The barking grows more frantic and louder as the dogs get closer and I desperately try to stop the stream of piss so I can get my flies done up – I don’t want to go back with a wee stain on my trousers any more than I want to be caught with my cock hanging out. But it’s easier said than done, come on, come on …
The dogs race past me in pursuit of the boar in a blur of yelps – they pay me no attention, thank Christ – they’re terrifying all together in a pack like that. I hear the footsteps of the hunters running towards me and suddenly I am scared – what happens now? Am I going to see the boar killed? I don’t think I’m ready.
One of the men shouts something incomprehensible and there is a flurry of shots. A hot, white pain sears through my chest and I collapse to the ground, my hands falling away from my still-undone flies. There is more shouting, the thunder of footsteps and a scream, and then it all fades to nothing.
71
November, Mozène
Aura
‘Thank you,’ I say, automatically, as Helen puts yet another steaming hot mug of tea laden with sugar in front of me.
‘Is there anything else I can get you?’ Helen asks softly. ‘You really should try to eat something.’
I shake my head. I can’t eat. It’s been two days since Nick’s death and I’ve barely eaten a thing.
Sorrel keeps asking where Daddy is and I don’t know how much more of it I can take. I’m not using words like heaven with the boys and I’ve explained as gently as I can that Daddy won’t be coming back. But Sorrel just doesn’t get it. Bay, of course, is oblivious, babbling away in his usual, happy way, but even that is upsetting. I’m mainly leaving Helen to deal with them and, as usual, she’s been a saint.
The film crew have gone, for the time being at least. Even Seb, with his mantra of ‘we must see everything’, managed to understand that I couldn’t cope with them around right now. I think they mumbled something about hoping to come back for the funeral as they left. As a mark of respect, they said, though obviously they didn’t mean it. I wonder if they will still use our footage or not. They didn’t say anything about that. I’m not sure I care either way at the moment.
The chateau itself now feels entirely overwhelming. What once looked like a fun and romantic project, building a fabulous life for us all, now feels totally insurmountable. I can’t stay here alone. But we’ve sold up in the UK, and I don’t know if I want to go back anyway. I don’t know what to do.
‘There’s plenty of time to think about all that,’ Tiggy says as I force this out between sobs. ‘No rush at all. You need to look after yourself for the time being.’ She takes my hand. ‘Do you want me to see if I can help with paperwork? Did Nick have life insurance? Or a will?’
Fresh tears come. Tiggy is so kind. ‘I’d love you to help,’ I wail. ‘But there’s no will or life insurance.’ We’d never thought about either of those things. It never occurred to us that anything would happen. We were young and healthy – we thought we were invincible. And as Nick didn’t have a job when he died, I don’t know if we’ll be eligible for anything at all.
‘OK,’ Tiggy says. ‘All this can be a bit tricky in France if you’re not set up with … but now isn’t the time. If there’s anything you need me to do, sorting out the funeral, letting people know what happened, just shout and then leave it to me. Meantime I’m going to talk to a few people about helping you with the formalities.’
‘Thank you,’ I mutter hoarsely, tears dripping from my chin. ‘I wouldn’t know where to start. If you could arrange a funeral, that would be a huge help. And I’ll give you a list of people who need contacting. Thank you.’
72
November, Mozène
Aura
The next few days pass in a blur of lying in bed, sitting in the kitchen and Helen placing food and drink in front of me at regular intervals. Sorrel has stopped asking about his dad, I’m not sure if he’s finally realized what has happened or if he’s already forgotten him. Helen occupies the boys most of the time. I don’t know what I’d do without her. I can’t focus on anything. There is too much to think about, so I don’t bother thinking at all. I let it all wash over me. What will be, will be.
The investigation is ongoing, but the kindly police lady told me in broken English that it was likely to be ruled an accident. They’re not sure whose gun he was shot by yet, apparently. The stupid boar had changed direction, everyone was all over the place and several guns were fired. Nick was standing somewhere he shouldn’t have been. Bertie blames himself for taking Nick, and I wonder if he suspects he was the one who shot the fatal bullet. But even if it was, which it sounds like they will never know, I don’t blame Bertie. I blame Nick, for going in the first place. If he had listened to me, and not gone off that day with the sole intention of watching a poor, innocent animal being slaughtered for fun, none of this would have happened. The leader of the chasse has sent me flowers along with toutes mes condoléances, but I’m not interested. They will no doubt be out hunting again next week, as if nothing had happened.
Considering what a short amount of time we’ve been in France, there is a good turnout for the funeral. In the end I agree that Seb and Chloe can film it; they say it would be good to ‘pay tribute’ to Nick in the programme and I just don’t have the energy to argue. Everyone I’ve met so far in France is here, as well as several people I haven’t met, or at least have no recollection of. I leave the boys at home with Helen again. They’re too young for funerals – I don’t want them absorbing that kind of negative energy. I can’t believe this is the second funeral I’ve been to in as many months. I wonder what I’ve done to deserve this.
No one says it to me directly, but I hear people murmuring between themselves about the unlikeliness of having to attend two funerals for two relatively young men within such a short space of time. Especially when no one knows who killed either of them. I hear one particularly ridiculous woman speculating about whether it could be someone who doesn’t like the English infiltrating the area. Utterly ludicrous, of course. Clearly someone killed Frank, but what happened to Nick was an accident, pure and simple.
Tiggy has been my rock. She organized the service entirely, she even found a traditional English hearse so that Nick’s body didn’t have to arrive in one of those horrible utilitarian black vans like Frank’s did. I gave her my computer and phone so she could put together a photo montage for the screens in the crematorium, and she selected the music after asking me about key moments in our lives – Elvis Costello’s ‘She’, which was the first dance at our wedding, John Lennon’s ‘Beautiful Boy’, which I listened to as both Sorrel and Bay were born, and ‘50 Ways to Say Goodbye’, which was ‘our song’ when we first met at university and is horrifyingly appropriate today.
Almost everyone here is local. I never knew my dad, and Mum died a few years ago – my inheritance from her allowed us to buy the house in London and, in turn, the chateau, which now feels like a millstone around my neck. Nick’s awful parents are here, of course. They’ve never forgiven me for ‘making’ Nick get married so young, as they saw it, nor for the ‘shame’ of their first grandchild being born outside of wedlock, as they put it. They look terrible.
But his death hasn’t brought me and his parents together, and neither will it. No hugs as we meet, not even a little pat on my shoulder from them. Just a taut half-smile from Roger and an enquiry about how the boys are getting on from Penelope. Not a single question about how I might be doing. The move to France was the last straw for them in their relationship with me, I think. They saw it as me taking the boys away from them. And, being avid church-goers as well as people who like to be seen to do things ‘properly’, they will be appalled that there are no hymns or prayers during the short service. Neither Nick nor I believed in a god and, even if we did, right now I don’t feel I have much to thank Him for.
73
November, Mozène
Aura
After the service, there is a wake of sorts at home. I
haven’t contributed to its planning at all. Tiggy and Helen have made sandwiches and keep everyone’s plates filled and glasses topped up while I stand bleakly, nodding and saying ‘thank you’ as various people I hardly know tell me how sorry they are for my loss and please do let them know if there’s anything they can do to help. Penelope stands in the corner, primly holding her plate with her face like a slapped arse as she looks disapprovingly at the peeling paint and crumbling cornicing. Roger does magic tricks for the boys and it makes me shudder how they squeal in delight. Kids are so easily won over – they’ve no idea how rejected their grandparents made me feel since I met Nick.
After a couple of hours, everyone drifts off, including Nick’s parents, who are staying in a local B&B, thankfully – they said it was to give me space, but I know it’s because they think the chateau is too shabby for them. Tiggy and Helen tidy up and we have an awkward dinner together once the boys are in bed, the two of them faux-cheerful and talking about anything and everything apart from Nick and the funeral while I push food around my plate and stare into space.
After dinner Tiggy hugs and kisses me, promising to come back tomorrow. Helen says that if it’s OK with me, she’d like to have an early night. I nod and say thank you again.
And then I am left alone in the kitchen.
Seb and Chloe leave early the next morning.
‘Thanks for putting up with us,’ Seb says. ‘I’m only sorry it’s turned out the way it has.’
He puts his hand on my shoulder and does that head tilt and sympathetic face everybody does that I’ve got so used to over the last few days.
‘Until … well, until all this we really enjoyed our time here. And I hope you like the programme, once it comes out. We will make sure it’s done respectfully, of course. Hopefully, in time, it will be something for you to remember Nick by. And nice for the boys to have so much footage of their dad?’
I nod, still numb. I could try to insist that the programme is canned but, right now, I don’t have the energy. Plus, like Seb says, it might be something nice for the boys to remember Nick by. Because they’re so young, I don’t imagine they will have any proper memories of him when they are older.
‘What will you do now?’ Chloe asks. ‘Will you stay here? Or go back to the UK?’
I shrug. ‘I’m not sure. Probably stay, at least for the time being. I don’t have anything to go back for. It’s nice for the boys here, I don’t want to disrupt them yet again. And I still like the idea of running a chambres d’hôtes. But whether or not I can do all this renovation on my own …’
My eyes fill with tears and Chloe looks awkwardly at the ground. Once again I feel totally overwhelmed. There’s no way I can do this. I’ll have to sell up and buy something small and manageable. Won’t I? I just don’t know anymore. ‘Anyway,’ I continue. ‘Thanks for your … well, interest, I guess. I’ll look forward to seeing the programme when it’s ready. Safe journey.’
In the middle of the night, the lights come on again. The brightness wakes me immediately. I hurl myself out of bed, hit the switch with my fist and throw myself back under the covers, sobbing. I can’t do this anymore, not on my own. There’s no one to help me – no Frank, no Nick. I just can’t do it. I’m going to have to sell what was to have been my dream chateau. Fresh tears come as I mourn the idyllic childhood I wanted my boys to have, my stupid husband who made so many mistakes but I loved anyway, and who died because he wanted to shoot innocent animals and fit in with the locals. None of this is my fault. It’s just not fair.
My throat is sore and my eyes are like golf balls from crying. I’ve taken to staying in bed in the morning even once the boys are up and letting Helen sort them out. I simply can’t face their cheerfulness first thing. I need time to ease into the day. I hear their joyful yelps downstairs and Helen’s calm, gentle murmur. I close my eyes and try to go back to sleep.
74
November, Mozène
Aura
‘I’ve decided,’ I tell Tiggy, who arrives with yet another cake and a bunch of flowers when I finally surface at about 11 a.m. ‘I’ve consulted the angels and I know what I’m going to do. I want to get rid of this place. It’s too big to deal with on my own. It needs too much work. There’s no way I can manage, and there are too many memories. Plus there’s still weird stuff going on which creeps me out – the lights came on again last night by themselves. It’s almost like the building itself is telling me I shouldn’t be here. Nothing good has happened since we arrived. I think the best thing will be for me and the boys to make a fresh start somewhere else, in a more manageable property.’
Tiggy nods. ‘That’s understandable. Although, like I said before, personally I think you should let the dust settle a little. You might feel differently in six months’ time. And I know you haven’t been in France long but you have lots of friends here – we can help you.’
I shake my head. ‘No. I’ve decided. I feel better about it all now I’ve made a decision. Though even the prospect of getting estate agents round and dealing with all the formalities exhausts me.’
Tiggy squeezes my hand. ‘If you’re sure that that’s what you want, I’d be happy to help. I don’t know if you know this, but selling property in France isn’t always as simple as it is in the UK. Did you set up a marital regime when you came over?’
‘Marital regime? We were already married, ages ago.’
‘Yep, I know, but when you buy a property in France, unless you’ve set up a specific marital regime, the children automatically inherit part of the house. Normally the notaire would tell you about all this when you buy,’ she says, spotting my confused expression, ‘but I guess some are better than others.’
‘What?’ I say. ‘That can’t be right. They’re babies. They can’t inherit anything, surely?’
She pulls a face. ‘Their age doesn’t make any difference. But let’s not panic. It may be that you set this up and don’t remember – it’s only signing a piece of paper, it’s not as if there’s a ceremony or anything. If you give me all the details you have for your house purchase, I can pass it on to our notaire and find out for you. I imagine you’ll need to sign a letter to say you give me permission to ask – they love an attestation for everything in France. I can draft it for you, if you like.’
I put my head in my hands. ‘Oh God, why does it all have to be so complicated!’ I lift my head again to smile weakly at Tiggy. ‘Thank you. If you could ask your notaire, that would be a huge help. But just for argument’s sake, what if we don’t have this marriage contract? What happens then?’
‘I’m no expert – I think it’s better that we find out how you’re set up, speak to the notaire and we’ll go from there. If you give me whatever paperwork you have, I’ll get on to it straight away.’
75
November, Mozène
Aura
Nick’s parents are still staying locally and come over every day. They’ve said this is so they can support me and the boys, but they’re no support at all – all they do is interfere and make snide comments.
‘So have you given much thought to the future, Alison?’ Penelope asks, sitting at the kitchen table, visibly sneering at the surroundings, as usual. She’s always insisted on calling me by my given name, even though she’s the only person who’s ever used it since I decided to become Aura for short when I left for university. ‘It’ll be difficult to cope with a big place in this state of disrepair on your own.’
Disrepair? How fucking dare she? It just needs renovating, that’s all.
In that moment I’m tempted to tell her I’m planning to stay just to annoy her, but I swallow down my anger and say: ‘Yes, I have. I think I will try to sell and get somewhere more manageable.’
She takes a sip of her tea. ‘That’s good to hear. And where will you go? Perhaps you could get a little place near us? We’d love to see the boys more, and now that we’re retired we could help out with childcare – I’m sure it’s hard to think about it at the moment,
but in time you’ll need to go back to work.’
I can’t imagine anything worse than living in their middle-class Home Counties dormitory town while they not-so-quietly disapprove of the way I’m bringing up my boys and generally interfere in my life. Absolutely no way. And aside from all that, I don’t want my boys being infected by their mainstream, bourgeois ways and values.
‘It’s something to think about,’ I lie, ‘but I haven’t decided yet. I may even stay in France, just not in this house.’
I didn’t know people actually did this in real life, but she literally clutches her pearls. ‘Oh no, dear. I don’t see how that would work. How would you earn a living? We’re happy to help out a little where we can, of course, but we don’t have a lot of income anymore.’
No, just a fuck-off pile of tweeness worth at least a couple of million which you rattle around in selfishly, I think to myself, but I bite my tongue.
‘You need to be able to support yourself and the boys,’ she continues. ‘It’s disappointing to learn that Nick had no life insurance – I thought he was more sensible than that. And obviously all that … unfortunateness which happened and having to leave his job means you won’t be entitled to anything from that.’ She pauses. ‘Such a shame,’ she adds, in a way which seems to make her thoughts that somehow all this is my fault perfectly clear.
‘I’m a counsellor,’ I say tightly. ‘I did the training. I just need to build up my client base. Or I could buy somewhere with some extra rooms so I could do Airbnb on a casual basis like lots of people around here do. I don’t know. There are loads of options. Plenty of Brits live out here with their families and make a living one way or another. We own the house outright and don’t need much. But with all due respect, Penelope,’ I add, meaning with absolutely no respect whatsoever, ‘it’s much too early for me to be thinking about these things. At the moment I’m struggling just to get through one day at a time.’
The Chateau Page 22
