Page 58 of The Magic of Provence

‘Ah…feris iron.’

‘And you are amaréchale-ferrante. A farrier. Or there’s another English word with iron in it. I forget.’

‘An ironsmith?’

Christophe nodded.

‘Blacksmith is another word for my job. Did you know there is a brownsmith as well?’

‘Non…’ Christophe’s eyes were wide as he glanced sideways. ‘Tell me all about him.’

Oh, he loved knowledge, this man. His curiosity was as childlike as Fi’s ‘why’ questions and those tendrils of excitement, and it was one of Christophe’s most endearing traits. He was genuinely interested in the world – and the people – around him. He had an intelligence that was fast and hungry and he cared. About people. The world. Life. And, above all, his family. Fi could imagine him sitting with his nonna one day soon, entertaining her by talking about the new things he had learned about smithing. It was important that she dredged up every bit of knowledge she’d gathered over the years.

‘A smith is someone who works with metal. Goldsmiths and silversmiths explain themselves. A brownsmith works with metals like brass and copper. A blacksmith is an expert in making shoes for horses and there’s a whitesmith as well, also called a tinsmith, who makes the pretty polished things like bits and buckles and stirrups. Some smiths are incredible artists, who make sculptures and furniture and oh… so many things. I’d love to do that one day. I could make artwork for gardens. Maybe Ellie could expand her new business. We could call itLes Chemins de Feret… what’s the word for stone? Pebbles?’

‘Stone ispierre. Pebbles iscailloux. Could it beLes Chemins de Pierre et Fer?’

It sounded even better when Christophe said it. He was nodding with approval at the idea, as well.

‘Do you want to do that one day more than having a riding school in a forest or in the mountains or beside a river?’

Goodness… did Christophe remember every single thing she said to him? Fi thought about the question for a moment and then narrowed her eyes as she pursed her lips. This whole day was a fantasy, so why not throw her future into the dream?

‘I wantboth,’ she declared.

Christophe’s laughter filled the car. ‘And you shall have it,amore, I’m sure of it.’

* * *

There was something about trains and small boys. Christophe Brabant’s father had adored them enough to keep his immaculate Hornby train set with its shiny black engine, beautifully detailed carriages, the clip-together rails and the waiting room in the hope of having a son to share the joy with all over again.

Le Train des Pignes à Vapeurwas that train set, which Christophe and his father had spent so many happy hours playing with, come to life and he needed a moment to swallow the prickly lump that suddenly formed in his throat. Like going to theFête du Citron, playing with the train had ended when his father died, but Christophe was quite sure that his mother had the set packed away in a box somewhere. Maybe she and Nonna both dreamed of seeing him sharing the toy with his own son. Or daughter.

Part of that lump was a knot of grief for his father. Another part was grief for the children he would never have himself. How could he even contemplate having a family when he was incapable of giving the mother of his children the kind of love that held a family together through thick and thin?

The moment was broken decisively when the engine puffed an enormous plume of smoke from its chimney and a piercing whistle sounded. Fi squeaked and clutched his arm but her eyes held a gleam of absolute glee. Christophe’s laughter swept the ghosts of his grief far enough away to vanish into the cloudless blue sky like the mix of smoke and steam coming from the chimney of a train due to depart any second.

‘Allons-y! Let’s go!’

Christophe led Fi to their carriage as the whistle sounded again, jumped on board and then leaned down to offer his hand to help her climb up the narrow steps. They found their seats and he insisted that she sat beside the window. The train jerked and then slowly began moving and the small boy inside Christophe wanted to squeak with excitement the way Fi had when the whistle had first sounded.

The train conductor came to check their tickets and Fi nudged Christophe.

‘Why has he got those little pine cones stuck to his cap?’

‘Because this isle train de pignes– the train of pine cones.’

‘Why is that its name?’

It was obviously not the first time the conductor had answered this question. Christophe listened to a well-rehearsed response in French and then translated for Fi as the conductor moved on.

‘There are apparently two reasons. The first is that we are going through country that is covered with pine tree forests.’

Fi glanced out of the window as he gestured towards it but turned instantly back to watch his face. Her expression made him feel as if every word he was saying was important.

Thathewas important.

‘The train used to go so slowly that people could get off and collect the pine cones,’ he continued. ‘The other reason could be that the pine cones were used for fuel if they started to run low on coal to keep the engine going.’

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