Page 3 of Love In Provence
But I can’t move. I stare at the tree and at the smashed front window, now with a pattern on the glass like one of the cobwebs on the lavender bushes on an autumn morning. The tree is resting on the chairs I’ve just stacked by the wall.
People are coming out of their shops.
‘Oh, là là!’ someone calls to another, who’s summoned the police and the fire brigade.
I turn back to the big solid door with the brass handle and hold onto it, steadying myself, resting my forehead on the cold metal, catching my breath, centring myself. That is what this place does for me. It centres me. It’s just a window, I tell myself. No one was hurt. It’s just the mistral causing mischief. The window can be fixed.
I push open the door and look back at the branch that’s cracked the glass and its lettering. At least no one was hurt. The window can be fixed. I walk into the small kitchen and turn off the gas under the bouillabaisse. There won’t be any lunchtime service today. I take a deep breath, close my eyes and breathe in the herb- and fish-scented broth. I put the lid on the big pan. At least there will be plenty to take to the riverside project this evening. Fabien had put furniture under the big larch tree there, with festoon lighting, and it has become quite the place to go. Anyone in need of a meal mixes with locals, who are happy to contribute and help. People play chess, talk, and once a month a local hairdresser comes and gives haircuts and manicures for those who need it, those with no home to go to. I wouldn’t like to be out tonight, I think, looking at the leaves stripped from the plane trees careering past the window.
Thepompiersarrive quickly, with the localgendarmes, and check no one is hurt and no one is inside the building. I’m still rooted to the spot on the threshold, thinking of what might have been if Fabien, Stephanie and Louis hadn’t left when they did. Everyone steps back a little as they discuss taking down the stricken tree. I feel this huge sadness for something that has stood at the heart of the community for so long. It’s about to leave a large gap in the street where it stood and shaded my diners when the awning didn’t cover them, shielding them from punishing summer sunlight and creating a cosy corner in autumn, covered with the fairy lights I’d hung there. Now something that made this place special is missing. I’ll have to think of something to replace it. But first I need to get the window repaired.
I text Carine, my friend and the local estate agent, tell her what’s happened and ask for the name of a handyman. Then I text Fabien and tell him about it, but not to worry, no one was hurt and I’m fine. At least, I think I am. I look at my shaking fingers hitting wrong letters on my phone’s tiny keyboard. Life was much easier when we all just picked up the phone, I think, knowing I sound old. But life has a way of galloping away with you. When I moved here and set up my life with Fabien, I promised myself we’d make the most of each day. Enjoy each other’s company. Coffee in the morning on the terrace overlooking the fields oflavender we’d planted, with people coming on Workaway schemes to help, staying in our converted barn and shepherd’s hut. Some pickers bring their own tents and motorhomes, while others prefer to stay in our barn. They’ll be coming again soon, for this summer’s harvest. Even though it’s a juggle, I love it when the farm is in full swing. As does Labradoodle Ralph. A boisterous young pup when we first moved here, now he sits in the shade watching the action from the cool terracotta-tiled terrace beyond the French windows from the kitchen.
Don’t get me wrong, I’m content. But the more I enjoy the routine of our lives, the busier and busier Fabien and I have become, rarely having time for coffee on the terrace. Days turn into weeks and months, the seasons change and life moves on. The cycle of life continues, spring turning to summer and summer to autumn. Winter will be brief, which also serves as a reminder that life is moving on – quickly.
Carine messages back with a glazier’s number and a message hoping I’m okay. I let her know that all is well. I’ll message Henri later, tell him what’s happened and ask about buildings insurance.
I walk back to the kitchen and, on auto-pilot, switch on the coffee machine, ready to serve coffee, with lavender biscuits, to thepompiersandgendarmes. Stephanie made them for today, to accompany the ice cream that won’t be eaten.
I may as well finish the bouillabaisse and cancel any bookings for lunch. I head for the reservations book on the desk in the corner of the restaurant. We don’t take many, just a few for regulars who know when I’m cooking what, like mussels after the market on Tuesday, steamed in white wine and served with a splash of crème fraîche and parsley, and on Wednesday a tomatoey beefdaube. It’s fish on Fridays, like today’s bouillabaisse, made with chunky monkfish. I also serve salads, Niçoise, with flaking tuna, green beans, hard-boiled egg and salty black olives in a thick vinaigrette, or apaysannesalad, with chunks of crispy pancetta and croûtons. Steakfritesis a regular on the menu, with homemade aioli, which is garlicky mayonnaise, and thin French fries. Fluffy omelettes cooked in butter, with grated cheese that strings from the plate when you eat it and home-cooked ham, with seasonal salads, slices of plump tomato scattered with fresh basil, circles of sweet white onion and a crisp green salad with a dressing of oil and vinegar, mustard and garlic. Come the cooler months, there will be thinly sliced black truffle and rich ratatouille. And, just as Henri did, I take the leftovers of theplat du jourto the clearing by the river. I always make sure there’s some left. Just like Henri taught me. I smile thinking about the people waiting for me to arrive.
I hear the front door open.
‘Sure everything is okay in here, Del? No one hurt?’ It’s Marcel, the localgendarme.
‘I’m fine, Marcel, and no one is hurt.’
‘When they start to take the tree away, I will need you to either come outside or stay in the kitchen, okay?’
‘Oui. Bien sûr.’ I look back at the diary. At least with the bistro shut today I’ll have more time to make the beds in the barn for the lavender pickers arriving later in the week. I hear the door open again, letting in another blast of manic air.
I look out from the kitchen. It’s the mayor.
‘Will you be open later?’ he asks in French. ‘You know I love your bouillabaisse!’
I shake my head. ‘Not today, Monsieur. But I have plenty to take to the river clearing later.’
‘I’ll be there!’ He smiles. ‘Bonne chance!’ He nods to the uniformed men with chainsaws revving up and shuts the door. I hear him talking to the firemen and police about what a shame it is, the old olive tree gone, and how the mistral has certainly caused mischief this time.
It certainly has. I pick up my phone and start texting the regulars.
The bell over the door rings.
‘Désolée, we’re not open today,’ I call, presuming someone is asking whether I’ll be open for lunch again. I carry on texting and listen for the bell to tellme they’ve got the message and are leaving. But I don’t hear it. In fact, the wind whips around inside the restaurant, causing more mayhem, lifting tablecloths, knocking over glasses on the shelves, catching the corners of the reservations book and flapping over the pages. It’s like they have a life of their own. As if some kind of a spell has been stirred up from its pages. I tut.
‘Désolée. Fermé aujourd’hui!’ I hope they’ll get the message and shut the door behind them. Still no bell, and still the wind whistles around, rattling bottles and clanking pans.
I crane my neck to look out of the kitchen and into the dark restaurant. Someone’s standing in the doorway.
‘Excusez-moi?’ I call. Still nothing. ‘Fermé aujourd’hui!’ When the silhouetted figure doesn’t move and the door stays open, I head into the restaurant. ‘Âllo?’ I say. Finally I recognize the person standing there, among the chaos going on outside,gendarmescalling to each other to close the road, the windswept restaurant and the front window, which looks like a fractured frozen lake.
‘Rhi?’
It’s her. My best friend is standing in the doorway. ‘Rhi!’ I hurry towards her, circumnavigating the tables and chairs in the compact restaurant, my arms flung wide. ‘You should have rung! Come in! Don’t mind the commotion outside. It’s all in hand.’ She’s here!Just when I need her. She’s always here when I need her most.
She doesn’t move towards me or open her arms to hug me back. It’s then I take in her sagging shoulders, drawn face and thinner-than-usual frame.
‘Rhi?’ She still doesn’t move and neither do I. ‘Is … everything all right?’ The chill in the air is now running up and down my spine, making me shiver, telling me it’s not.
