The French for Christmas

by Fiona Valpy

  I ponder these questions as I stand at the range, breathing in the rich fumes that the warm Cognac is beginning to exude. And perhaps their heady potency acts like smelling salts, because suddenly the confusion in my head clears and I see a scene from my childhood so vividly that it’s as if it’s a signpost that points the way forward with absolute certainty.

  I remember standing at the top of a snow-covered hill, the rope of my sled in my be-mittened hand, and Tess standing next to me. We’re wearing bobble hats that Mamie Lucie has knitted for us for Christmas, mine blue, Tess’s red. And we have a choice before us: to take the more gentle route down the slope, where others have gone before, which, I know, will result in a safe and graceful glide to the bottom of the hill where our parents await us. Or I can carve out my own route, risking the steeper side of the hill where no one else has dared to venture yet. I know the ride there won’t be smooth; it may involve a few bumps, some unseen moguls, a spill or two. I’ll need to use all my strength and skill to steer a safe course through the hazardous dark patch of pine trees at the start of the run. But the rewards will be far greater. I’ll fly across the virgin snow with breathtaking speed, the sunlight that reflects off the perfect white surface and the pure, cold air making my cheeks glow and my spirits soar. I’ll depend on my own wits, my own sense of self-belief, to navigate a route of my own making. And if I fall, or if the sled turns over, I’ll pick myself up and start again. Because when I arrive at my destination, it will all have been worth it, and the hugs and laughter of my parents will be all the sweeter. I look at Tess and I nod, suddenly certain. ‘You can follow me if you want,’ I say. And the doubt in her face clears, because she believes in me and she knows that, together, we can do this. And, all of a sudden, having a sister is the very best feeling in the world.

  Afterwards, when we finally land in a laughing heap, just a little battered and bruised from our precipitous descent, our mom and dad pick us up and dust the powdery snow off our clothes, and my mother says, ‘That’s my girls. Beautiful and bold!’ I can hear her voice, as clearly as if she’s standing here beside me now.

  I look across to where Didier and Will are engaged in a polite tussle over who’s going to open the precious bottle of Château d’Yquem. ‘Will, could you fetch the smaller wine glasses from that cabinet, please?’ I firmly hand Didier the corkscrew. ‘And now I’m ready to light the pudding. So if you wouldn’t mind taking your seats...’

  The rich, dark sides of the Christmas pudding shine as I pour the warmed Cognac over them and hold a lit match a little way off so the alcohol fumes catch. A beautiful blue flame flickers, as ethereal as St Elmo’s fire, as I carry the dish to the table to a round of applause from Eliane, Mathieu and Dylan.

  Didier pours a little of the honey-gold wine into our glasses to savour before we embark on the pudding, so that we can enjoy the full effect of the sweetly nuanced nectar before allowing its complex fullness to mingle with the dessert on our taste buds. The wine is gorgeous and its soft, rounded sweetness makes me think of sun-ripe apricots, and honey collected drop by precious drop by industrious bees from the throats of summer flowers. As the light outside begins to fade on this all-too-short winter’s day, Didier’s wine helps to remind us of the promise of long summer’s evenings still to come, spent lingering on a terrace at the end of a perfect day, the warmth of the air caressing sun-kissed skin...

  But just now, for today, we’ll make do with a glass of distilled sunshine, shared in unexpected company, and we’ll offer up a little ‘thank you’ for it all, in the spirit of Christmas.

  After our meal, as dusk falls and the first lights begin to come on, one by one, in the valley below, Didier pushes back his chair. ‘I hate to break up the party, but I’m sure, Dylan, that you are eager to speak to your family. Evie, this was a magnificent meal. A most memorable one, too.’

  I move across to him, and Will’s head swivels to watch us as I take both Didier’s hands in mine. ‘Thank you, Didier. For the delicious wine, and for so much more besides.’

  ‘This has been a happy Christmas for you after all, I think,’ he says. ‘And for that I am very pleased.’ His smile belies the pain and doubt that I can see have crept back in, just visible in the fine lines around his eyes.

  ‘I hope it’s been happy for you too. I’ll see you tomorrow.’ It’s a statement, not a question; a coded reassurance.

  He nods, accepting that Will and I have to talk and so, right now, there are no promises. But there is still hope.

  I help Eliane on with her coat and she hugs me. ‘Merci, Evie, for good food and friendship. And remember, what I said last night: that whatever we humans do to complicate things, Fate has a way of making everything work out as it’s meant to be in the end. It’s really very simple.’

  I step out into the dusk to say goodbye to her and Mathieu, glancing across to where Didier has ushered Dylan into his house and is just closing the door. He raises his hand in a final, grave salute. I realise that Will has materialised behind me and he drapes an arm across my shoulders proprietarily, playing his role as the master of the house again as he waves goodbye to his guests.

  Lucie’s candle burns steadily in the window, the flame unwavering. Suddenly, out from the gloom within the barn, a large white shape swoops, flying so low over our heads that we involuntarily duck. ‘Wow! Did you see that?’ Will exclaims. ‘What was it? It flew so low I could even hear the wind beneath its wings!’

  I can’t help but laugh.

  ‘What?’ he says.

  ‘Nothing. Just something Rose once said to me along those very lines. A timely reminder.’ I watch as the ghostly shape disappears, soaring off into the night, having delivered its message from the spirit world loud and clear.

  We step back into the warmth of the house, and Will and I are finally alone. We stand in the hallway for an awkward moment and then he makes a move towards me, a little tentative, less sure of himself without his audience. I stand there, moving neither forwards nor back and I look him square in the eye. ‘Will, it’s wonderful to have you here on Christmas Day, and I am totally awe-struck at the effort you’ve made to get here through the snow. But I’m sorry; I can’t go back to what we had.’

  He starts to object, but I take him by the hand and lead him through to the sitting room, gesturing him to sit down on the sofa beside me.

  ‘We’ve been through so much together, Will, and we haven’t always been able to support each other in the ways that we should have done, perhaps, but it’s time to put it all behind us now. We both need to move on and I need to follow your example and start living again.’ He begins to interject, but I hold up a hand to stop him. ‘And I’m afraid that means separately. I have to follow my own path now. My future doesn’t lie in London, and it doesn’t lie with you.’

  He gazes into the embers of the fire that glow deep red as they die away, and I see the unshed tears which gleam softly in his eyes. I lay a hand on top of his.

  ‘I know. It’s sad. But we were too young, our marriage too green, to be able to survive losing Lucie. If we tried to carry on, tried to make a life together again, it would stop both of us from becoming the people we really can be. Coming away has given me that perspective, helped me to see things more clearly. You know how it goes in our world: there can only ever be one chef in charge of the kitchen. I wish you well with your career: I know it’s going to be a glittering one, and I want you to enjoy it to the full. And I hope there’ll be someone out there to enjoy it with you; you deserve much love and much happiness.’

  ‘I’d hoped it would be you, Evie,’ he says softly. ‘I hoped I could make up for not being there when you needed me most, that I could be the one to make it better. That’s why I took the job, because I thought maybe if I did I could show you the way out of your sorrow; I just needed to lead the way.’

  I nod, understanding now. And forgiveness—true forgiveness—washes over me like a wave. And as it recedes, I find my anger has gone, washed away, just like that, lea
ving behind a feeling of complete peace, complete clarity. ‘Oh, Will, you always were my guide. You led me along paths I might never have taken otherwise. Were it not for you, I never would have gone to London, and I might never have found out how much I loved running the bistro. You led the way for me. But I need to take another path now, carve out my own way down the mountain.’

  I know there’ll be spills en route, but I know, too, that I will grow along the way as I rely on my instincts and my own intuition, making my way along my own pilgrim path. And when I arrive at the bottom, the sense of exhilaration will make the trials and tribulations all worthwhile.

  We sit, side by side, in silence for a long while. And then Will turns to me with a smile. ‘Friends?’ he asks.

  ‘Of course,’ I smile. ‘I’ll be following your career with interest. I’ll be proud that I know the famous and talented Will Brooke.’ We embrace and it feels okay to draw away again afterwards. It feels right.

  There’s a tap at the door and Dylan pushes it open. ‘It’s only me,’ he calls. ‘Spoke to the wife and kids. All’s well in Dudley.’

  ‘Good,’ says Will, and he smiles at me. ‘And now, Evie, can you show us where the things are to make up a couple of beds? No offence, Dylan, but it’ll be nice not to have to sleep in the cab of your truck tonight.’

  The trucker looks from Will to me and back again, considering what this must mean, and then nods. ‘No worries, mate, no offence taken. And then we’ll get started on the washing up. That was a cracking meal, Evie. Even beats turkey and all the trimmings. I’ve told the missus that I’ll see if I can contact the château owners first thing in the morning, go and pick up the consignment. That way I can be back home late tomorrow night. I can give you a lift back to the service station if you want it, Will, so you can pick up your car.’

  ‘Cheers, Dylan. That would work well. I’ll need to be getting back. Got a few things to sort out before I’m due back in the studio again...’

  * * *

  Next morning, the winter sun is just beginning to edge itself above the horizon, flushing the sky the colour of a robin’s rosy breast, as the three of us stand in the yard saying our farewells. Dylan clambers into his cab and turns the key in the ignition, eager to be on the road again, but giving Will and me a moment alone under the covering thrum of the motor.

  Will enfolds me in his arms and I hug him back, a little pang of loss and regret binding us together in one final embrace. We stand like that for a minute, saying nothing because there’s nothing more to be said. He draws back finally and smiles down at me. ‘I wish it had been different, Evie. But I’m glad we can part as friends. I’ll be in touch about finalising the divorce. I was thinking about it last night, and I’m going to sign the London house over to you in its entirety.’ I start to protest, but he holds up a hand to stop me. ‘No, let me do that. I’m happy in my new apartment. You can choose what to do with the house; keep it as an investment or sell it. The money might come in handy if you’re thinking of starting up a new bistro in Boston. Or if you need something to live off while you’re writing your cookbook. I’m looking forward to giving it a plug on my show, by the way.’

  There’s a movement behind one of the windows in Didier’s house, a shadow that blocks the light there for a moment and then moves away again.

  Will notices me notice it. ‘I suppose you might be needing a few plane tickets between Boston and France as well.’ He smiles again, just a little ruefully, giving me his blessing.

  ‘Thank you,’ I whisper. ‘I wish it had been different too, Will.’

  He climbs into the passenger side of the cab and pulls the heavy door closed after him, lowering the window to lean out and wave, as Dylan lets the brakes off with a hiss and a sigh and the wheels begin to roll, edging the bulk of the trailer back out onto the lane.

  As I watch the tail lights wink red and then disappear down the road, the chill bite of the winter wind seems to ease a little and the sun hauls itself up a little higher, into the branches of the oak tree beside me. A flutter of wings catches my eye as the robin swoops down from one of the twigs to peck at the soft ground where the snow has melted.

  ‘Well, hello there,’ I smile. ‘Good to have you back!’

  And do I imagine it, or is the breeze that strokes my cheek a little warmer suddenly?

  I know, now, that our lives are made up of changing seasons. Through the darkest days of bleak midwinter we have to do what we can to keep the faith, nourishing our bodies and our souls, keeping a flame burning—no matter how tiny or how tenuous—deep down inside our hearts. And that, in the bleakest moments of all, we should make a Christmas for ourselves, piling on the tinsel, lighting the candles and the fairy lights and rolling back the darkness that threatens to encroach, with the promise of a rebirth; a reawakening; a Réveillon. Because, if we can just hang on in there long enough, spring will return and the leaves, hidden deep within the bare branches and the stark vine stocks, will unfurl to the sunlight with tender, new promise.

  As I watch the robin hop and bob amongst the last vestiges of melting snow that lie at my feet, a spike of bright green catches my eye. It’s the first spring bulb, pushing its way defiantly upwards towards the blue winter sky, a sky which soars above me, drawing my spirits to soar there with the birds. On my own widespread wings.

  And you know, I think Eliane’s ability to see the future must be catching. Because suddenly, clear as the morning light, I have a vision of a little bistro on a Boston street corner, its name picked out in antique gold lettering: Chez Lucie. There will be a candle burning in the window and fresh flowers on the tables, and the air will smell of newly baked soda bread. And copies of my cookbook will be for sale on the counter. I can see it so clearly that I can even read the title: Mamie Lucie’s Kitchen. The old and the new in perfect harmony. My roots and my wings.

  That shadow passes across the window in Didier’s house again. I hesitate for a moment, considering. I know I don’t need anyone else; I can steer my own path down the mountain, counting on my own skill and strength to negotiate my way through the trees and the moguls and the icy patches.

  But needing and wanting are two different things.

  I stand on tiptoe and break off a sprig of the mistletoe that hangs just above my head. Crossing the yard, I knock on Didier’s door.

  He opens it straight away, a smile as warm as spring sunshine lighting up his face, his expression as full of promise and hope as my future suddenly seems.

  I hold the green sprig above my copper curls.

  ‘If it’s not too late, Merry Christmas, Didier.’

  He pulls me to him and wraps me in his arms.

  ‘It’s never too late, Evie,’ he smiles. ‘Merry Christmas.’

  Epilogue:

  Nearly two years later...

  As I step out of the plane it’s like opening an oven door: the smell of Africa engulfs me, tantalisingly exotic. It’s the scent of heat and dust, with undercurrents of something dark and wild, something untameable. The tarmac bounces the sun’s brutal rays back up at me and I follow the line of passengers wading through the thick air which shimmers with oily heat. A few small, white clouds are suspended in the vast, overarching sky, wider than any sky I’ve ever stood beneath before. As we wait outside the door of the terminal—although it’s more of a shed really—I watch the sun-bleached grass that lines the runway shimmer and shift in the haze of hot air, oil fumes and dust. I blink in the strong sunshine, fumbling in my purse for my sunglasses, my eyes unaccustomed to so much light and colour having come straight from a Massachusetts winter.

  At last a key is located, the door unlocked, and we shuffle through the baggage reclaim and then emerge through the frosted glass door, beyond which the world’s newest country awaits.

  My heart leaps as I spot his face in the crowd and he pushes forwards through the jostling throng to claim me before the taxi touts and hotel hustlers can. He folds me in his arms and I breathe in the smell of his skin, familiar and reass
uring beneath the atmosphere of sweat and rotting garbage and car fumes that engulfs us. He takes my bag and we walk, hand in hand, to his rental jeep in the car park. We can’t stop looking at each other, grinning at each other, unable to believe we’re both really here.

  ‘How is everyone?’ he asks. ‘I never thought you’d be able to tear yourself away from the bistro to get here.’

  I laugh. ‘I know; it wasn’t easy. But it’s in safe hands. Hélène’s taken to it like a duck to water; she’s a natural-born manager. I guess all her experience with organising weddings has really paid off. And Tess will look in at lunchtimes and lend a hand if it’s needed. But I trust the team completely. I know they’ll be fine. Anyway, it’s good practice for all of us. I’ll be running the first courses at Château Bellevue in two months’ time, so I need to be able to leave them to it sometimes. But now tell me everything. How’s the roll-out of the machines going?’

  Didier laughs, running his fingers through his dark hair and raising his shoulders in a very French shrug. ‘It’s Africa, Evie, so of course there’ve been frustrating hold-ups along the way, but it’s going well. We’ve got the machines in three of the biggest hospitals now and we’re making progress in the clinics in the refugee camps in Jonglei province. I can’t wait to show you. And tomorrow you’ll see the feeding station for the children in the Juba camp. Everyone’s so excited to meet you. The children have been learning a special song for the official opening. One of them asked me if you’re the queen of America! I showed them your photo, and one of the bistro back in Boston so they’d be able to picture where the funding for the feeding station is coming from. They thought you looked like a queen because, they said, your hair is like a shining crown.’

  We pull up in front of the hotel where we’ll be staying tonight before heading out to the camp tomorrow.