‘That one looks okay.’
‘It’s my fifth,’ Mari says, flicking her head towards a plate covered in pieces of crêpe de blé noir, buckwheat pancake – some soft and undercooked, some much too dark, all misshapen. Juliette resists the urge to stand and nudge her aside, take the wooden paddle in her own hands. She peers at the bowl of mixture at Mari’s elbow.
‘The mixture is good. Not too thick.’
‘I told the children I wasn’t giving up till I got it right. They’ve all gone to their rooms. Or somewhere.’ Mari looks up at Juliette, grinning. ‘They’re scared of me when I am like this. When I’ve made up my mind about something.’
‘Ah well, you’re Breton, we’re all stubborn.’
Mari clicks her tongue. ‘Breton enough for stubbornness but not Breton enough to have mastered making crepes de ble noir. Do you think it will be ready now?’
Juliette leans over and peels back the edge of the crepe. ‘Ready,’ she replies.
Mari folds it into a triangle, slides the spatula underneath and lifts it onto a fresh plate. She turns it over to survey the underside and sighs. ‘Not great, but it will do.’
‘It looks good,’ Juliette protests.
‘Good enough,’ Mari says. ‘I’m quitting while I am ahead. I need a drink.’
‘With just one galette?’
‘I already told you, it’s my fifth.’
Juliette laughs and stands. ‘Get out of the way, I’ll do the rest.’ Mari lifts her palms in mock surrender and goes to the fridge while Juliette stirs the crepe mixture and checks the temperature of the pan by lowering her wrist to just above the surface. It is too hot, as she had suspected. She reduces the heat on the gas element as Mari pops open a cider bottle.
‘Can I get you some?’ she offers, pouring some into a small glass.
‘No, thank you, I’m still working. Where is your butter?’
Mari passes a small dish with butter in a thick yellow cube. ‘How many do you have staying at the house?’ she asks.
‘Ten. Eleven including me.’
‘What are they like?’ They have now switched places completely, Mari sitting on the bar stool, leaning her head into her hands. She has a piece of crepe stuck to the back of one of them. Juliette reaches out to peel it off before applying butter to the saucepan and pouring mixture. She uses the wooden paddle to guide the mixture in smooth circles till it fills most of the pan. Thin but whole. It soon starts to bubble and lift away from the hot, black surface.
‘The guests? They are nice,’ Juliette replies.
‘English?’
‘One American.’
Mari lifts the cider glass to her lips ‘I am no good at cooking for so many.’
‘You cook for your family. And you teach. Thirty children in one class?’
Mari smiles. ‘Teaching I can do.’
‘Well, I couldn’t,’ Juliette murmurs, getting ready to remove the crepe.
‘Cooking you can do.’
‘And that’s about it,’ Juliette mumbles, folding the crepe with fingers that no longer recoil with the heat of a hot pan. Mari sips her cider and then turns the glass in her fingers.
‘Paol said you learned from Jean-Paul.’
Juliette looks up sharply. ‘How did he know that?’
Mari shrugs. ‘Jean-Paul told him. He was his mother’s nephew.’
Juliette nods but doesn’t make eye contact. Mari continues, breezily, ‘They fished on the boats together and they’re long days out there. But Jean-Paul wasn’t exactly a modest person.’
‘No, I suppose not.’ Juliette has to concentrate on lifting the crepe and then pouring out the mixture for the next one. She has not spoken of Jean-Paul to Mari before. Past and present clang together like cymbals. ‘How many of these do you need?’ she asks.
‘I don’t know. Enough for us.’
‘No cheese? No ham? Filling?’
‘Oh, I’ll make something else to go with them, or use some crab, some fish, don’t worry. I just got it into my head to make them. Something the kids said, they were teasing me. I was being bloody-minded.’
‘So five of you, oui?’
‘Oui. Use up as much of the batter as you can. The boys eat a lot these days. You should see them. I can’t keep them in trousers.’ Mari laughs. ‘I mean, they grow out of them too quick.’
‘I saw Etienne the other day. I almost didn’t recognise him.’
‘He’s grown so much these past few months. His voice is changing.’
‘He’s not a boy anymore.’
‘No. And he doesn’t like to be thought of as one.’
Juliette recollects that he used to be quite a good violinist when he was still small. ‘Does he still play the violin?’
‘Yes.’ Mari nods. ‘He gets his love of music from me. He’s still pretty dedicated to the violin. I thought it might keep him from the sea but he’s been out on the boats with Paol lately. Of course Paol doesn’t mind, Etienne is a help to him. But I hate it.’
‘Because of …’ Juliette starts. Thoughts of Jean-Paul drowning fill in her mind, Juliette has to pause to push them aside. Pale skin in dark water, open mouth filling with foam and fish. She has to take a deep breath. ‘The accident?’ she says softly. ‘Jean-Paul and Thanh?’
Mari shakes her head. ‘No. Though that didn’t help.’ She meets Juliette’s gaze. ‘You know I am scared of boats, don’t you?’
Juliette shakes her head.
‘Well, there you go. Now you know. I am petrified of boats. See, I’m not Breton at all. I’m getting cassis for this cider. Want some?’
‘No, thank you.’
Mari fetches the liquor and tips a little into her cider, the colour in the glass darkening. She drinks while Juliette cooks, both of them in a comfortable silence. Juliette should be getting back to the house, but Mari’s home is so comforting she doesn’t want to leave. A bit scruffy, imperfect, but filled with love. The kind of place that makes you feel like you have permission to be yourself. Plus, it’s nice to be thinking and speaking in French again.
‘I can’t imagine you are scared of anything,’ Mari says.
‘Me?’ Juliette looks up from the pan and laughs at the absurdity of it. She feels scared of so many things. ‘Why would you say that?’
Mari shrugs. ‘You never seem scared of anything. You went to Paris –’
‘It’s hardly New York,’ Juliette interrupts, thinking of Helen.
‘But it’s not here. I didn’t even leave Douarnenez. I married a man from here. My children go to the same schools I went to.’
Juliette tips her head. ‘Paris might have been running away.’
‘Still, it’s brave. You always were. Even as a teenager.’
‘Oh, I don’t know …’ Juliette turns off the gas element and wipes down the cast iron pan. She counts the crepes on the plate. ‘Eleven crepes will feed you?’
Mari ignores her. ‘You know, when you left, nobody knew where you’d gone for a while. Then Paol told me you had gone to England. I thought that was the bravest thing I had ever heard of. I still remember it.’
Juliette cannot meet Mari’s eyes. ‘I didn’t have much choice,’ she mumbles.
‘You did it though.’
Juliette continues tidying up, wiping down the bench, covering the hot galettes with a linen tea towel on the bench top. She washes her hands and then shakes them over the sink, feeling Mari watching her.
‘Maybe you think we’re all the same here. That we have the same views about things. But we don’t, Juliette.’ Mari reaches out for Juliette’s shoulder. Juliette steels herself to look into her face. Her eyes are soft, her smile kind. ‘You’re welcome here, you know. You don’t have to hide.’ Juliette reaches up to place her hand upon Mari’s, swallowing down the emotion welling up inside her.
�
��Trugarez, Mari,’ she whispers, gratefully, the Breton odd but sweet on her tongue.
‘Da netra,’ Mari replies, nodding.
*
It is eight-thirty when Juliette plates up Paol’s catch. It fills three large platters piled with ice chips. Small bright red crustaceans, the new-shell spider crabs called moussettes, the thin black bigourneau, everything with claws and barnacles like little prehistoric monsters. A bounty. Fruits de mer – fruits of the sea. Tresors – treasures, more like. From sweet fresh oysters to fat crab claws and everything in between – scarlet, black and grey. Sophie comes into the kitchen as Juliette is preparing the garnishes – bouquets of garden herbs and juicy, fragrant lemon cheeks. Her hair is still wet and her lips are as pale and grey as the oysters Juliette has just shucked.
The music from the lounge can just be heard through the thick stone walls that cocoon the kitchen. Juliette smiles at Sophie. ‘Do you like this music?’
Sophie rolls her eyes in reply.
‘My parents liked Burt Bacharach,’ Juliette says.
‘I don’t know who that is.’
‘You are lucky.’
Having plated up the seafood, Juliette moves on to preparing the other dishes. She deftly removes the outer leaves of an artichoke.
‘Do your parents live here? In Douarnenez?’ Sophie asks.
Juliette nods. ‘They used to. My parents passed away.’
Sophie frowns. ‘So you were born here?’ she says, as if that’s what she meant all along.
‘Yes. I grew up here and afterwards I went to Paris. I moved back to take care of my father.’ Juliette places another prepared artichoke on a tray. ‘I never thought I’d live here again.’
‘It’s a small place.’
‘You live in London?’ Juliette asks.
‘Yes.’
‘Douarnenez is very small compared to London. Almost everywhere is though, no? Compared.’
‘Do you … kind of … know everyone here?’ she asks.
Juliette turns to meet Sophie’s gaze. Sophie quickly glances down at a platter. ‘Not everyone. But quite a few,’ says Juliette.
Sophie pushes some ice chips around with the tip of her finger. She clearly doesn’t want to be with her parents and her parents’ friends. Juliette remembers that feeling. Fifteen is an uncomfortable age. Decade, even. Sometimes Juliette still feels uncomfortable in adult company – the burly, opinionated men lined up on stools in the local bars, the women who gather in the hair salons, gossiping about neighbours who have left husbands and celebrities whose children have unusual names. Though Douarnenez is Juliette’s birthplace, the people often feel foreign to her. Juliette remembers Mari’s comment and feels a pang of discord inside.
Finished with the artichokes, Juliette places a huge piece of buttered and garlic-studded lamb atop a bed of celadon-coloured beans. The pungent smell of raw garlic and softened, salted butter makes Juliette hungry.
‘Who lives next door to here?’ Sophie asks, thumbing casually across the garden.
Juliette’s gaze follows her gesture. ‘I mean, just generally,’ Sophie says, as nonchalantly as possible, her voice catching and betraying her.
Juliette washes her hands. ‘Paol and Mari Reynauld and their children are in the house right next to this one. They have two boys and a girl. Paol is a fisherman – one of the few local fishermen left – and Mari is a schoolteacher. They’re good people. I get all my seafood from Paol.’
‘Oh, okay,’ Sophie replies.
Juliette glances at the girl, wet and reed-like. She remembers Etienne in the tree at the front of the house. A boy outgrowing his boy-skin. The flash of his teeth, the muscles knotting under his skin.
She looks to the ceiling. ‘I think the eldest son helps Paol with the boats, in the school holidays. I can’t remember his name …’ She lies, testing.
‘Etienne,’ Sophie whispers.
Juliette smiles. ‘Right. Etienne.’
Sophie’s cheeks burn red.
So that is why the girl is drenched, Juliette muses, pretending to concentrate on putting the huge piece of lamb in the oven. Juliette remembers the sensations she must be feeling. The quickened breath, the thumping heart, the feeling that you might float away. In fact, those sensations are quite familiar at the moment. Juliette has a wave of affection for the thin, awkward girl standing in her kitchen, getting in her way.
‘It’s nice … Douarnenez. Even though it’s small. The beach is cool.’
Juliette nods. ‘It’s rugged but it’s pretty. To me.’
‘Yeah. Rugged.’
‘Do your parents always take you on holiday with them?’
‘I guess. We don’t go on many holidays.’
‘You’re close with your parents?’ Juliette asks, gently.
‘My dad, I suppose. Less my mum.’
‘Your mum works?’
‘Yeah, but it’s not that. It’s … I don’t know. Maybe I am more like my dad. Or maybe my dad kind of trusts me more. He knows what I can do. He knows I am not a kid.’
‘I’m not a kid,’ Sophie repeats, a little too assertively.
Juliette nods, understanding. This is the burden of being an only child or a late child. Juliette had been so hoped for that her parents treated her with kid gloves. Juliette knew they adored her, but it often made it worse, made it harder, to be a grown-up and make her own choices. Juliette knew, acutely, that her decisions might disappoint them. She had loved them and they loved her, but it had felt complicated. Now that they were both gone, it suddenly seemed very simple.
‘Do you want help to set the table?’ Sophie asks, her voice now soft.
‘I’d love that,’ Juliette replies. She picks up a seafood platter and watches as Sophie picks up another. As they leave the kitchen, Sophie mumbles, ‘I’m really sorry about your parents, Juliette.’
Juliette turns, smiling gently. ‘Me too.’
*
Max’s dining room, like most of the new rooms in the house, has a huge floor-to-ceiling window along one wall. The rain has left long satiny lines that reflect on the wineglasses that Juliette and Sophie place at each setting. It’s warm enough, though the curtains aren’t drawn. On the opposite wall is a massive black and white photograph of a woman. Her head is tipped forwards, her long, curling hair blowing across her face and up above her as though she could be falling. Behind her the sky is brooding, rain clouds gathering. She stands amongst tawny grasses, wearing a thin white dress.
With the place settings complete and the seafood laid out, Juliette lights candles in small brass bowls and places them down the centre of the table and along the buffet. She watches Sophie skimming her fingertips over the grain of the wood of the table and pressing down into the knots. Max always prefers the table without a cloth. She has watched Max do exactly the same thing and Juliette too has imagined the dips and crevices as rivers, thought of finding tiny shells and stones she could press into the cracks. The silk of the wood has made her think of the silk of a river, her hand in the green water, a weeping willow swaying overhead. Sunshine against her legs, the sound of the water running over stones. Someone beside her. Someone stroking her hair.
‘Ready for us?’
Max is holding his glass and swaying a little. Helen is on his arm. She is still wearing the long dress but is now shoeless. She smiles at Juliette.
‘Ready. Sit wherever you like.’
Max takes a seat at the centre of the table and draws out a chair for Helen. Sophie is still standing.
‘Sit with us, Sophie?’ Helen asks.
‘Oh, thanks, but I should probably get changed,’ Sophie says, glancing down at her wet clothes. The others start piling in as she leaves. Eddie and Beth, Nina and Lars (he is holding the hand that is not bandaged), Rosie, Soleil, and last of all Hugo. They settle into their seats and Juliette pours wine. More
local Muscadet to complement the seafood.
Once the wine is poured, Juliette places extra bottles into ice buckets on the buffet and instructs everyone to help themselves. She goes back and forth from the kitchen to check on dinner and the large kouign-amann pastry she has been preparing. She is going to stud it with birthday candles for dessert.
Max has put a pot plant on the buffet. Juliette shifts it to accommodate the dishes she will need to place there. The pot is made from half a coconut and the base is some kind of wire, covered in threads of different-coloured wool. Juliette runs her finger along the fuzzy stripes, just as Sophie had done with the grain of the table. She senses someone standing beside her and turns to see Helen, arm across her front, left hand holding a wineglass.
‘I know. It doesn’t really go with anything.’
‘You made it?’
‘Yes.’ Helen laughs, her mouth wide open.
‘It’s really beautiful.’
‘That’s very generous of you. And completely untrue.’
‘No, really,’ Juliette insists. ‘There’s not much … colour …’
They both glance around the room. The huge photograph, the pale walls, the soft grey curtains, the large blackness of the window.
‘I live in a pigsty,’ Helen mumbles. Juliette wonders if she is drunk. Probably a little.
‘Not literally,’ Helen adds. ‘I mean, my apartment is a complete mess. I’m not much of a housekeeper. I’m not good at housework. I’m not tidy.’
Juliette blinks. ‘I’m not that tidy either, I mean in my own house. It’s actually my parents’ … Clean, yes, but tidy, no.’
‘You’re not one of those really organised people? You know, a place for everything and everything in its place.’
‘What gave you that idea?’
‘I don’t know. You seem like you have it all together.’
Juliette laughs. It is so far from the truth. ‘Coming from the woman who looks like that.’ She gestures to the smooth bob, the elegant dress. Even Helen’s toenails are painted, a light tea-rose colour. Juliette doesn’t have the time or inclination to paint her toenails. Helen’s feet are small, slender and pale.
A French Wedding Page 17
