Escape to the French Farmhouse

by Jo Thomas

  ‘Merci,’ I say. ‘Vous êtes très gentil,’ I try in my simple French. ‘Au revoir.’

  ‘Bonne journée, Madame,’ he calls.

  Suddenly I feel really happy. I haven’t felt like this before. Why not? But I know the answer. Because Ollie and I had made each other unhappy.

  I pass the estate agent’s window and see the smart young woman behind the neatly ordered desk talking to a middle-aged couple. I think of the big key in my bag. Surely it wouldn’t do any harm to hang on to it for a bit longer, just while I work out what I’m going to do. Give it until the weekend. Then I’ll start looking for a job and somewhere to live back home. I can’t just stay here, like I’m on holiday. I’ll have to go back to the UK soon and look for somewhere to rent while the house sells. I suppose we’ll split whatever profit there is, if any. The reality of the situation is sinking in: dividing our small ‘assets’. I’m no longer half of a couple. I’m no longer someone’s wife. It feels odd. It’ll feel strange telling people I’m separated. I sigh. We had lots of friends, but over the years I’ve felt lonely. The more people tried to sympathize when we discovered we couldn’t have children, the more I kept them at arm’s length. But now it feels good to smile, and here, in this town, although I’m on my own, I don’t feel lonely at all.

  But if I’m going to stay until the weekend, I’ll need a few supplies. Everything went into that truck, except my bag with toiletries and essential clothes. At that moment I spot a pair of big double doors down a side street, inside a courtyard, behind wrought-iron open gates. I’ve never noticed it before. A large brocante, by the look of it, with all sorts of furniture, bedding and even a clothes rail. I need some bedding, maybe something to sleep on, a cup and a pan. Looks like I could get everything I need right here. Perhaps even sell it back to the owner when I leave. I walk towards it, seeing piles of fabric, kitchen implements and ornaments.

  I run my hand over a bundle of bedding. A floral eiderdown, sheets and blankets, tied up with ribbon, for just five euros. Far cheaper than paying to stay somewhere. There’s a chair that’s been half upholstered, the fabric cut and in place: it just needs tacking on. I could live without a chair, but at that price, it seems a shame to leave it behind. There are boxes of plates, beautiful cups and saucers and cutlery, all cheaper than I could buy in the supermarket. There are wooden bed heads and stacks of thick mattresses. Then I see a lovely leather-bound book. A work of art in itself. A cookery book of the area, handwritten, and if I’m not mistaken, it’s about lavender. I smell the lavender in my hand, as I turn the pages. It could have been written for Le Petit Mas de la Lavande. I try to imagine my home in its heyday as a lavender farm, long gone.

  ‘Bonjour.’ A polite voice cuts into my thoughts.

  An attractive young man is smiling at me. Dark curly hair, dark stubble on his chin. He has big green eyes and is wearing an old leather jacket, despite the sun, and a soft scarf around his neck. For a moment I just stare at him and feel quite hot. I fan myself with the empty pastry bag, scattering crumbs on to the book. ‘Oh, sorry – je m’excuse,’ I say, blushing.

  ‘No problem.’ He flicks away the crumbs. ‘It’s done.’

  ‘Merci,’ I say, and push the scrunched-up bag into my shoulder bag, on top of the key.

  ‘Are you looking for something?’ he says, in stilted English.

  ‘Um, well, yes,’ I say, wondering where to start and how to explain my situation. ‘I need … um … everything really! The basics. Cheaply.’

  He smiles quizzically, not understanding. ‘Let’s start at the beginning,’ he says. ‘Can I get you some coffee?’

  My mouth is suddenly dry. ‘Coffee would be wonderful, merci.’

  ‘Je m’appelle Fabien,’ he says, and holds out a hand to shake mine.

  ‘Della,’ I reply. ‘Everyone calls me Del.’

  ‘Enchanté,’ he says, and something shifts inside me, making me feel young again.

  ‘Let us have coffee and, er, talk about your knees,’ he says, leading me into the big warehouse.

  ‘My knees?’

  ‘Yes, are you living here?’

  ‘Oh, I see.’ I bite my top lip. ‘My needs.’

  ‘Yes. Your knees. Was it wrong? My English is …’ He puts out a hand and tilts it from side to side.

  ‘No. It’s fine. My needs. It’s complicated. I was supposed to be living here and now, well … I’m staying, just for a bit.’ I have no idea what my plans are. ‘Until I know where I’m moving on to.’

  ‘So you are here to invade us!’ He smiles widely, and I’m wrong-footed.

  ‘What? To invade?’ I repeat and he nods. ‘No, I was here to live, but now, I’m just staying for a bit, then going back. Definitely not invading!’

  He looks confused. ‘Sorry, my English, it’s not quite …’ He tips his head from side to side and the smile returns to his face, as it does to mine. ‘I mean you are here to live with us.’

  ‘Well, I’m just staying … for a bit,’ I repeat. I wonder how the locals must feel about so many British people moving here. Do they feel we’re invading their towns and villages? Do they resent us coming?

  Fabien doesn’t seem to resent my being here. But then I remember Ollie and me drinking gin and tonic with the other expats in the ‘pub’, barely speaking French. I wouldn’t blame him, or anyone else in the town, if he did.

  He claps his hands together. ‘You are staying here so we need to make you as comfortable as possible,’ he says, with that killer smile. ‘Enough to make you content.’

  Comfortable and content would be perfect right now. I can’t help but think the people of the town must be laughing at the likes of me and Ollie. Another British couple moving here for the good life, wanting to make a Little Britain beyond the Channel, then packing up and moving back when it all goes wrong. I sigh. I barely speak French. I’d had no idea how I was going to work or where. I can see why people like Fabien might laugh at us. Although, thankfully, he doesn’t seem to be. In fact, he’s being charming, welcoming and nothing but helpful.

  I follow him into the cool warehouse. For the next hour or so, we walk, keeping our conversation to what I’ll need for a few days’ stay. He grabs suitable pieces and arranges them by the back door to deliver to Le Petit Mas de la Lavande later that afternoon. I think a mattress will do me for a few days, but he insists I need a bed and finds me a big wooden one, with carved acorns on the posts, tells me it’s been here for ages and he can offer me a very good price. He sorts out a mattress, and I wonder what on earth I’m going to do with them when I leave the following weekend. But, right now, the thought of sleeping on a proper bed, with a thick mattress, is worth every euro. And it’s still cheaper than a hotel. I take the chair because I like the idea of having a little project to do while I work out where to go next. Fabien insists on four plates and beautiful cutlery, ‘because eating correctly is important for the stomach and well-being’. I take some pans from a random box of cooking utensils, which he adds to the pile, with my bundle of bedding. He doesn’t ask any more questions about why I’m here on my own, needing ‘everything’, or why I’m staying just for a bit.

  We pass a clothes rail. He picks out a wrap-around dress in a cherry print and holds it against me.

  ‘Oh, I’m not sure I should,’ I say, as, with his other hand, he pulls out a kimono top, unlike anything I’ve ever worn before.

  Suddenly a wave of guilt washes over me. I’m not in this warehouse to enjoy myself, just to buy practical necessities. Enough to make you content … I hear Fabien’s words as I look at the dress and the top. I have barely any clothes with me, and the ones I have are for rainy British weather …

  Next weekend I plan to give the key to the estate agent. I have until then to work out who I am and where I’m going. I can be whoever I want to be. Go where I like. I look at the dress and smile at Fabien so he adds it to the pile with a nod of agreement; it’s a good choice.

  ‘Parfait,’ he says, and holds up another dress, the
n a silk dressing-gown – ‘For the mornings,’ he says. I’m blushing a little but I take the gorgeous dressing-gown and he smiles.

  Hastily, I tell him I’m done. I have everything I need. I slip the leather-bound recipe book on to the pile. I stare at the bed, the chair – and the small round table, with folding chairs, that Fabien insisted I’d need. I’ll leave them in the house when I go so it’s dressed for any buyers wanting to view it. It may help to get a sale. He adds up the prices of the items, then deducts some because I’m such a good customer. All of it costs less than the settee Ollie ordered when we moved in.

  Quickly, I pull out my purse and my bank card in case he changes his mind about the discount. For someone who feels we’re here to invade, he’s been very generous.

  ‘Oh.’ He looks at the card. ‘I’m sorry. My machine … en panne. Broken. Can you pay cash? I can knock a bit more off if that helps.’

  ‘No, it’s fine!’ I say. At this rate he’ll be paying me to take it away. ‘I’ll just go to the cashpoint.’ I point to the bank. ‘I’ll be back.’ I hurry out into the brilliant sunlight.

  I think about Ollie and me as I go, realizing how we stood out in the town. We didn’t try to integrate, just arrived and hoped life would be as it was in the UK. I think about Fabien holding the dress against me and wonder if it’s obvious that I’m single now. Am I going to be wary of every man I meet, now I’m no longer somebody’s other half? I feel as if I have a sign over my head: ‘Newly Single Female’. The last thing I want is another partner. I just want to be me. Not a wife, a woman who couldn’t have children or who’s just lost her mother. I’m just not sure who me is.

  I cross the road to the cashpoint and stand in the bank’s shade, enjoying the cool and letting the reality of my situation sink in once more. I have somewhere to sleep tonight, and eat. As horrid as it was splitting from Ollie, it’s over. We can both get on with our lives now. We need to find new paths away from each other. I have everything I need for the time being. Enough to be content.

  I put my card into the machine and type in my PIN. The machine whirs and whirs and then the card slowly disappears inside it. I fumble for it but it’s gone. I try to read the screen but the message vanishes before I can. The bank has shut for lunch, and I hear Ollie’s voice in my head: ‘What kind of country stops for lunch?’ But my card is gone.

  FIVE

  I feel like I’ve been left alone on an island: the last ferry has just sailed. I now have nothing. I rummage in my bag for my phone to call the bank in the UK. But even if they send me a new card, it’ll be days before it arrives. Then I see it: the envelope of cash from the sale of the sit-on lawnmower, which I was supposed to pay into the bank. It had been brand new when we moved here. I got a dog and Ollie got the lawnmower. Once we’d decided to leave, he’d pushed it down to the end of the drive and stuck an ‘À vendre’ sign on it. We sold it for half what we paid for it, a quick sale to a couple with a holiday home in a neighbouring village.

  I breathe a sigh of relief. But this is all I have until I can get a new bank card. I need to make it last. I return to the brocante, this time with only half a smile. I put back the silk dressing-gown and the leather-bound book. And the beautiful vase I had planned to fill with flowers, and tell Fabien a white lie to hide my embarrassment at my new financial situation. I say I’ll come back for them when I can get out more cash.

  ‘Of course,’ he says, seemingly picking up on my change in mood. (Why was my card eaten?) ‘You are welcome to invade any time!’ He grins. He’s happy to take my money, but perhaps doesn’t want me in his country.

  I count out the cash for the essentials and hand it to him, glancing at what’s left in the envelope.

  ‘You can take the other items. Pay me when you can, if you like?’

  Tears fill my eyes but I don’t want him to see them.

  ‘I’ll come back when I can,’ I say, through my tight throat, knowing I won’t.

  He reverts to slick professional and promises to deliver the goods after lunch. He knows exactly where Le Petit Mas de la Lavande is, he assures me.

  ‘Merci,’ I say, hurrying out of the cobbled courtyard and through the big iron gates that I know will be locked as soon as I leave: everyone closes for lunch. I hurry past the restaurant on the market square, where many of the stallholders are enjoying lamb ragout, the smell of Provençal herbs in the air, frites, salad and steaks, with jugs of rosé in the glorious sunshine. Small dogs sit patiently at their owners’ feet, and I wish Ralph was the kind of dog I could take to a restaurant. Cigarette smoke rises with the good-natured chat and I would have loved to have lunch in the restaurant, but I must find out what’s going on with our bank account.

  I gather a few tomatoes, olives and cheese from the small supermarket as it closes to go with the baguette I bought earlier. I raise a hand to the lavender seller as he packs up for the day. The whole town seems to smell of lavender as I walk through the narrow streets, past the cream- and terracotta-coloured stone walls and shop fronts. The ‘pub’ in the middle of the square is busy with expats, but I don’t stop. I don’t want to have to explain why I’m here and Ollie isn’t. I hurry towards the road leading out of town and the grassy path along the river, then up the lane towards the house. The water running beside me is clear and calm. The cypresses are set against a bright blue sky. Bluer than I have ever seen before. My spirits begin to lift again as I walk back to Le Petit Mas.

  I let myself in with the huge wrought-iron key. It’s as if I’m holding the history of the families who lived here before me. Ollie hated the key and wanted to get a locksmith in to replace it.

  I push open the door, and Ralph sees me. He launches himself down the corridor at me, once again nearly knocking me off my feet. His welcome, crazy as it is, makes me laugh.

  ‘Okay, Ralph, I’m home,’ I say.

  I walk into the kitchen where Ralph has knocked over his water bowl and shredded the blanket. My dog comes and stands next to me, panting, wagging his tail, as if relishing the memory of the fun he’s had. I rub his head. But I have to make the call to the bank and find out if there’s a problem with the account. I go out on to the veranda at the side of the house, Ralph bounding around my feet, and stride to the top corner of the field. I breathe in the scent of rosemary and wild thyme, running my hand along the lavender bushes there. Somehow, I’m filled with courage. I make the call.

  ‘You did what?’

  ‘I reported the cards stolen. If you’re serious about this, we need to decide who’s getting what,’ says Ollie, in work-mode voice.

  ‘Ollie, I need money. That is our joint account.’

  ‘And you are in our joint house,’ he replies.

  I look back at Le Petit Mas, a shabby stone-built farmhouse, with sagging, peeling shutters. It was supposed to be my new home but now I can imagine a family returning to it from the market or church and sitting round a big table for lunch.

  ‘If you’ve finally come to your senses, I can talk to the bank, order your new card and organize a flight home.’

  I say nothing.

  ‘I’ve found us a great apartment on Facebook. Friend of a friend is going away for a grown-up gap year. He was looking for someone to house-sit.’

  I think of Ralph in an apartment, someone else’s apartment.

  ‘I’m sorry, Ollie,’ I say, my thoughts as clear as the blue sky I’m looking at. ‘But I’m not coming back to you. It’s for the best, for both of us.’

  ‘This is madness!’ Ollie splutters.

  ‘No, Ollie, it’s the most sensible thing we’ve done in years.’

  ‘What will you do for money? You need money!’

  ‘I don’t know … yet.’ I’ll think of something. I hear a car coming up the drive. ‘Ollie, keep the money in the joint account and the savings one. And the shares you got with your redundancy package. I’ll have the house. I’ll sell it, sort out the mortgage on it and keep what’s left. Seem fair enough to you?’

  ‘What? You
’ll keep the house and sell it and I keep the cash in the account, the savings account and the shares?’

  ‘Yes, that should work out fairly, shouldn’t it?’

  I can hear Ollie doing a mental calculation.

  ‘Fine, but this is madness. You’ll change your mind. It’s just The Change, you know.’

  It is a change, but not the one he means.

  ‘Goodbye, Ollie,’ I say softly, as he bangs down the phone. It’s as if the door on my past life has slammed shut. I cry out in frustration and pain, then lean against the door frame and cry for the marriage that has died, along with any respect and affection I had for Ollie. It’s over. I cry for the family life we never had and the new beginning we tried to start. I cry for my mum. I cry until I can’t cry any more.

  SIX

  Ralph is running around and barking at a car that’s pulled up on the drive. I push my phone into my back pocket, sniff away the tears, run my hands over my puffy eyes and walk back around the side of the house. I recognize her as soon as she steps out of the car, pushing up her sunglasses to look at the property. It’s the woman from the estate agent’s.

  ‘Bonjour, Madame,’ she calls, and walks towards me.

  ‘Bonjour,’ I reply, shaking her hand, then apologizing for Ralph, who is leaping around, barking, delighted to have a new friend to play with.

  The estate agent smiles, but keeps her distance from Ralph.

  ‘Are you okay?’ she says, staring at my swollen, red eyes.

  ‘Yes, fine! How can I help you?’

  ‘Your husband said you would drop the key to Le Petit Mas to the shop,’ she says, in a strong Provençal accent.

  ‘Ah, yes, the key, je m’excuse,’ I say, ‘mais …’

  ‘It’s no problem,’ she says. ‘I can pick it up from you now. Actually, I have some good news.’ She points to the small car as the doors open and a couple just a bit older than myself step out and scan the house. ‘Monsieur et Madame Jarvis from England are looking for a holiday home in the area.’ Then, more quietly to me, ‘Just like this one! And they are cash buyers.’