A Year in the Château

by Sarah Long

  ‘Can you film me standing outside this shop? Give me that baguette, Beth, I want a real French flavour to this one. I need to ratchet up the envy, let everyone know I’m living the dream. Imagine my followers stuck at their desks, wishing they were me. All I’m missing is a string of onions – oh look, they sell them here! I’ll pop back in afterwards and pay for it.’

  She selected a smooth plait of red onions, miraculously knotted together.

  ‘I thought you told your followers you were gluten-intolerant,’ said Beth, handing her the bread. ‘Won’t it strike a false note?’

  ‘I’m going to edit that out. Actually, I think I am gluten intolerant, but French bread is so good that I’ve decided to overlook my intolerance.’

  ‘Very tolerant of you,’ said Beth.

  ‘It’s bad enough being a vegetarian over here; I have to cut myself some slack somewhere.’

  ‘Let’s get some pictures first. Get you warmed up. Give me a pout,’ said Leo, holding up her phone.

  Fizz struck a provocative pose, throwing the string of onions around her neck and holding the baguette across the Breton-striped shirt she was wearing over cropped jeans and a pair of clogs. She could pout for England, thought Beth. She was the very epitome of millennial poutiness.

  ‘Now, walk past the salad displays and wonder aloud about which lettuce you should choose,’ said Leo, enjoying his role as director.

  Fizz did as she was told, turning to the camera to point out the difference between roquette and mâche, batavia and feuille de chêne.

  ‘Gorgeous,’ said Leo, handing back her phone. ‘That’s going to double your number of followers immediately.’

  They walked together along the street, peering in the shop windows.

  ‘Can you imagine anyone actually buying anything in here?’ said Fizz outside the optimistically named Mode de Femmes. The window display featured a drab pleated skirt and a swirly patterned jumper. ’You hear about French chic, but honestly.’

  ‘I think it’s Parisians who dress well, not necessarily the locals,’ said Beth. ‘You can really spot the city dwellers when they come down for the weekends.’

  They had soon become attuned to the tell-tale sign on the number plates of cars belonging to fashionable second-homers – the number 75 inscribed on a blue panel on the right-hand side, letting everyone know they were from the capital.

  ‘Their fashion, their number plates and their bad-tempered faces,’ said Leo. ‘I can quite see why the locals hate them. Unlike us, I must say. It feels like everyone we’ve met so far appreciates our enthusiasm for embracing the French country life.’

  As if to prove his point, the local drunk stopped by to greet them, waving his half-empty bottle of rosé then shaking them all by the hand.

  ‘Dear old Willy,’ said Leo. ‘You must admit he’s got some class – a bottle of côtes de provence instead of a beer can.’

  ‘Has he turned up on your Grindr search yet?’ asked Fizz.

  They were fascinated by Leo’s forays into French dating. A regular after-dinner entertainment involved passing round his phone to offer opinions on the surprisingly high number of potential hook-ups in their local area. Leo hadn’t yet met any of them in the flesh; said he was just window-shopping.

  ‘I think our resident drunk is more old school, and definitely not gay.’

  ‘He’s got good hair, actually,’ said Fizz. ‘Certainly better than most of the women around here. What is it with the aubergine short back and sides they all go in for?’

  ‘We can’t all have your flowing tresses, Felicity,’ said Leo.

  They drove home, listening to Beth’s ‘French and Happy’ playlist in honour of their new life, featuring the best of Edith Piaf and Sacha Distel. By the time they drove through the gates, they were all singing along to ‘Chanson D’Amour’.

  ‘I really like these old songs,’ said Fizz. ‘I do sometimes think I was born in the wrong age.’

  ‘You’re hanging with the right crowd then,’ said Beth. Then, ‘What the hell!’

  She slammed on the brakes, just in time to avoid the car being struck by a procession of roof slates crashing down on the driveway before them. A very tall ladder was leaning against the front of the château, with a man standing on top of it who appeared to have provoked the dramatic cascade.

  Leo stepped out of the car and picked his way through the smashed slates towards the foot of the ladder. The noise brought Dominic and Dougie running out of the house, and by the time the builder reached the ground, he was surrounded by a circle of accusing faces.

  He held up his hands in self-defence.

  ‘Desolé! But it is as I thought. The roof is dead – you see for yourself, the tiles, you only have to touch one and they all come down, like a set of dominos . . .’

  ‘I’m staying out of this,’ Beth whispered to Fizz. ‘Let’s take in the shopping.’

  She lifted two bags out of the boot, but Fizz instead took her phone from her pocket and started filming the intense conversation that was taking place about the roof.

  ‘Got it!’ she said, slipping her phone away. ‘It’s good to show a bit of conflict. Poor Mademoiselle Bovary, almost killed by falling roof tiles, and now the old men are coming to her rescue.’

  ‘Mademoiselle Bovary – is that you?’

  ‘Yes, do you like it?’

  ‘I do! And what is my role in this – the old housekeeper?’

  ‘More of a wise woman – you’ll see.’

  She helped Beth carry the shopping in, arranging the vegetables artfully in a ceramic bowl on the battered kitchen counter. Beth saw she had a missed call and a message from Eva.

  ‘It looks like we’re about to have our first visitor,’ she said. ‘Eva says she fancies a break and asks can she come over next week. That’s lovely news for me; hope the rest of you don’t mind?’

  ‘Great, I can’t wait to meet her,’ said Fizz. ‘It’s not as if we don’t have the space!’

  Beth couldn’t wait to show Eva the place. She paused as another crash came from the roof. She just hoped the château was still standing by the time she arrived.

  *

  In the orchard, Nicola pegged out the final pillow case and stood back to admire the long line of fresh laundry blowing in the breeze. A gust of wind filled the fitted sheet and lifted it, just the way that you saw on sailing ships, which presumably was why yachties referred to them as sheets. Taking pleasure in simple tasks was a great benefit of her new life; she was constantly delighted by the exoticism of performing chores in the great outdoors. No comparison to loading the tumble dryer in London, with its monotonous, energy-guzzling drone.

  At the far end of the orchard, Will was engaged in his favourite activity: sitting on the tractor, plugged into his music, and mowing the grass to within an inch of its life. Nicola wanted a more laissez-faire approach, creating a wildflower meadow, but he wasn’t having it.

  ‘I’m thinking of you,’ he said. ‘You don’t want to walk through wet grass to hang the washing out, and we have our cricket pitch to think of – we don’t want the seeds from your wilderness blowing over and ruining our surface.’ He had compromised by allowing her a modest patch in one corner of the orchard, where she had scattered a packet of bee-friendly poppy and cornflower seeds, anticipating the summer blooms that would nourish the honey bees and enable them to fill the hives they had unearthed from one of the barns.

  Suddenly she heard an almighty crash coming from the direction of the château, and spun round to see what was happening. She couldn’t make it out at all at this distance. Maybe Jean-Louis was doing something with his farm equipment; he always seemed to be heaving some piece of heavy machinery behind his tractor. She sat down on the upturned laundry basket and gazed back down over the valley, breathing in the air and admiring the early spring flowers that already decorated the meadow.

  A few minutes later, she was disturbed by Simon striding across the field towards her.

  ‘The maid was
in the garden, hanging out the clothes,’ he said, plonking himself down beside her on the laundry basket, out of breath from the brief walk. ‘You look the very picture of nursery rhyme contentment.’

  ‘Until the blackbird comes down and pecks off my nose.’

  ‘A very pretty nose it is, too. Anyway, I’ve just come over to put your mind at rest. That crashing sound was our roof tumbling to the ground, but the good news is it didn’t land on anybody’s head and the builder says he can start work on it right away.’

  Nicola looked at him in alarm.

  ‘Imagine if one of us had been hit by falling debris – what a terrible thing that would have been!’

  ‘The Curse of the Château. Maybe that could be the title of my next book.’

  ‘You’ve got to finish this one first.’

  ‘On that subject, I was looking at the chapel this morning and thinking what a fabulous writing den it could become. So much inspiration; history breathing through it. I’m thinking of moving my desk over there so I can see the land through the filter of the stained-glass window. It’s just the spur I need to drive me on.’

  ‘Are you sure you’re really writing this book? You won’t tell us what it’s about, you always seem keen on any distraction, and I thought the best view for concentrating was supposed to be a blank wall.’

  ‘If I wanted to stare at a blank wall, I could have stayed in London. I certainly wouldn’t have agreed to move to a massive great château in a country estate. I’m maximising the opportunities, all of them. And enjoying the company. Especially yours.’

  Nicola stood up; it was feeling a little too cosy with the two of them squeezed up together on the basket.

  ‘Me too,’ she said. ‘I love having people around; it seems much more normal somehow than being in an isolated couple. Those bleak pairs of pensioners who sit silently opposite each other, that will never be us, thank goodness.’

  ‘You couldn’t be bleak if you tried.’

  Nicola glared at him. She was starting to find his compliments very irksome. He’d never been like this back home. Why was he suddenly digging up their ancient history?

  ‘Leave it out, Simon.’

  ‘Leave what out? Expressing the fact that I’m enjoying your company?’

  ‘You know what I mean. Sidling up to me with your flirtatious comments. It’s creepy, as if my brother were hitting on me. And get up: I want to take that laundry basket back up to the house.’

  Simon obediently stood up and she picked up the basket.

  ‘That’s harsh,’ he said. ‘You didn’t used to think of me as your brother. What about that time in Buenos Aires, after we’d been to that bar? Don’t you remember?’

  ‘No, not really. Well, maybe I do, but that’s safely filed away in the distant memory category. You can’t carry on dredging it up, it’s absurd.’

  She started walking back to the house and Simon fell in step beside her.

  ‘I’m being honest with you, that’s all . . .’

  Undeterred, he carried on talking.

  ‘Since we moved here, I’ve found that I’m really thinking about what’s important to me. Questioning my life choices, thinking I should have made more of an effort to win you back . . .’

  Nicola stopped in her tracks and looked him sternly in the face.

  ‘Stop it! I’ve had enough of this nonsense! You made excellent life choices – you married my favourite woman in the world and we’ve all been friends ever since! I would never have suggested we go into this venture together if I knew you were feeling this way. And I don’t even think you are feeling this way. I think you’re a bit bored and seeking distraction from the impossible task you’ve set yourself for writing your plotless novel, or whatever it is . . .’

  ‘The definitive state-of-the-nation novel, actually. Although I’ve confused myself slightly by moving abroad. Can you write a state-of-the-nation novel when you’re no longer living in the nation? Maybe I should set it in France – there’s a thought. Become the new Michel Houellebecq.’

  ‘It’s clear to me you haven’t written a word of it; every time you talk about it, there’s a different story.’

  ‘Thoughts. Feelings. Snatches of brilliance. That’s the way to start, then structure it later.’

  ‘As long as I’m not in it, featured as some kind of fantasy figure!’

  ‘Any resemblance to persons living or dead is purely coincidental.’

  ‘Good, make sure you keep it that way.’

  *

  When they turned the corner they saw Beth and Leo collecting the shattered roof tiles from the driveway and heaping them up against the wall. Beth waved at them cheerfully and Nicola felt a twinge of guilt, as if she was somehow complicit in Simon’s infatuation. How dare he put her in this position, making her feel like she was somehow betraying her friend. It just wasn’t fair!

  ‘You missed the roofer,’ said Beth. ‘He touched one tile and the whole lot came tumbling down. It was pretty dramatic.’

  Nicola gazed up at the roof; patches of it were clearly missing, revealing the structure beneath.

  ‘We’ll have to deal with that fairly urgently.’

  She put down her basket and joined them in clearing up the mess.

  ‘The roofer and Dom were in earnest conversation over a document, which I presume was his estimate,’ said Beth. ‘But I refuse to let that get me down on this glorious morning. I’m as happy as God in France, aren’t you? Did you know that’s a German expression? But I think we can adopt it.’

  Simon sat down on a stone bench and watched them at work.

  ‘Sounds like something Napoleon would have come up with,’ he said. ‘He seems to be responsible for most of France’s cultural history. You can’t make an omelette without breaking eggs – that’s one of his. He’s their version of Shakespeare, I suppose.’

  ‘He had unusually small genitals, apparently,’ said Beth. ‘Only one and a half inches.’

  ‘The things you know!’ said Simon admiringly. ‘That explains the Napoleon complex, I guess. Not that I would know what that feels like, as you know.’

  ‘I know, I’m a very lucky woman,’ Beth said sharply. ‘Exciting news, by the way: Eva’s coming to stay. She just texted me; I’m going to ring her back.’

  ‘Can’t live without us, clearly,’ said Simon, pleased. ‘They’re releasing her from the apothecary’s coven, then?’

  ‘Physician’s associate course, yes. They have a week’s holiday. Though she says she’ll have to do a lot of studying while she’s here.’

  ‘What about James?’

  ‘No, he’s working.’

  ‘Good.’

  ‘She said she needed a break; not sure if she means from him.’

  ‘A permanent break would be the best idea. I don’t know how she puts up with his endless descriptions of what he spent his last bonus on.’

  ‘I agree, he wouldn’t be my choice. He doesn’t care about anything you can’t put a price tag on, and that’s certainly not Eva. Do you remember when he said she was crazy for wanting to work in the NHS when she could go into cosmetic medicine instead and make a killing out of Botox and fillers?’

  ‘Bring back the hamsters, I say. I’d prefer any of them over him.’

  Hamsters was the term Simon employed to refer to his daughter’s previous boyfriends. So-called because they were cute and cuddly and didn’t last long.

  ‘That’s great news,’ said Nicola. ‘Our inaugural visitor.’

  Beth stood up from her pile of slates and stretched her back, hands on hips.

  ‘Time for a coffee, I think. Shall we go in?’

  ‘I’m going to get changed,’ said Leo, heading for the staircase as they went through the door. ‘I’m covered in ancient roof tile dust. I’ll be down in a minute.’

  *

  On their way through to the kitchen, the others passed Dominic, who was sitting, grave-faced, at the dining table.

  ‘Dom, what on earth happened?’
asked Nicola. ‘You’re looking less than your usual cheery self.’

  ‘Sorry, my cheerful hat just slipped.’

  He pushed a letter across the table for them to see.

  ‘It’s the estimate from the roofer.’

  Nicola looked through the detailed sheets until she arrived at the mind-boggling final figure.

  ‘Blimey,’ she said, passing it on to Beth and Simon, who read it in silence.

  ‘I know. I’m thinking, how difficult can it be to hang a few tiles? Maybe we should try to fix it ourselves.’

  ‘You are joking,’ said Beth. ‘Think about Nigel in The Archers. I can still hear his blood-curdling cry when he fell to his death. I agree that there is a lot we can manage – we’ve all done painting and decorating and Simon’s a dab hand at tiling. But I draw the line at climbing up on that roof. Look at what happened just now, and he was a professional!’

  ‘I’ll second that,’ said Simon. ‘Very happy to be on bathroom-tiling duty but I don’t have the physique for clambering over scaffolding. Plus I’m a coward with no head for heights.’

  Dougie wandered in through the French windows, having been checking for fallen slates on the other side of the château.

  ‘Not so much damage out the back; I’ve put them all in a pile. And I’ve just said goodbye to the roofer. He seems a jolly nice chap, actually . . .’

  He stopped when he sensed the sombre mood in the room.

  ‘What’s going on here?’ he said. ‘You look like you’ve had some very bad news.’

  ‘You could say that,’ said Beth. ‘But put it this way, Dougie: would you rather shimmy up a very tall ladder to repair the roof, or leave it to the professionals?’

  ‘Ah. Well, I think there’s only one answer to that question.’

  ‘Dougie on the roof!’ Fizz snorted at the idea. They were all pretty old but Dougie seemed oldest of all to her, with his fusty old tweeds.

  ‘Take a look at this,’ said Beth, passing him the offending document.

  ‘Good Lord,’ said Dougie, after reading through it twice. ‘Do you think he’s added an extra zero by mistake? Or maybe he’s quoting in old francs.’

  ‘I don’t think so,’ said Dominic. ‘He seemed a very modern young man. With unfeasibly smooth hands, I thought, for a manual labourer. I assume he brings in a team of tougher specimens to actually do the work.’