Page 47 of Love In Provence
‘You’re welcome, Samuel.’
‘But be careful,’ he says, and my smile drops. ‘A new crowd have moved in.’ He indicates a group who are laughing loudly and drinking from cans. ‘They are not like us,’ he says. ‘Less peaceful. A group of young lads, using this place to gather. Mostly they are bored. But it’s not always a good place at the moment.’
I smell smoke in the air, not cigarette smoke, something different.
‘A few older people have moved in too. They are here to do business.’ He shrugs. ‘Money passes hands, deals are done.’
I feel myself go cold.
He looks over his shoulder. ‘Just take care, you andthe little ones,’ he says. ‘It’s not as trustworthy a place as it once was.’
‘Merci,’ I stammer.
I can feel the atmosphere change as more people arrive and join the group at the table. Lighters are passed around and silver-foil packaging laid out. There is a mix of ages, and the banter is loud and crude.
‘I think we should leave now,’ I say to Samuel.
He nods sadly. ‘Thank you again for all you have done here. Let’s hope this passes,’ He gestures again at the group. There’s a shout, an argument, dogs bark. ‘Maybe they will move on soon and this place can go back to being the safe space it once was.’
Fabien is already shutting and locking the hut. The lights on the tree flicker and go out. I find myself wondering how long the lock will last and if the hut, too, will be taken over, like the seating area, as more familiar faces move off into the shadows of the night. There’s another shout, a tirade of swear words, and suddenly this place feels anything but safe.
I’m anxious, heart thumping, when Fabien catches my eye and we share an understanding look. We gather our things, say goodnight to Samuel, then head back up the riverbank, with the pots and pans, under the bright white moonlight to the farm. In the distance I can hear raised voices, shouts, arguments, and barking from agitated dogs.
‘It’s changed a lot,’ I tell the pickers. ‘A new group isusing the area, youngsters for drug deals by the look of it. Maybe I should have been there more.’
‘Sssh,’ says Fabien. ‘You’re doing plenty for lots of people. You cannot do everything for everyone,’ he scolds, but there is firmness in his voice too, and I think back to our snapped conversation, the row we had. He’s trying to make me feel better but I still feel that I’ve let people down, by allowing the riverside clearing project to lapse. First the bistro, now this.
‘Bonne nuit.’ We wish each other a good night. Graham and Keith head off to bed, arms round each other. Jen goes to her van where she puts on the fairy lights. It looks cheery, but there’s sadness too, the loneliness of life on the road.
Maria and Ed stop their debate about ingredients over technique, simple southern-Italian cooking against the learned culinary skills of a trained chef, and wish each other a good night. Maria runs to catch up with Marco, who is striding to their room.
As the moon shines brightly, the stars beside it, Fabien lets us into the farmhouse and drops his keys onto the kitchen table. ‘I’ve missed you,’ he says.
‘And I’ve missed you,’ I reply, kissing him on the lips, my worries about the two of us melting away. Then he takes my hand, tells Ralph to stay where he is, and leads me up to the bedroom, where the moonlight is streaming through the windows.
He pulls back the white mosquito netting that hangsover the bed and kisses me slowly on the lips, then down my neck, making me shiver. It’s hot, very hot. He takes me to the bathroom and we shower together, massaging and soaping each other, enjoying the familiarity and the way our bodies fit together.
In the silver moonlight, under the canopy of the white netting, we make love, like I never have with anyone else. It opens a floodgate and I weep, overcome with love for the man I’m with, and the man we’ve all lost. I weep until my pillow is wet, with Fabien there to kiss and wipe away my tears.
In the early hours of the morning, I feel Fabien untangle himself from me and slide from beneath the sheets.
‘I wish you didn’t have to go,’ I say.
‘I wish you could come with me,’ he says, and we kiss until he pulls away.
‘I have to be here,’ I whisper. ‘I have to find a way to get Henri’s bistro back. If we don’t, all trace of Henri will be lost for ever. It’s like Zacharie’s wiping him out of the town he was a part of.’
He brushes the hair from my forehead. ‘I have to go. I promised. But soon we will make time for each other. Soon,’ he vows, and slips out of the bedroom before dawn to rejoin the band for the next leg of the summer tour, heading for a festival in the Loire.
I let my tears soak into the pillow until dawn breaks. It’s a new day, and there are people to feed. Henriwould have made sure they had a meal, and I intend to do the same. I need to start cooking again. And now the tears have fallen, maybe I can. I have to find a way of remembering Henri’s recipes. I can’t let him disappear. I just have to get the restaurant back.
I lie there wide awake, trying to find a way to make this right, but in my heart of hearts I know I can’t. I haven’t any money. Without the bistro, I can’t keep going and I’ll have to let the pickers go. Tomorrow. I can’t keep them here under false pretences. I can’t even pay for their board. Is my time at Le Petit Mas coming to an end? The only income we’ll have will be from the lavender sale, and that’s not a lot. Getting a still to make oil and such would make it far more profitable. Right now, it’s just bunches for sale in the market. How will we make ends meet at Le Petit Mas? Will I have to put it up for sale? And where that will leave me and Fabien I have no idea. I have to tell him I can’t keep this place going. There is so much more that Fabien and I should have talked about. After all, Le Petit Mas is Fabien’s home too. First, though, I must talk to the pickers. I’ll do the rest of the harvest on my own.
18
The next morning I’m on the terrace, waiting for everyone to appear for breakfast. I had to scrape around for the money to buy the bread this morning and decided against cinnamon swirls. Fortunately Keith has made another cake he brings to the table to the pickers’ delight.
‘Banana cake,’ he says. ‘Thought it might be a breakfast thing, with a hint of lavender. And great with butter – especially French butter!’
