Page 58 of Love In Provence
‘Traditionalists,’ I suggest.
‘Yes. Church, Sunday lunch. Working at the factory. Taking their two weeks’ holiday in the same cottage every year. They just want the same security for me. And something to brag about to their friends!’ He laughs. ‘A lawyer for a son!’
‘I’m sure they’d be even better pleased to know you were happy,’ I say. ‘It’s hard to live your whole life just trying to make someone else happy. You have to live with yourself. Make sure you like the life you’ve chosen,’ I say, without stopping to think. I hope I haven’t offended him.
‘Like you?’
‘I don’t have children of my own, but I do know that what I want for Stephanie is for her to be happy, whatever she does, and the little ones.’
‘Sadly, it’s not quite like that in my family. And I’ve already let them down once by walking away from thehouse and the wedding. I’m not sure they could live with any more disappointment.’
I put my hand on his shoulder. ‘That makes you a very kind and thoughtful person,’ I say. ‘But be kind to yourself too.’
‘I will,’ he says, and we turn to help Keith.
The old rugs are pulled out and we add more mismatched crockery from the fifties to the collection Keith has arranged on an old dresser to give the place a real front-room feel.
‘This is looking amazing,’ I say, as the outside space is turned into something resembling a vintage tea room, with lace tablecloths, ironed and weighted down with worn but beautifully patterned plates and side plates. There are water glasses of differing heights, knives and forks of all different shapes and sizes. On each table there’s a vase of the flowers and a jug of water. There are tea lights in jam jars, waiting to be lit. Intricately woven rugs lie on the floor and each chair comes with its own history. Some are ornate, perhaps from a local château or amaison de maître, others from humbler backgrounds, from the heart of a French country home, a little like mine, where families have joined together for meals at the kitchen table. And at the heart of this scene? The table. There are long farmhouse tables, where workers like the pickers would sit after a morning in the sun. There are dark-stained stately ones fromformal dining rooms, smelling of beeswax, and some that would have had another purpose, like the sewing-machine tables with their ornate wrought-iron legwork. Machinists would have sat at them to create their garments, either in the home or the château, mending the linen, or in shops, running up local fashions. All of this, the tables, chairs, silver cutlery and worn patterned plates, is part of the history of the town, of the people who have lived and worked here, whose stories are woven into the fabric of the place. This is what Henri would have wanted. A place where everyone is welcome.
‘Is everything okay?’ Keith asks.
‘It’s fabulous,’ I tell him.
‘You haven’t seen it with the candles lit!’ He beams.
‘Let’s just hope people come,’ I say.
‘They will,’ he says. ‘Make somewhere welcoming and they will come.’
And they do.
The candles are lit, making it look like a magazine lifestyle shoot. The festoon lighting is twinkling. Bottle-openers and corkscrews of all varieties are lying on the tables, and people are opening the wine they’ve brought with them.
By eight o’clock, three nervous chefs are waiting inside the cool of thebrocantewarehouse. Outside, the barbecue charcoal has been lit, and my heart lifts and swoops as I see the mayor and his wife arrive withneighbours and Carine with Clémentine. They all come in with oohs and ahhs, taking in their surroundings and sitting at the long table Keith has reserved for them, with pressed napkins on top of the patterned plates.
The sound of popping corks heralds another table arriving. It’s the bakery-van owner, Adèle, with her husband, elderly mother and children. And they keep coming. Serge, the old lavender farmer, arrives on his own, and Rhi seats him next to Carine at the mayor’s table. The neighbours from the shops next to what was Henri’s bistro are here too. Samuel and his two companions, who helped on the field, arrive shyly and I usher them in, insisting they’re welcome especially after their work in the field that morning. My friend Lou and her partner, who live on a smallholding a few towns away, arrive with armfuls of flowers and produce from their land.
We hug each other hard, then Rhi is in Lou’s arms. ‘I’m so sorry about Henri,’ Lou says to Rhi. ‘And I’m sorry I haven’t been here sooner. But with the harvest …’
‘It’s fine!’ Rhi says, smiling. This is the old friend who would never have got her hands dirty, let alone chip a nail, before she met Alain at the riverbank clearing. He’d lost his way in life after his wife died but, thanks to the riverbank project and spending time at Le Petit Mas when I moved in, planting lavender, he and Lou had got together.
I put all the produce in the cool of the barn, and suddenly I’m wondering what to make with it, turning over ideas in my head as if I were having a conversation with Henri. Just like that, I’m remembering the dishes I made with him. The fog is lifting. I turn to Rhi. ‘He’s here. I’m thinking about what I can make with these courgettes and tomatoes. The ideas haven’t gone! He’s still here!’
‘And this is where we want him to stay!’ she says.
‘Very much so. And I need Henri’s son to see that too.’ I just hope my invitation to come tonight will do the trick.
As Edith Piaf sings from the old record player, Maria and Ed start to plate up her salad starter. It’s a mix of different flavours and styles, green leaves and edible flowers. She and Ed are working in harmony together. Jen is behind them, washing up. Graham is helping guests pour their wine and refilling water jugs.
‘Everything you see is for sale,’ says Keith, revelling in his role as scene-setter. One or two people raise their hands and ask about particular pieces, the gilt mirror and the candelabrum, and he writes ‘sold’ labels to tie on them.
I keep watching the gates, open and welcoming, as are the lights, the candles and the cheerful conversation over the music. But as we all pitch in to hand round the starters and baskets of bread, then take seatswith our guests to eat with them, I take one final glance out of the gates. Zacharie is standing, arms folded, next to his new sous-chef, in chef’s whites. Just for a moment I wonder if he’s going to come and join us, even just briefly, to raise a glass to his dad. He stares back at me and I’m willing him to come and see what we’re doing. He lets his arms drop to his sides. Then, to my disappointment, he shakes his head and turns to go back to the bistro, laughing and slapping his sous-chef on the back. He’s not coming. My heart sinks as my fingers curl into my palms, frustrated by his refusal to see what this place is all about. His father, Henri.
The barbecue is served withcarottes râpées, grated carrot in a thick French dressing topped with poppy seeds, chickpea salad and garlicky potatoes with a hint of cumin and coriander. Baskets of bread are replenished and I feel as if I’m back at the bistro. Food is enjoyed and diners ask to meet the chefs who cooked it and tell them how much they love it. Keith has sold two more mirrors he hung outside, reflecting the festoon lighting, the candles, and another pair of candelabra he’s used on the centre table.
‘Everything is for sale,’ he repeats happily, giving people prices for large tureens and jugs.
After cheese and a glorious trio of desserts, including Keith’s marvellousmacarons, our diners reluctantlyleave, promising to come back as soon as we’re open again. The wooden till drawer is full: everyone paid the suggested price and more. I grab some wine glasses from the box inside the barn and open two bottles ofcrémant, sparkling wine, a gift from the mayor, and take them to the nearest table.
