The French House

by Nick Alexander

  ‘T’as raison,’ Georges says, ‘C’est que deux fois par ici.’ You’re right, it’s just twice around here. ‘C’est chez nous, à Toulouse, qu’on s’embrasse quatre fois.’

  I turn to Victor and say, ‘Can you translate? I missed the second half.’

  ‘He says he’s from Toulouse. They kiss four times there,’ Victor tells me.

  ‘Yes, four time,’ Georges says.

  Georges shakes Victor’s hand, and then heads back towards the house, saying, ‘Venez, venez! Il fait froid ce soir. Ca sent la neige!’

  ‘Did he just say it smells like snow?’ I whisper as I trot beside Victor towards the house.

  Victor looks at me and rolls his eyes.

  ‘I’ll take that as a yes, then,’ I laugh. ‘I told you so.’

  The property has a similar layout to our own: three buildings forming three sides around a courtyard area. The only real differences are that their main house has two storeys and their outbuildings, of course, have roofs.

  The inside of the house is warm – I stroke a radiator as I pass by – but decor-wise it is almost as bleak as our own. The floor is covered in worn mock-tile lino, and the walls with chipped, swirly artex. The furniture is an eclectic mix of hand-me downs: a knobbly Louis VII buffet next to a chipped formica mock-wood wardrobe, and a metal serving trolley acting as a telephone table. It’s not, frankly, a good combination.

  Georges leads us into the lounge, which has the same lino as the hall, an almost identical sofa to Distira’s brown monstrosity, and bare, picture-less walls.

  ‘Please . . . sit,’ Georges says in English, before vanishing, presumably to the kitchen.

  ‘Déjà vu,’ I say to Victor, who grins at me and pulls a face.

  ‘I just hope we get some frozen vol-au-vents,’ I laugh, but this time Victor frowns at me, a silent rebuke, and I think that I probably am sounding, and perhaps even being, a bit snobby.

  ‘Elle dit de venir là-bas,’ Georges says, reappearing in the doorway. She says to come through.

  And so we stand and follow him down the junky hallway to the kitchen. A big tabby cat flashes by in the other direction and climbs the stairs behind us.

  The kitchen also is almost an exact replica of Distira’s place – worn formica kitchen units along one wall, a vast scrubbed farm table in the middle of the room, surrounded by random non-matching chairs.

  But there are two differences here and these change everything. The first is that at one end of the room is a crackling log fire throwing heat and an orangey glow throughout the room. The second is the incredible smell of herbs and spices coming from the stove. This is not the smell of a shop-bought quiche in a microwave.

  I cross the floor to embrace Myriam and note another difference, the many signs of life scattered untidily throughout the room: a pile of CDs next to an old hi-fi, a shelving unit stacked two deep with a mixture of spices and books, and a tobacco tin and three packs of king-size rolling papers.

  ‘C’est plus cosy ici, et comme ça je ne passe pas ma soirée toute seule,’ Myriam says, turning to kiss me while still stirring her stew. It’s cosier here. And this way I don’t have to spend the evening on my own.

  Victor plonks the wine we have brought on the table and nods discreetly at Georges, now seated at one end of the table rolling a joint. Victor winks at me and I break into a grin. Warmth, wine, wonderful food and a joint. I reckon it’s going to be a good evening.

  The meal is a surprisingly relaxed affair. For some reason I imagined the French to be more formal about their dinner parties, but I suppose these are younger people with different rules. We simply push all the junk covering the table to one end and throw a folded tablecloth over enough of the table for the four of us to sit down.

  Georges serves aperitifs; thankfully of factory-produced alcohol. Vodka and tonic for me and pastis for everyone else. And then, without a hint of embarrassment, he hands out one of the hugest joints I have ever seen.

  ‘On le fait pousser au grenier sous le Vélux,’ he explains. We grow it in the attic underneath the Velux.

  Georges explains that it’s dangerous to grow it outdoors as there are rumours that the helicopters that fly overhead are dope-spotters. Myriam lets it be known that she thinks this is utter rubbish, but they both agree that it’s better to be safe than sorry.

  The food, when it arrives – and the smoking of the joints does slow this process down somewhat – is simple but sumptuous. Goat’s cheese on home-made bread dribbled with local honey and served on a salad, followed by their own chicken in red wine sauce with potatoes and French beans. It’s simple fare, but the fact that every ingredient except the wine comes from their own farm changes everything. The goat’s cheese, once toasted and gooey, tastes rich and tangy; the honey, from a guy down the road, tastes of lavender; and the chicken is so rich and meaty, it tastes more like pheasant. Dessert is a home-made tarte tatin with apples from their own orchard topped off with a squirt of cream from a tin – the only shop-bought ingredient I spot.

  Mellowed by fabulous food, wine and the dope, the conversation flows easily. Myriam asks why we chose to move here, and Victor explains about his family links to the region. I don’t think I have ever heard him speak for so long in French, and I notice again how different he seems, almost like someone that I don’t know at all. He explains his idea of converting the outbuilding into accommodation, and both Myriam and Georges state in a very no-nonsense way that it will be hard to fill rooms in such a remote location.

  And then, oh so subtly, Victor gets them to talk about how they make a living.

  It turns out that Georges has about thirty different sidelines, including growing and bailing straw for local dairy farmers, cutting and selling firewood from a large chunk of forest they own, rearing and selling goats, milk and cheese. He sells to a number of small local supermarkets, and sets up a roadside stall on the tourist trail in summer. He sells cherries, apples and pears from his trees via a friend who goes to market in Nice. And as far as we can tell, all of this combines to just about allow the three of them to get by. Looking around, there are certainly no visible signs of material wealth here.

  Victor glances at me, smiles weakly and raises an eyebrow, and I nod, acknowledging that I know what he is thinking and agree. His own plans are half-baked and need to be far more comprehensive if they are ever going to work. Making a living from the land is as hard today as it ever was, and we’re not even halfway to understanding what is required.

  Georges picks up a bottle of wine and attempts to fill Victor’s glass for the third time but I pointedly ask him who is driving home and he thankfully – because I don’t much fancy driving the van – declines the refill.

  And then Myriam says, ‘Shhh!’ and points at the glass bay window at the far end of the room and we all turn to look. There, just two layers of glass away, an adult doe is standing. She is looking straight at us, chewing slowly and sniffing the air.

  My mouth falls open. ‘My God!’ I whisper. ‘How beautiful.’

  Georges slowly stands and passes behind me. When he comes back into view, he is carrying a shotgun and my joy at seeing this beautiful creature turns to fear and revulsion at what might now happen.

  My skin prickles with outrage as Georges loads the gun and edges out into the hallway.

  I open my mouth to beg him not to kill it, but Victor grabs my leg beneath the table and I’m not sure if he is simply letting me know that he is here with me and understands, or if he is silently asking me to say nothing.

  And so we sit in silence, watching and waiting for Georges to appear behind the doe and a shot to ring out. I stop breathing and my heart starts to race. At the precise moment that the air inside the house moves due to the opening of the front door, the deer sniffs the air, looks right and then left, and bolts into the blackness of the night. Secretly, silently, I will her to run like the wind, as far from Georges and his horrible shotgun as possible.

  Georges returns with a half smile and lea
ns the gun back against the dresser before slumping into his seat. ‘C’est quasi impossible,’ he declares. ‘Le temps que t’ouvres la porte ils sont partis.’ It’s just about impossible. By the time you open the door, they’re gone.

  ‘Do you get a lot of deer?’ Victor asks him as I slowly start to breathe again.

  ‘Not here. Not in the farm. It’s what, the third?’ he asks, looking to his wife for confirmation.

  ‘Yes, the third. In ten years,’ she confirms. ‘But they get them when they go hunting, don’t you?’ She turns to Victor. ‘Tu chasses, toi?’ Do you hunt?

  ‘No,’ Victor says. ‘No, I don’t think I could.’

  And I think, Thank God for that.

  Georges then starts to talk about how many meals you can get from a deer and how good venison tastes, and so that they can’t see my expression, I cross the room and peer out into the night.

  Surprisingly, Myriam stands and crosses the room to join me. She lightly touches my shoulder and says, ‘It’s hard, but you’ll get used to it,’ and I reply that I suppose that I will and suddenly warm towards her for having understood what is going on in my head and coming to comfort me.

  ‘It’s very dark tonight,’ I comment quietly.

  ‘Yes,’ she agrees. ‘No moon. That’s why all the animals are out. They feel safer.’

  I tell her that we saw three wild boar on the road and she laughs and says that it’s a good job Georges wasn’t with us as he would definitely have shot them.

  And then something catches the corner of my eye and I turn to watch a fleck of something drifting down. And then I see another, and another, and Myriam says loudly, startlingly, ‘Ça y est, il neige.’ That’s it, it’s snowing.

  Georges asks us if we have chains and Victor replies that no, we don’t, but that we have snow-tyres.

  ‘Ça ne suffit pas,’ Georges says categorically. ‘Il faut des chaînes.’ It’s not enough. You need chains.

  ‘But we’ll be OK tonight, won’t we?’ Victor asks.

  ‘If you leave now, you should be OK,’ Georges says.

  So, in a panicky fluster of thanks, goodbyes and promises to do this again soon, we’re crossing the whitening courtyard then accelerating off through a snow-globe of drifting flakes.

  ‘Are you OK to drive?’ I ask. ‘You’re not too stoned? Or drunk?’

  ‘No,’ Victor says. ‘I’m fine.’

  ‘I love snow,’ I say, aware that the dope is making it look even more magical than usual. ‘Isn’t it beautiful?’

  ‘It is,’ Victor agrees.

  ‘But what happens if we get stuck?’

  ‘We won’t.’

  ‘And if it snows a lot overnight and we can’t get out tomorrow?’

  ‘I don’t think it will,’ Victor says. ‘But we can always get Distira to get us some supplies in her Russian tank.’

  ‘I suppose,’ I say.

  ‘Georges and Myriam are really nice,’ Victor says, squeezing my knee. ‘I’m glad we met them. A real stroke of luck.’

  ‘They are,’ I agree. ‘I couldn’t believe it though when he started rolling joints. I mean, how could they know we wouldn’t mind? Or call the police or something?’

  ‘He asked me first. Georges asked me man-to-man if you’d mind.’

  ‘But how did he know you wouldn’t mind?’

  Victor shrugs. ‘Maybe I just look like a cool dude,’ he says.

  ‘And presumably I look like an uptight bitch?’

  ‘Presumably,’ he says, so I punch his arm.

  ‘And what happened to the DIY superhero?’

  ‘He couldn’t make it, but he’s going to call.’

  ‘I missed that,’ I say. ‘I think I just zoned out on whole chunks of the conversation. It’s quite tiring trying to listen in French.’

  The snowflakes are huge now and their downward drift, combined with the motion of the van, makes them look surreal and ghostly as they spin past the headlights.

  ‘God, I love snow!’ I say.

  ‘I’m not so keen on driving in it,’ Victor says.

  ‘No,’ I say. ‘But it isn’t half pretty.’

  ‘You’re stoned,’ Victor says.

  ‘And so are you,’ I snort. ‘So just, you know, concentrate on driving!’

  ‘I’m not stoned, actually,’ Victor says. ‘I only had a single drag at the beginning of the evening because I knew I was driving, so there.’

  The next morning when I wake up, the first thing I notice through my dope-induced hangover is that the light in the van is different. Even through the orange curtains of the van, the interior seems somehow flashlight-bright. I then notice that it seems to be even more silent than usual this morning. No bird noise, no wind noise, no chainsaws or cars in the distance.

  I listen to Victor’s steady breathing, and then I remember the snow from last night and prop myself up so that I can peer beyond the curtain.

  ‘Jesus!’ I gasp, and I hear Victor groan beside me. Our muddy field has been transformed overnight into a Swiss ski station. The ground, the track, and every bit of junk are coated in a crisp coat of whiter-than-white snow.

  I shuffle across the bed so that I can look out at the house, exhale deeply and smile. With a coating of wedding cake icing covering every horizontal surface, it looks incredibly pretty, amazingly romantic.

  ‘Victor,’ I say. ‘Look! Just look!’

  He groans again and reluctantly opens his eyes, then rolls onto his side and says, ‘What is it? Snow?’ He pulls back the curtain. ‘Wow!’ he says. ‘I thought it was bright in here.’

  ‘Isn’t it beautiful? But we can’t drive in that, can we?’

  ‘Nope.’

  ‘And if it doesn’t melt, what do I do on Friday about getting to the airport?’

  Victor pulls a face. ‘I suppose we’d have to ask Distira or Georges to take you. But my guess is that it will melt by then.’

  ‘You’re gonna need a Jeep or something to live here full time.’

  ‘I know,’ Victor agrees. ‘I was thinking that last night.’

  We’re incredibly slow to start moving this morning, which I think is in part because we’re tired and hung-over, but also because we’re so in awe of the reborn landscape that all we want to do is lie side-by-side and stare out at the sparkling freshness of it all.

  Victor manages to make coffee without folding the bed away and so we lie and sip and stare and occasionally chat. It’s a beautiful moment.

  ‘Last night was great, wasn’t it?’ Victor says quietly.

  ‘Yes. They’re really nice. I was pretty shocked when we got there though. The interiors are just so sixties.’

  ‘I don’t think they care,’ Victor says.

  ‘No. It’s an entirely different mindset, isn’t it? It wasn’t until that deer appeared that I really got it. I mean, you could live in London and cover your walls with lovely paintings, and fill the house with Italian furniture, but you’d never see anything your whole life as beautiful as that deer peering in.’

  ‘I think Georges saw it more as a free meat delivery,’ Victor laughs.

  ‘I’m so glad he didn’t manage to shoot it. I don’t think I could ever kill something that lovely. Could you?’

  ‘I’m not sure,’ Victor says. ‘Maybe your point of view changes when you live somewhere like this.’

  ‘But they’re so gentle. They don’t kill anything, they don’t cause any harm. Why would you want to kill one?’

  ‘Nor do cows,’ Victor says. ‘Or pigs, or sheep. But we eat them.’

  ‘I suppose.’

  I point towards the house, where a huge cat is jumping comically as it tries to cross the field without sinking into the snow. ‘Look at that stupid cat. Whose is it?’

  Victor shrugs. ‘Distira’s, maybe. Or a wild cat perhaps.’

  ‘She looks pregnant,’ I say.

  ‘In winter?’

  ‘I think cats can get pregnant any time. We should put some food out for her just in case.’
/>   ‘If you want. I wanted to fix the chimney and get some heat going, but look at all the snow up there.’

  ‘We could still put the electric heater in the bathroom.’

  But neither of us want to leave the cosy warmth of the quilt, so for the moment we continue to lie there and watch the stillness of the landscape.

  Just after 1 p.m., I am forced to leave the warm security of the van for the bathroom. I pull on my clothes and step down into the snow, which squeaks beneath my feet like clean hair. ‘It’s not even cold out here,’ I declare, shouting as I close the van door, ‘the sun’s really warm!’

  When I get back, Victor has folded the bed away and is making tuna melts for lunch.

  ‘Can you save me a bit of tuna?’ I ask. ‘I want to put some outside for the cat, see if she takes it.’

  Victor forks a lump of tuna onto a saucer, which I take and put outside the door.

  ‘It’s OK out there, isn’t it?’ Victor comments. ‘Almost T-shirt weather.’

  ‘In the sun it is,’ I say. But you should try the bathroom.’

  ‘Is it bad?’

  ‘There was ice in the loo,’ I say.

  ‘You’re joking.’

  ‘It was only a thin crust on the top. But yes, there’s actual ice.’

  ‘Wow, I had better install the heater then,’ Victor says.

  ‘It is kind of urgent, I think.’

  It only takes an hour to screw the new bathroom heater to the wall and run a cable to the fuse box. But even an hour in there is an hour too long. By the time we finish, my nose is running and my feet have gone numb from cold.

  Victor switches the new heater on, and we stand and watch as it starts to glow. And then we both step forwards and pause, mere inches away.

  ‘This isn’t going to cut it, is it?’ Victor says glumly.

  ‘It’ll be OK once the rest of the house is heated, but I don’t think you can expect it to do much when everywhere else is minus five.’

  ‘I can’t face showering in here. It’s too cold. If we could get that range lit . . .’

  ‘I don’t think you’re gonna be able to get up there with all the snow on the roof.’

  Victor sighs and shakes his head then says, ‘Fuck it! We need heating now. I’ll just have to be careful.’