Page 18 of Love In Provence
‘How big is an inch?’ I hear Marco ask. ‘And how long are we going to be out here?’
‘Ssh.’ Maria frowns.
‘Drink water, wear hats, and ask me if you’re not sure about anything,’ I tell them. ‘I have to go into town, but text me if you need me. We’ll finish at lunchtime. It’ll be too hot to pick then. The afternoon’s your own.’
As the pickers start working in the field with Rhi as part of the gang, gathering the cut lavender into bunches ready for hanging along the beams in the barn, I tell her I’m going to nip into town to pick up lunch – cheese, pâté and ripe tomatoes for a salad. At least I can’t get that wrong.
But, after the walk into town, when I’m standing outside the greengrocer, I’m staring into space again. Nothing excites me. I have no appetite. I pick up the tomatoes, lift one after another to my nose, but can’t seem to enjoy their grassy scent. I’m met by sad eyes and condolences from Gilles, the shopkeeper, asking if I know the arrangements for Henri’s funeral service. I offer him the same condolences. Henri was everyone’s friend as well as mine. It’s the same in the cheese shop: they want to know when and where the service will take place and ask after Rhi. I need to talk to her about what should happen. Everyone wants to know about the funeral. It seems the town will be at a standstill until we can have a service and come to terms with him being gone.
With a basket full of cheese, pâté and ham, the makings of salad and more bread, my feet automatically lead me to the bistro.
I come to a stop outside, my shopping trolley standing beside me, a faithful companion. The window is still boarded up and I check my phone. No news on when the window will be fixed. I’ve agreed to theestimate, even though it made my eyes water and cleared out my bank account. I need to get into Henri’s desk and start looking for the insurance paperwork.
I rummage for my keys in my bag and let myself in. It feels dark and cool, against the heat of the day outside. The boarded-up window makes it darker than usual. It feels … dead, without the usual smells coming from the kitchen, the sound of pots and pans in use, the deliveries arriving and people popping in for coffee, a glass ofpetit rosé, then lunch starting at midday. It’s like a shell. The sooner I can get the window sorted the better.
I walk upstairs to the apartment and go to the desk. I open one of the drawers. Chaos. Papers, paperclips, a packet of Marlboro cigarettes and a half-eaten chocolate bar. I pull out the other drawers. They’re in much the same state. It’ll take a lot of work to go through Henri’s ‘filing system’. But not now. I can’t get lost in his papers now, or I’ll never be back in time for lunch. This is something Rhi and I should do together.
I go back downstairs, staring at the photographs on the wall. In the restaurant I pick up the reservations book and put it into my bag to take home with me. I’ll make sure I contact everyone in it. Henri’s is closed for the time being.
I go to the freezer and pull out the bouillabaisse I didn’t use when the olive tree hit the window. At least there will be dinner for the pickers this evening. ThenI find a piece of paper and a pen and write on it: ‘Fermé pour les vendanges. Closed for the harvest.’ I add my mobile number for enquiries. At least by the time the harvest is done, the new window should be in place and we can reopen. I’ll need to. With the window to pay for, until I can find the insurance details, and the pickers to cook for, my bank account is stretched and I’m using the small overdraft facility. I need to get back into that kitchen and start bringing in some money.
I write out another sign, step out of the bistro and pull the door to behind me. Then I head up through town, past thebrocante. I check in on JB, Stephanie’s husband, giving him a baguette for his lunch from the local sandwich shop. It’s filled with sliced salami and salad, which I know he’ll pick out. I tell him I’m not sure how long Fabien will be away for but reassure him that it won’t be long.
‘Everyone is asking about a funeral for Henri,’ he tells me, picking out the salad, then biting into the salami sandwich.
‘That isn’t far away either,’ I tell him. ‘I’ll get Rhi to start sorting things. Give the children a kiss from me,’ I add, as I leave the walled courtyard where furniture and bric-a-brac are piled up. They will be moved into the building at the end of the day and put out again tomorrow morning. It’s heavy work for little reward at the moment, but Fabien would never think of closing.
Part of me starts to feel better. He’ll be back soon and the bistro will be open again. Everything will soon return to how it was. Then, with my full trolley and the bouillabaisse, I stroll along the riverbank to where the project began, to the little hut there, the blue velvet sofa that I thought was an art installation and has now been replaced by various other chairs that people wanted to pass on to those who were without a home of their own. It looks beautiful, with festoon lighting hanging from the huge branches of the larch tree.
A couple of people are playing chess in the shade of the tree. I greet them and they say how sorry they were to hear about Henri and ask about the funeral. I tell them I’ll let them know as soon as I can. Then, wishing them a good day, I pull out the note from my handbag and pin it to the shed door, explaining that the riverside kitchen will be closed until after the harvest. Once the bistro is open again, I’ll be back, bringing the dailyplat du jourafter service has ended. Until then, with no food coming out of the bistro, there’s no leftoverplat du jour. I feel wretched, but with the bistro shut, there’s nothing I can do. It won’t be for long. Just until after the harvest.
Then I return to the farm to serve up bread, cheese, pâté and tomato salad. I cringe at the memory of last night’s dinner. At least tonight will be better, with the pot of bouillabaisse in my shopping trolley.
After lunch the pickers help to clear up. I don’t eat much, and neither does Rhi. But the pickers enjoy the food. The rest of the day is theirs as it’s far too hot to work in the field. Jen heads for her camper van, puts her laptop on the little table and sits on one of the chairs she placed under the tree. Graham and Keith head for their room for a siesta. Marco, the Australian, wants to find a bar. Ed is heading into town too. Maria looks up bus timetables. She wants to explore the countryside.
‘There’s my old bike, if that’s any help?’ I offer. ‘But I only have one.’
‘That would be great!’
Marco rolls his eyes. ‘Can we just go and have a beer or three? I’m parched,’ he says testily. ‘All this tramping around the place, it’s doing my head in.’
To be fair, he worked hard this morning, bringing the trolley up to the barn from the bottom of the field when it was full.
Maria looks embarrassed. I wish she didn’t. It’s fine.
‘Maybe tomorrow,’ she says, and follows him as he sets off down the hot, dusty driveway, talking with Ed, who’s joined them. I can’t help but wonder about Maria and Marco. They seem to want different things from the trip, as if they’re not quite on the same page. But, then, maybe people wonder about me and Fabien. What’s he doing with a woman ten years older than him, when he could be with someone closer to hisown age? I think of him back with the band and wonder how he’s getting on.
I head up for a siesta, in the cool of my bedroom, missing Fabien. I decide to call him to check how he is.
The phone rings and he picks up. ‘Hello,chérie,’ he says, and I love hearing the smile in his voice.
I think I hear someone teasing in the background. He’s with the band. On the bus, I assume. There’s music playing, and lots of chatter.
‘How is everything? How are the pickers?’ he asks, clearly trying to ignore the noise around him.
‘We’ve started so that’s good.’
‘And the children?’ he asks.
