Page 27 of Sisters Making Mischief
I felt rather wistful for a moment. What would it be like to be married to a man who looked at you properly, whose eyestwinkled with delight when you came into a room? I couldn’t for a moment imagine it.
‘Five eggs today,’ she said, ‘they are doing quite well considering the dark mornings. They’ll do better when we get into spring. I was going to make some leek soup for lunch, but the time has got away from me. Shall we just pop out and get something in the café? You remember that place, don’t you, Joy? I’m sure you’ve been there before.’
‘Good idea,’ Felix said absentmindedly, leafing through his paperwork, ‘I can do this later.’
‘You said that last week. And the week before,’ Isabel murmured.
‘Mieux vaut tard que jamais… better late than never,’ Felix said, jangling his car keys, ‘allons-y.Let’s go. I’ve just remembered, I need to speak to Louis about something anyway.’
We went to the village, Felix driving his old Renault at some speed down the middle of the country road in much the same way that I had done earlier. He said it was to avoid the potholes. I clung to the seat with both hands and hoped Henri and his tractor were not still around.
In the afternoon sunlight, the town looked charming. The bell in the church tower was tolling a single note, there were people queueing outside a shop with a faded red door and newspaper stuck over the windows, which Isabel reminded me was the local bakery; and some were already walking away with three, four or more long loaves from the afternoon bake under their arms. The French really must eat a lot more bread than I had realised.
At last, we pulled up outside an unremarkable little building with ‘Bar des Sports’painted in blue above the door and a couple of iron tables and chairs placed optimistically on the pavement outside, and yes, I remembered it. Stephen and I had been taken there once about ten years ago and the basic nature of the establishment (he had spent some time looking for a hygiene rating certificate) and the food had not gone down well with him. Particularly when he realised that the customer at the next table, white napkin tucked under his neck, was enjoying a couple of braised pig’s feet.
Anyway, Felix didn’t so much park the car, as leave it half on the pavement a few steps from the entrance, and we went in. It didn’t seem to have changed at all from what little I could remember. The interior walls and ceilings were still stained a distinctive nicotine brown, the grey marble tabletops matched the serving counter, and the chairs were a mismatch from several different decades. Behind the counter was a selection of spirit and liqueur bottles on wooden shelves stretching up to the ceiling, andMonsieur le Patronwas dabbing a cloth at the ones at the front with no particular enthusiasm.
He turned around as we came in and his face broke into an expansive smile. He was evidently so overjoyed to see us that he came out from behind his counter to shake hands all round and even do the cheek-kissing thing with Isabel.
There then followed a long, chuckling conversation in French, most of which escaped me, after that we were encouraged to sit down atla meilleure table– the best table, after he had first turfed a fat tabby off one of the seats.
I watched my sister joining in, her French and her understanding of the conversation obviously fluent. I know she had lived here for most of her adult life, but I still found it a bit odd. I suppose parents seeing their adult child in a Hollywood blockbuster or performing at the Albert Hall must feel the sameway. I stood proudly watching her, wondering what Miss Travis, who had tried and failed to teach us both French at school, would think.
There was something about her life that some – our parents and Stephen for example – might have seen as unsatisfactory, but I was beginning to realise it was far more colourful and – yes – happier than mine had been. I had not taken risks, not really stuck up for myself, not lived my life to the full. I felt a new determination growing.
Even in the short time since I had been here, I wanted to change, to feel real connection with my own life again, to have fun, before it was too late.
‘Now then, what shall we have?’ Isabel said. There was a laminated menu sheet wedged between a glass vase of artificial daffodils and a pepper mill, and she picked it up.
‘I don’t know why you are bothering to look,’ Felix said, ‘you know as well as I do, what you are going to have.’
‘Onion soup,’ Isabel agreed, passing the menu to me, ‘it’s the best.’
I looked at the menu uncertainly, pulling it back and forwards to try and get it into focus. I might have some spare reading glasses, in fact, I had several pairs, but they were all back in my room.
‘I’ll have the same,’ I said.
Isabel turned in her chair. ‘Louis,trois soups à l’oignon.’
Louis flapped a hand at her. ‘Bien sûr!’ Of course. ‘I’ll tell Paulette.’
Evidently we were all having the same thing.
‘Excuse me, I need a word with him,’ Felix said, wandering off to the bar where he was presented with a tall glass of lager.
‘So, how are you feeling? I’m so glad you’re here,’ Isabel said.
I reached across and squeezed her hand, feeling rather emotional.
‘So am I.’
‘You’re not fretting about Sara and the twins I hope?’
‘No. Of course not. Well, maybe a bit,’ I admitted.
‘They’ll be fine. I guarantee it. Sara needs time to get on with her life, to be independent. And she’s lucky to have found a place where she is able to do that. It was very generous of you to leave them there.’
I laughed. ‘Generous or stupid. Except Vanessa told me I’m not allowed to say stupid. So perhaps I’ll say foolish instead.’
