The French for Love (2 page)

‘Are you coming back to the Everetts’ after the service? They’re having a reception and you’ll be most welcome.’

‘Thank you, but no. I’m just going to say my
adieus
to Liz here and then go home. But I’ll see you tomorrow.
Bon courage,
my dear.’

And courage was exactly what I needed half an hour later, as the coffin slid silently through the curtain and my beloved aunt was gone...

♦ ♦ ♦

Lost in my thoughts, I nearly miss the turning into the lane between the vines. I swerve at the last moment, just making the turn.

And then have to stand on the brakes with all my force as the car comes face-to-face with a dark blue pickup that’s coming down the narrow lane towards me. My tyres screech and skid on a patch of loose gravel and, as if in slow motion, the back end of the car slides gracefully into the ditch. The engine stalls and I sit in sudden silence, shaking all over at my narrow miss. So near and yet so far—I’m only a few yards from the driveway to Liz’s house and here I am, disastrously stuck in what I can only wish was a proverbial rut but sadly and incredibly annoyingly turns out to be a real one.

There’s a tap on my window. The driver of the pickup has jumped down from his cab and run over. He peers in at me and I have an impression of warm eyes in a deeply tanned face. I roll down the window.

‘
Excusez-moi, madame
,’ he says, concerned. His French has just a slight twang of the south-west accent that’s so common around here. ‘Are you all right?’

I don’t know whether to laugh or cry. I’m shaken, but unhurt. I nod, covered in embarrassment. ‘Just stuck.’ I open the door and try to clamber out but the angle is awkward with the backside of the car in the ditch and the nose in the air, and I miss my footing and almost end up on my own backside, slipping onto my knees and covering my jeans with mud in the process. Not the most dignified of entrances.

‘
Oopla
!’ says the man, clutching my arm with a strong hand and helping me back onto my feet. He grins widely, obviously highly amused at my predicament and my increasingly dishevelled state, then hunkers down to get a closer look at the back wheels.

‘Don’t worry; I’ll tow you out of there. No damage done, fortunately. You were going far too fast for these small roads. ‘

I bristle slightly. Listen, mate, I want to say, the last thing I need right now is a lecture from a smug, know-it-all Frenchman. I’ve been travelling for twenty-four hours, have lost my job, my boyfriend, and most of my family, haven’t slept properly in months, have had to up sticks and move so far from my comfort zone that I can’t even remember what my comfort zone looks like any more, and now I and all my worldly goods have ended up in a muddy ditch. So it hasn’t exactly been my day, has it?

But I don’t say this, partly because my French isn’t up to it and partly because I manage to remind myself just in time that he is the one with the tow rope and the four-wheel drive. And so, unless I want to leave my car stuck here and carry everything I own up the drive to my new home one cardboard box and bin-bagful at a time, I had better be polite.

I smile and manage a faint, ‘
Merci, monsieur
,’ as he fixes the rope under the car. I clamber awkwardly back into the driver’s seat and then he carefully edges his pickup back, taking up the slack, and the car rights itself as it regains the road.

The man unhitches the tow rope and comes back round to my window, brushing down his dusty green overalls. ‘There you go. A bit muddy on the
derrière
, but no harm done.’ He grins again, his dark eyes twinkling, and I’m not sure whether he’s talking about me or my car. I re-start my engine but he’s still leaning in at the window, giving me an appraising look. In the midst of my confusion and embarrassment, I register that he’s really rather good-looking. Which only makes me blush even harder.

‘Yes, well, thanks again.’

‘It’s my pleasure.
Oh,
et bienvenue en France
!’ He pats the roof of the car and steps back to let me pull away. I glance into my rear-view mirror just before I turn into the driveway and see that he’s still standing in the lane, watching, before climbing back into his pickup and driving off. Almost as if he’s seeing me safely home. Although more likely he’s just having one last laugh.

Thankfully, I pull into the courtyard and turn off the engine, sitting for a few seconds to let the realisation that I’m here—at last!—sink in and to allow both my embarrassment and the engine noise, which is still ringing in my ears, to subside.

It’s early June, but feels like high summer already, and the leaves on the lime trees are a dense, dark green. As my hearing adjusts, I realise the sound I’m hearing is coming from their fresh-scented pale yellow flowers which are abuzz with bees in the golden warmth of the evening. The pots of pink geraniums by the kitchen door, which either Celia or Mireille must have put outside after their hibernation indoors over the winter, are dry and dusty.

I ease my stiff limbs out of the driver’s seat, brushing as much mud off my jeans as possible, and dig in my handbag for the keys. Dragging my heavy suitcase and holdall from the boot, I unlock the kitchen door, pushing it open. And step into the cool half-light of my new home.

CHAPTER TWO

Home Sweet Home

To-Do list:

• •
  Unpack
  
• •
  Make up bed
  
• •
  Phone Mum
  

Celia

Mireille

• •
  Get a good night’s sleep for once
  

I
wander through the house, opening shutters and windows to allow the evening air to flood in, the soundtrack of cicadas and birdsong exorcising the silence and emptiness that haunt the rooms.

The last time I was here was the day after the funeral...

Celia and my mother had dropped me off at the end of the lane and driven off down the hill to the bustle of the Saturday morning market in Sainte Foy, and no doubt a lingering gossip over a coffee in the square.

It had been a beautiful spring day and I’d walked up the lane between the neat vines, which were just beginning to weave themselves into a lush tapestry along their supporting wires. Pink and purple orchids nestled in the long grass beside the verge and the musical chatter of birdsong floated on the breeze.

I’d passed the end of Liz’s driveway and continued on as far as Mireille’s cottage at the edge of the plum orchard. On the gravel in front of the door, amongst pots of cheerful red geraniums, a little girl was stroking Lafite, who had stretched himself out luxuriously to bask in the warmth of the sun. As I walked up the path, the old cat scrambled to his feet and came to greet me, purring and winding himself around my shins. The little girl watched me for a moment, and I had a fleeting impression of big, serious brown eyes set in a pale heart-shaped face framed by straight brown hair. She turned and darted into the house, reappearing a few seconds later with Mireille.

‘Gina, my dear, how are you?’ Mireille kissed me on either cheek before enveloping me in a warm hug. She looked at my face searchingly. ‘Yesterday was a sad day, but today is a little more peaceful I think?’ She turned to usher forward the little girl. ‘May I present my granddaughter, Nathalie.’ The child turned her face upwards for the customary two kisses.

‘Lafite was very much enjoying being stroked by you,’ I smiled.

‘Yes,’ she said. ‘He is missing Liz’—she’d pronounced it Lees—‘but I am helping
Grand-Mère
look after him and cheer him up.’

‘Well, thank you. He couldn’t be among better friends.’

‘Shall we come to the house with you?’ asked Mireille.

I had planned to go on my own, but suddenly the thought of stepping over the threshold alone into that emptiness overwhelmed me. ‘Yes, please, I’d like that.’

And the company was just what I needed, I realised, as Nathalie and Lafite danced ahead of us, scattering any ghosts, and Mireille’s calm presence at my side dispelled the post-funeral loneliness I had been feeling.

To my relief, the house was pervaded by an air of peace and I’d felt surprisingly reassured to be standing in the familiar kitchen once again, the calm tick of the clock on the mantel above the fireplace stolidly marking time as if nothing had changed.

‘She was lying here on the floor when I found her,’ said Mireille softly. ‘I’d come over for my customary cup of afternoon tea. It was Liz who introduced me to this most civilised of English customs. The kettle was still warm, so she couldn’t have been there long.

‘I think she sensed it was coming. She’d been getting things organised for the past few months. I helped her take some bags to the dump, and others, of clothes and whatever else might be of use, to the church. It was important to her to leave everything in order.’

Tears sprang to my eyes. ‘When I was here, she wasn’t well. I told her to go to the doctor. I should have stayed, taken her to the hospital maybe...’

Mireille put a steadying hand on my arm. ‘Which she would have refused to do.’ She smiled at me and handed me a tissue from her pocket. ‘You know how strong-minded your aunt always was—stubborn as a mule. She had made up her mind and wanted to do this on her own terms. She got what she had hoped for, which was a wonderful quality of life right up to the end, and to die in her own home. Not in a hospital, full of tubes, nor to moulder in a nursing home amongst strangers. She was ready to go, you know.’

We’d wandered through the rooms, where everything was neatly ordered. The heaps of papers that used to cover every surface had disappeared from the study, and only a few items of clothing hung in the wardrobe in Liz’s bedroom.

‘She just kept what she might need from day to day,’ explained Mireille. ‘Would you like me to clear out these last few things and take them to the church? It’s a sad job, getting rid of something as personal as clothes, and so it might be easier for me to do. As long as you and your mother don’t want any of it, of course.’

I’d thought of Mum’s elegantly conservative clothes in neutral colours, a far cry from Liz’s more flamboyant taste. ‘I’d be grateful, if you wouldn’t mind doing it,’ I replied. ‘I already have a few things that she gave me to remember her by.’

We’d made our way back down to the kitchen. Nathalie and Lafite, bored at the thought of wasting time inside, were in the courtyard, the cat watching, with eagle eyes, a lizard that had plastered itself to the wall. The little girl was sitting on the step making daisy chains. With a crunch of gravel, Celia’s car pulled up and the peace of the moment was shattered.

We’d discussed practicalities for a while—Celia and Mireille between them would keep an eye on things until the lawyer had finalised the will and I’d decided what to do with the house. Little did I know then that I’d be coming back so soon, and this time to make it my home.

‘Take your time, my dear,’ said Mireille as she was taking her leave. ‘It meant a lot to Liz to leave you the house, but she didn’t want it to be a burden. You must do whatever you feel is right for you.’

And I’d watched as the old lady made her way down the drive, accompanied by the little girl wearing a crown of daisies, and the big black cat.

♦ ♦ ♦

Now, in the silent warmth of the summer’s evening, I make my way upstairs to Liz’s bedroom and hesitate before opening the door. The bed has been stripped and the duvet is folded neatly back over the end of the bedstead. I cross to the wardrobe and turn the key. It’s empty. Mireille has been true to her word and disposed of the rest of Liz’s clothes. I pull on the cords that open the roof lights and let the fresh air in and a couple of angrily buzzing flies fly out. I haven’t decided where I’m going to sleep, but now I’m in here it seems more comforting, closer to Liz somehow, to make this my room.

I’m making my way back downstairs to fetch some sheets from the armoire that stands in the hall, when I hear the crunch of footsteps in the gravel of the courtyard. Going into the kitchen, I find Lafite sitting looking at me expectantly. There’s a gentle tap at the doorway and I turn to see Mireille standing on the threshold, a wicker basket on one arm and a plastic carrier bag in the other hand. Bending to put these down, she comes to embrace me warmly.

‘
Ma chère
Gina, how good to see you’ve arrived safely,’ she beams, her eyes crinkling in her wrinkled brown face. I look at her, a little surprised. I hadn’t told anyone down here that I was coming. ‘Aha,’ she laughs, ‘surely you didn’t think your arrival would go unannounced and unnoticed? You are living in the country now, my dear, so you’ll have to get used to everyone knowing your business even before you know it yourself! I heard from Madame Everett, who heard from your mother, that you would be arriving today. Lafite and I have been watching out for your car. No doubt Madame Everett will be round to call on you tomorrow, but I wanted to be the first to welcome you this evening.’

I wonder whether she witnessed my little encounter with the ditch and the good-looking Frenchman, but if she did she’s too polite to mention it. She might know who he is though, so I make a mental note to ask her sometime. Not now though; I don’t want people to think I’m entirely desperate. Even if I am.

She picks up the basket and bag and sets them on the kitchen table. ‘Here are a few things to keep you going tonight and for your breakfast tomorrow, until you have a chance to get to the shops.’ She takes a long loaf of crusty bread, some butter and a few eggs from the basket. ‘And here are the very last of the cherries from my tree. The season’s just over. There’s a jar of my cherry jam too. And of course a bottle of wine to celebrate your homecoming. I’m so pleased you’ve decided to come and live here. Liz would have been delighted.’

Hmm, the international grapevine certainly seems to have been busy. So much for independence. But secretly I feel pleased at the invisible web of support these redoubtable ladies have been weaving behind my back.

‘Here are Lafite’s things—his feeding dish, water bowl, some food. He’s been happy with me, but I know he’ll be even more pleased to be back where he belongs. He often pops back here to visit, you know—I think he’s been waiting for you.’

‘Mireille, you are so kind. Thank you. Will you stay and have a glass of wine?’

‘Not today my dear. I know you’ll be tired after your long journey and want to get settled in. I’ll leave you for now, but come and visit me whenever you wish. You know where I am if you need anything.’

With another hug, she picks up the empty basket and ambles off up the drive. Lafite winds himself about my ankles and then gazes up at my face, giving a plaintive-sounding meow. ‘Supper time is it? Come on then,’ I say. ‘And I think I’d better give those geraniums some water before they die of thirst.’

It’s good to have some purposeful activities that need doing. I had dreaded the silence and emptiness of my first evening here but now I bustle around, watering the pots in the courtyard, wiping dust off the kitchen surfaces, and making up the bed in Liz’s room with crisply ironed sheets from the armoire that smell of fresh air, sunshine and lavender.

When I’ve finished, I wander downstairs and stand in the doorway of the spare bedroom, remembering the last time I’d stayed here. Nothing has changed since that last holiday.

The whitewashed walls are hung with framed photos of the local landscape—Liz’s work of course. I know and love each one: the stick-like vines on the
côteau
plunging into mist lying in the river valley below which is rosy pink in winter sunshine; the white clouds of blossom in the plum orchards in spring; a golden willow perfectly reflected in hazy autumn light on the Dordogne. There are rag rugs on the terracotta-tiled floor and a pretty
toile de Jouy
quilted spread on the double bed. When I was younger, I used to think it was the height of sophistication to sleep in such a big bed, quite unlike the modest single one in my bedroom at home. Mum was always happy for me to come for holidays in France on my own in my teens, helping to solve the problem of what to do to while away the weeks while school was out, although she herself always made an excuse and claimed to be otherwise engaged.

The long summer holidays would always follow the same routine, my mother liking her life to be organised and predictable and my father accepting it that way. First, Mum, Dad and I would have our family fortnight in Salcombe in July. My mother would lounge elegantly on the beach behind a large pair of sunglasses and the latest copy of
Tatler
or
Homes and Gardens
, while Dad and I made sandcastles or, when I was old enough, sailed a small dinghy upriver, away from the frenetic bustle of boats in the harbour, to explore the creeks hidden behind sloping shoulders of green farmland. He’d bring a pair of binoculars for bird-watching, his second passion in life after wine. Once we saw a kingfisher, the colour and speed of an electric shock, dart down from a dead branch overhanging the water. Another time we sat together on the bank, entranced by the bizarre movements of a dipper, one of the shyest of birds, as it bobbed and bowed on a rock before walking right into the water, foraging beneath the surface in search of food.

Then, with August still stretching before me, I’d be put on a plane and met at Bordeaux Airport by Liz. My mother never seemed keen to come along—too much to do in the garden after being away in Devon, she always said, and she’d miss her Bridge—and I was secretly pleased. My holidays with Liz were always wonderful, sun-filled, fascinating weeks of freedom, helping her in her gloriously wild garden or visiting the local markets to pick out colourful fresh produce. We’d bring the food back so that she could teach me to cook classic French dishes. She’d always choose a local wine to go with what we’d made, helping me to understand how the right wine complements and enhances even the simplest meal. ‘The most expensive bottle isn’t necessarily the best,’ she’d say, twisting the corkscrew and levering out the cork with a satisfying pop. ‘It depends entirely on what you’re drinking it with. Simple, honest food like this is perfect with our gutsy Bordeaux wines.’

Liz would always put a pretty jug of flowers on the bedside table here in the spare room, along with a small pile of paperbacks. She was an avid reader and she’d have put them to one side for me, thinking I would enjoy them too.

I sigh, turning as if half expecting my aunt to be standing just behind me. This house is so full of her work and her character, her whole life contained within these old stone walls which have become steeped with her presence. Perhaps that’s what ghosts are, the essence of lives lived out that have become absorbed into the stonework and then radiate gently back out again long after the people have gone, just as a stone wall will radiate the heat of the sun back into the evening air on a summer’s night.

I pull myself together, reminding myself that I am, after all, my mother’s daughter. What’s happening to me? I’ve always been so self-controlled but these days life seems to be shaking my foundations to the very core. Better have something to eat; it suddenly feels like a very long time since I stopped at a motorway service station for lunch.

I make some scrambled eggs and take my plate outside, with a glass of the wine that Mireille brought me, sinking down thankfully onto a bench on the terrace, bathed in evening light. Suddenly I feel exhausted from the journey with its eventful ending in the ditch. I feel drained, too, with carrying the weight of grief for so long, and wrung out by all these memories that are still so vivid, replaying themselves with such clarity.