Page 34 of Sisters Making Mischief
‘You did a lovely job in my bedroom,’ I said.
Isabel pulled a face. ‘That was mostly Margot, Sylveste’s girlfriend. She’s very artistic and clever.’
I pulled out a length of hand-stitched bunting from one of the boxes, it was absolutely delightful in shades of blue and cream. I was sure I could do something with that. And then there were exquisite lace panels and crocheted throws. Admittedly, they were rather grubby and scrunched up, but they could be laundered. I began to feel rather excited at the prospects.
There were some lovely old patio pots, with cherubs and lions’ heads on the side. A miniature three-shelfétagèremade out of curly ironwork and behind that a proper auricula theatre of faded painted wood. The possibilities were endless. And there was nothing I liked better than tidying things up, making rooms look attractive and welcoming. I’d always been like that, even my student room had pictures of Alphonse Mucha’s four seasons on the walls and a new lightshade. And I’d found a fabulous patchwork bedspread in the local market for 50p, which had been perfect once I had washed and mended it.
The scenario in front of me suddenly stirred something I had almost forgotten. Yes, I had done all I could to make my home ‘family ready’, but no one ever seemed to notice it. Look at the Christmas I’d just had. No one but me bothered to turn on the battery illuminated nativity on the mantelpiece, or the fairy lights strung up the bannisters. And I don’t think my granddaughters had switched on their own little attic Christmas tree once. Surely people other than me liked such things?
I peered inside a plastic crate that contained twenty-four miniature milk bottles with ‘Lait de campagne’on the side in a suitably rustic, faded green paint. I could almost see it; a long table set with a red gingham cloth, the wicker baskets open to show off delightfully pretty teacups and saucers (I’d noticed some in a box), the milk bottles (minus the dead spiders) arranged artfully around. Perhaps a couple filled with wildflowers, or ears of wheat. And that hand-made bunting would be ideal as a backdrop.
Just as I was letting my imagination spin off into creating a tableau of French rural life, using the ornamental enamel pails to hold some shining red apples and the faience bowl decorated with a man in bloomers, perhaps full of lemons – the bowl not the bloomers – there was a terrific racket from the corner of the barn, and a lot of growling from the dogs.
‘Sounds like they have got something,’ Isabel said.
‘Do you have a lot of rats here then?’ I asked rather nervously.
‘No more than anyone else,’ Isabel said, ‘they do say you are never far away from a rat. Or mouse. And we have bats too although I haven’t seen any yet this year. It’s been too cold.’
We then went over to the display barn, leaving Marcel and Antoine barking happily over something, and Isabel opened the doors. It didn’t look too promising. There were a lot of dead leaves blown in over the winter, one dim light bulb in themiddle of the ceiling, no windows of course, and a lot of spiders’ webs. There was also a musty smell of dust and possibly damp. But there was a wonderful long oak table covered in pigeon droppings, the surface gouged with scratches and even a chunk missing from one corner, which after I cleaned it up, could be perfect for the sort of display I had been imagining.
‘So, what do you think?’ Isabel asked after a few minutes.
‘I’d love to have a try,’ I said, dragging my mind away from the old enamel signs forMobilgaspetrol,Le Train BluandGrand MarnierI had seen propped up against the wall.
‘You’re hired,’ Isabel said, pleased.
Marcel and Antoine suddenly raced past the door, barking loudly and a moment later, we heard a truck pull up outside.
‘That must be the boys,’ Isabel said, ‘they were supposed to call in the other day but didn’t. Come and say hello to your nephews.’
Outside there was a truck, the back of which was covered with a tarpaulin and had ‘Travaux de Jardin’inscribed on the bonnet.
‘Pierre! Sylveste!Tante Joy est arrive!’
Aunt Joy has arrived.
Well that made me feel positively ancient, especially when the two very tall and well-muscled young men jumped down from the cab. They were very welcoming, coming to give me a hug and the obligatory double-cheek kiss, and they seemed genuinely pleased to see me.
Pierre swept off the woolly cap that was pulled over his dark curls respectfully, and Sylveste was very muddy, something for which he repeatedly apologised.
‘Nous avons creusé des fossés. We have been digging ditches, for the professor,’ he explained.
My ears pricked up. Did they mean the Harrison Ford lookalike from the other side of the river? It seemed they did.
‘He was in a good mood today,’ Pierre said, pulling out a tin and rolling a cigarette, ‘and he paid us without any argument.’
‘This is not always the case,’ Sylveste added, ‘Luc is sometimesgrincheux –grumpy. But today, even a smile. He said he saw you both in town yesterday. And he asked about Aunt Joy.’
Luc had asked about me? It was on the tip of my tongue to ask for details, but I didn’t want to appear too keen, because undoubtedly someone would tell him.
Sylveste gave a meaningful nod towards his mother who raised her eyebrows in surprise.
‘Perhaps you made an impression,’ she said.
‘Don’t be silly,’ I said. ‘You’re both looking very well. Is business good?’
Pierre took a long puff at his cigarette.
