Page 36 of Sisters Making Mischief
Pierre and Sylveste got up from the table and put their bowls in the sink.
‘Mamie, you don’t need to give them pocket money,’ Isabel said, ‘they are grown up. They earn more than enough, mostly from me at the moment, if they ever get on with the job.’
Eugénie ignored her.
‘Du caféif it’s convenient, and then I must get on with my day.’
‘What have you got planned?’ I asked. ‘Anything exciting?’
Eugénie gave me a look. ‘I need to post my letters and then see the priest about my funeral. I want to be sure it will all be done properly.’
‘A bit premature, don’t you think?’ Isabel said.
Eugénie gave a look at the ceiling as though she was St Joan at the stake waiting for the flames.
‘It’s as well to be prepared.On ne sais jamais.We never know…’
Pierre went to give his grandmother a hug and her face creased into a delighted smile.
‘My good boy, I will remember you in my will.’
‘Nonsense,Mamie, you are as strong as I am,’ Pierre said, ‘you can come and help us move the pipes if you want?’
Eugénie giggled rather girlishly and flapped a hand at him.
‘Terrible boy,’ she said dotingly.
She watched them go, a fond and proud smile on her face, and for a moment I rather envied her. She evidently was, and always had been, a caring grandmother, and her grandsons loved her despite her prickly nature. But I loved my granddaughters, too, and yet they were not like that with me.
Perhaps I spent too much time worrying about them and clearing up after them and not enough on actually getting to know them? That was an interesting thought. But now two ofthem were thousands of miles away. I would have to go and see them in New York, that was the answer.
It must be quite a change for them if I thought about it. They had left everything and just about everyone they knew. And in the same way, Sara’s daughters had been through a life changing event. Despite their bravado, it can’t have been easy for any of them.
I felt a sudden pang of regret and picked up my mobile.
‘Sara, it’s Mum. How are you getting on?’
13
Isabel suddenly remembered she had forgotten all about the Twelfth Night celebrations the previous week and she had promised to make aGalette du Roiready for Felix’s return to make up for it. She waited until Eugénie was safely away so she couldn’t make some comment, and then pulled out some ready-made puff pastry from the fridge. Then she mixed up the frangipane filling with almonds, sugar, eggs and cognac.
‘And I mustn’t forget this,’ she said pulling a little china figure out from a drawer and putting it inside the galette, ‘thefève. Whoever gets this in their slice is king for the day, which the boys used to like when they were little. And the paper crown. Now we just say the winner gets a wish for the New Year.’
She shoved thegaletteinto the oven and set a timer on her phone, then we went back out to the barn and watched as my nephews stopped squabbling and turned into two competent workmen, confidently moving bits of pipework and big bags full of tools. There was even a bit of welding going on as they restored the pipework that apparently had been leaking. I was well impressed.
After rescuing thegalettefrom the oven, Isabel did a bit more sorting out in the storage shed, taking a few things out of crates and putting them into piles and then putting them back again. She said she was just reminding herself what was there. Marcel and Antoine ran about, seemingly inexhaustible, tussling with a shred of canvas. One of the feral cats watched us with a sour expression from its perch on top of the tractor. Perhaps it didn’t like having its personal space invaded.
As the sun set and the dark evening shadows lengthened across the fields, we locked up again and went back into the house. Pierre and Sylveste had declared themselves happy with what they had achieved and would returnà bientôt, sometime soon, to finish off the last things that needed doing.
‘I suppose I should start thinking about the rest of the dinner,’ Isabel said. She held out her hands black with the dust and dirt from our afternoon’s work. ‘But first I think we should get cleaned up. I always get filthy working in the barn. And you have spiders’ webs in your hair.’
I looked down at my grimy clothes, which were bad enough. The possibility of webs in my hair were a different matter, one I hadn’t anticipated.
We went off to clean up and I enjoyed a scalding hot shower in the downstairs bathroom where the water pressure was reasonable but not exactly forceful.
Back up in my attic bedroom, I picked out some comfortable clothes for the evening. After all I wasn’t expecting to do much more than have dinner, drink wine and chat. A pair of joggers and an old but clean sweatshirt would do. I tied my wet hair back with a scrunchie and slipped my feet into my slippers, whichwere a joke pair of gorilla feet complete with claws that the twins had bought me for my last birthday.
Downstairs, my sister was sitting at the table leafing through the last of the catalogues and papers, and cheerfully consigning them into a large paper sack to be recycled. She looked very cheerful.
