Page 28 of Sisters Making Mischief
Isabel chuckled. ‘Vanessa is such agoodmother isn’t she. She makes my head spin. We weren’t like that, and the kids turned out okay in the end, didn’t they? Tell me all about John and his new job.’
Had I been a good mother? Stephen had been the disciplinarian; I had been the soft touch when the children were growing up. His response to most of their requests had been ‘no’, mine had usually been ‘well, I’ll see’, which was usually interpreted as yes.
Should I have been tougher on them? Should I have said something to Sara about her alcohol intake over Christmas instead of making excuses for her? Made a few comments about the rudeness of my granddaughters? Pulled everyone up for their untidiness? Asked for some co-operation instead of being such a martyr? Yes, I probably should, and I felt irritated with myself all over again.
Felix brought us a carafe of local red wine and we sat and chatted about things while the occasional customer came in for a drink or something to eat. Every time, there was a lot of handshaking and loud laughter and sometimes, Louis came out from behind the bar and slapped someone on the back in greeting. It was all very relaxed and pleasant, and I thought about the wine bar back home where Stephen had liked to go – The Oak Barrel – where everything was pale grey, coordinatedand unremarkable. Much like our lives together, if I thought about it.
They liked to play Vivaldi or in the evenings some cool jazz in order to liven up the proceedings. The food was good but fussy, but that’s what Stephen had liked. Many times, I had gone home hungry after a meal there and had some toast and Marmite to fill me up.
We talked about Pierre and Sylveste and their landscaping business, how they had recently bought a new truck and were inundated with work.
Isabel explained. ‘There are a lot of second homeowners, who only come once or twice a year, and the rest of the time the houses are rented out to holiday makers. This area is very popular. Not too far from the ferry ports, near the beaches, lots of little towns to explore. Ourgîtesare nearly always busy in the high season, that’s why we are getting a shepherd’s hut. Such a cute thing, just one bedroom, a tiny shower room, and everything you need. I wouldn’t mind moving in there, except Felix says I would have it looking like a jumble sale in no time.’
‘And the barn?’ I said. ‘Thebrocante. Is that going well?’
‘It could be better. I had such a lovely time in the autumn, going to flea markets and antique fairs. You can still pick up such lovely old things for a song around here. I just need to get the barn sorted out and presentable for the spring visitors. If you want to help me do that, I will love you forever.’
‘I will,’ I said.
I liked the idea of that. It was the one thing I hadn’t thought through when I decided to come here. I was so used to having something to do since I’d retired from teaching, even if it was looking after my husband when he was still around, housework, gardening or cooking for the Women’s Institute market, and the lead up to Christmas and the weeks that followed had been a lot of bustle and activity. Now I needed something new to focus on.If I didn’t, I could imagine myself getting very bored indeed, and while I didn’t have the energy of my younger self, I still had a very active mind.
I suddenly felt a surge of optimism. Whatever I did, it would be something different, not something that people would expect me to do. I would try to open myself up to the possibilities of travel or hobbies or people. I wanted my family to look at me with astonishment, perhaps even admiration.
What on earth are you doing, Mum?
Louis’ wife, Paulette, came through from the kitchen at that point with a laden tray that she deposited on the table between us. She was a well-rounded woman of about my vintage, with dazzling blue eyes, a beautiful smile and russet curls bound up with a chic, silk headscarf.
‘Enjoy,’ she said, ‘this is my best, my favourite, I make this with love, and it is all the better for it.’
There were three white, china lionhead bowls and the heavenly smell of French onion soup and toasted gruyère cheese rose up, making my mouth water. There was bread too, in a wicker basket, the crust crackled and golden. Paulette clasped her empty tray to her bosom and gave us a rather misty-eyed look before she went back to her kitchen.
‘Did I ever tell you she was once a Dior model?’ Isabel said.
‘Really?’ I said, watching her go.
‘So Eugénie told me.’
Felix came to join us.
‘Louis says he will put the posters up, for the bookshop and the French evening classes I’m going to run,’ he said, ‘There’s always someone coming in wanting to learn basic French, so why not? We could do with the money.’
There was a large, cheese-covered crouton on top of my soup, and everything was the temperature of molten lava. It was delicious. As I ate, I almost felt as though it was the first realfood I had eaten perhaps in years. But it wasn’t just the food, it was the whole experience of that simple meal. The French-ness of it all. The modest red wine in the scratched glass carafe, the simple flavours, the unpretentiousness of the place. There was a quiet hum of conversation, none of which I could really understand. Occasional laughter. People coming and going. My sister opposite me, relaxed and happy. And I was there too, enjoying it.
Our parents had despaired of Isabel when she was growing up. She was always so unpredictable, so wilful while I had been the obedient child. When she had announced she was dropping out of university after two years to go and live with Felix Moreau in Aquitaine without the benefit of marriage, they had been horrified. All that promise and intelligence wasted so that she could go and live in some sort of hippy commune, they said.
I, meanwhile, had got my degree, taught in a private school where I had later married my head of department, and set up home in a leafy and respectable suburb. Which one of us had made the better life, I wondered. Perhaps my parents and Stephen had been wrong, it wasn’t all about exam results and money. Maybe there was more to life than just using the right cutlery, going to the best places, having the right beliefs. Perhaps there was more to life than that. But what was it? What was missing? I wanted – no Ineeded– to find out.
10
‘Delicious,’ I said at last, putting my spoon down with a contented sigh.
‘Told you,’ Isabel said. ‘We can always have leek soup another day.’
Felix poured the last of the wine into my glass despite my protests and I took a hefty swig of it, not wanting people (I mean come on, which people?) to notice that I had more than anyone else. At the same moment the door opened and a man walked in. The professor. Jean-Luc Fournier.
He stood for a moment, shrugging off his coat, looking around. He looked so ridiculously attractive that for a moment I lost proper coordination.
I gasped and of course the wine went down the wrong way, making me splutter all over myself and the table.
