Sense and French Ability (5 page)

*

A couple of days later, Nicolas and Alexandre Augustin called in to see Jerome. The brothers, twenty and nineteen, still lived at home with their mum and dad and their two much younger sisters, Elodie and Collette.

“
Salut
,” Nicolas said, as they walked in that evening.

They came forward and shook hands.

“There’s a beer for each of you,” Jerome said. “On the house.”

“Thanks,” said Alexandre “Our house is always so crowded.”

“And not comfortable,” added Nicolas.

In true French, country life-style everything happened in the single living room. The dining table with its plastic covering and the mismatched wooden chairs took up most of the space. There was just room for one more comfortable but battered armchair.

“Dad’s commandeered the chair again since he’s got in from work before us. That’s fair enough but the television’s blaring away in the corner and if Elodie isn’t arguing with Mum it’s not possible to watch anything we prefer. At least here we have space to talk boys’ talk and drink a beer in comparative peace and quiet.”

They had formed a habit of dropping in after work and before their family supper.

Each boy worked as a farm hand for different large enterprises in the local area. These farms were mixed agriculture with both crops and cattle. The farm owner dealt with the cows but needed help all year with the crops. The boys drove tractors and harvesters and had each become skilled in manoeuvring large pieces of attendant farm equipment such as trailers, ploughing mechanisms and spreaders, seed drills and balers. In their own way they were skilled, but the work involved long hours and poor pay. The joint income of the adults in the family kept them solvent. It was a confined life-style, with neither boy getting out much, never mind meeting girls or having much social life outside of the village.

Jerome was always pleased to see the boys, and often gave them a beer free of charge. It wasn’t good for his profits but he welcomed the company. He liked looking after Éric; it satisfied his need to care, since his wife took the family away, but it was wearisome.

The heavy oak
porte
d’entrée
was always unlocked, there being no fear of robbery or vandalism in this quiet back water. Anyway, Jerome wanted his restaurant bar to be a place of ease and welcome. He passed them the uncapped beers, fore-going glasses for these two farm hands. They wouldn’t want that finesse. He felt in tune with their needs at the end of a long day. They needed to quench a thirst and relax in men’s company. They did not need to listen to the women of their home bickering and shouting at each other, or their father’s TV programme, cacophonous in the corner.

Nicolas raised his bottle in salute to Jerome. “Ah, that’s good!” He spoke after a long slug of his drink.

Jerome went to the end of the table and, taking up his axe, used the handle to give the log underneath a giant shove. Sparks erupted up the chimney, but the flames leaped, and the whole room grew in warmth. They passed a few minutes of silence while they each supped their beer, then made idle chatter.

“So what’s up with M. Demille?” Alexandre asked.

“I’ve no idea,” responded Jerome. “What do you mean?”

“He and Madame Altier were having a right good gossip this lunchtime when I went out to unload the wood from the trailer. I could hear them through the hedge out on the road. She said the word ‘disgrace’ and the name of this place.” He laughed and shook his head, taking the sting out of his words. “Then he was ranting about the English and how they are all moving here and buying up property. They must have realised I was there after that and it all went quieter. I know they were still blethering though.”

“M. Demille would rather I closed. I’ve never done anything to him,” Jerome said. “But her, Madame Altier, she just doesn’t want the competition since she does meals at that B and B. She’s expensive, though, for what she offers. That’s what I understand. Her vegetables are not too fresh either. The deserts are just pots from the
supermarché,
too,” he added.

There was no love lost between them. Madame Altier had been a good friend with Jerome’s ex-wife, Hélène.

Hélène had departed after one more very heated row about the state of the kitchen. She liked to dominate in this department. As with many wives of her generation, she believed that she should run the household, including the domestic arrangements for the restaurant/bar. Jerome was clear that this was his work and she had no place interfering with his arrangements, no matter how chaotic his management. He produced good, tasty food using fresh vegetables, meat and fish. Most of the meat had been running around the yard not one hour earlier than the preparation required. His organisation left much to be desired, and she could not stand for it. She moved out and took the three children with her. They went to live with her parents several years ago, if this was the real reason, and she never set foot in the village again.

People had much to talk about on the subject, as with any small place world-wide. Everyone had an opinion and a side to take. These divides managed to survive the rigours of time until few remembered the initial cause of the rift. Still, they persisted. Son took the side of father or mother and brother with brother or sister until the gulf grew and deepened.

Conversation between the three men, propping up the ancient oak bar, was minimal as was their habit. The atmosphere was convivial and relaxed as they leaned against the ancient wood. Forsaking the table and chairs, they preferred to stand in the age old way of men drinking beer.

The door opened again and the upright and righteous figure of M. Demille entered. Like many of the inhabitants of such villages, he was of the older generation. However he viewed himself, he still wore blue working dungarees and flat cap, almost a uniform, and his florid face sported a drooping grey moustache. This was a remnant from his army days that demonstrated that he was French to his core.

“Bonsoir,” remarked Nicolas, standing to shake hands. Alexandre followed suit. Everyone understood where allegiances lay, but it was unthinkable not to be polite under these close circumstances.

“A beer, please,” the newcomer demanded and Jerome served him with a quiet disdain.

“What brings you to my door? It is an unexpected surprise,” Jerome remarked. All the while he was watching M. Demille and listening for the slight that he was sure would be forthcoming soon.

“I’ve things to tell you,” replied his neighbour, looking at the two young men who were leaning against the bar. “Later,” he added. “Let me drink this first. It’s been a long day and I’m thirsty.”

Jerome gave a French shrug. He turned to converse with Alexandre about his day’s work and the weather. This presented a shoulder to M. Demille, and a cold one at that.

The visitor became agitated with the waiting.

“There are things to discuss, as I said. I spoke to M. le Maire. We can talk here if you prefer?” he asked, looking again at the other two customers. With that, the boys decided the better part of valour would be to leave, rather than become involved in this village bickering.

After they had gone, and the draft from the heavy front door had left too, Jerome said “Well?” this time not disguising his dislike.

“As I said, I have spoken to le Maire and, as you well know, he represents the gendarme in this village. Your yard is a disgrace. It’s filthy dirty and I’m sure rats are everywhere. The chickens stray. They are a danger on the road. Get it cleaned up,” he finished in no uncertain terms.

“If you have spoken to the mayor then why isn’t he having this conversation with me?” Jerome asked, matching the belligerence with his own.

“He told me to go ahead and speak to you,” was the response.

“Oh right, so he doesn’t want to get involved in your foolish ramblings,” Jerome remarked.

“I’m warning you…,” said M. Demille. “It could go badly for you and this so called business of yours.” His red face increased its suffused colouration and his chin wobbled in rhythm to his agitation.

“Don’t you go threatening me,” said Jerome, becoming flustered.

It could have escalated but, at that moment, in ambled Éric. Jerome, turning to see who it was, became well aware that this discourse would upset Éric. He would end up shaking and frightened.

With great fortitude he took a deep breath and, turning back to M. Demille, said, “It’s time you left now.”

Heading for the door, his neighbour turned as he opened it, “Oh! By the way, the committee decide about the food for the ducasse tomorrow night. You may not get the contract this year!”

“What did he want?” asked Éric as the door closed behind M. Demille.

“It’s nothing for you to worry about, Éric. He said the chickens were out again. It was nothing serious,” Jerome answered.

“What did he mean about the food for the ducasse?” Éric persisted.

“Again, it’s not for you to worry. He was just being his usual nasty self.”

Jerome turned away with an anxious expression that he must hide from Éric at all costs.

*

The next morning, Madame Altier was heading for the post box when she passed M. Demille walking in the opposite direction. Jerome, watching the street, saw them greet each other with the customary set of kisses to each side.

“
Bonjour
Madame Altier,” greeted M Demille. “
Ça
va
?”

“
Oui
,
ça
va
,” she responded in time honoured tradition. Even if she had not been well, she would not have said. Just as in England it is not the thing to go into lurid detail of ailments being suffered, so it is in France. She was struggling with her bed and breakfast business on her own, and now that she was older she was suffering with her joints. She would not share this with M Demille, even though they were friendly.

“How is business?” he asked.

“Oh not too bad for the next few weeks,” she responded. “I have had an English lady staying, a Miss Felicity Summers. Yes, I understand that she might move over here. She’s investigating the area. She seems friendly.”

“Well, we have enough houses for sale around here but more English? We don’t need more.” M. Demille said.

“So few young French do up the older properties, Monsieur. They prefer to build on land that’s always available than put in the money and effort to renovate. At least we take their money to keep our village going.”

“Harrumph! They are spending their money in our local shops, I suppose but I don’t like it! I don’t trust them.”

“Maybe she would buy me out and I could go and live with Edith?” Madame Altier smiled at the thought that had popped into her head.

He frowned. “How is your sister?”

“She was so poorly just before Christmas and she keeps asking me when I might sell. I don’t know though. It’s my home. I warned my visitor not to go there!” Madame Altier nodded at Jerome’s, her face expressing a sour look.

“I was in there last night,” M. Demille said. “I told him his yard is a disgrace. I hinted he may not get the ducasse business this year,” he added with a smirk.

“Is that so?” Madame Altier asked, leaning in closer.

M. Demille tapped the side of his nose in a conspiratorial fashion. “You never know,” he added as he took his leave.

Chapter 5

On returning home, Fliss was hardly able to contain her feelings of uncertainty, nerves and extreme excitement. She had spoken to Edward a few times on the phone while away. Tonight she would see him, and must explain her plans in full. He would be hurt, would not understand ,but would accept it with good grace. He loved her. How much of a fight would he put up for her? Part of her hoped he would, but she also hoped and suspected that he wouldn’t make a fuss. He was almost always too kind and considerate.

‘I’m increasingly sure that I need this change. Something major. Perhaps I’m being unreasonable but I really, really need this challenge. Am I being selfish? I’ve been self-less for too many years already!’

She unpacked and dressed for the evening with care. She wore the green dress that Edward liked. It brought out the colour of her eyes, he said.

‘Why am I taking so much care of my appearance? It isn’t for him. Be honest at least. I’m giving myself confidence and courage.’ Fliss frowned at her own thoughts.

She brushed her hair vigorously in the hope that it would shine. As she peered into the mirror to apply makeup, she understood and recognised that she did not love Edward – perhaps she never had.

At exactly 7.30pm the doorbell rang.

She sighed.

“Fliss.” Edward beamed and folded her into him. “I have missed you,” he mumbled into her hair.

No flowers, and they were fore-going a film tonight. A change of routine!

‘A varied taste of things to come?’ She wondered this optimistically. ‘Am I doing the right thing?’ She had a brief moment of hesitation.

“I was going to bring flowers,” Edward said, contradicting her thoughts, “but I ran behind and I knew 7.30 was approaching. I didn’t want to be late.”

“A few minutes here and there don’t matter,” she said as he released her. “To have flowers every time isn’t necessary either Edward, although I love them,” she added,

“Shall we go, and I’ll hear all about your little holiday on the way?” he asked.

‘Little holiday. He has no idea even though I’ve explained so many times.’

They ate at the cosy Italian place on Market Street.

‘It shouldn’t be too busy at this early hour. I need a clear head and a quiet scene to approach my news with him. It is more than details of a little holiday, after all!’

“So,” he asked, “how did it go?”

While they rode she told him of her journey in more detail, about the people she had met and the things she had seen. It was important to keep it general until they sat together and Edwatd was not concentrating on driving.

‘Perhaps I’m prevaricating and putting off the moment when I have to tell him of my main plans.’

She was uneasy about sharing these with him.

“Ah this is a quiet little corner, I like this restaurant,” Edward said as they seated themselves.

He said something about summer holidays and it was getting silly, all this waiting for a break in the conversation. It was shilly-shallying. She had to get on with it.

“Edward,” she almost interrupted what he was saying to get her news over and out. He raised his eyes from the menu with surprise on his face.

“Madame Altier, the lady I stayed with who owns the B and B, well, she wants to move out to her sister’s or somewhere. She’s elderly and finding running the place too much for her, on her own. If it works, I could buy her out and take over the business.”

Fliss gabbled in her confusion, trying to tell him while sounding positive and not wishing to hurt his feelings more than she could.

“What do you mean?” he asked. “You would live in France?”

“Well, yes. You know I was thinking about it. Nothing was said by either her or me but it’s the change I require, right now. It might not happen and she might not sell but something like that would suit me and be the change I need.”

“I see.” Edward gazed into her eyes and she saw that his own grey irises looked a little dark and formidable.

The waiter came and they placed their orders. Fliss wished she wasn’t trapped there for a meal. While she hoped to discuss her plans and thoughts, she wanted to be able to walk, run, move anywhere else rather than sit there opposite Edward’s silence.

“What about your work, your house?” He refrained from asking the obvious question – what about me/us?

“Edward, dear Edward,” she started, reaching across the table to take his hand, which twirled the stem of his wine glass on the white cloth. “I need to pursue this change for a while. I’ve been wallowing for too long, looking after Mum, working at the same place all these years.”

“Seeing me and going out as we do. Stuck in a rut with me,” he finished morosely.

“No! I just need to make a change, Edward. My life has changed with Mum’s passing, of course.”

“So it’s a done deal. You’ve decided.”

“Yes, Edward, yes I have. I need this now. If you want us to end I understand. Maybe we should call a halt for the time being.”

“I don’t want us to end. I love you,” he said.

“We’re good friends,” she said. “I hope we’ll always be that.” She was putting the kiss of death on their relationship, and she wasn’t happy either.

Unable to answer in a more positive way, Fliss said nothing more. Their first course arrived and, perfidiously, she was glad that they had something else to occupy them. She watched as Edward, in desultory fashion, took up his cutlery. She picked up her fork with sudden, somewhat false vigour.

*

As soon as possible the next day, Fliss rang Jo.

“Hi, I need to speak with someone who is not so involved in what I am planning,” she said. Jo would be there, with her generous personality and ready laugh. “Can we meet up for a coffee? There’s something I need to share with someone.”

“That sounds intriguing,” Jo responded.

The next day, after work, they met at the coffee shop next to the supermarket on the edge of town. As she parked, Fliss could see her friend due to her bright pink top and red, curly hair, in which she wound a colourful scarf, knotted on the top so the ends tangled amongst her profuse curls. She sat in a window seat waiting for Fliss, eager to find out what needed to be shared. She grinned as Fliss entered.

“Are you pregnant?” she asked as Fliss sat. “Have you won a massive fortune on the lottery? Are you running away with someone?” She laughed.

Out of the corner of her eye, Fliss saw an older couple at the next table perk up and glance their way, aware that the conversation on the next table turned interesting.

“NO, no and sort of,” she answered.

“Oh my! Tell me. I’m burning up with curiosity.” Jo’s bright blue eyes were ablaze with sparkle.

She shared all the details of her recent holiday, the people she had met and then the idea to go and live in France.

“So you’d give up your job?” Jo asked with incredulity in her voice.

“Yep, that’s the plan,” she answered.

“Why do you want to isolate yourself like that?” she demanded.

“I’m not isolating myself. It’s five hours away, max. I can come and visit quite often if I want.”

Fliss, fed up with the negativity, said, “You won’t dampen my enthusiasm.” She was a little short with Jo.

“It’s such a surprise,” her friend responded, slumping back in her chair. Fliss had knocked her back. “Wow! It’s just, after all this time with the same job, same house, same life. What about Edward?”

Fliss shrugged but said nothing. She watched her friend’s countenance as different emotions swept across her.

She nodded and added, “Well, mega good luck to you! You deserve it. Can I come and stay? I may find myself a romping good Frenchman.” She raised her eyebrows suggestively. “Did you meet anyone I could tear off into the night with, with whom I might have rampaging sex?”

Fliss laughed at her one-track minded remark, knowing full well that the last thing Jo would want would be any relationship with a French man.

She had asked about Edward. Fliss knew what Jo thought about him. She often vocalised that Fliss should leave him and find someone more exciting.

“You think Edward is dull and too much like a faithful dog. He is kind, though, and not risky in any way.”

Jo leaned forwards, placing her elbows on the table, and rested her chin on her knuckles.

“Well, it’s time you got on with real life, Fliss. You were seventeen, wasn’t it, when your dad died? You had such a lot on your plate, taking all that great responsibility for your mum. I know she always seemed frail and vulnerable. She enjoyed the finer things in life without real understanding of how they were funded and supported.” Jo said.

“She came from an era and a background where dad dealt with mortgage payments, insurance premiums, banks and life in general. It freed her to enjoy her clubs and groups; her regular visits to the hairdresser to pamper that pale gold hair and to visit her manicurist. Her work was being a good hostess for Dad’s business colleagues and their wives. After he died she always seemed vague and defenceless. She had little idea of the practicalities of daily living, you must admit.”

“Everyone loved her though,” Jo said “because she was always charming, always slim and beautiful. I remember her being so polite, and she never forgot a name, a birthday or an anniversary. She would swan off to the leisure centre to partake of a light lunch with friends. You never had to concern yourself with ensuring enough toilet rolls in the loo or enough washing powder for the home help to use.”

“I know, but Dora did the house-work when I was at work and when Mum was ill she kept an eye on her. It was all a Godsend,” Fliss reminded her friend.

“There’s no doubt that your mum loved you to distraction, but she bought you extravagant scarves or bags for your birthday instead of something more realistic,” Jo reminded Fliss. “That says a lot about you, you know. There never was any great complexity of conflict, though, was there? You were always patient and easy-going. Your mum was defenceless, but you were practical and had a work ethic to match the best. You’ve never been afraid to work hard, at all, have you?”

“It was my choice to stay and help her out and not to go away to college.”

“Right! You didn’t want to leave home. Really? You just thought you
had
to stay and take care of your mum. It’s past time you did something for yourself and pursued your own dreams, Fliss.”

It was true. As she matured into full adult-hood, Fliss worked at the head office of a finance company on the business park a short walk from her home. She studied and trained hard, she passed all the Financial Planning Certificates. Subsequently, passing all the exams for her Advanced Diploma and starting post-grad studies, becoming a fully-fledged and competent Senior Financial Adviser. She managed the accounts of the top clients. She often earned herself excellent bonuses.

“Oh my darling girl, I am so proud of you,” Mum used to say.

“OK but living at home, my expenses were modest and I liked to go out and party with the best of them when we were in our late teens and early twenties. You remember, Jo. I was gregarious and, to be fair, Mum encouraged me.” Fliss tried to justify her life choices.

“‘Go on, Fliss,’ she would say. ‘You go and enjoy yourself. You’re only young once. Tell me all about it when you get home.’” Fliss smiled at the memories.

“Fair enough but now it’s time for you to follow your own dream,” Jo reiterated.

“You’re right. Before this recent trip, I’ve thought about what I should do next. I could take up gardening, good works or grumbling. In years to come, I could join one of those adopt-a-granny schemes,” she said facetiously. “I’ll be depressed, drunk even, and embarrass and bore the arse off of everyone, but I need to kick start my life and get on with it.”

“Yep, aim for the moon: even if you miss, you’ll land among the stars,” Jo quoted.

“Exactly!”

By the time they said their goodbyes the tonic of Jo’s bright personality was working its old magic and Fliss felt so much better. Her excitement returned, and she went home with renewed enthusiasm.

*

Fliss walked back up the path to the front door of the bungalow that was now hers alone. She saw with appreciation the froth of primroses, the daffodil leaves pushing their swords through the earth and the buds on the bushes bursting with a mist of bright greenness.

She let herself in through the front door, pushed it shut and leaned against the inside for a moment before kicking off her shoes and heading for the bedroom to discard her jacket. Her head was spinning with possibilities, as it hadn’t done for a long time.

While making a cup of tea she glanced up at the wall where her own painting hung. Not for the first time, warm memories of that fortnight in France sprang into her mind.

It had been very enjoyable but somewhat of a ‘singles-hunt-a-partner’ session. After a couple of days, Fliss had teamed up with a married couple and an elderly gentleman and spent glorious relaxing days in the warm and sunny Auvergne countryside. The blueness of the sky that melted into the hazy purples of the distant, amazing, twisted, thrusting formations of the volcanic hills stayed with her, and would forever. The meadows full of wild flowers smelled wonderful, and the wooded hillsides, dotted with stone houses that had blue painted windows reflecting the cerulean sky, seemed like Utopia, she remembered. In the evenings the food was superb, simple yet delicious. She came home with two passable paintings, one of which stared back at her now, and quite a lot of regrets for days gone. It had been a time of great peace and happiness that remained with her during the long solitary hours of being a night carer for her terminally ill mother.