by Sarah Long
Ouistreham port had none of the historic grandeur of Portsmouth, just a few sailing boats moored up and a couple of lacklustre fairground roundabouts. As they drove through the sleepy town, they noticed small groups of tall young black men walking slowly together by the seaside, or sitting on a wall, or lying beneath the trees on the grass in the parkland on the outskirts of the town. Dreaming of somehow boarding a ship and escaping to a new life in Britain, though it seemed an impossible task in view of the heavy police presence guarding the port. I am a migrant now, too, thought Mary, but with the great good fortune that I’m doing it by choice and not out of desperation. She would return soon to visit her mother, lost in her shrinking world at the nursing home. How fortunate Mary was that she could come and go like that.
Living in a group would be a massive change for her. She and Dougie had inhabited a companionable bubble a deux for over thirty years now, untroubled by intrusions from children or housemates. And now that comfortable equanimity was about to rocked. They were friends with the others, to a greater or lesser extent, had been on holiday with some of them, but there was a world of difference between two weeks in a villa and every single day for possibly the rest of your life.
Will and his young wife were the ones she had least knowledge of. She remembered the first time she met Will when they were invited to dinner at Nicola and Dom’s next door in Clapham. Will had still been with his first wife and was a typical lawyer, they agreed afterwards, pushy and arrogant, straight out of Chaucer’s Canterbury Tales. He’d had a sort of conversion since then, turning his back on his career, and seemed to still be searching for something to replace it. The young wife she barely knew at all. She could easily be one of the students who used to drift into Mary’s lectures, dressed in gym clothes with full makeup and a distracted air. It was difficult to see what common ground they might share, but she was open to persuasion. More worrying was how Dougie would fit in with the other men. There was a macho swagger to Simon that was quite at odds with Dougie’s fussy manner; she did hope there wouldn’t be too many awkward moments.
‘Turn left!’ said Dougie. ‘You were supposed to turn left there!’
He had the map spread out over his knees and was pointing back over his shoulder to the road they should have taken.
‘You’re meant to tell me beforehand, not after the event,’ Mary said smoothly. ‘But it doesn’t matter. I’ll do a U turn at this roundabout, we’ll be there in no time. Are you excited?’
‘Excitement is not appropriate to our age. Let’s say I’m in a state of heightened anticipation.’
‘Heightened anticipation. I couldn’t have put it better myself.’
CHAPTER SEVEN
‘Good morning, mistress of the château.’
Dominic reached across the bed to nudge Nicola, who was still asleep.
She stirred into consciousness and couldn’t remember where she was. Then she opened her eyes and saw the toile de jouy curtains decorated with hunting scenes, and burgundy-coloured horsemen cavorting across a cream background. The wallpaper had the identical pattern, reminding you, in case you had forgotten, that you were in an eighteenth-century country home of distinction.
‘Hooray, we’re here,’ she said, turning towards him. ‘Did you sleep all right?’
‘In the end. I took to counting huntsmen in the dark. I reckon there are at least five hundred in this room, when you tot them all up.’
‘Charming, aren’t they? Really set the tone.’
‘Especially the ones that are peeling off the damp walls.’
‘Eeyore! We can stick them down again, or hang new wallpaper. I’m sure you can still buy it in the same style – you know how nothing changes in France, that’s its great appeal. Maybe we should keep this room in its original state, as homage to the château as we found it, once we’ve redecorated.’
She jumped out of bed and went to open the curtains, releasing a cloud of dust that danced in the morning sun.
‘Mary is going to love it; so much to keep her occupied with her feather duster.’
‘What time are they arriving?’
‘This afternoon sometime. Oh, just look at that view! We still haven’t been round the walled garden. I’ve always wanted one of those – proper high stone walls with espaliered fruit trees. Get up, let’s go and inspect it right away.’
Dominic admired her gamine silhouette outlined against the sunlight, her unruly blonde hair tumbling over her nightdress. What a fool he’d been, to even think about threatening what they had. Not for the first time, he thanked his lucky stars that she’d never had any inkling, that he’d managed to preserve their happiness.
‘Come on then, let’s take a tour,’ he said.
‘Better get dressed first in case Madame de Courcy shows up again.’
*
Their shoes were soaked by the time they’d walked through the long grass to the entrance of the walled garden. It was magical, with rows of vegetables gone to seed and the fan-trained fruit trees showing their pink blossom to maximum effect against the cream stone walls.
‘I’m going to spend all my time in here,’ said Nicola. ‘We can become self-sufficient and I’ll grow stuff to put in jars for the still room. I’ve always fancied a still room; even the name is the very epitome of peace. Look at the rhubarb!’
She broke some thin pink stalks off one of the crowns that were sprawling over the edge of a bed.
‘That’s tonight’s pudding sorted – rhubarb fool made with crème fraiche. We should get to the shops right away. You know everything closes for lunch over here.’
The drive to the local town took them along a narrow lane that ran beside the river, shaded by trees and flanked by gently sloping pasture grazed by cream-coloured cows. A different experience to Nicola’s former traffic-blighted route through busy streets to Sainsbury’s.
‘Supermarket first,’ she said. ‘Get the basics and then top up at the little shops, don’t you think?’
They bypassed the centre of town and found a modest industrial estate on the outskirts with a DIY store and a garden machinery shop, with ride-on mowers parked enticingly in the forecourt.
‘We should definitely get one of those,’ said Dominic. ‘I’ll cut the grass while you bring on the vegetables.’
‘I just love French supermarkets,’ said Nicola as they pushed their trolley through the doors. ‘It reminds me of being on holiday.’
She thought about the time when they’d taken the children to a villa in Provence – the blast of heat when they stepped out of the car before arriving in the air-conditioned delights of the hypermarket, loading up with bottles of rosé and tubs of strawberry ice cream.
They dawdled through the vegetables and Nicola seized upon a fat bunch of watercress and a russet and green lettuce. ‘So different to the sad collection of leaves in plastic packets we’re used to. And look, it’s all grown locally.’
‘We really should buy the cheese from the high street shop,’ said Dom, ‘but they might be closed by the time we get there, so let’s get it here, just for today. There’ll be plenty of time in the future to ingratiate ourselves with the local shopkeepers.’
They bought an orange Livarot cheese, its circular form finished with a band of raffia, then a wedge of Comté and a slab of hard sheep’s cheese, along with a Papillon roquefort, chosen from four different varieties that were on display, all of them made with unpasteurised milk, because they knew, as all committed foodies do, that au lait cru is the must-have for flavour.
‘It’s not as if we have to worry about contaminating any unborn children,’ said Nicola happily. ‘There’s an upside to our advancing years.’
The fish counter was a source of wonder, an unbelievable range of produce glistening on a bed of ice.
‘Seafood to start with. Let’s get oysters and those tiny grey shrimps, and some langoustines. Then a great big whole fish as a centrepiece. ’
As the assistant weighed the shrimps, they pondered which fish
to buy, eyeing up some whole salmon and sea bass.
‘It’s got to be this one,’ said Dominic, pointing out a spectacularly ugly creature with spiny growths. ‘Look at that face it’s pulling, like a sulky old man.’
‘Yes, the Saint Pierre,’ said the assistant, nodding his approval. ‘You will see the dark mark in the centre of his golden body – that is the mark of the thumb of Saint Peter, according to legend. He pulled a piece of gold from the fish’s mouth.’
Dom was pleased he could just about understand what the fishmonger was saying – as long as he left room for a little creative licence.
‘Better take two,’ said Nicola. ‘Everyone will be hungry after their journey.’
After loading up the car, they drove into town, where the high street was lined with medieval houses with walls that leaned at such alarming angles that you might worry about their stability, were it not for the fact that they had held firm for five centuries and were not about to give up now. It was the sight that had entranced them on their first visit and convinced them that this was where they should settle.
‘I can’t believe a tiny town like this can support four boulangeries,’ said Dominic, as they strolled down the street, wondering which one to choose. That was retirement for you, he thought. Such decisions could take up a disproportionate amount of time.
‘And four pharmacies. Look at the window display in this one – wheelchairs and equipment to help you get out of the bath. Let’s hope we won’t need that for a while ahead of us.’
‘Alongside a poster showing you which mushrooms you shouldn’t eat, otherwise you’ll end up needing all the stuff in this shop. We townies have got a steep learning curve ahead of us.’
*
When they arrived back at the château, Will’s sports car was already parked outside. Dominic jumped out of the car and rushed forward to greet him.
‘Maaate!’ he said, in an ironic imitation of how they had noticed young men liked to salute each other. ‘You’re early!’ He embraced his friend in the awkward man hug they had recently adopted.
‘Yeah, well, you snooze, you lose,’ said Will, releasing his grip and holding Dom by the shoulders. ‘We wanted to make sure we got the best room. Sorry, second best room – you made sure of that.’
‘They are all fab, no worries there – and they’ll be even better once the work’s completed,’ said Nicola. ‘And anyway, it was all agreed, if you remember, precisely to avoid any unseemly jostling on moving-in day. Where’s Fizz?’
‘She’s gone for a run – stretching her legs after the journey.’
‘Of course she has,’ said Dominic. ‘You can stretch yours by helping us in with the shopping.’
‘This is fantastic,’ said Will, carrying a crate of beer through to the kitchen. ‘Even better than I remember, though I guess the weather helps.’
‘Exactly what we said: spring sunshine smiling on our great adventure. Let’s crack open a couple of these and I’ll give you the tour.’
The two men set off with their beer bottles to walk around the lake and discuss the feasibility of establishing a cricket pitch in one of the fields.
‘There’s no shortage of space,’ said Will. ‘It could be like in The Go-Between: our team of nobs at the château versus the strong-armed men of the village.’
‘Not sure how that would play out,’ said Dominic. ‘For a start, we’re not what you’d call nobs, plus we’re all a bit past it. Although the French don’t play cricket, so we’d have that advantage.’
‘You’re more of a nob that I am, that’s for sure,’ said Will. ‘My old man would have found it hilarious that I’ve ended up living in a poncey château! But I’m serious about the cricket. I’ve brought my bat so we can practice every day before breakfast – the reassuring sound of leather on willow. This really is an excellent scheme we’ve taken on!’
*
Nicola was unpacking the crockery when Fizz returned from her run, the sweat glistening on the exposed flesh between her bra top and her matching purple leggings. She’s so young, thought Nicola with a rush of maternal concern. Not much older than Maddie. I do hope she’ll be all right.
‘Hello, Fizz, how lovely to have you here,’ she said, as Fizz performed a series of acrobatic stretches in the kitchen doorway. ‘How was your run?’
‘Pretty good, actually.’
Fizz consulted the fitbit attached to her wrist.
‘Ten thousand, seven hundred and fifty steps in thirty minutes – not bad at all.’
She approached Nicola and gave her a careful embrace, holding back her sweaty body at a polite distance while kissing her on both cheeks.
‘This is such a cool place – I knew it would be from the pics, but it’s just as great as Will said it was.’
Fizz was the only one of the group who hadn’t yet seen their new home. She had opted out of the visits, telling Will to sort it out and she would wait until it was a definite thing. No point in getting her hopes up, she’d said, only to have them dashed. Will had told the others that he thought this showed unusual maturity and was touched by her faith in his judgement, though admitted in darker moments that maybe she hoped the scheme would be abandoned. He’d decided she had clearly gone cold on the idea when she couldn’t be bothered to accompany him on the subsequent trip when they signed the papers.
But now Nicola wanted to take Fizz’s enthusiasm at face value, yet couldn’t help wondering how on earth she would find it, trapped here in the middle of nowhere with a load of semi-retirees almost twice her age. Albeit young retirees, she reminded herself, not exactly a group of old pensioners.
‘I’m so glad you think so,’ she said. ‘We’re going to have a great time. The others are getting here later, then we can let our hair down and have a proper party.’
Fizz gave an amused smile to suggest that it wouldn’t exactly be her idea of a party, sitting around with a bunch of people twenty years older than her. She must be mad! Crazy, moi! And yet this challenge provided her with a real opportunity. She had been seriously concerned about leaving London to move into a quasi-retirement home in the depths of the French countryside. To be honest, she had even considered staying behind, leaving Will to get on with it and maybe visiting once a month. But then she began to think seriously about her vlogging idea. This could be her big chance. Plenty of vacuous people ten years younger than her were attracting two million followers with their boring tips on makeup; surely she could match that by doing something really different and interesting.
She’d come up with a great name for her YouTube channel. Mademoiselle Bovary. Like a younger, modern Madame Bovary – the Mademoiselle would let the viewers know that even though she was married, she’d kept her maiden name. In fact, she’d started out married life as Mrs Hodgkins but decided it was too depressing to have the same name as Will’s hatchet-faced first wife, and anyway, Felicity Fortescue had a far more dashing ring to it. The vlogs were going to be fab. She would tap into the angsty alienation of the rural French housewife, it would go down a storm and she could really start to make a name for herself as an influencer and holistic lifestyle guru. It remained to be seen if she’d be taken for a reputation-ruining ride in a carriage by a feckless French aristocrat. Probably not, but never say never.
‘I must have a shower,’ Fizz said. ‘Would you mind showing me our room?’
As if I’m the front-of-house of a luxury hotel, thought Nicola.
‘Um, a shower could be a bit of a stretch,’ she said, ‘but there is a hand-held attachment over the bath. Come with me.’
Fizz followed her up the stairs and down the corridor, to the opposite wing from Nicola and Dominic’s bedroom.
‘You’re in here,’ she said, opening the door. ‘Will was particularly keen on this room because of the bed – it’s been in the house forever, apparently. Isn’t it beautiful with all those carvings?’
Fizz ran her fingers over the engraved elm headboard, then walked across to the window.
�
�Fantastic view,’ she said, banging on the glass then waving at Will outside in the garden. He raised his beer bottle to her in response, and blew her a kiss. He’s drinking already! she thought. I’ll put a stop to that. Never in the daytime, that’s our rule.
‘So, where’s our bathroom?’ she asked, looking around the large room for a door to the ensuite. ‘All I can see is that funny little basin in the corner.’
‘Isn’t it adorable?’ said Nicola. ‘I love the taps. There are two bathrooms to choose from. Neither has a shower, as I explained, but they make up for it in period detail. Come with me and I’ll show you.’
Fizz looked disgruntled but followed Nicola down the corridor.
‘The first one is here,’ said Nicola, opening the door to a room with a freestanding iron bath and a washstand with a basin dropped into a wooden cabinet.
‘There’s no loo,’ said Fizz.
‘Ah no, that’s at the end of the corridor, in glorious isolation. A real old thunderbox, in the grandest country house tradition.’
‘So, let’s get this straight, we are all sharing one loo and two bathrooms?’
‘For the time being, until we get the renovations underway. And there’s another loo downstairs, of course.’
Fizz put her hands to her face.
‘I had no idea it would be so primitive,’ she said. ‘I mean, it’s all very well if you’re at a festival for a couple of days . . .’
‘You’ll get used to it,’ said Nicola briskly. ‘You don’t know you’re born, you youngsters. I remember when I was growing up and we had a second bathroom put in – it was considered the height of decadence.’
‘And I expect you had an outside loo in those days,’ said Fizz, with an attempt at humour.
‘Haha, we’re not that old! It will be fine, you’ll see. As you know, we have elaborate plans to upgrade in due course, but we all have to share until then. It’s part of the fun.’
‘If you say so,’ said Fizz. ‘I guess for the time being I’ll just have to pretend I’m camping.’
