Chapter 20
The sleigh was finally up in front of the house and illuminated, although its light was barely visible in the bright morning. Nicola didn’t usually look forward to the evening drawing in but today she could hardly wait to see how the large, hard-won decoration would look in the darkness.
She was now up a ladder, hanging large solar lights from the cherry tree in the front, hoping the little panel would absorb enough sun to make them spring into life later.
Inside, she’d stocked the fridge as best she could and finished the festive decorations. Things were starting to come together. She’d sent a text message to Brenda, hoping she hadn’t changed her mind about the turkey and offering her a box of mince pies – Mum was purportedly bringing hundreds.
Brenda had replied:
Operation turkey is still a go!
Perhaps the turkey stand-off had felt like a disaster at the time, but it looked like she might have gained a potential friend out of it. Plus someone else was cooking the turkey, which was a huge bonus.
She climbed down the ladder and took a moment to inspect her handiwork.
It was amazing what she was capable of when she put her mind to it.
Had Steven been there, she’d probably have left him to do the ladder work, but having easily completed the task, she wasn’t entirely sure why.
Some ingrained sense of women being weaker?
Letting him fulfil the ‘manly’ role in the relationship?
From now on she was going to believe in herself more, she decided.
It had snowed again overnight, but she was used to – and even welcomed – the sight of it now.
Being fairly confident that the roads would be clear for her family, and that any new flurries would be well dealt with, she could instead embrace the simpler perception of snow that she used to have as a child.
It was pretty, festive, fun. She imagined having a snowball fight with her family on Christmas Day, flinging soggy white clumps of snow at one another…
then realised that was a tableau she’d probably watched in a Hallmark movie.
Her family were close, but she was pretty sure if she hit Mum in the face with a snowball, she’d never hear the last of it.
Perhaps she’d build a snowman with Harriet though; their age gap had meant they’d never really had that childhood experience together.
‘Your garden looks beautiful!’ a voice called.
People sometimes passed on the street outside her garden gate, often with a dog in tow or pushing a pram.
Occasionally they’d glance at the garden and if she was visible, might even raise a hand in greeting.
But this was the first time anyone had actually spoken to her out of the blue like this.
She almost dropped the ladder she was carrying. ‘Oh!’ she said. ‘Thank you!’
‘I’m Sophie,’ the woman said in French, walking closer, extending a hand. ‘I live just down from you.’ She smiled. ‘You’re new, n’est-ce pas? Permanent?’
‘Yes.’ Nicola shook the proffered hand. ‘Permanent.’
‘On your own?’
‘No. My husband will be joining me next year.’
‘Next year?’ The woman’s features creased. ‘Why not now?’
‘He’s working,’ Nicola said, rolling her eyes. Then, ‘He’s a paediatric nurse.’
The woman’s brow uncreased immediately. ‘Oh, in that case, I completely understand! A noble profession.’
‘Yep.’ And the ultimate ‘Get out of Jail Free’ card it seemed.
They exchanged a few more pleasantries before the woman resumed her walk, telling Nicola that she was welcome to call in for a coffee some time.
Nicola hated invitations like this ordinarily – was it just a polite reflex and would the woman actually be horrified if she took her up on it?
– but had begun to realise that it’s only the Brits who invite people around as a polite default.
French people are more likely to say what they mean.
She vowed to take her up on the offer in the new year.
‘Joyeux Noel!’ a man called as she wound a few additional lights around the front gate.
‘Thank you! You too!’
A couple with a pushchair were next, followed by a mother with a young girl who looked at the Santa sleigh excitedly. ‘Père Noel!’ she said to her mother. ‘Look!’
By lunchtime, she’d exchanged words with more people than she had in the entire time she’d lived here. The Christmas decorations had proved the perfect conversation opener. Many people had been kind – asking her about herself, her Christmas, suggesting they would probably see each other again.
Or else she’d be labelled the mad Englishwoman with her over-the-top festive display.
Either way, it was nice to be noticed.
She’d just closed the front door and was stamping her feet a little to try to warm them up when there was a knock.
Perhaps another person complimenting her on her decorations?
Opening the door though, she found a familiar face smiling back at her.
Chloé, wrapped in an enormous cream-coloured winter coat, a pink hat on her head.
She grinned. ‘Bonjour! Your garden looks very festive!’ she said.
‘Yes, thank you. My parents are coming tomorrow, and my mum wouldn’t settle for anything less!’
‘Well, it’s lovely.’ Chloé smiled for a moment then seemed to shake herself, remember what she was there for.
‘Oh, I wanted to say that I am visiting my grandfather today but this afternoon I have arranged to meet some friends for coffee. Just at the Boulangerie Jauzac. You’d be welcome to join us if you aren’t too busy? ’
‘That would be lovely, thank you!’ she said quickly.
In all honesty, she had been hoping for a bit more of a relaxing afternoon. Her body ached and she had a few last-minute presents to wrap. But she knew better than to turn down an invitation to something new. She needed to make new connections; resting could wait.
She grabbed herself a quick sandwich then showered, selecting a pair of jeans, white jumper, and some earrings she’d bought from the little jeweller in town, then inspected herself in the mirror. She looked good – smart but not overdressed.
Gabi watched her, fascinated, then jumped from the chair on which she was perched and rubbed herself against her legs. She picked the kitten up and held her against her shoulder, stroking her tiny head and hearing a rumble of purring that sounded like it had come from a much bigger animal.
‘Oh, I won’t be long, sweetie,’ she said. ‘You’ll be OK.’
By 3 p.m. a hint of dusk was hovering in the air and she was delighted to see that the solar lights on the trees had started to glow.
Santa was in his sleigh, the reindeer prancing and throwing out patches of bright white, green and red light onto the white, iced garden.
She breathed the cold, fresh air, feeling it fill her lungs, and could smell that particular scent that comes with snow.
Harriet laughed at her whenever she talked about ‘smelling snow’ but she maintained that the air smelled different when there was crisp snow on its breath.
Smoke was pouring from Monsieur Rémi’s chimney and she was glad to know that he was warm and safe inside.
She’d seen him briefly, earlier, walking to his front gate and talking to a man who’d given him a baguette and what looked to be a small bag of groceries.
Watching him walk back, a little unsteady and unsure of the slippery ground, she’d been tempted to call out, offer him some help.
But she’d paused, not sure how any offer would be received. And the moment had passed.
She’d considered walking, but the road to the town was on a slight slope and she’d had a sudden vision of herself tipping over in the street, rolling down the hill and becoming a snowball, like people do in cartoons.
Or at the very least breaking an ankle. Neither idea was tempting enough for her to go by foot.
She’d drive, park close to the café, and conserve her heat and energy for another time.
‘Bonjour, madame! ?a va?’ a voice called as she stepped out of the front door.
Monsieur Rémi was waving an arm at her. He was dressed in a coat, its front unzipped to reveal the same threadbare jumper. She had to fight the urge to tell him to do up his coat or he’d catch his death. Luckily she managed to stop herself.
‘Oh! Bonjour!’ It was typical that the first time he’d greeted her properly was when she was on her way to somewhere else. She wanted to simply disappear into her car, wave goodbye, but he was clearly beckoning her over.
They met by the garden fence, its panels low enough for their heads to be close to each other.
‘Are you OK, Monsieur Rémi?’ she asked. She wondered suddenly whether he might object to her having so many Christmas decorations.
Cars had started to slow in front of her house, the people inside curious or charmed by her display, and she hoped he wasn’t annoyed.
Monsieur Rémi nodded enthusiastically. ‘Your garden. It’s magnificent!’
She found herself letting out a laugh of pleasure. ‘You think?’
‘Yes, it looks beautiful. I wish you’d lived here when my children were young. They would have been so excited to see such a display.’
Nicola kept to herself the thought that his children were probably young in the sixties, when there wouldn’t have been plastic garden Santas or solar lights. ‘That’s so kind.’
He seemed to be waiting for something. She wondered whether he was hoping she’d invite him in for a coffee. Ordinarily she would have, but she was on her way out and really didn’t want to be late. Instead, ‘What are you doing for Christmas?’ she asked.
‘Ah, my daughter will collect me on Christmas Eve,’ he told her. ‘And you? Your family is coming?’
‘Yes. Yes, they are.’ It felt exciting to even say it.
Mum would see the house at last. Harriet would make her laugh.
Everything was coming together in the most brilliant way.
Out of the corner of her eye, she saw the angel on the windowsill, but shook the thought away.
People made their own luck, and the fact that today had been her most social since she’d moved was entirely coincidental.
The tiny iced flakes that had been falling intermittently all morning intensified. She watched them settle on his coat, his hat, remaining white and proud for a moment before disappearing into watery droplets. ‘You’re warm enough, I hope?’ she said. ‘In your house?’
He laughed. ‘Yes, don’t worry. I have two log burners.’
‘Well, good.’
‘You sound like my daughter,’ he said, but his voice was kind, his watery blue eyes crinkled with something like affection.
She gave a small laugh. ‘Well, we are neighbours.’
‘True.’ He smiled, looked over her shoulder at the decorations again, nodding subconsciously in approval. ‘Well, joyeux Noel,’ he said finally, with a nod.
‘Yes. To you too.’
She tried not to look as he made his way back to his front door, his gait unsteady, his walking, slow.
If she was missing Steven after just a few months away – and knowing that he would be coming eventually – she couldn’t imagine how Monsieur Rémi must feel about his wife.
It must be hard returning to the house they’d lived in together, with only photographs and memories to tie him to the past.
Once he was back after Christmas, she resolved, she’d make more of an effort with her elderly neighbour. She’d thought him stern and forbidding, but clearly, like many people, he simply took a little time to warm up.
Feeling positive again, she made her way to her car. Coffee, light conversation and even, potentially, a pastry were waiting.