by Sarah Long
‘Ah yes, Nicola mentioned you were writing a novel. Dare I ask how it’s going?’
‘It’s taking its own sweet course – you can’t rush these things.’
‘Of course you can’t. And moving house is a big distraction.’
‘A welcome distraction, as they all are!’
Simon slumped down into a chair and poured a generous measure of calvados into his coffee cup.
‘To be honest, Dom, it’s probably a load of crap, this book of mine. Most days I just stare at what I’ve written and can’t believe my own inanity. But you’ve got to have a go, haven’t you?’ He perked up. ‘I’ve decided to introduce a French flavour, inspired by our new surroundings. There might even be a cameo role for Madame de Courcy!’
‘Unbelievable, wasn’t it? Letting herself into our house like that! At that time of night!’
‘Her house, apparently. She definitely said, “Welcome to my château”.’
‘I’m afraid there’s going to be a lot of that if we’re not careful. We need to change the locks, it’s obvious. Nicola says that would be very hurtful, but we can’t have her breezing in whenever she feels like it.’
‘That’s Nicola for you,’ said Simon. ‘She’s always been too kind for her own good.’
Here we go again, thought Dominic, another compliment in praise of St Nicola, the dream girlfriend who got away. He honestly didn’t know how Beth put up with it.
‘Is she up?’ he asked. ‘Beth’s still out cold – I’ve never known anyone sleep like her; the house could fall down around her and she’d still be there, snoring away.’
‘Nicola’s outside, getting started on the vegetable garden. Plenty to do there.’
‘Plenty to do everywhere.’
Simon took a sip of his fortified coffee and walked towards the window through which he could see Nicola pushing a loaded wheelbarrow towards the bonfire heap.
‘Can’t help feeling we should have a team of gardeners in place to do all that, don’t you? A household staff of twenty or so, in the interest of authenticity. You can’t i magine previous lords of the manor doing their own dirty work; they’d be off fighting wars or sucking up to the king or sitting on Rococo chairs with spindly legs, counting their money.’
‘Or writing their novels?’
‘Or writing their novels. Speaking of which, I must away. Thanks for the coffee, mate, see you at lunch!’
He clapped Dominic on the shoulder and sauntered off, leaving Dom to wonder whether it would become necessary to draw up a schedule of tasks to make sure that everyone was doing their share. A simple spreadsheet was all it would take; he’d get on it right away. Nothing officious, just a means of keeping the wheels turning, and dividing the work up evenly. More specifically, he wanted to ensure that Simon pulled his considerable weight, the old boozehound.
‘Good morning, Dominic!’
Mary appeared in the kitchen doorway, wearing a pinny and rubber gloves and holding a gaudy extendable duster that looked like a stick of candyfloss.
‘Hello, Mary. You look dressed for action.’
‘I’m raring to go. I’m not much good at cooking – certainly not up to Nicola’s standard – but I bring other talents. I’m going to start with the fireplaces.’
‘That’s great. I can see you are going to become the most popular housemate.’
He watched her bustling over to the sink. She was going to be worth ten of Simon when it came to mucking in; he wouldn’t need to chase her up on the spreadsheet. Mind you, she’d have to double up for Dougie on the practical front, but Dom could see he’d be useful for keeping a tight rein on expenditure. And maybe conducting tours of the château if and when they eventually opened to the public, leading groups of tourists through the grand rooms and bludgeoning them with historical information.
Mary filled her bucket from the creaky old tap and tried not to notice the cracks in the butler sink. She didn’t want to think about the germs that might be lurking there. The wooden work surfaces didn’t look too bad – they would scrub up nicely – but the shelves beneath were another story. She pulled back the greasy little curtains that were strung on a plastic wire and crouched down to inspect what they concealed: crumbs, dead flies and what looked like mouse-droppings
‘I’ve changed my mind,’ she said. ‘I’d better start in here. We can’t think of unpacking the kitchenware until this is cleaned up – we could all be wiped out. I’m amazed that Madame de Courcy could live like this; she’s so elegant. It doesn’t make sense that she would keep a kitchen in this condition.’
‘I get the impression she never came in here,’ said Dominic, coming up behind her to have a closer look. ‘She had an ancient maid whose eyesight was failing, which might explain it. What is that?’
Mary had pulled out the corpse of what appeared to be a large mouse – not the sort he knew from London, one with a longer, decorative coat that could have been straight from the pages of a children’s book.
‘I thought maybe it was a rat,’ she said, ‘except for that cute tail, which makes it look less threatening. I’m pretty sure it’s a dormouse.’
She threw the animal into the bin and laughed at Dominic’s appalled expression.
‘Don’t look so horrified, Dom, it’s perfectly usual to find animals in the countryside. The trick is to make sure they stay outside.’
‘I can’t believe you’re so calm about it – you’re supposed to be the clean freak!’
‘And I’m surprised you’re so upset by it,’ said Mary. ‘We just need to put some traps down. We can use those humane ones that cage them in, then you won’t have the trauma of running into dead rodents all round the house. Leave it to me, I’ll happily act as chief vermin officer.’
‘I’m grateful. It’s not quite the job title I was after when I quit my office,’ said Dom. ‘I guess we were all looking for some kind of new role, some change of life when we said yes to moving here . . . but ratcatcher is not high up my list.’
*
Upstairs, Beth was sitting up in bed and waiting for the aspirin to take effect. The euphoria of the previous night had given way to a dull hangover and faint misgivings about what they had undertaken. The room was piled up with boxes of their clothes but it was unclear how many of them would be of any use out here in the sticks. Her Vivienne Westwood would be redundant; she was hardly going to dress up to pop out to buy a baguette. Not like in the office, where they used to comment on what everyone was wearing; it was all part of the fun and her young colleagues would often pass compliments on whatever clever top she had managed to find to disguise the increasing softness of her stomach.
Her phoned beeped with a message from Eva.
Have you arrived, Mum? How is it? I had a nightmare day yesterday, really not sure I can take much more of this.
How long would it be, Beth wondered, before she would be free from worrying about her child? She’d heard it said that you never are, it goes on for the rest of your life, and she suspected this was the case. A child is for life, not just for childhood, in the same way that a dog is not just for Christmas, though she crushed that blasphemous thought at once. Eva was the love of her life, along with Simon. Beth just wished she wasn’t quite so whiny.
She summoned the energy to reply in her accustomed way, the jolly-her-along supportive mother, caring but robust.
What’s up? Remember I’ve got your back. Whatever it is, you can do it, you’ll see x
Though what she really wanted to say was: Leave me alone until the pills have kicked in, I’ve got a bitch of a hangover and don’t want to hear your tales of woe right now. She took a photo through the window and sent it with positive noises about blue skies, apple blossom and Downton Abbey grandeur.
God you’re so lucky, I wish I had your life.
Why would a young woman in her prime want the life of her old mum? Beth would never have had that thought at her age, but her daughter’s generation seemed to be growing up in the shadow of everything t
he baby boomers had done, or maybe it was only Eva who believed that everybody had it better than her.
Beth switched off her phone. Fresh air was what she required. She heaved herself out of bed and pulled on her baggy jeans. It was time to join Nicola on the vegetable patch.
*
Her mood lifted as she made her way down the staircase. She knew she could never grow tired of this entrance hall; she felt her soul expand with the grandeur of it. She opened the front door to the sound of Mary’s hoover whirring and stepped out into the spring sunshine. It had rained in the night and the grass was shining, the white apple blossom even more luminous than she remembered. She walked round to the back of the château, down towards the lake and on to the stone walls that enclosed a hidden garden. Nicola stood up, resting on her fork, to greet her friend.
‘What have we got here?’ asked Beth. ‘Artichokes, I hope, and fennel. Artichauts et fenouil – you see, I’ve still got the vocab.’
‘Nothing but weeds as far as I can tell. I thought I’d get some lettuces in as soon as possible.’
‘You’ve wanted a walled garden forever, haven’t you, and now your dream has come true. I love those trees pinned against the wall – they look so organised.’
‘Espaliered, for easy picking. When we’re in our bath chairs we will be able to reach up our wizened arms and pluck the low-hanging fruit. I want flowers, too. Look at these beautiful alchemillas.’
She led Beth towards a clump of lady’s mantle, the fan-shaped leaves enclosing drops of water like pearls.
‘That’s a rare sight,’ said Beth. ‘An antidote to my morning-after-the-night-before gueule de bois – I love that expression, don’t you? Wooden mouth.’
‘We all overdid it last night,’ said Nicola.
‘And my headache was compounded by an anxious message from Eva this morning.’
‘I know the feeling. You think you can scurry off to a foreign country and leave your troubles behind, then you realise they’ve come with you.’
‘Yours too?’
‘Gus is a bit sulky. You’d think they’d be delighted to have the place to themselves, but oh no. They’re both missing the services I provided. Suddenly the fridge isn’t full and the washing machine no longer magically turns itself on, it would seem.’
‘Good to have a bit of distance, though,’ said Beth. ‘Come on, let’s lose ourselves in honest toil.’
She picked up a spade and worked alongside Nicola, turning over the earth and plucking out the weeds.
‘Pretty hard grind, isn’t it?’ said Beth, taking a pause after a shamefully short time.
She wedged her spade into the wet earth and leaned upon it, gazing back to count the windows of the château. Nigh on a hundred of them, surely, if you included the skylights. At that moment, she noticed a tractor entering the field. It was driving towards them and stopped just outside the gate of the walled garden. A figure in blue overalls climbed down from the seat and began to walk purposefully in their direction.
‘Look, Nicola, we’ve got company!’
Nicola stopped what she was doing to check out the athletic-looking man who was hurrying towards them, lighting a cigarette on the way.
‘He looks like he’s stepped straight out of a moody French film,’ said Beth as the figure drew nearer. ‘I love his boiler-suit; there’s something so iconic about that shade of indigo.’
‘Bonjour, mesdames,’ said the interloper, shaking their hands with immaculate formality. ‘I have come to introduce myself. Jean-Louis, I am the farmer whose beasts you will have seen in your fields. I want to wish you welcome.’
It took Beth a moment to translate. Perhaps she was out of practice, perhaps it was his strong Norman accent, or perhaps it was because she was concentrating on looking rather than listening. He was in his forties, she guessed, tall and fair – it must be those Viking genes. He was looking at Nicola with frank admiration and Beth was amused to see she wasn’t immune to his charms, the little coquette, flicking her hair back and smiling up at him.
‘I hope you understand me?’ he said. ‘My English is negligible, so you will excuse me if I speak in French.’
He flicked his lighter to reignite the roll-up cigarette that appeared to have gone out.
‘My friend here speaks it better than me,’ Nicola said in her faltering French, ‘but I’m trying to improve.’
‘Bravo,’ he said, his cigarette now glowing again. ‘I have a mini-pelle that will make your work much easier; it will turn the soil with greater efficiency. Tomorrow I will bring it to you.’
‘Thank you,’ said Nicola, making the correct assumption that he was talking about a piece of machinery. ‘That would be a great help. I’m Nicola, by the way, and this is Beth.’
This seemed to amuse him.
‘Bett, like my bêtes!’ he said, pointing to his cows in the field.
‘No, my name is Beth. Th. With the tongue between the teeth, like this.’ Beth gave an exaggerated demonstration.
He tried to follow her example, but the sound was unfamiliar to his French tongue. Extraordinary, thought Beth, that the accident of being born in a different country should prevent you from being able to pronounce basic elements of a different language. She thought of all the clunky pronunciations and fumbled mistranslations she had struggled with back when she was learning.
‘And Nicolas for us is a man’s name,’ he said. ‘I shall have to call you Nicolette.’
‘Nicolette,’ said Nicola. ‘I like the sound of that.’
Beth could tell she also liked the sound of him generally. She knew her friend never had eyes for anyone but Dom, but she thought it would do no harm for Nicola to realise she could still turn heads. They weren’t all over the hill yet.
‘I am glad to continue my association with the château,’ he went on. ‘My family has been farming this land for three centuries. When Madame de Courcy told me she was selling, I feared that might be the end of our arrangement, but the notaire assured me that you wished to continue the tenancy, and for that I am profoundly obliged.’
He gave a courtly nod.
‘We don’t know one end of a tractor from the other,’ said Nicola, ‘and we have plenty to occupy us here with the buildings, so we’re delighted you’re taking care of the land.’
The friends had been pleased there was someone to tend the rolling fields around the château, and Dougie in particular had been relieved to see the rent – albeit barely more than peppercorn – would give some welcome contribution to their coffers.
Jean-Louis was watching Nicola intently as she spoke, and she seemed to be searching for the right words.
‘It’s such a – how do you say it in French? – attractive backdrop for us,’ she added. ‘The château seems to be at home in these hills. Le château paraît bien chez soi ici!’
He nodded his approval and Nicola was glad that he liked what she said; it was encouraging to think her language practice was yielding results.
‘There is a bond between farmer and land. I feel I must respect the traditional landscape – I am not one of those destructive agriculturalists who go tearing out hedges and planting only one crop as far as the eye can see. To me that is an abomination.’
He looked quite fierce as he recounted the sins of other farmers. Nicola could see he was passionate about his profession and took great pride in his association with the château. They were lucky to have him, she thought.
He relit his cigarette.
‘I must continue my work now, but I would like to invite you soon to take the aperitif in my house. With your husbands, of course.’
He shook hands with them both and took his leave.
‘What on earth is a mini-pelle?’ asked Nicola, once he was out of earshot. ‘I’m glad you were here – I found his accent quite difficult.’
‘He’s obviously taken a shine to you. Did you notice how he managed to keep his roll-up attached to his lip while he was talking? Quite a feat. Anyway, let’s crack on, it must
be nearly lunchtime.’
Nicola watched Jean-Louis’s retreating form, with his long legs and easy stride. It was comforting to have congenial neighbours. She looked forward to getting to know him.
*
Leo was setting the table for lunch, trying to take his mind off the leaking roof that had ruined his sleep. He’d already spoken to Dominic about it – it was impossible for him to carry on sleeping in that room; they needed to overhaul the roof right away. The rain dripping onto his bedroom floor woke him up in the middle of the night and forced him to go in search of a bucket, fumbling his way down two flights of stairs, searching for unfamiliar light switches until he reached the back kitchen. He was then driven mad by the rhythmic drumming of raindrops on the base of the plastic receptacle, and had to stuff a towel inside to soften the effect.
He thought of his immaculate London townhouse, now under the care of its new tenant. What if David showed up, realising he had made a colossal mistake? Leo pictured him letting himself in and calling out, ‘Honey, I’m home!’ the way he always did, only to find an intruder installed in their former love nest.
He pushed aside this unhelpful scenario. There had been no contact for five months and if David wanted to get in touch, he only had to pick up his phone. The age for tragic misunderstandings was over, now we had so many means of instant communication. The silence was definitive, a big fat ‘I don’t love you anymore’.
The table was completed now with nine place settings. Leo admired his handiwork and thought about what to serve. Such mass catering was foreign to him; he and David used to give occasional dinner parties but in the last months it had been a tragic dinner for one most nights. The warmth and inclusiveness of this new living arrangement was appealing, but he needed to ensure he didn’t run to fat with all the tempting food on offer. God forbid he turn into Simon, though Dominic and Will were in good shape and Dougie was positively skinny, a bag of bones, really, rattling around inside his tweeds.
‘Hi, Leo, can I give you a hand?’
Fizz came in, wearing a bohemian maxi dress in a swirling turquoise print.
