The French for Christmas (13 page)

‘When do you think the power will come back on? Otherwise I have no way of cooking. Surely it’ll be back on by tomorrow?’

Eliane shrugs. ‘Who knows; it depends how many lines have come down and exactly where they are. We’ve had outages that have lasted up to a week in the past. I’m afraid that, as with the road, Les Pélérins is usually way down the list of the electricity company’s priorities as we’re so tiny and so far off the beaten track. But what do you mean, you have no way of cooking? You’ve got a perfectly good range.’

I’ve always regarded the antique, wood-fired oven that sits in the corner of the kitchen as just a bit of Rose’s quirky decor. Never for a moment did I think it might still be in working order.

‘Does it work?’ I ask, dubiously.

‘It works perfectly! We always make sure the chimney is swept each year along with all the others; it’s one of the things we organise for Rose and Max. Though they never use it, of course, because they’re only ever here in the summer.’

She crouches in front of the iron belly of the old range, feeding in paper and kindling and showing me how to slide open the air intake to get the fire to blaze brightly at first. ‘Then, when you’ve got the bigger logs burning, you close it a bit, like this’—she demonstrates—‘to regulate the heat.’

The whole room already feels more cheerful, with the promise of warmth beginning to pervade the chill that I’ve gotten used to over the past weeks. Why didn’t I think of asking her about the stove before now? It’s the perfect way of warming the heart of the house.

‘Now, let’s see what you have in your cupboards. And then we’ll go over to my house and find whatever else you need. I’m looking forward to being cooked for by a proper chef—what a treat!’

An hour later, my Christmas dinner menu has been revised, yet again, so that now it reads as follows:

E
liane gives
it a nod of approval. ‘That sounds delicious. I can’t wait to try your grandmother’s recipe for the pork.’

‘I know; it’s a good job I forgot to give Didier back the rest of the truffle. It’ll be perfect. And everything—with the exception of that tin of chestnuts which was hiding behind the baked beans at the back of one of Rose’s cupboards—is from right here.
Mamie
Lucie would definitely approve. But what am I going to do about the wines to accompany it? I’ve got one bottle of champagne, but that’s all. It’s not exactly going to make it the merriest Christmas ever.’

Eliane looks at me like I’m totally crazy. ‘Evie,’ she says patiently, ‘you live in a vineyard. Mathieu will bring some wines down from the château. I know Henri would be delighted to think he’d helped us out in our Christmas crisis.’

A
s I bustle
about my newly cosy kitchen, mixing and peeling, chopping and simmering in the good old-fashioned way, I find myself humming a carol or two and planning to go out and cut some branches of bay and gather some strands of ivy with which to deck the halls. In the words of the song, and despite all resolutions to the contrary, it’s beginning to look a lot like Christmas about these parts...

As dusk falls, I survey my day’s work. Despite the snow and ice and the lack of electricity, the house is the warmest it’s been, with both the fire and the range blazing away merrily. The kitchen is full of delicious aromas of cooking, and I’m now well ahead with my preparations for the day after tomorrow. I’ve draped ivy and sprigs of red-berried holly around the picture frames in the sitting room and have laid a couple of pine branches along the mantle shelf, from where their needles breathe their Christmas scent into the warm air. Outside, the snow gleams in the fading light, cushioning the windowsills with its soft whiteness.

I place a cream-coloured candle on a saucer, setting it in the window beside the front door—my candle for Lucie—and hold a match to the wick. The flame burns steadily, unwavering.

I’ve made a wreath of bay and holly for the front door, so I tie a loop of red ribbon onto it, shrug on my jacket, and step out into the yard to hang it. Not bad, even if I do say so myself. The house looks truly festive and welcoming with the green and scarlet wreath, and Lucie’s candle burning in the window beside it.

All of a sudden, there’s a whoosh of wings and I gasp, ducking and clutching my head involuntarily as the owl swoops out of the barn and flies straight towards me, banking sharply at the last moment. Its screeching call sounds frantic in the still evening air.

How strange.

I stand for a moment, a little shaken, as the pale apparition disappears off into the dusk. I recall, with a shiver, what Eliane said about people believing them to be the souls of the dead.

I shake my head and go to push open the front door and retreat into the reassuring warmth and light of the house, when I hear a muffled thudding noise coming from the barn. And, as I make my way cautiously across the yard, slipping and sliding on the ice, I hear a sound that makes my heart contract with fear. It’s a low moan, the sound of an animal in pain.

I reach the stable and peer into the stall. The horse is down in the straw, lying on her side, her distended belly taut. Her eyes roll in her head, which is thrown back, and her soft, velvety muzzle is flecked with foam. Every now and then she kicks her legs, her hooves knocking against the wooden partition. The foal is arriving! But, I wonder desperately, is this normal? She looks terrified; in pain. Surely it’s not supposed to be like this?

I run, as fast as my skidding feet can carry me, up the drive and over the road. ‘Eliane! Mathieu!’ I shout, my voice sounding shrill with panic in the snow-shrouded silence. There’s no sign of them, nor of Bruno. I can see footprints in the snow leading off up the hill to the château, or maybe into the woods. I can’t risk wasting time going up there to look for them when they could be anywhere, in the wine cellar, visiting the graveyard, hunting in the woods... From the barn across the road, I hear another deep groan of pain from the mare.

I skid back down the drive and hammer on Didier’s door. He emerges, raking his fingers through his hair, his smile turning to a look of concern at the expression on my face.

I gasp, ‘Didier, please, come quick. It’s the horse. There’s something wrong...’

By the time we arrive back in the stable, she’s kicked the straw around her away, her legs flailing with her struggle. Didier takes a look, assessing.

‘I don’t know much about horses, but I do know that when things go wrong it’s usually
really
bad news. Quick, Evie, let’s try and get her up on her feet. From the look of things, I’m guessing perhaps the placenta is misplaced and it’s blocking the foal’s exit. We need to get her moving, to try and get it to shift.’ His voice is calm and low, but I sense the note of underlying urgency.

Trembling all over, I come to kneel at the horse’s head. Her rolling eyes focus on me as I lay a hand on her smooth neck. It feels hot, moist with sweat.

‘Okay, old girl. It’s going to be okay.’ I hope I sound less afraid than I feel.

She raises her head, just a little, at the sound of my voice, perhaps recognising the friend who’s brought her a daily apple.

‘That’s good,’ Didier says. ‘Try to reassure her. Keep talking to her. I’ll come round and push from the other side.’

The mare’s legs flail again, her flanks heaving as she gasps in a breath and then groans, a harrowing sound that seems to come from deep in her belly.

‘Okay now, help her lift her head as I push against her shoulder here.’

She’s weak, exhausted with her efforts, but as we help her she tries to gather her legs beneath her; rises a little; then collapses back onto the floor.

‘Again!’ Didier’s voice is more urgent now. ‘Lift her head!’

‘Come on!’ I plead with her, ‘Get up. Try! We’ll help you, please just try once more!’

With a surge of desperation, she draws her legs inwards and, somehow, miraculously, heaves herself up.

‘Oh, thank God!’

‘Don’t let her fall, support her head. We need to try and get her to walk.’ Didier encourages her, tugging on the coarse strands of her mane, and she staggers forwards a step or two.

‘That’s good, keep her moving,’ he urges, and we circle the stable, each with a hand on her neck, her steps becoming steadier and her gasping, shallow breaths deepening a little, plumes of steam puffing into the night air.

Is it my imagination, or does the brutal hardness of her belly seem to release slightly?

‘It’s working!’ I cry. ‘Didier, I think it’s working!’

‘Keep moving.’ We walk her round and round, her hooves clomping on the straw-strewn cement.

And then she nods her head up and down three times. An affirmation? Her way of saying she can handle it from here? Because she stops in her tracks, drops her head and then sinks down onto her knees, lowering herself to the floor. There’s a gush of liquid, and then suddenly, with a heave and a slither, her foal is born. It’s wrapped in a sac of tissue but, with a toss of its head, it breaks free and emerges into the world, gasping its first breath into its newborn body, the colour of black velvet, a single white star emblazoned on its forehead.

Hot tears of relief and gratitude flood into my eyes.

Didier stands back, a broad smile spreading across his face. And, without thinking, I step towards him and he opens his arms and pulls me in, holding me tight against his body.

The mare looks round, turning towards her baby, lying with her muzzle close to the foal’s head.

‘What do we do now?’ I whisper.

‘Nothing,’ Didier’s eyes glint in the moonlit darkness of the barn, his arm still encircling my waist. ‘We let nature take its course. She will deliver the afterbirth in a while. But look, she knows what to do.’

The mare pulls herself to her feet and gently touches her foal’s head with her nose, then begins to clean her baby. We creep out into the yard, leaving the pair in peace for a few moments.

The moon is just beginning to rise, no longer rust-coloured now, but a luminous silver, its rays streaming through the doorway of the barn to illuminate the nativity scene within. ‘Look.’ I point to a star, bigger than any of the others, that hangs in the sky just above the barn roof. ‘Our very own Christmas star! Hanging above the stable like a sign. Perhaps they’ll name the foal “Star”. Or “Noël”.’

‘“Jupiter” might be more appropriate,’ Didier smiles. ‘That star is a planet.’

We stand close together, underneath the oaks, as the Milky Way drapes itself across the universe above us, illuminating the dark sky with the most beautiful show of Christmas lights imaginable.

Didier takes both my hands in his. ‘Well done, Evie; that mare and her foal would almost certainly have died if it weren’t for you.’

‘Actually it was thanks to the owl. And you too. Let’s call it a team effort. But I don’t know where Eliane and Mathieu have got to. We’d better go find them and tell them what’s happened.’

He nods. ‘In a minute. They told me they were going to the woods to catch rabbits for our
Réveillon
dinner tomorrow. They called earlier, to invite me to join you all.’ And then he looks down at me and his smile fades, the look on his face both serious and tender suddenly. ‘
Réveillon
,’ he muses. ‘How apt that word is.’

‘The French word for Christmas Eve? Why, what does it mean?’

‘We use it to mean “staying awake”, because originally it used to signify the meal eaten when people came home from midnight mass. But I think this year I prefer its more literal meaning. It comes from the word that means a reawakening.
Se réveiller
.’

I nod slowly, taking this in.

‘You and I have both been hibernating, Evie, through the very long and very cold winter of our grief. But now, I sense it’s time for us to reawaken. To re-enter the world. Reborn, like that little fellow in the barn. You know, Christmas used to be my worst time of the year. But
this
year I think it’s going to be different.’

‘You’re right,’ I whisper. ‘It’s taken coming here, to get away from it all, to remind me what Christmas is truly all about.’

I look across the yard to where Lucie’s candle burns steadily in the window.

Didier notices. And he must guess the significance of the tiny flame that shines out into the darkness. He hesitates a moment. Then asks, ‘When you lost your baby, Evie, did they do any tests to try to find out why?’

It’s still painful to think about that time, the hospital sheets cold and stiff, lying there with my heart shattering into a thousand pieces as the nurse came and gently took Lucie from my arms, carrying her away from me forever.

‘The doctor said they couldn’t be sure, but it might have been a problem with the placenta.’ My voice is low, the words hard to say. ‘Perhaps it didn’t develop properly. She didn’t get enough nutrients. In the end, her heart just stopped. It must have been my fault I guess. Feeling so sick; not eating properly.’

He squeezes my hands tightly. ‘No, Evie. You do know, don’t you, that there’s no way it’s your fault? And that it’s unlikely that the same thing should happen if you decide to try again? Did they tell you that?’

‘I’m too scared,’ I whisper. ‘It would be too much of a risk.’

I raise my eyes to his and his expression is tender. ‘Scared? No, Evie, not you. You have immense courage. Look how calm you were this evening. Look how brave you’ve been, coming to this strange place, where you know no one. Look at all the love you have in your heart. The love you have for life.’

I shrug. ‘Sometimes life seems to be very fragile.’ I incline my head towards the barn. ‘That happy ending there could easily have been a tragedy instead.’