Page 42 of Love In Provence
Back at the farmhouse, in the outside kitchen, with its saggy, comfy sofa to one side and festoon lighting across the high ceiling, there’s bunting now too, making it even more homely. I’m wondering if Jen added it. I’m sitting at the table, nursing a glass of rosé that someone has put into my hands.
‘He’s taking over Henri’s?’ Rhi is flabbergasted. ‘He’s not selling it, but going to run it himself, just not as Henri’s?’ She throws up her hands angrily. ‘I don’t know which is worse. Selling up or just eradicating Henri from the building and business.’
I nod and shake my head, not sure in which order, and gulp some wine. My cheeks burn with humiliation, which is compounded by having had my bank card rejected in the small supermarket when I went in to buy groceries for the pickers’ dinner. Dear Françoiseon the till told me to come back later to settle the bill when I was less upset and to borrow the trolley, which was loaded with the equipment from Henri’s as well as the food. I pushed it along the riverbank, past the clearing, feeling as if I’d become part of the homeless community there. I barely heard the shouts and jeers from a group of schoolboys who had gathered there, clearly having decided to play truant from school. Shocked, without a mooring, I pushed the trolley back to Le Petit Mas. Now I feel lost. If I’m no longer part of Henri’s, who am I?
After a couple more glasses of wine, feeling fuzzy, with a headache coming on, I head to my bed for a siesta, knowing I won’t sleep.
I wake with a start to the smell of something delicious. I’d fallen into a deep sleep, with nightmares about Henri’s place burning down and nothing I could do to save it. It’s not burning I can smell now, though. It’s a barbecue. On the one hand I want to thank God that Henri’s hasn’t burned down. On the other, it might as well have done. I throw myself back onto my pillows, pick up my phone from the bedside table and try to call Fabien. It goes straight to voicemail.
‘Phfffff!’ I drop my hand and the phone into the softness of cotton covers and let the smells from outside fill my nose and head. The scent of the freshly cut lavender from the field, in the cooling afternoon, withthe initial smell from charcoal heating reminds me of something. It reminds me of … Fabien and me here, with Stephanie, JB and Tomas, Henri and Rhi, Carine and our other friend Lou with her new partner. Stephanie and JB’s wedding! The evening barbecue here at the farmhouse.
Voices and laughter are reaching me from the barn now, just like they did on that day, when Ralph ran off with the rings, as ringbearer, and Tomas chased him. A day of laughter, love and hope … when the future seemed full of possibilities and the celebrations went on for days. How have we come to this, with me here on my own, scared and worried, the business whipped out from under my feet, an empty bank account, wondering about Fabien, our feelings for each other, and no Henri to show us that everything would be fine in the end? Everything has changed. Even Stephanie and JB have moved into their own little place and are here less and less often.
Everything changes, seasons come and go. Like the lavender harvest. What will happen when it’s finished?Ifwe finish it, because if I can’t find a way to bring in some money, I’ll have to let the pickers go.
I try ringing the bank to talk to someone about an extension to my overdraft or a loan, but I recently helped Stephanie pay for the bakery unit and the van so it’s no-go. I’m maxed out on credit.
I try Fabien, but the call goes straight to voicemail. Igo to the window at the side of the house, following the smell of the barbecue, then head downstairs. Ralph is lying in the cool. Three years ago he would have been outside causing mischief, but everything moves on. I step out onto the terrace towards the lavender there. I grasp a stem and break off the head, its flowers separating in my hand.
Graham is prodding the charcoal with long tongs, looking thoughtfully into the flames. ‘What are you cooking?’ I ask, wondering what I can sell in thebrocantefrom the farmhouse to bring in some cash.
‘Um, just sausages,’ he says.
Maria is making a spicy potato side dish. Jen has put up more bunting and is photographing it on her camera and posting it.
Marco is seemingly playing a game on his phone.
‘Damn!’ says Ed, tossing a spoon into a pot on the gas hob.
‘What’s up?’ I say, rolling the lavender blooms in my hand.
‘I was making a Provençal chicken dish, but it’s just not quite there.’ He puts his hands on his hips. ‘It doesn’t … stand out.’
‘Don’t be so hard on yourself,’ says Jen, putting down her phone.
‘That’s what Henri would say,’ I remember. ‘He’d tell you exactly that.’
And then I sprinkle a few of the lavender blooms from my hand into the sauce.
‘Try that,’ I say, and Ed stares at me as if I’d smeared Marmite over his caviar on toast.
He leans forward and sniffs, picks up a spoon and tastes. Then he looks back at me.
‘Well?’
‘It tastes of Provence,’ he says.
‘Exactly.’ I smile. ‘It’s the flavour of here,’ I say suddenly, as if Henri was speaking to me. ‘It’s one of ourherbes de Provence. But be gentle with it. It can be overpowering if you use too much.’
The others turn to me.
‘Looks like Henri isn’t going anywhere by the sound of it,’ says Jen.
That brings a smile to my face. It was just a tiny chink, a memory of him and me in the kitchen, but it’s still there. I just have to find a way of reaching it and getting back into the kitchen.
Rhi appears from the drying room and joins us. She puts her hand over mine and squeezes it. We smile at each other.
The smell in the barn is fabulous against the backdrop of the drying lavender from next door. It reminds me of everything Stephanie and I learned together when she first arrived at the farmhouse with Tomas, where this journey began. I’d refused to go back to theUK and was left here with nothing but an overnight bag and Ralph. Stephanie and I were thrown together by a twist of Fate and the only way I could think of getting through those early days was to bake my way through a lavender cookbook. Stephanie helped with my French and I helped her learn to bake. Just as my mother had taught me. That’s the cycle of life, isn’t it, the memories we hand on?
