tiny savoury rounds of pastry for people to snack on.
Her stomach rumbled and she realised she hadn’t eaten any dinner.
Presumably they’d finish soon so she could grab herself something to quieten her digestive system.
The song fell silent and they all obediently sat back in their chairs. Then a priest took his place at the front of the church and began to speak.
It was odd how once you acknowledged hunger, it suddenly felt clawing and urgent.
Perhaps it was the smell of the wine and the brief scent of pastry and cheese that kept meeting her nostrils, or the fact that while she was following what the priest said, she was distracted by the woman at the back who was clanking a ladle into the urn and filling plastic cups.
But her attention drifted. She imagined herself sinking her teeth into an enormous cheese pastry.
Just at that moment, the priest came to a close and bowed his head.
The congregation followed suit. And it was at this moment that Nic’s stomach decided to do the rumble of its life.
It was loud, and something about the acoustics of the place seemed to carry it around the church.
Nobody moved, but she could see the mouths of one or two people nearby twitching a little with amusement.
Then finally it was over. They all stood as one but then fell into friendly conversation. It was a relief – hopefully the noise in the church would cover any further gurgles she might make.
There was a gradual flow of people to the table at the back and soon she was clutching an orange juice, thankful that she remembered she was driving, and a handful of the cheese pastry bites, which seemed at that moment the most delicious thing she’d ever eaten.
‘You came!’ said a voice. She turned and saw Chloé.
‘Oh, hello! Yes, thanks for letting me know it was on.’
Her friend smiled. She wore her blonde hair in a braid, a few wisps escaping around her face, and was dressed in jeans and a large coat. ‘Of course. And you’re enjoying the snacks?’
‘Oh. Yes. Very much. And the carols were great.’
‘Thank you.’ Chloé sighed. ‘It is difficult sometimes to sing them as they make me think of my grandmother. She died five years ago, but each Christmas, it seems so recent.’
Nicola nodded, put a hand out and rubbed Chloé’s arm sympathetically. ‘Yes, there’s something about the season,’ she said. ‘It’s a wonderful time. But it’s hard too.’
‘Exactly. And everyone seems to be so happy!’
‘I know! It makes you feel like you’re the only one who’s a bit sad this time of year.
’ It wasn’t true of course, she thought.
Monsieur Rémi with his barely suppressed tears; Lucien, who seemed OK one minute and melancholy the next.
Perhaps Christmas wasn’t necessarily about feeling cheerful all the time, but helping others, bringing cheer to one another.
She thought about how she’d whined to Steven, how she’d pressured her parents and Harriet to come, and felt suddenly selfish.
‘Well, this has meant a lot, honestly,’ Chloé said, popping her last cheese bite into her mouth and chewing it quickly. ‘And you know, if there’s anything I can do for you… well, you know where I am. And you know, the choir’s always looking for new members!’
‘I might hold you to that.’
‘Do. Please.’
Because she’d been thinking about herself. Her Christmas. But the real thing that made the season magical was giving that happiness to others. And this was something she could do no matter where she was or who she was with.