CHAPTER TWENTY
Stripped Bare
The heat was rising up from the asphalt, shimmering and dancing in transparent chimeras. Such midday heat was not typical for a late spring day, even in the south of France. My book, bottle of sunscreen and the small black automatic gate-opener rattled together in the depths of my gaily striped tote bag, slightly muffled by the large towel that took up most of the space.
Foolishly, I had decided to walk rather than drive the short distance, in an effort to keep some sort of physical exercise in my daily regimen. Instead of a vigorous walk it had turned into a slow amble as I hopped and jumped over the large puddles of rainwater from the unpredicted downpour the previous evening. It was the beginning of our fifth year living here in France and my fourth year running my small business, and it had become increasingly rare to have the time to enjoy a few of the sensual pleasures that are offered in so many forms in Provence; a walk in the French countryside was definitely one of them.
The snow-white flowers from the cherry trees had fallen, blown off by the fierce Mistral, and were now replaced by the small round buds that would miraculously turn into luminous fat red cherries within a few weeks, bringing van loads of itinerant gypsies for the harvest. As well as the bees that buzzed continuously, some would say that love was in the air: happiness certainly was. The wonderful warm sunny days that heralded the end of winter had been late this year, but as the temperature continued to rise, spring had sprung.
Going over to the intercom that was discreetly placed at one side of the high dry stone Provençal wall, I took a deep breath and reached out to press the switch. Silence. Far in the distance, through the bars of the gates, I could make out one if not two figures in deep discussion. One was prodding the large clods of friable earth with a large stick, and the other figure, obscured almost completely by the corner of the chicken coop, appeared to be listening intently. The subject of their conversation seemed to be the stripling olive trees and when to begin the planting. The spring rain had been provident, unexpected and torrential; a strong earthy smell still lingered in the rising midday heat. A small prick of irritation pierced my general feeling of tranquillity and happiness; there was no doubt, I was beginning to have difficulties with my eyesight. One of the figures was lean and tall; no doubt it was the gardener, André, but the other figure could easily have been man or beast, most likely his dog. Vanity would never allow me to wear glasses. I preferred to mistake distant dogs for people.
My instructions were that if no one replied I was to make myself at home beside the pool. The owner of the house, my neighbour, would join me if time permitted, for a late lunch. My orders had been to simply enjoy myself. Food and drink would be in the fridge. Telephone and Internet connection were beside the sturdy table which had been set up for me, if I wished to work on my computer. But the real attraction was the swimming pool. I was desperate to swim. At our home we had no pool and no bath, which didn’t matter, as there was no hot water in the bathroom. Luxury extended to having hot water in the shower. At a family meeting, the children and I had decided that a pool was the last thing on our list of priorities. I told the children that they should cultivate winter and summer friends, determined by who had central heating and a swimming pool. I followed the same rule, so now I was paying a neighbourly visit.
I pointed the small black cube at the command switch on the top of the gate. The large metal gates swung silently open. At the end of the path next to the house, I could see a large space devoid of any cars. Obviously, my neighbour had been caught up at the office and was not yet home. Across the meticulously manicured lawn, over near the fields in the far distance I could see André’s distinctive blue and yellow car. I crunched up the path, admiring the attention to detail in the garden, the colours and shapes so faultless that everything melded into perfect accord. The fishpond, I noted with satisfaction, was infinitely smaller and less spectacular than mine, even with its life-sized bronze statue of a heron feeding in the reeds around the water’s edge. The simplicity and harmony of the garden was so incredibly beautiful, it sent my senses spinning.
The pool, close to the front gates, was surrounded by dense foliage that made it an ideal haven for any swimmer. Although the air temperature was rising steadily, I thought the water would still have that post-winter chill, but I was wrong. The heating had been activated and was taking the temperature from arctic to tropical. Two heavy teak sun lounges with creamy-coloured cushions had been placed closely side by side, a beautiful cream and white linen tablecloth covered the table set for two, a bottle of red wine older than my daughter was placed to one side of the table. It was pure paradise. Was it a French seduction scene or over-generous friendship? What did it matter? For the time being, I was alone.
I threw the contents of my tote bag across the bench in the poolside kitchen but there was no sign of any swimming costume. I would only find out later that I had left it in an unceremonious heap on my bed. I had been so excited to find it, extricating it from winter hibernation for its first outing of the season, that I had forgotten to pack it into the bag. Knowing that I would be able to hear any car passing through the large metal gates, I reasoned that I would have ample time to cover up modestly before anyone came within close vicinity of the pool area. I folded my chocolate silk skirt and top in a neat pile along with my latest acquisition in lacy lingerie. There is nothing more liberating than swimming in the nude in the middle of a green oasis. Nobody around. No children asking about food, television or Maman’s taxi service to friends in neighbouring villages. No thoughts or cares to cloud my mind, just the wonderfully warm water that was finally thawing out the cold which had seeped into my bones during winter.
His work achieved in the organic vegetable patch next to the olive grove, André walked across to speak to his boss, who was sitting in the sunshine out on the veranda in front of the kitchen. With the telephone cradled in the crook of his neck, Jean-Paul beckoned André to sit at the table while he went to make another shot of strong black coffee.
‘Merci, Claude, I will have the car collected early this afternoon.’ He finished his conversation with the garage that had been servicing his sleek silver bullet. André was clearly agitated. ‘Jean-Paul, there is a problem. It appears that someone, well a woman, monsieur, there is a naked woman in your pool.’ Jean-Paul insisted that everyone addressed him by his first name and used the very friendly ‘tu’ form. André held his hands across his own chest imitating female bumps and lumps.
‘How could that happen? How could she have broken into the property? She must have climbed over the wall. It is just not possible. I don’t understand how this could happen. She is not a gypsy because she is so very white. I think that she must be German, Monsieur Jean-Paul. Those Germans never swim in a swimming costume. They are always stomping and cycling all over our countryside in little shorts and swim naked whenever they can. Monsieur, shall I call the police?’
‘André, stay calm. I will deal with this matter. The police are not needed. I think that I shall deal with this myself.’ A smile broke across his face.
‘André, I think that you should go and check the progress of our cherries in the far field. No, wait, go with Pierre into Avignon and pick up my car from the garage. The car will be ready in the early afternoon. You are not needed this afternoon. Merci André.’
There was no question about it. Just as Kamila had predicted early that morning while pointing her Polish nose into the wind, with the advent of spring, something was certainly in the air.
Epilogue
My fortieth birthday was held on an unseasonable balmy June evening, only seven years late. The interior and exterior of the house was decked out with enough party lights to make the Eiffel Tower jealous. In the living room in centre place was an enormous bouquet of forty-seven red long-stemmed roses. In the late afternoon, the florist had arrived at the front gates tooting the horn. Leaping from her van, the delivery lady, sighing heavily, held out the magnificent bouquet t
o me. Claire and I stood in the road with our mouths hanging wide open. I had never received flowers like these in my life.
‘I did this bouquet myself. He said that it had to be perfect.’
‘They are beautiful.’ For the first time Claire was lost for words. Her mind was ticking out loud as she tried to work out who had sent the flowers.
Without wasting a moment, the misty-eyed delivery lady read the anonymous card out loud: ‘“A kiss is attached to each one.” It is not signed but I know who made the order. He is your neighbour.’
The caterers had arrived with a refrigerated truck, bearing enough food for weeks of nonstop eating; the champagne flowed and the noise of excited revellers was on the increase. Jungpo arrived to check that the Christmas lights had been correctly installed. He was carrying a large orange parcel tied up with chocolate brown Hermès ribbon. New friends who had been made in the past five years of our life here in France were assembled around the long tables, and the cascading fairy lights twinkled above us. Mimi and Harry were busy quaffing lemonade in champagne flutes and sticking their fingers into the dips when no one was looking. Claire was in command, reorganising the tables and doing yet another magnificent table decoration. Patrick was in charge of whipping off the champagne corks and checking that the barmen were filling up all the glasses. At the table, Jungpo sat beside me, and for the first time I understood everything that he said to me. Darkness fell and the lights twinkled through the trees. It would be a long night.
Our lives continue to be intertwined with good times, excellent wine and food and fantastic friends. Vague opinions are bandied about as to when we will eventually rebuild the house, install heating, windows that shut firmly and shutters that stay on their hinges, and hire the plumber to fix the leaky bath, the toilet and the hot water in the hand basin.
The properties are now up and running, with a devoted clientele who return year after year, making the financial aspect more solid but the constant grind of keeping everything in working order and maintained keeps me on my toes.
Claire’s daughters are finding their way in life and her son Raphaël continues to have brilliant academic results, moving with ease into his next phase as a young man. Mimi and Harry continue to be a delight and the sole reason for my existence. They look for fun wherever they can find it and tease me mercilessly.
Provence has been the exotic backdrop to all of my life over the past five years. The beauty, the colours, the change of seasons sweep into your psyche without you being aware until one day the very thought of leaving this land fills you with dread, and you know that it is time to start thinking seriously about digging your feet deep into the Provençal soil.
If you have enjoyed Lavender and Linen, you will also like Henrietta Taylor’s first book, Escaping.
ESCAPING
As a young woman, Australian-born Henrietta Taylor searched the world for Mr Right: the perfect husband with whom she could have a happy family and a house with a white picket fence. When she met the affable Norman, her dreams all seemed to come true. But then disaster struck, leaving her a bereft widow with two small children and little idea of how to look after them — or herself.
Searching for a different life, she packed her bags and took the children off to France, where she had found romance and adventure many years before. But what seemed so simple once is now complicated by feelings of loss, and the reappearance of the man she calls the Latin Lover.
In a tiny village in the south of France, Veuve (Widow) Taylor, as she is known, finds a new circle of friends, an unexpected role as the proprietor of three charming guesthouses, and a different version of family life. Along the way she discovers that the path to happiness can sometimes turn into a very unconventional journey.
Told with candour and refreshingly self-deprecating humour, Escaping is the story of a fairytale gone wrong — its tragic consequences, and its surprising and triumphant aftermath.
Buy now
About the Author
HENRIETTA TAYLOR grew up in Mosman, Sydney, and trained as a language teacher while travelling extensively around France and Italy. Her first book, Escaping, was published in 2007. She now owns and runs three rental cottages in Provence, in the south of France. Her spare time is spent failing miserably to train two black cats and two bilingual dogs. Her two bilingual children, Mimi and Harry, continue to give her handy hints about her shortcomings in motherhood.
Copyright
Harper Perennial
An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers
First published in Australia in 2007
This edition published in 2016
by HarperCollinsPublishers Australia Pty Limited
ABN 36 009 913 517
www.harpercollins.com.au
Copyright © Henrietta Taylor 2007
The right of Henrietta Taylor to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by her under the Copyright Amendment (Moral Rights) Act 2000.
This work is copyright. Apart from any use as permitted under the Copyright Act 1968, no part may be reproduced, copied, scanned, stored in a retrieval system, recorded, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without the prior written permission of the publisher.
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ISBN: 978 0 7322 8147 2.
National Library of Australia Cataloguing-in-Publication data:
Taylor, Henrietta.
Lavender and linen.
1. Taylor, Henrietta. 2. Taylor, Henrietta – Family.
3. Businesswomen – France – Provence – Biography.
4. Australians – France – Provence – Biography.
5. Tourism – France – Provence. I. Title.
338.76092
Lavender & Linen Page 23
