The French for Christmas (3 page)

She’d continued, ‘I spoke to Eliane yesterday and let her know you’re coming, so that Mathieu can open the shutters and have the water turned back on for your arrival. Ask them if there’s anything you’re not certain about. Are you sure you’ll be okay there with no heating? There’s a good supply of logs in the woodshed though.’

‘Don’t worry, I’ll be fine,’ I assured her. ‘I’ll take warm clothes; after all, I’m used to New England winters which make your sorry British efforts look like a balmy spring day.’

And surely, I think, having driven south for two days solid, the weather must be even milder in south-west France? I’m relishing the thought of sitting snugly beside a crackling fire, catching up on reading the lengthy list of books that I’ve got lined up on my iPad. Or taking long, revitalising walks in the French winter sunshine, breathing the London pollution out of my lungs. It’s going to be bliss!

Here’s the signpost now. The tiny hamlet of
Les Pélérins
huddles beneath the lowering sky, and I see the twin oaks, adorned with mistletoe pompoms of their own, their bare branches stirring in the winter wind, beckoning me on in.

I find the key under a stone beside the front door, just as Rose has described. The lock is stiff and the door opens on its rusted hinges with a drawn-out creak. I step into a long, narrow hallway that runs the length of the house, a staircase at the far end leading to bedrooms under the roof. In the late afternoon, the thick stone walls don’t allow much light in through the windows whose panes are misty with winter dust. The desiccated bodies of dead flies dot the low windowsills and the air inside the house is almost as chill and damp as it is outside. Tall, panelled doors, their closed faces inscrutable, lead off the hallway. I push the first one open and step into a long, light sitting room where someone—Mathieu when he was opening the shutters, I guess—has laid a fire in the hearth ready for lighting. Quickly, before the dampness and the chill and the grey afternoon can impose themselves on my mood any further, I strike a match from the box on the mantelpiece and hold the tiny flame to an edge of newspaper in the grate. It flickers, catches, creeps in under the kindling and, gratifyingly easily, begins to take hold of the dry sticks that crackle and pop, instantly cheering both the room and me.

I gaze about myself, taking stock of my surroundings. This room has tall French doors and their window panes let light flood in, despite the lack of sunshine today. They lead to a terrace outside where, I imagine, the orange-flowered vine casts its shade in the summer. The floor of the room is of old wooden boards, polished to a soft patina with age and beeswax, and several rag rugs add splashes of colour. Two soft, deep sofas flank the fireplace, covered with a once-fine floral chintz which has faded and worn with use, the arms threadbare. On a console table pushed against one wall stand a cluster of framed photographs and I cross to take a closer look, smiling at the familiar faces of Rose, Max and their boys that grin out at me from the pictures. The photos are full of sun and laughter, holiday-time snaps of tanned skin and heat and freedom from the routines of work and school. ‘Am I pleased to see you guys!’ I exclaim, my voice loud in the silence which is relieved only by the soft muttering of the fire as it begins to burn more steadily, radiating a gentle but encouraging heat.

I go back into the hallway, leaving the sitting room door open to allow the light and warmth to filter into the rest of the house, driving out the shadows and the faint mustiness of the air that has been shut in here since the end of the summer. I push open the other doors, exploring. Next to the sitting room is another long, spacious room which, from the look of its uneven beams, appears to have originally been two smaller rooms that have been knocked through to create a generous dining kitchen. An ancient cast-iron range dominates the far end. It’s clearly just for decoration as there’s a more modern electric hob and oven set into the cream Shaker-style cabinets that are fitted around the walls. Cheerful red gingham curtains frame the windows, and there’s another set of French doors leading out to the garden terrace beyond. A scrubbed pine table and chairs are set before these doors to take advantage of the view. It must be spectacular in summer. The garden, where shrubby rosemary and bay bushes spread their leaves to the grey winter sky in search of sunshine, slopes gently at first and then falls away more steeply as the hillside plunges headlong towards the broad silver river in the valley below. On one side there’s a sloping meadow, where a white horse is calmly cropping the lush winter grass, and on the other a vineyard, whose neat rows of trellising hug the contours of the land.

In the middle of the lawn—if the rough grass beyond the terrace can be called that—stands a bizarre sight: it’s an ancient apple tree, its trunk twisted and gnarled with age, and its branches have lost every single one of their leaves; but rust-red apples still hang from them, points of colour in the grey landscape. And, if it weren’t for the fact that such things are completely banned this year, I would say they look exactly like the baubles on a Christmas tree. A robin hops on the ground amongst a few windfalls beneath the tree and then, as I watch, it flutters up and perches on the tip of the very highest twig, cocking its head and flaunting its russet breast, looking, for all the world, as though it’s laughing at me. Or, perhaps, inviting me to laugh along with it. As non-Christmas trees go, it’s really a very pretty sight. I smile. My spirits pick up a little and I think,
‘Plan B will do very nicely indeed, thank you, Rose and Max.
’

I feel cocooned here, far enough away, at last, from London with its constant reminders of failure and disappointment and loss; far enough away from Paris and its bustle and busyness, its memories of a stage of my life that’s now long gone; far enough away from my family in Boston to allow them the space to stop worrying about me and enjoy their lives, unimpeded by the weight of my sorrow; far enough from the magazine articles and the TV programmes and, at last, far enough away from Christmas itself.

Going out to the car to start bringing in my cases, I pause in the doorway for a moment, listening. The only sound is the faint sigh of the winter wind as it brushes past the bare branches of the oak trees, making the fronds of mistletoe stir and shiver. Nothing more. Now, finally, in this vacuum of space and quietness, where I know no one and no one expects anything of me, I think I just might be able to find some kind of peace of mind at last.

O
n the third
day of Christmas, my true love sent to me

Three French hens...

A
argh
! That does it; I swear I’m going to wring that rooster’s neck and make him into a tasty
coq au vin
. Right after I’ve wrung the neck of the other bird, whatever it is—some kind of owl, I guess—that woke me up in the middle of the night with its screeching, leaving me lying in the pitch darkness (a much darker darkness than any I’ve been used to in cities), with my heart pounding and my mouth dry. The bird’s startlingly loud scream seemed to come from one of the oak trees just beyond the wall of my bedroom.

I pulled the covers up round my ears, shutting out the cold night air as well as the noise of the neighbour’s dog which was also now barking enthusiastically. Once that finally stopped, I lay awake for a while, eyes wide in the darkness, waiting for the welcome oblivion of sleep to return. And then, no sooner had I finally dropped off again than that rooster decided it was time to sound the morning alarm. I reach a hand out from the cosiness of the covers and grope on the bedside cabinet for my watch. Squinting to read the dial in the first, very faint light of the dawn that’s just beginning to filter in through the skylight above my head, I make out that it’s barely six. I turn over, pulling the covers back up again, reluctant to leave the warmth of my bed. Even a short trip to the bathroom entails a scramble to pull on my thick sweater and long woollen socks before shoving my feet into my slippers. The floorboards are cold enough but the bathroom tiles are positively glacial.

It turns out that the peace and quiet of the countryside is a whole lot noisier than I’d ever have imagined. The first night I was here I turned in early, worn out after the long drive as well as all the emotion of leaving London and visiting Paris. I’d heard what I guessed must be the doctor’s car pulling up in front of the house next door, the quiet slam of the door and the crunch of footsteps on the gravel. I’d held my breath for a moment, wondering whether he and his wife, noticing the smoke rising from the chimney, would feel obliged to come and knock on my front door to say hello. But it was already on the late side for a social call, and all my lights were off, and thankfully the footsteps made their way in the opposite direction. A door opened, then closed with a firm thud. And then I lay and listened, with intrigue at first and then with increasing irritation as, from one of the outbuildings, sounds of distant sawing, then hammering, then the whirr of a drill rudely interrupted the drowsiness that had begun to soothe my frayed nerves in the pleasant aftermath of a cup of camomile tea and a hot bath. The last thing I remembered thinking was, ‘
How very inconsiderate; now I’ll never get to sleep!’
before dropping off a cliff into deep, dark oblivion. And by the time that darned screech owl woke me again in the wee small hours, the sounds from the garage had fallen silent. I suppose I should have been thankful for small mercies.

The next morning I’d set off to call on my two sets of neighbours, thinking I should go introduce myself for politeness’ sake. There was no car outside the doctor’s house—he must already have gone to work, I guessed—but I knocked at the door hoping his wife might be in. The house was firmly locked up though, as was the garage. (Okay, I admit I tried the door, hoping to get a peek into the late-night workshop, but the panes of glass were too heavily frosted for me to be able to make out anything inside.) I passed the woodshed with its neatly stacked log pile, and stuck my head into the barn, where the white horse peered at me over the top of its stable door. ‘Well, hello there,’ I said, surprised to see it here instead of in the field at the back of the house. It must have been brought in yesterday evening, out of the frosty night air. ‘Sorry, I’ve nothing for you. I’ll bring you an apple next time, I promise.’ The horse, evidently unimpressed, snorted and turned back to pull some wisps of sweet-smelling hay from the wooden manger on the far wall.

I crossed the lane, making my way to Eliane and Mathieu’s house, which had a promising plume of wood-smoke drifting above one of its chimneys. But, although I knocked and called at the front door, and even tentatively walked around to the back of the house and called there, there was no sign of anyone. A robin, maybe the same one from the apple tree the day before, hopped onto a clod of earth in the middle of a neat vegetable patch and then flew up to perch on the handle of a garden fork that was stuck into the rich, freshly dug soil. Dark green cabbages rested in the bed next to taller, knobbly Brussels sprouts, and leeks whose neatly braided leaves ended in fountain-like flourishes. Not wanting to trespass further, I left, resolving to call again another day—though in truth I was a little relieved too, still relishing the sense of being alone and not having to make conversational small talk with anyone for a while. My new neighbours haven’t approached me in the days since then either; clearly French country-folk are happy to respect one another’s space.

The rooster crows again, twice over this time, as if he knows his first attempt to sound
reveille
didn’t succeed in getting me out from under the covers. I sigh deeply, still determined not to be bullied into getting up before I’m good and ready. To tell the truth, I’d rather try and sleep a bit longer because, otherwise, I know how the day will stretch out, dauntingly long, ahead of me. If I could, I’d stay under the covers, like a hibernating bear, until Christmas is safely behind me and it’s safe to come out, blinking in the spring sunshine.

The first few days here were fine. I was happy to pass the time unpacking and getting myself settled in, slowly getting familiar with my new surroundings, mastering the art of setting and lighting the fire, curling up on one of the sofas to read for hours on end, relishing my solitude. Not having to think. But already I can see that time may start to drag and I fear a return of the depression that may roll back in at any moment. It sits out there, like a fog bank off the Maine coast. The distraction of a new place can only hold it at bay for a short time, I know. So, despite Foghorn Leghorn over the way, I’m determined to try to doze a while longer. Then, because Rose told me Saturday is market day there, I’m planning on taking myself down to Sainte-Foy-La-Grande. Just to give myself something to do. And also because I know I really need to make myself eat something other than the cans of soup and crackers I’ve been resorting to for the past few days since my arrival here.
Mamie
Lucie’s recipe book sits on the table in the kitchen, looking at me reproachfully as I spoon bright orange gloop into a pan to heat through. One of these days, I tell it, I’ll cook something proper, I promise...

Still under the covers, I close my eyes, hoping to slip back into blessed unconsciousness once again, but then immediately open them again, wide with fear... Because there’s a strange, furtive noise coming from just outside the house. It sounds like someone’s tiptoeing across the gravel, breathing heavily. The only windows up here are roof lights, so I can’t peek out at the intruder, who pauses every now and then—I imagine him trying the front door and the windows downstairs—before the footsteps tiptoe round the end of the house. Oh no, now he’s on the other side... I can hear that heavy breathing, and soft footfalls crossing the grass. He’s going to break in through one of the sets of French doors. Will the doctor and his wife hear him? If they’re that old, then probably not. Will they hear if I scream? They’re probably still fast asleep this early on a Saturday morning.

I’m panicking now, my own breath coming fast and shallow. Surely it’ll be better to confront him downstairs while he’s still outside—and with my thick sweater on instead of just in my pyjamas—than wait until he’s in the house? Quickly and quietly I pull on my layers of warmer clothes and creep downstairs. Moving swiftly and silently into the kitchen, I grab a large breadknife and cross to the terrace doors, preparing to brandish the knife and scream at the top of my lungs in the hope of creating such a disturbance that the intruder will flee in terror. Used to city life, I usually carry a canister of pepper spray in my purse, but I jettisoned this before I left London, thinking I wouldn’t need such things in the safe, tranquil French countryside. How I regret that now! So instead I snatch up the pepper pot from the table, thinking at least it’s better than nothing.

A dense white fog has closed in overnight. Its chill has turned the air itself into a solid wall of blankness, obscuring the rest of the world so that I feel even more isolated than ever.

And then I freeze in my tracks—freeze being the operative word on this frigid December morning—at the sight before me. Under the apple tree, which emerges out of the fog like a phantom, stands the most enormous pig I’ve ever seen, gazing longingly up at the apples still hanging from the branches. I tap on the glass and it peers short-sightedly towards the house, then, not the least bit bothered by my presence—and disdainfully ignoring the fact that I seem to be threatening it with two items of kitchen equipment better suited to making a ham sandwich than to actual self-defence—it begins to root blissfully amongst the fallen fruit, crunching the rotting apples between its large, ivory teeth.

I put my hands on my hips and shake my head in exasperation. So much for rural tranquillity! Between the crowing rooster, the screeching owl, the barking dog, the midnight mechanic and now this hungry hog, the chance of a little peace and quiet would be a very fine thing indeed.

I tap on the window pane again, harder this time, but the pig doesn’t even look up. So I unbolt the French doors and, grasping the breadknife and pepper pot in what I imagine to be a fearsome fashion—showing this critter I mean business—I step out onto the terrace.

I realise two things in quick succession: fortunately the far side is bounded by a low wall which would offer some protection if the pig decided to charge; and unfortunately the flagstones of the terrace are covered in a carpet of dead leaves which have become slick with the saturating dampness of the fog. My feet slide out from underneath me and, giving a loud yell, I land on my behind with a thud that knocks the wind out of me momentarily. I heave myself up, hanging on to the wall for dear life, and rub my right hip, which took the brunt of the fall. My shout, and the clattering of breadknife and pepper pot onto the flagstones, hardly disturbed the pig at all. He looks at me appraisingly, his little eyes blinking as he chews an especially delicious rotten apple, and then nonchalantly turns his back on me and goes back to rooting in the damp grass for more booty.

I collect up my scattered weapons, sliding wildly again and windmilling my arms in a most inelegant manner, before retreating inside. As I turn back towards the house, I notice a movement behind an upstairs window at the doctor’s house, as if someone has drawn back from the glass from where they’ve been watching my escapades. Great. Now my elderly neighbours know that a crazed knife-wielding pig attacker has moved in next door to them. I do so love to create a good first impression! They’ve also witnessed my fall, no doubt, so my pride now hurts almost as much as my backside does.

Admitting defeat on the pig-scaring front, I replace the pepper pot and the knife beside the breadboard on the kitchen counter and stomp back upstairs to get dressed properly.

As I brush my hair, I catch sight of myself in the bathroom mirror and I notice the faint frown lines that have etched themselves between my brows. When did that happen? I pause, hairbrush in hand, suddenly remembering the expression of serene disdain on the face of the pig as it surveyed the city slicker brandishing the pepper pot and breadknife at it, and I start to laugh.

And as my reflection laughs back at me, she looks relieved that, after such a long absence, it turns out her owner’s sense of humour hasn’t upped and left for good after all.

T
he pig has disappeared
into the fog by the time I’ve brushed my teeth, peeled off my layers of nightwear (gingerly pressing on the large red circle on my hip where I fell, which is already beginning to darken to a becoming shade of purple that matches the bruise on my elbow), and pulled on my jeans, a thermal undershirt and several more layers of sweaters. I make a pot of coffee and cup my hands around the mug to warm them as I sit at the kitchen table, gazing out at the wall of whiteness.

The crisp winter sunshine that I’d envisaged has failed entirely to materialise so far. I can’t even check out a weather forecast as the Internet isn’t working. There’s a very faint network signal, but the password Rose gave me doesn’t seem to allow me access. After a bit of a hunt I’ve discovered the router, which is under the console table in the sitting room but, despite the fact that it’s plugged into the mains, its lights are all off. I pick up my phone, hoping against hope, but I can’t get any reception on that here either. One of these days I’ll have to try walking to the top of the hill to see if I can get any signal up there. But so far I haven’t bothered. I’ll take it with me to the market though and hopefully be able to pick up a network in Sainte-Foy.

It’s weird being so disconnected from everything and everyone. All at once the lack of communication with the outside world and the—no doubt complicated—technicalities that will be involved in restoring it, overwhelm me. Suddenly exhaustion crushes my spirit and doubts come crashing in.

How could I ever have thought I could do this? For a moment I toy with the idea of loading everything back into the car and heading back to London. I could do that easily: run back home to the warmth and familiarity of my own house; spend Christmas with Rose and Max, or even—there’s still time—get a flight back to the States. I smile wryly and take another sip of my coffee. As that pig out there must have believed, it’s certainly true that the grass always seems greener on the other side of the fence. In reality, I know that what awaits me back in London is a silence and an emptiness even more profound than the one I find myself in here. All those reminders of what should have been. I realise that, in the few days I’ve been here, I have at least stopped living in that other, parallel life, my make-believe happy-ever-after. And I haven’t popped a pill in days. So even if it’s foggy outside, my internal fogginess is beginning to lift a little. That sense of seeing the world from behind a plate of glass has evaporated into thin air now that the novelty of a new place has reconnected me with Planet Earth, my feet more firmly planted on the cold French ground.