Sense and French Ability (3 page)

Plentiful sites related to both history and culture. She visited the large city of Arras and marvelled at its city hall and beautiful architecture surrounding each of the two large squares or
places
. She even visited the
boves
under the city; the network of tunnels used during the 1st World War, now a museum. The wax that had melted on the chalk pillar used as an altar was still sadly apparent. There was a staircase, hacked into the rock, leading up to a tunnel and on through 60ft of chalk towards the outside world; almost one hundred years ago the staircase to hell.

That evening there was to be a
lotto
night in the little village hall, the
Salle
des
Fêtes
. Fliss would not normally have enjoyed the thought of bingo, but this seemed different.

“Oh, you must come,” Madame Altier had said. “Everyone will be there. It will be a chance for you to meet most of them. People know you are staying here now, they will expect you. We shall go together,” she added, which brooked no argument.

As the evening drew closer, Fliss discovered that she felt excited to be going out. She sussed out that the relaxed dress code meant that wearing her jeans and a shirt was acceptable.

“There’s a chill in the air tonight,” Madame Altier said as she closed the door behind them. Fliss agreed and was glad she had on her wool jacket.

The
Salle
was down the road and, as they entered, it enchanted Fliss. Inside the wooden building there were oak beams and a huge pot-bellied wood burner pumping out remarkable warmth and a welcoming glow. Tables and chairs filled the room, and at the furthest end a bar already boasted of locals with glasses of wine and beer. Tables were being reserved here and there by those present. Madame Altier took her by the arm and steered her across the room toward a table. A dark haired lady, who seemed the same age as Fliss, occupied it.

“May we sit here?” Madame Altier asked.

“
Certainement
,” answered the other lady, indicating the seats as she stood to receive the customary kisses. Fliss was uncertain of how to best greet people, so she stuck out her hand and gave a generous smile. Before Madame Altier had time to introduce Fliss, her table companion took her hand and enquired “You are the lady from England?”

As Fliss nodded the affirmative the lady said “You must meet Harriet. She is English too and lives in the village. She’s on her own because her partner died.”

“Thank you, that would be interesting,” replied Fliss. “I only have one more week until I return home. The time is passing so quickly, I’m not sure I’m ready to go yet. It is so calm and peaceful here; friendly too,” she added.

Just then Jean Christophe appeared with glasses in his hand. “Hello, again,” he greeted. “I see you have met Maryl,
ma
femme
”

“Hello said Fliss. Yes, we have just met, but I didn’t realise this was your wife.” Feeling flustered all of a sudden, Fliss turned back to Maryl. With a nervous laugh she added “Madame Rochefort, bonsoir.” So this was the poor woman who had to put up with the egotism and vanity of that insufferable man.

“Jean Chri did not tell me you had met,” Maryl said.

“Oh I just asked for directions the day I arrived,” Fliss answered.

‘Why didn’t I say we met on the bridge after that?’ Fliss thought.

“Allow me to buy you both a drink,” Jean Chri said. He gave a flash of a smile and a wink at Madame Altier.

‘My goodness he thinks a lot of himself,’

With that organised, when he returned again from the bar area, the room had filled. His brother, Pascal, joined the table with his small family. Several children buzzed about. Three little boys, who looked so alike they must be brothers, were told to come and introduce themselves to her.

They each gave her a kiss, solemnly, and said, “Bonsoir, Madame.”

Thibault added “’ello Madame,” and gave a cheeky little smile.

Fliss was enchanted, of course. Thibault’s mother came over and explained, “The teacher began them with a few English words at the
école
maternelle
, where they go each morning. Pierre and L
oui
s are four years twins, and Thibault is five”

“Can I go and see Anne?” Pascal’s little girl’s voice piped. After being introduced to Fliss she kissed her welcome, too.

“
Oui
, Melodie,” answered her mother, “but if you young ones go outside remember, you all stay inside the fence. I shall come to check in three minutes.”

“
Oui
,
maman
,
bien
sûr
,” and she hurried away, followed by the trio of young lads, her blonde plaits bouncing as she skipped.

The general conversation included Fliss until the games began. Numbers were called in French, of course.

“This is a real test for me to keep up,” Fliss said to anyone who listened.

Pascal sat next to her but it was Jean Christophe who reached across and kept an eye on her cards too.

“You have missed this one,” he whispered and stretched to mark a number.

She shivered.

There was merriment at her expense. She didn’t mind because it was done in good part. The break for refreshments was half way through the evening.

Fliss asked the general company “May I offer a donation, since I haven’t paid?”

“No, no,” they all echoed.

“My family dealt with that after you arrived. You are a guest,” Jean Christophe said.

“Well I insist that I buy a round of drinks instead, then,” she stated which satisfied everybody.

Melodie, Pascal’s daughter, re-appeared with her friend Anne in time for something to eat and it was a convivial company. The men discussed together, calling across the room to someone else, something to do with planting sugar beet, Fliss thought. The women included her in their general chat. It was a relaxed and comfortable atmosphere. Maryl was quiet but polite to Fliss. Animation and encouragement glowed in Amélie’s face. As Pascal’s wife, she helped Fliss when she struggled with the language.

Everyone bought a ticket for the raffle and there was considerable hilarity and laughter when Fliss won a prize and waived her ticket, shouting out “
J’ai
le
billet
.” She was very puzzled until Jean Chri explained with laughter twinkling in his eyes.

“If you are a
salope
, a tart, a slut, you say you have
le
billet
. This is the bottom dollar.” He added the last phrase in broken attractive English. “Here you must say
j’ai
le
ticket
.”

‘Aargh,’ Fliss thought privately. ‘Such an ill-mannered and unpleasant bastard.’

Fliss put her hand to her mouth to stifle her embarrassment and apologised to the room but everyone was forgiving and laughed with her rather than at her discomfort.

The evening ended with a round of hand-shakes and kisses.

“Thank you for a lovely evening,” Fliss said to both of the Rochefort families.

Before they parted each one leaned to kiss her too, making her a genuine part of the group. Maryl kissed beside her face on each side as protocol demanded and wished her a pleasant return journey. As Jean Chri leant towards her she caught a mild hint of his lemon scented after-shave and her stomach flipped. Despite his unpleasant conceit she had to concede that he was very seductive. Resolutely ignoring this, she turned to Madame Altier and asked, “Are you ready to leave?”

“Yes, yes, let’s go home. Perhaps we will have a little bedtime drink?” She asked Fliss as she took her arm in a conspiratorial fashion. This left Fliss wondering if there was a sub-text to the proposition.

The night was chill with bright stars as they made their way up the road. The lights that shone on the steeple captured the white under-side of a barn owl’s wings as it left the belfry. They took on the classic ghostly appearance of stories.

When indoors, Madame Altier gave Fliss no time to demur from the night-cap. “Pass the bottle, my dear,” she said as she reached for the glasses. “This is so nice, to have a little company. I hope you are enjoying your stay. You fit in so well here.”

“It is wonderful,” agreed Fliss.

“So are you still thinking of staying more permanently?”

“It is very tempting but I have no means of supporting myself. I should need to earn money. The sale of mine and mother’s house in England will not last for ever and if I had to rent here, or even buy a small place, I should need work.” Fliss sighed. This was the nub of a problem as it had been all along.

“Well, you never know what might turn up,” the old lady said winking at Fliss and leaving her mind full of thoughts.

Chapter 3

Madame Altier’s house was long and low, known as a
longère
. The several bedrooms, when built, led one to another. Now a narrow corridor took Fliss and other visitors to the rooms they had booked. For breakfast there was the enormous living room.

“I love this room.” Fliss stood at the window, as Madame Altier passed through behind her. “I adore that vast inglenook fireplace at the end with the wood-burner; the logs stacked there on each side with the aroma of resin as they are drying.”

Down the room, a table seated a dozen people. There was plenty of room for all of Madame’s guests to take their orange juice, bread or croissants, and coffee or hot chocolate for breakfast. Fliss had sat at this on her first evening.

“You have a great collection of family mementoes,” she told Madame.

“Some are useful and others just decorative. Many of them belonged to my grandmother or beyond. Long, long ago we acquired them.”

“The wood is agèd and dark. I suppose that’s with generations of handling?” Fliss wondered.

The charred wood and pungent cured bacon was rustic and pleasant. The chairs of mismatched wood all had cotton seat covers of different colours which added a gaiety. This dispelled its inclination to be dark.

When Fliss arrived she had climbed up the front steps to the main door, as the house nestled into the hillside in the centre of the village. The garden rose behind in a series of terraces. This position gave the building a more superior air than its character deserved, and the owner also felt a cut above many others in the village.

Madame looked down upon most other residents in more ways than one. This morning, as Fliss looked out of her window, she could just about see the top of the
Mairie
, which dealt with the village’s administration and the
Salle
des
Fêtes
with its little field for parties and celebrations where Fliss had gone for the lotto evening. These two buildings held great importance; one for people to go to consult M. le Maire and the other for high days and holidays. On the other side was the church. The view meant that Madame Altier had her finger on the pulse of the village – or her eyes, anyway.

“The time is passing quickly, I shall be sorry to leave.” Fliss said to Madame Altier, sighing. “It’s as if I have found a place I really enjoy, and I want to find out more about everybody.”

The whitewashed house, bright in this morning’s spring breeze, prompted these thoughts. A hedge of forsythia, not quite bursting into flower, promised gold to come. The gravel driveway, bobbing above the soil under the windows, free from weeds and rising daffodils, gave the aesthetic a freshness. To one end, and joined on to the house, the great barn rose. From her window Madame Altier, and now Fliss, could make out the tractor. The farm yard was clean, and tidy too, but Fliss could not see the younger calves inside. It was still not yet warm enough for the cows to be outside either.

As Fliss gazed down at the village, she followed the progress of Jean Christophe Rochefort as he came from the back of the barn. If she had been able to peep around the corner a moment ago, she would have witnessed him approach his wife, Maryl. She hung out washing in the back garden. He put his hands upon her waist and leaned in to nuzzle her neck. Fliss would have had a sense of upset and disquiet which she would have squashed. She knew she disliked Jean Christophe, but she couldn’t deny her attraction. This might have given her cause for disappointment, but instead what she did see was Jean Chri returning to the front of the house. Maryl followed. From the position of her hands on her hips and the way leaned forwards as she spoke, Fliss gathered that she was having her say. Madame Altier had intimated when Fliss had arrived that Maryl was a scold, but then Fliss felt she had much with which to contend. Jean Christophe turned to his wife.

If Fliss had been able to hear, as well as see, she would have known that Maryl said, “It’s always the same with you. You’re always out working! Oh yes, there’s time for that but if I want something you can’t do it. I wash, I clean and I cook. All I want is to go shopping and maybe have lunch.”

“This is what brings the money though and we had lunch out on Sunday.” Jean Chri responded. “If I didn’t do this you would have no money to shop with.” He smiled, trying hard to take any sting out of his words. “Why don’t you telephone Hélène and drive across to visit her. You haven’t been for a while and you could set up a shopping session with her instead of with me.”

Maryl huffed. “I might,” she said. “There’s nobody else in this Godforsaken place that I want to mix with. If I’m not here then that’s where I shall be, I suppose.”

Jean Christophe shrugged. He sighed as he turned to get on. While he climbed up into the tractor and backed out, he meditated upon his life.

‘I do put on an air of devil may care for the benefit of others but that’s not how it is at all. Well, Pascal and his family are coming tomorrow.’

His expression softened as he thought of his little niece, four years old and as blonde as he was dark. She spoke with her hands in the most expressive way and could charm the birds out of the trees with her laughter and smiling eyes. A natural dramatist, she lived life with a very infectious sparkle. He so looked forward to their visits.

*

The next day no chainsaws whirred, no lawns were being cut, no strimmers whining. The village had decreed these ‘
outillage thermique’
not to be used on Sundays, though tractors and hunting were still allowed. Being late March, though, the season was closed for everything. And so no staccato bangs broke the peace of the beautiful day.

At eleven o’clock an ancient, blue citröen car pulled up in front of the farm house and Jean Christophe’s brother, Pascal, and his wife, Amélie, climbed out. Whilst they only lived at the other end of the village, in a little house bordering the river, it was rare to witness them walking. It might be late when they wanted to return, and they didn’t want to carry their daughter home.

Amélie opened the rear door of the car. After leaning in to undo the seat belt, out hopped the beautiful blonde child with an ancient, stuffed toy dog in her arms. Jean Chri opened the front door with an expansive grin on his face. The child ran as fast as her little legs would carry her, flinging herself with absolute trust into her uncle’s arms. She was certain that he would swing her and her little dog up and round in a whirl of mutual joy.

“Melodie,
ma
mignon
,” Jean Chri greeted her. “Hi and welcome.” He smiled to the others. “It’s so good to see you again.”

“Hello, little brother,” responded Pascal. “Though not so little,” he added, looking up to Jean Chri and eyeing his shoulders and large, capable hands.

This farm was Pascal’s birth-right, but he didn’t envy the farmer’s life and Jean Chri loved it. Instead he enjoyed the great outdoors as the owner of a small bark recycling and treatment business. He much preferred the regular hours. For the two brothers and their families to share a Sunday meal was normal. It was a family day, and since their parents had died they often got together and ate as they had always done in their youth.

Pascal understood his brother’s circumstances. They had shared intimacies, understanding and confidences from an early age, continuing into adulthood. When their parents died, they left the boys to manage as best they could as a family.

“How’s it going?” he asked with sympathy as Amélie took young Melodie’s hand and headed for the front door where Maryl stood waiting. The brothers watched them go; two blonde heads, one bending to the other to share a laughing comment.

“Much the same,” answered Jean Chri. “The calves need to be outside soon,” he added, side-tracking the response that Pascal wanted.

“Oh come on little brother.” Pascal sighed. “I wish you had a family too. It’s a joy and gives such well-being,” he continued as he watched his family go to greet Maryl.

“If Maryl had agreed to a child perhaps then she would have something more meaningful to occupy her time. She doesn’t seem happy with anything else here. She might be less irritable. Yes, I did want children, but Maryl never did.”

“Did you ask her if it frightened her, as we discussed last time? She’s younger than you. It’s not too late. Look at us. It took us forever to manage it but now that we have Melodie, life could not be better,” Pascal said.

“She denied it when last we spoke of it. She must think it will be more work than she can undertake. I stressed that I would share everything, as far as I can. I appreciate she has to do the greatest work involved, carrying and giving birth. No matter how patient I try to be, in the end I am forced to make sharp remarks. It makes no difference.” Jean Christophe frowned.

Was it his fault? He didn’t know. He tried to reassure Maryl of his love, and he tried hard to please her. His brow furrowed under the flop of dark hair. His brown eyes stared for a moment into the distance as he remembered her before they married, nearly ten years ago. She always seemed reserved, finding it difficult to verbalise her true feelings at first, but he thought he understood her. The daughter of a farmer, she was familiar with the life. Indeed, working from home, Jean Christophe was around quite a bit. He tried to divide his time between the needs of his wife and those of the farm.

“However much I do, it is never enough.”

She had been slim and lovely, and he still thought that when he surveyed her face and body. He didn’t notice the line deepening between her eyes or the downturn of her mouth that was becoming more frequent.

“I’ve never looked for satisfaction or companionship outside my marriage, you know that. I take her out and buy her little gifts. I give her attention and reassurance. I can’t take it. I’m aware that I am arguing back much more. She’s not happy either, though.”

It could not be denied that her dissatisfaction with him had started almost immediately after they had married. She was forever redoing the most simple of tasks he had completed, making him angry or useless and under-confident in turn. She was sparing with her love-making too. It was a form of reward and punishment, withholding herself more often than not.

“Mind you,” Pascal added, with a smile, “at five o’clock in the morning when Melodie wakes up full of energy I’m not so sure about the well-being.”

He chuckled, relieving the sombreness of the moment.

“Well, there we have it. Let’s go in and find an
apéro
. We’ve set the table outside today as it’s so warm,” said Jean Chri. They walked through the house. He opened the waiting bottle for the adults and poured an orange juice for Melodie.

“Help yourselves.” He indicated to the little snacks waiting as the
apéritif
.

“Can I go and say hello to the calves?” asked Melodie.

“Of course,
ma
petite
bijou
,” responded her uncle, thinking what a little jewel she was indeed.

“She’s been asking about them all the way here,” said Pascal. “She wants one for a pet at home but I did remind her that they grow awfully large. She’s desperate for a pet.”

The two wives disappeared to sort out the dinner as Jean Chri and Pascal wandered after Melodie. They found her, not in the cow barn, but on the edge of the grass near the hedge.

“Look,” she shouted. “Look what I’ve found!”

The men went to admire what Melodie had discovered – a dead mole on the surface of the soil. It didn’t appear mauled or unpleasant and she was both intrigued and delighted. The grey brown fur on its body was soft as she stroked it gently with one finger. It had tiny, blind eyes and its ears were also covered in fur. The claws were long, and dense looking, and its little snout was pointed and pink.

“Poor little thing.” She sighed. “Can I have it for a dead mole pet?”

“That wouldn’t be a good idea.” Her papa laughed. “After a while he would not be so attractive,” he added, smiling.

“Why?” Melodie enquired in the way of all small children who are acquiring ideas and language.

Jean Chri decided to avoid going down that route. “Let’s make a comfy place in the soft, warm earth for him, shall we?” He said it without the first thought that this small incident might play such a large part in the lives of them all before long. “I know a calm and peaceful place.”

*

The family ate well into the afternoon, with Melodie going from and returning to the table when food arrived. The lamb was cooked to perfection, being pink in the centre and very tender. Jean Chri helped carry things outside and then carved the meat. The vegetables were done perfectly with tasty dressings, and the roast potatoes were crispy on the outside but soft and fluffy within. It was three o’clock before the delicious cheeses emerged. There had been Maroille which smelt awful but tasted soft and tangy, a local Sire de Crequy and, of course, a Camembert. After the dessert, there was coffee; the small, flavourful espresso so loved by the French.

“Melodie has such a sunny personality,” Jean Chri said.

“She’s used to playing on her own. She is happy to occupy herself in the garden, gathering daisies,” Amélie responded. “We often make them into a chain. She loves arranging grass for a bird’s nest that no winged creature is ever destined to use. It doesn’t matter. She is content.”