Page 63 of Sisters Making Mischief
We got out of the car, Luc started to untie the rope which kept the tarpaulin down and I stood watching him, my mind elsewhere.
I should have said something to Stephen. At the time, and not just let his behaviour dictate mine. I’d had a mind and will of my own once, hadn’t I?
And for a moment I imagined it. Telling him to rake up the autumn leaves. Suggesting he should weed the path or deadhead the roses. Or mow the lawn. But he had always been busy with something else, strangely I couldn’t remember what that might have been. He’d been retired, fairly fit, but if I thought about it, most of his time had been spent in his study, reading obscure books about the Napoleonic wars or the state of the British economy. He had scoffed if he saw me reading one of the romance books I’d enjoyed, so I’d started to do even that in secret.
I’d only cooked the meals he liked, only worn the outfits of which he had approved. I hadn’t even put out all my Christmas decorations for years. Why had I done those things? Was it because of his disapproval, so the house always needed to be tidy, the damn worktops clear? Was that why we hadn’t had the grandchildren over very often? Because he didn’t like the noise or the disruption to his ordered life? I felt the stirrings of anger for a moment, that he had gradually, over the years, restrictedme, perhaps preferring me to concentrate on him rather than our wider family? On what few friends I had. I wondered if he was still doing that with Gillian. I hoped she wasn’t putting up with it as I had.
Life here might be less ordered, but it was a darn sight more fun than I was used to.
As Luc coiled the rope up around his elbow, he turned to smile at me.
‘I don’t think these have come to any harm,’ he said, ‘our rescue mission will be a success, you’ll see.’
A rescue mission. Yes, perhaps that was what I had needed, too, to find out how to meet people, how to make new friends, how to be myself and not just Stephen’s reject.
It was one thing to be alone out of choice, and quite a different matter to be alone because I didn’t know how not to be.
It didn’t take us long to unload all Isabel’s plants and seedlings from his truck. The shiny new shelves in the greenhouse were soon filled with the trays and pots. It was pleasant in there, out of the last of the wind, with the sun shining more strongly then, warming up the air. Perhaps that was what I needed, a personal greenhouse to encourage me towards the light and warm me again.
I watched him surreptitiously out of the corner of my eye. He was tall, handsome, intelligent, and somehow – what was it? – sad. Perhaps like me he was lonely? Men were famously unable to articulate their emotions, at least that was what I understood. They didn’t have the equivalent of girly evenings when they could confess their feelings of inadequacy over a glass of wine, of dissatisfaction with their relationships or their appearance. Noone ever asked a man if he was beach-ready or worried about wrinkles. But presumably they still had private doubts and fears. How did men cope?
And, thinking about it, when did I last have the opportunity for a girly evening? When had I ever spoken frankly with friends about my marriage, the lack of intimacy, of spontaneity? Of actually being silly and having fun. I couldn’t remember.
‘There,’ he said at last, dusting the soil off his hands, ‘all safely tucked up in their new home. I could do with a drink of water, what about you? What would you like?’
I followed him outside and watched as he slid the metal bolt closed. The last of the clouds had gone now, and the sun overhead was heating up the afternoon. The sky was bright, washed blue and there were birds singing in the hedges. And I realised, very suddenly, that I was happy. And as long as I didn’t break any laws or upset anyone, I really could choose what I wanted. I could do what I liked. For too long I had been indecisive, and unsure and hesitant. I wasn’t even in my own country. If I made a fool of myself, no one would know.
So, what would I like? I closed my eyes and thought about it. This was the moment I had imagined, that I had waited for, when I would voice my wishes and not just dither about with the normal:oh, I don’t mind, it’s up to you.
‘I’d like you to take me into town and find a bar with a lovely view, and I’d like us to sit by the window and have a glass of wine. And perhaps acroque monsieur, one which is very hot with thick ham inside and a smear of mustard and with strings of melted cheese when I bite into it. And ideally there would be a red checked tablecloth, and a wicker basket of bread on the table.’
‘That sounds an excellent idea. I know exactly the place,’ he said, and he smiled at me, and I smiled back.
Goodness me, well that wasn’t too hard at all.
After we had packed his spare panes of greenhouse glass into sacks in the back of the truck, we didn’t go into the town, instead we went deeper into the countryside, which was looking green and washed after the rain. The sky was clear and bright, and on the narrow road there were puddles and water running down the edges. Earth banks on one side, and thick woodland on the other. Road signs to villages with unpronounceable names. Occasionally we passed a stone farmhouse, a horsebox left in a layby. Once or twice, we passed majestic houses, one with iron gates and sweeping lawns where there were two boys playing football. It felt very rural and French, even the light was different here; it couldn’t have been England.
‘That’s a lovely place,’ I said as we passed another one.
‘I’m guessing a weekend retreat for some Parisian industrialist,’ Luc said, ‘where he can drop in with his helicopter and host lavish, champagne parties for his friends.’
‘How marvellous, I wish he’d invite me too,’ I said.
‘Do you?’
I laughed. ‘No, not really. I’m happy doing what I’m doing at the moment.’
‘Me too,’ he said.
I was happy, and so was he.
How amazing, and we hadn’t really done anything particularly difficult. Just spent some time together, moved a few plants, even had a few laughs. But the big difference was that I had been relaxed, not worried, not fretting about doing the wrong thing or saying something daft. For the first time in years, I didn’t feel that awful, clenched knot in my stomach, waiting for criticism or sighing disapproval.
He drove more slowly, almost stopping so that I could have a better look. That house had turrets and towers and a sign on the gate:
Attention au Chien.
Beware of the dog, accompanied by a picture of a slavering Alsatian. Underneath it stood a white, miniature poodle with a blue collar, staring through the bars.
