The French for Christmas (5 page)

After a while, the church falls silent, the final footfalls dying away.

I raise my head, and realise that I’m not alone in the last pew at the very back. A small figure in a black cassock has slipped in at the other end and sits quietly, his hands clasped on the back of the pew in front of us as if in prayer. My breathing begins to even out again, the storm of my emotions blowing over, and I gather my coat around me, preparing to leave. The young priest turns and smiles at me, then slides along the pew, closer to where I’m sitting.

‘
Madame
, please, you don’t have to hurry away. You are welcome to sit a while longer if you’d like. Get your strength back a little before you return to the world outside.’ He fishes under his robes and pulls out a clean handkerchief which he passes to me. And then we sit together, in silence, he with his hands loosely clasped before him once again.

‘I lost my baby,’ I tell him when I can speak again, finally, and it’s such a relief to be able to talk at last, to find the words to say the things I haven’t been able to express until now. Perhaps it’s because he’s a stranger, instead of someone I love and therefore need to protect from my grief.

He nods, watching me as I wipe my eyes.

‘Her heart just stopped beating one day. I should have known; I should have noticed. She’d stopped moving, but by the time I realised, it was too late. I had to go into the hospital, go through labour, knowing that she was dead. A stillbirth they call it. Which sounds so peaceful, you know? But it’s not peaceful at all. Until afterwards, when there should be a cry and new life. But there’s nothing; only silence. A terrible, empty silence... And then I finally held her in my arms, no breath, not moving, but so perfect...’ I pause, overwhelmed by another gust of grief. ‘And just now, the song... the littlest child, dreaming it was in paradise. I hope that’s where she is. But I don’t really believe in that stuff, you know.’ I hiccup with another sob. ‘Sorry. I shouldn’t be saying all this to you.’

I have no idea whether the priest understands what I’m telling him, but he sits there quietly, listening. And maybe even if he doesn’t understand all the words, he sees my sorrow and my pain. Maybe he understands that it’s hard for me to say all of this, but that I need to say it to someone, finally, so he sits on and lets me talk.

When I finish, he’s quiet for a moment. Then asks, ‘What was her name?’

I look at him blankly.

‘Your baby daughter, what did you call her?’

People don’t usually ask that question. Perhaps they assume we never named her. Or maybe it’s just easier not to know, not to think of her as a real person.

I look down at the crumpled handkerchief, which I’ve twisted into a ball. And I whisper, ‘Lucie. We called her Lucie.’

My voice cracks as I say the name. A name I haven’t said aloud for so long. And it feels just a tiny bit better, as if some of the pressure in my heart has eased a little, with being able to say these things out loud at long last.

I turn and smile at him through my tears. ‘Spelt the French way, after my
Mamie
Lucie.’

He nods. And sits a while longer.

Then he says, ‘It means “light” you know. From the Latin. If you wanted, you could light a candle to Saint Nicolas today. I know you don’t believe in these things,’ and he smiles serenely as I demur, embarrassed, realising that he has clearly understood everything I’ve said, ‘but sometimes a simple, practical gesture of remembrance can be a balm for the soul when we are grieving. Lucie. Let her light shine in the darkness. I always think that that is the essence of the Christmas season: making the light shine out through the darkest time of the year,
n’est-ce pas
?’

After he’s gone, I stay a while longer. I feel utterly drained—all that crying, I suppose—and yet I feel a sense of relief too. As if I’ve set down a heavy load that I’ve been carrying all alone, for so very long.

The wooden pew is polished and worn with use and I think of the many people who have sat here before me, full of hope and fear, joy and grief, for christenings and weddings and funerals. And suddenly I feel the cocoon of loneliness that has been my straitjacket for the past year fall away. How strange it is to feel so comforted here, amongst strangers in a foreign land. But I realise that I needed to come away from all that was familiar to be able to regain my perspective. To begin the painful process of letting go of the dead and to start to rebuild my life again.

Taking the priest’s advice, I drop a coin in the box and take a candle. I hold the wick to the flame of another of the slender wax tapers—someone else’s bright-burning gesture of sadness or gladness—and then set it into the holder. For Lucie. The flame burns steadily, unwavering, like my love for her. ‘Look after her for me, Saint Nicolas,’ I whisper.

Emerging into the marketplace again, I stand and blink. The fog has burned away completely and the church steeple now soars into a dizzying blue sky overhead. Bright winter sunlight dazzles my eyes and I set down my shopping basket for a moment to delve in my purse for my sunglasses.

The world looks newly made.

I take a deep breath.

And then step out into it.

A
ngels in the countryside
...

I
drive home
through a landscape that looks completely altered in the winter sunshine. Instead of sombre tones of brown and black, muffled by the pale mist, the countryside is suddenly a technicolour palette of lush green and rich russet, studded here and there with garnet-red berries. And instead of a dull, gunmetal grey, the sky is a broad sheet of blue. I feel quite light-headed as I drive up the hill and turn in at the little white sign to Les Pélérins.

I stow away my purchases in the refrigerator and then sit down to a plate of bread and cheese for lunch. I don’t seem to have the appetite for anything more substantial, despite my earlier resolution to cook a proper meal. I promise myself I’ll do better this evening.

At first, I put the fact that my head aches and my legs feel heavy and stiff down to all that emotion in the church. No wonder I feel light-headed; it was the first moment of real peace I’ve felt in a year. Leaving my plate of food half-eaten, I rest my throbbing forehead on my hands. And suddenly realise that I’m really not very well at all. My fingers are cold against the burning skin of my face and the stiffness in my legs seems to have spread into my back and neck. And—oh no!—I feel sick to my stomach...

I drag myself through to the sitting room, collapse onto the sofa and begin to shiver with fever. I should light the fire, but I’m too tired to bring in a basket of logs from the wood store. I’ve run out of kindling too, and the thought of going out to chop some more, or to gather some dry sticks from beneath the oaks, is too much to contemplate. I curl into a ball, pull a woollen throw over myself and lie there, alternately freezing and burning. Feeling, I now realise, really,
really
sick. And utterly wretched. I think,
no one knows. I can’t call anyone. What if I seriously need help?

And then I close my eyes, which feel oh so heavy, and drift into oblivion...

I don’t know how long I’ve slept, but the soft violet glow of dusk hangs over the hillside and the first lights are coming on in the valley below when a pounding in my head awakens me.

I lie there, my limbs so heavy that I can’t even lift my hand to check the time on my watch. And then I hear it again, a persistent knocking sound, which seems to be coming from somewhere outside my head now, but I can’t quite make out where. My lips are dry and there’s an unpleasant metallic taste on my tongue. My skin is burning up and yet I feel frozen to my very core with a chill that makes my bones ache.

The knocking falls silent for a few moments and then resumes again, a bit louder this time.
Front door
, I think. It takes every ounce of willpower I have to heave my legs over the edge of the sofa and pull myself upright. As I do so, my head spins and my stomach churns. Squinting through the blinding agony of a headache that makes my vision blur and weave, I creep to the hallway, holding on to the walls to steady myself.

I open the door. And blink.

Because there in the dusk, just turning to leave, is Bradley Cooper himself.

Confused, and hazy with fever, I stand and stare, realising that I’ve truly gone and done it now; I really shouldn’t have watched The Playbook so often and I really shouldn’t have let myself retreat into my parallel life so much. It’s official: I’ve totally flipped.

And I’m even more certain that I’m hallucinating when he smiles his utterly gorgeous smile and says, in a low voice with a fabulously sexy French accent, ‘
Bonsoir
. I am so sorry to disturb you,
Madame
. But I wonder if you perhaps ’ave a grater I could borrow? You see, I ’ave a truffle and I wish to make a delicious omelette. But, alas, I ’ave no grater...’

Oh, my God, this has to be the best hallucination ever!

It’s a pity I feel so terrible because otherwise I would definitely try to keep it going longer. But—maybe it’s the mention of the truffle omelette—my fever-wracked body rebels suddenly.

I lean forward and throw up, all over Bradley Cooper’s shoes.

They’re black leather brogues, I notice in a detached kind of a way, the sort that have a pattern of little holes punched into them. They’re going to be hell to clean.

The smile on Bradley’s face fades to an expression of concern. He takes hold of my arm, with a grip that’s surprisingly strong for a hallucination, and touches the fingertips of his other hand to my forehead.

‘Oh!’ I say, because it feels so nice to have a cool, capable hand press against my fevered brow (especially Bradley’s hand)! And because I don’t seem to be capable of saying anything else.

‘
Madame
, you are unwell. We must get you into bed.’

I groan. Not just because I feel so bad, but also because this is such a horrible waste. Bradley Cooper is proposing to get me into bed and I’m too sick to do anything about it. He props me against the doorframe and then, gingerly, slips off his be-spattered shoes, stepping into the hallway in his stocking feet.

‘Where is the bedroom?’

My tongue appears to be swollen and sticky and I can only mumble indistinctly, swaying with a dizziness that makes me nearly black out.

He cranes his head, looking past me to the open door of the sitting room. ‘Okay, come. Let us get you in here.’

He guides me through and helps me onto the sofa. I draw my knees up to my chest again, shivering violently, as he arranges the woollen throw over me.

I hear his footsteps cross back to the front door and then leave, crunching away across the gravel. ‘Don’t go, Bradley!’ I try to call after him, but all that comes out is a weak croak.

Damn! That’ll teach me to throw up in the middle of the best dream ever.

I let my impossibly heavy eyelids close again, and sleep pulls me under...

There’s a light now; one of the lamps on the console table has been switched on. And there’s a soft pillow under my head instead of the rough fabric of the sofa. I open my eyes a tad, squinting against the light.

The best news of all is that Bradley is back! He crosses the room and shakes my arm gently. ‘
Madame
, you need to take these. Here, some water to wash them down.’

I prop myself onto one elbow and take the pills he’s offering me, gulping down the water which cools the acid-seared soreness in my throat.

‘That’s good. Drink it all if you can.’

I collapse back onto the pillow and open my eyes a little wider. There he stands, gazing down at me: dark, wavy hair pushed back from his brow; a shadow of stubble emphasising the chiselled V of his jawline; and those gorgeous blue eyes, the colour of a clear winter sky.

Perhaps I’ve died and gone to heaven.
Please, God, let this moment last forever
, I think.

‘Okay, you’ll feel a little better soon. The fever should begin to come down a bit now. And if you think you’re going to vomit again, I’ve put a bucket here beside you.’

Hmm, well that certainly spoiled the magic of the moment. A pretty practical dude, old Bradley.

Although...

Perhaps it’s the distinctly un-romantic mention of the bucket that does it, or perhaps those pills are getting to work fast, but my mind begins to clear a little and so does my vision. I manage a weak smile of remorse and regret.

‘Thank you,’ I whisper to Bradley Cooper’s French lookalike.

‘
Je vous en prie
,’ he replies, his face creasing into a broad smile of relief—probably because I’m not looking like throwing up again anytime soon. ‘Apologies; we haven’t been properly introduced. I’m your neighbour, Didier Dumas.’

I’m befuddled and confused with fever, so it takes a moment for this to sink in. ‘But I thought my neighbour was Doctor Lebrun?’

He shakes his head. ‘
Docteur
Lebrun has retired. He and his wife have gone to La Réunion for the winter. I am
Docteur
Dumas, a locum. I’m standing in for him until a replacement can be found.’

I digest all of this for a few moments. Then, with an effort, gather my wits about me. ‘Evie Brooke. I’m a friend of Rose and Max’s, the owners of this house. And I’m
so
sorry. This is the most terrible way to have introduced myself. I don’t know what came over me, but whatever it was, it was nasty and it was sudden!’

‘The norovirus, I expect. A winter vomiting bug. It does the rounds at this time of year. Perhaps you picked it up on your journey down here. You seem to have a very violent strain of it, but don’t worry,’ he stops and presses his cool fingertips into the sides and back of my neck, ‘it doesn’t look like anything more serious. I’ve given you paracetamol and something to help settle the nausea. And now you must drink lots of fluids because you were dangerously dehydrated with the fever and the vomiting.’

I do wish he’d stop reminding me about the vomiting. Partly because it makes my stomach churn again; and partly because it’s excruciatingly embarrassing remembering what I did to his nice shiny shoes by way of saying hello.

I close my eyes again. It’s comforting to lie there, the shivering slowly subsiding, my body beginning to relax, and listen to the sounds of someone else moving about the room. It reminds me of being at home with Will, the two of us so comfortable together that we took each other’s presence for granted. I remember the soundtrack of our everyday lives, back in the days before grief silenced us: the sound of him clattering down the stairs, whistling cheerfully; the hammering and drilling as he put up shelves, just after we moved in, while I painted the room next door, both of us singing along to the radio that blared from the hallway; the quiet thud of the refrigerator door closing as he pushed it to with his elbow, his arms full of ingredients for the meal we’d be making together; working alongside one another in the kitchen, chopping and mixing and stirring. ‘Here Evie, taste this and tell me what you think,’ he’d say, as we experimented with new dishes for the bistro before opening day...

I’ve gotten used to being on my own, and it’s only now that I realise how much I’ve missed the company of others. Or
an
other.

I open my eyes a fraction and watch Dishy Doctor Didier from under my eyelashes as he brings in kindling and makes a fire. It feels totally unreal, lying here uselessly like this while a complete stranger looks after me but, sick as I am, there’s nothing else I can do. His footsteps approach and I quickly shut my eyes, feigning sleep. He comes to kneel beside the sofa and gently pats my shoulder to rouse me.

‘There, now we will get some warmth into the house,’ he smiles. I may feel like death warmed up, and he may have a wife or girlfriend waiting for him back at home for all I know, but even so my heart rate picks up a little at the sight of those beautiful blue eyes so close to mine.

‘
Merci
,’ I croak.

‘And now,
Madame
Brooke, you must get into bed and I will bring you a glass of this delicious electrolyte powder’—he waves a sachet at me—‘which you must try to sip. And then I will leave you to sleep, which is the best medicine of all.’

He helps me up and I manage to climb the stairs, brush my teeth and splash some cold water on my face. I put on a pair of warm flannel pyjamas, the functioning part of my brain wishing that I’d packed some rather more alluring nightwear; they’re not exactly Victoria’s most titillating Secret. But then the last thing I had expected was that I’d be entertaining Bradley Cooper’s equally gorgeous French cousin in them.

He knocks on the bedroom door and sets a glass of the rehydration drink down on the bedside cabinet. ‘I have also taken the precaution of bringing you the bucket, in case of further vomiting.’

Seriously, is he
never
going to let the vomiting thing drop?

He looks around the room, taking in the simple furnishings, which are perfect for a summer holiday home but look a little spartan in the winter.

‘You have no heating in here? Wait there!’

Wait there? Listen Didier,
mon ami
, I’m going nowhere. Firstly, because I have nowhere else to go; secondly, because I feel so lousy right now that I don’t think I’d be capable of moving even if I wanted to; and thirdly because you are gorgeous.

... I hope I said that in my head and not out loud by mistake; too much time living alone will do that to you.

I’m beginning to feel drowsy again and let my eyes close, so thankful to be resting my aching bones here in my comfortable bed.

He creeps into the room with an electric radiator which he plugs in. It ticks quietly to itself, warming up and radiating a gentle heat into the chill air of the bedroom.

‘Try to drink all of that if you can. And I’m leaving these’—he shows me a blister pack of paracetamol—‘right here, so you can take two more if you wake up in the night. There’s a jug of water too, you see? I’m going to leave your front door on the latch and I’ll look in on you in the morning. But these bugs are usually a short, sharp shock. Twenty-four hours and the vomiting should stop.’

Okay,
puh-lease
, that’s it; we’re done with the mentioning of the vomiting already!

‘I’m just next door. Come and get me if you start to feel worse again.’

I nod, obediently take a sip from the glass and then settle my aching head on the pillow.

‘
Bonne nuit, Madame
Brooke,’ he says softly. And I drift into a deep sleep and dream that I’m dancing with Bradley Cooper in a church lit by a thousand candles, until Will appears and tips a bucket of water (thankfully nothing worse!) over both our heads.

W
hen you’re trying
to become a hermit and shut yourself off from the rest of the world, being poleaxed by a winter bug turns out to be an excellent way of getting to know your neighbours.

I woke on Sunday morning, weak as a rag doll, but no longer running the raging temperature, and managed to get showered and dressed, stagger downstairs to refill the pitcher of water and then collapse onto the sofa. Didier must have banked up the fire before he left the previous night, because there were still enough glowing embers to coax it back into life. So, by the time he came to check on me, I was lying under the woollen throw, before the cheerful blaze in the hearth, gazing at the glorious day outside the window.