I’d imagined the Mayor of Saint Quentin would be scary, but Monsieur Dubois reminds me a little of my Grandad, which helps me to relax. I manage to air kiss Madame Dubois with better timing. Her perfume engulfs me – Chanel no 5, Gran’s favourite. She said you couldn’t go wrong with a classic.
There’s nothing for it. If I’m going to fit in around here, I’m going to have to get used to kissing complete strangers, even if it does feel a little odd. My family aren’t exactly tactile. I can’t remember the last time my parents hugged me. It’s a bit weird that I’ve had more physical contact with my new neighbours in the past few minutes than with my own flesh and blood in the past few years.
“We are very glad to welcome you to the village,” Monsieur Dubois declares in slow, carefully pronounced English.
I’ve noticed that whenever I try to speak French people reply to me in English. I’m going to have to work on my accent; is it really that bad?
“Thank you, I’m very happy to be here.” I look anxiously at his rigid frame, his hand rests casually on a fence post but I can see it’s holding him up. “Would you like to come and sit down or…”
I hesitate, aware that he’s only covered half the distance to my garden, not wanting him to now feel obliged to finish the journey.
Madame Dubois catches my eye. There’s a canny gleam in the way she sizes me up, as though she’s reading my mind. She gives me an almost imperceptible, approving nod.
“No need my cherie. We will go back in just a moment. Is everything okay with the house? Do you need anything?” She arches an eyebrow, and I catch a glimpse of the imperious, grand persona I imagine her bringing out on official occasions or when she talks to her staff.
“Everything is perfect, thank you. I’m sure we’re going to be happy here,” I reply, not quite ready to admit that “we” has shrunk to just me and the dogs.
Madame Dubois is peering over my shoulder, no doubt looking for Pete. I do wish I were better dressed. My denim skirt and handmade jersey top contrasts unfavourably with Madame Dubois’s elegant silk dress. She’s so beautifully turned out, I can’t imagine her ever eating dinner in her PJs.
The image that thought conjures in my mind is so amusing that I wish I had my sketchbook to hand. I suppress a smile and get the impression that our curiosity is mutual, but we’re both too polite to voice our questions.
When our eyes meet I feel a connection, like there are undercurrents we are both aware of. She is wondering where my boyfriend is and what I’m doing here, and I’m wondering what made them sell the house, why they are sad and if her husband is seriously ill.
“We have this for you, just a small welcome gift for a new neighbour.” She presents me with a gift bag.
“Oh, thank you, you shouldn’t have.” I peek inside the bag and spy a bottle of wine from the Saint-Quentin-surAude vineyard along with a box of some very nice-looking chocolates.
Monsieur Dubois smiles back indulgently. “De rien cherie.”
Their kindness knocks my fragile control of my emotions and I blink hard.
“So, are you my nearest neighbour?” I ask briskly, trying to keep the conversation firmly on the small talk tracks. “Does someone live in the converted barn over there?”
The barn is about equidistant between Les Coquelicots and the Chateau. It looks intriguing. I long to have a nose round, maybe get some ideas. Along with A Place in the Sun, I’m also a big fan of Grand Designs. Pete and I used to watch that together and discuss how we would design our own renovations. I try to push those memories firmly away.
“Our son Leo lives there. He is a vet,” Madame Dubois replies proudly. “He had a very successful practice in Paris, but now he has come back to live at home.”
I wonder if he’s come home because Monsieur Dubois is sick. I also wonder if he’s the scowling man I saw earlier. Maybe he was just preoccupied with bad news and not up to being friendly to a stranger. I get that.
“I hope it will not be too quiet for you here.” Madame Dubois is watching me closely with an interested gleam. She’s definitely fishing. “You come from London, yes?”
“Yes.” I’ve given up trying to distinguish Greater London from Central London when talking to anyone outside of the UK. “But I’m sure it won’t be too quiet. I love it here, and so do the dogs.”
I’ve been trying to keep an eye on them as they race back and forth. I’m going to have to go round and check all the fencing. I sigh, feeling suddenly very tired.
“It won’t be quiet when Angeline moves the donkeys back into this field.” Monsieur Dubois cracks a side smile and gestures to the field bordering my garden. “She’s the other village vet, although her sanctuary animals seem to be expanding in numbers each year.”
“The donkeys help keep the grass down.” Madame Dubois touches her husband’s elbow, a gentle gesture that is obviously part of their secret couple’s language. “We must go now, Poppy. But also, we came to invite you to the chateau for aperitifs tomorrow evening at seven o’clock. So we can welcome you properly to the village.”
“Oh, thank you, that would be lovely. It may only be me though. Pete is still in London working.” Heat blossoms in my cheeks and I wonder how much of the truth Madame Dubois sees in my eyes. I’ve never been good at lying and have nothing vaguely resembling a poker face.
“Thank you so much for the gift and for all the things you left for me in the house.” I gabble on quickly before she can ask anything about Pete. I swing the gift bag nervously, wondering if we have to go through the kissing ritual again, determined not to muck it up and accidentally snog Saint Quentin’s mayor.
“It is our pleasure.” Madame Dubois moves in to air kiss me again, and I feel the weight of all the things sensed but not acknowledged hanging between us. The words not said weave questions in the air, stories of pain and loss for another day and on better acquaintance.
Monsieur Dubois lightens the mood by deliberately kissing me lightly on the lips with his third kiss.
Even though it’s a very chaste kiss, my cheeks flame hotter, and Madame Dubois swats her husband’s arm and rolls her eyes. There’s an affectionate bond between them that makes me yearn for what they have. I manage to hide my tears by turning to scoop up Peanut who is deliberately ignoring my call for her to follow me in favour of a particularly interesting scent on a bush.
Something about the stoicism of the older couple makes me decide not to waste time mourning “Pete the Prick” as I’ll now call him. There’s far too much on my to-do list for indulgent self-pity. I’ve got a deadline for the next Fenella Fairy book as well as everything I need to do with the house. Fenella is a feisty fairy with plenty of attitude. I’m going to channel my inner Fenella and get through this.
Looking down at the gift bag, I feel something of the magnetic tug that I felt the first time I saw Les Coquelicots. I’m meant to be here for some reason. There is community here.
There is connection.
If I fainted here in Saint Quentin, someone would stop what they were doing and help me back up on my feet again, I’m sure of it. I think about the man I saw earlier scooping me up in his arms, à la Willoughby from Sense and Sensibility.
Yes, because that worked out so well for Marianne, didn’t it?
Still, the idea of it creates some of those interesting stirrings again. Perhaps every girl needs a Willoughby before she finds a Colonel Brandon.
Soon the dogs distract me, and I try my most sensible idea yet – I turn up the music on my iPhone speaker and dance with my dogs. Peanut is great at dancing on her hind legs, and while they have no idea why I’m singing “I Will Survive” at the top of my voice, they join in enthusiastically and make me laugh – an infinitely better alternative to crying.
Chapter Two
Dreams are today’s answers to tomorrow’s questions.
Edgar Cayce
Despite being so tired that I keep bumping into unfamiliar walls and furniture, I can’t sleep. I’ve tried unpacking some of
the bags from the Mini, but my heart isn’t in it. I also tried making a list of everything that needs doing in the house, outbuildings and grounds, but that drove me very quickly to drink. I also tried painting from the sketches I did earlier in the garden, but I had to give up when my fingers were too tired to hold the paintbrush.
Too tired. Too stiff. Whatever.
I ignore the pain in my hands. It’s because I’ve been gripping the steering wheel for too long and carrying boxes. A few months of what Gran used to call her medicine – the South of France sunshine – and I’ll be fine.
I eventually get to sleep about five a.m. Then, at six a.m., Pickwick, Peanut and Treacle set off such a cacophony of barking and howling that I wake up, my heart thudding painfully in my chest. The noise, combined with a “where the hell am I?” panic about waking up in a new place, seriously weirds me out to the point that I sit still blinking hard for several minutes before my brain can kick my body into action.
If you’ve never heard two Chihuahuas and a miniature Yorkshire terrier howling in unison, then you should probably consider yourself lucky. It’s hilarious the first time because the high-pitched noises are so comical, but on repetition it sounds less like comedy and more like a cat being fed through a shredder.
Eventually my brain gets the signal that the reason for the racket is that someone is knocking at my door at frigging six o’clock in the morning.
Who does that? Seriously?
At first, I’m determined there’s absolutely no way I’m getting out of bed to answer the door to a complete stranger. Partly because I’ve only had one hour’s sleep, my eyes are red-rimmed and I look like crap. I’m wearing an old oversized T-shirt – the only item of clothing I could be bothered to retrieve to wear last night – and suspect I resemble a swollen blimp. On the upside, any burglar would take one look at me, listen to the earsplitting howling for a millisecond and decide to run in the opposite direction.
I didn’t even make the bed properly last night. I just dragged the duvet out of the car, and the four of us piled onto the IKEA bed that had been left behind and still had a bedspread on it. Thankfully a clean one. The dogs burrowed beneath the covers and only stirred when they sensed me crying.
I couldn’t help crying in the end. I’m only human, and stoicism and dancing only get you so far. A rejection is always going to hurt. Peanut is always the first to pick up any shift in my mood and is quick to comfort, crawling up onto my chest to lick away my tears with her tiny pink tongue. Her brown eyes shine with such concern I feel guilty and determined to hold it together. She and Treacle have been abused. Their growing trust in me is a gift, and I don’t want them to ever be afraid again.
Eventually the knocking stops, and I bury back down under the duvet. It’s surprisingly cold at night here in the countryside. I’ll have to get some wood ordered in and get the log burner going in the evenings.
My brief peace is shattered when the knocking starts up again, this time at the back door.
Arghh.
The dogs start howling again, and I only just restrain myself from joining in with them. My conscience gives me a kick though. I’d never answer the door in my old flat at night, even with the safety latch on, but…
It’s potentially a little old lady knocking on the door because her house is on fire and she needs to use my phone, likely not a crime gang ready to storm the house and strip it of all my belongings. Not that I’ve got much for anyone to take. And if it is the little old lady, then I’ll be left with a neighbour who will never forgive me for ignoring her in her hour of need.
Even if that hour is six a.m.
Reluctantly I slip my feet out from under the warm duvet and make my way down to the back door. City habits are too entrenched for me not to check first, so I creep into the kitchen and peer out of the window that gives me a view of the back door.
I have to blink hard several times and then bite my lip to check I’m actually awake before I’m willing to accept the knocking is coming from a dog the size of a wolf. Or possibly a wolf the size of a big dog.
He’s standing on his hind legs and dropping the knocker down with his mouth. In that position he’s as tall as me, and his muzzle alone is bigger than any of my dogs.
By now the littl’uns are going crazy in their determination to defend me from this giant wolf-dog, and I freak out, scooping them all up against their will and legging it back upstairs. They might think they can tackle giants, but I’m equally convinced the wolf-dog wants to eat them all for breakfast and save me for lunch.
Once I’ve shut the bedroom door so they can’t get out, we huddle under the duvet again. I play some music on my phone to block out the noise. The chihuahuas are partial to Katie Melua; her music always soothes them. I play it on a loop wondering how I’ve managed to go stark staring mad in just one night alone in a new house.
Now I can’t get back to sleep. Not a flipping chance. Not with great big wolf dogs waiting to gobble us all up.
I google whether wolves still exist in France. What I find doesn’t reassure me. I read stories about wolves coming over the Spanish border into France, packs roaming as far north as the suburbs of Paris and then about a breeding program in the South West. Maybe they’ve started one near here, determined to set wolves on the English incomers for driving the local house prices up.
I take a deep breath. I should start a to-do list. That would be a positive thing that might drive the crazies away.
Five minutes later, and my list looks like this:
My to-do list:
1) What the fuck do I do now?
2) But seriously, what the fuck do I do now?
To be fair, I’ve been dumped, moved house, only had one hour’s sleep and am under siege by wolves. Okay, that last point has yet to be proven, but all in all I don’t think I’m ready for a productive to-do list.
Thinking is doing my head in. I slip into jeans and a hoodie. The dogs stay under the duvet. I’m tempted to climb back in and snuggle down, but I suspect I’d just slip back into self-pity. Gran wouldn’t approve. She came from the “get up and get on” stock. It’s not that she wasn’t sympathetic. I don’t think I ever met anyone as perceptive as her. She just saw self-pity as a waste of life.
Taking a deep breath, I make my way down to the kitchen and glance at the old stove. I’ll get round to lighting it sometime. Maybe I can ask the Duboises tonight how to go about it. For now, I dig my travel kettle out of a carrier bag and make myself a cup of Earl Grey tea.
I take it outside after checking warily for any sign of giant canines. All I can hear is birds singing up in the trees as the early light streaks the sky with tinges of pink and amber.
I’m on my second cup of tea by the time the dogs decide to vacate the duvet to join me outside. The sun bathes the rolling hills and woodland in a soft golden light, blue sky coming into sharp focus above the snow-capped Pyrenean mountain tops. I feel the urge to paint the scene. I haven’t painted landscapes for years.
I played it safe. Illustration work paid. It was the safe career choice after art college, and I love it, but it’s been a while since I felt the pull to do something completely different. When it comes to doing my own thing, I’ve satisfied myself with my journal sketches and blog. Maybe once I’ve finished my latest commission I can reward myself with some blank canvases and try to capture what it is about this landscape that stirs my soul.
Peanut starts a three-dog chase around the garden, and the others join in joyfully, darting in and out of bushes, changing direction to fool each other and making me laugh.
Watching them stirs another desire in me, the faintest flicker of my own children’s story idea. I’ve always wanted to write and illustrate my own children’s book, not just someone else’s idea. Pete and my parents said I should play it safe and not look a gift fairy in the face, but as much as I love my feisty little fairy, Fenella is someone else’s creation. The possibility of a new idea dances in my mind, stirring, stirring. The sunshine finally
reaches my face, a perfect gentle heat for my fair skin. The warmth soothes out the kinks in my bad mood. The dogs sniff around contentedly, conducting a thorough survey of every single blade of grass and every bush of their new garden. Post chase, they’re still in high excitement mode.
I take a deep breath of the fresh country air as the sunshine slowly seeps through my skin into my bones, seeming to warm their very marrow. The birds are singing. The scene is idyllic, sitting in stark contrast to my broken heart and general sense of impending doom.
But that’s hardly the case anymore. I honestly don’t know that I am brokenhearted. I’m hurt, betrayed and scared, but I’m not feeling like I’ve lost the only man I could ever love.
I take another sip of tea and take in every detail of my new world. Spring flowers are blooming in the hedgerows and fields like tiny splashes of colour and joy.
I can’t block the sense that, if everything around me is carrying on okay, then maybe I can too. I don’t think focusing on my problems and how to fix them is the way forward today. Putting them down in black-and-white might send me into a nervous breakdown tailspin. Instead I need to do a different type of list.
Yes, you’ve guessed it, I’m one of those annoying people who is into lists for everything. I don’t know if it’s an anxiety thing or an OCD thing. Maybe it’s just a thing, a part of my personality. My way of imagining I can actually control my life and the world around me.
Gran was always telling me to count my blessings way before positive thinking and the gratitude trend became fashionable. Along with my panic lists and to do-lists, I like to write and illustrate my grateful lists in my journal – all the things I love, the nice things that have happened that day, what I appreciate about the people around me.
Poppy's Place in the Sun Page 4
