Escape to the French Farmhouse

by Jo Thomas

  ‘Cash buyers.’ I nod.

  ‘It’s … quaint,’ says the woman, with a broad south-of-England accent, not taking off her sunglasses. She’s wearing white jeans and wedge-heeled open-toed espadrilles. ‘Just what we want. Quaint and picture … picture … Cute-looking. And we have friends in the village, a whole group of friends now, actually. A right laugh that crowd are. It’s perfect, innit, Keef? Just out of town, but walkable when you’ve had a few gins!’

  I think of the crowd at the ‘pub’, drinking their gin and tonic, standing out with their British ways. And then I think of Fabien.

  ‘Yeah, great for walking back from town after the pub,’ says her husband, pulling his belt up over his belly. ‘I hear quiz night in the pub’s a right laugh.’ My heart sinks. It’s no wonder that local people feel ‘invaded’. I don’t know why I thought Ollie and I were any different from the rest. We were just like them, moving to France and trying to make it our own, instead of blending in. We went to quiz night in the ‘pub’. I shudder.

  Just then, a truck comes down the drive, piled with furniture. It’s Fabien. I’m embarrassed to be showing another British couple around the house. My stomach tightens.

  ‘Bon après-midi,’ he says, as he jumps down from the cab. He kisses me three times on the cheeks as if we’re the oldest of friends, then turns to the estate agent.

  ‘Carine,’ he says, and kisses her three times too. Ralph is barking like crazy as Fabien shakes Carine’s clients’ hands. Then he steps back and looks at Ralph. ‘Oui, et toi. Bon après-midi.’ He laughs.

  Ralph stops barking and sits, his tongue lolling out as if he’s smiling. Then he raises his right paw in Fabien’s direction, and Fabien takes it and says, ‘Enchanté.’ I can’t help but laugh. I’ve never seen Ralph like this before. From the cab of the truck, a small, wire-haired Jack Russell pokes her head out to see what she’s missing.

  ‘So,’ says Carine, regaining control of the situation. ‘The house.’ She holds out a hand to Le Petit Mas, and I feel strangely protective of it. As if, somehow, I’m letting it down by selling it. Ridiculous, I know.

  ‘Looking forward to seeing it,’ says Keef.

  ‘May I?’ says Carine to me.

  ‘Go ahead,’ I reply, and swallow. Carine leads the way and Ralph barks as the couple follow, making the woman jump and scurry past him.

  Fabien starts to unload the furniture. The bed, the mattress and bedclothes, the chair that needs finishing off, the table and the box of plates and cutlery. He doesn’t ask why I’m in an empty house, selling it yet buying basic furniture for it. And now I wonder if it would have been far more sensible just to go to a guesthouse. This place could have new owners by the end of the day, if those encouraging voices are anything to go by.

  I can hear Carine showing them around the house, ‘Its original features …’

  ‘Oh. We can get rid of them,’ says Keef. ‘Gut it and give it a real modern look. I like the view from the kitchen,’ I hear.

  I love the view from the kitchen. Where will I get another view like that?

  ‘I think we could do something with it,’ says Keef.

  ‘Knock it down and rebuild it?’ says his wife.

  Fabien raises his eyebrows as he unloads the last of my things, clearly unable to hide his feelings any longer.

  I feel disloyal to the house and to the town, to people like Fabien.

  ‘So, why are they selling?’ asks Keef.

  ‘I believe the owners have decided to return to the UK.’

  ‘Couldn’t stick it out, eh?’ He tuts.

  My hackles are up.

  ‘I’ll put the bed upstairs, oui?’ says Fabien, gesturing at the wooden headboard.

  ‘Merci,’ I say. He takes the pieces up to the bedroom. Soon I can hear him putting the bed together and can picture it looking out over the valley.

  ‘We could put in a hot tub over there, pull out those plants,’ says Keef’s wife, loudly.

  ‘La lavande,’ says Carine. ‘Fine lavender. It is grown only here in Provence. It is used for healing, for beauty products and in recipes too.’

  ‘Ewwww! Lavender in food?’

  ‘This was a lavender farm at one time. The whole valley was covered with lavender. Like over there.’ She points to the other side of the valley. ‘The smell was amazing. But every ten years the plants must be uprooted and replanted. Sadly, this hasn’t been replanted. The owner died and the family sold the place. Only those plants remain,’ she says, with a hint of regret in her voice.

  ‘Well, as I say, we’ll uproot them and put the hot tub there,’ says Keef’s wife.

  I can’t listen to any more. Ralph barks at me and I take that as agreement in what I’m about to say.

  ‘Hi, Carine,’ I say, marching around to the side of the house. ‘I wonder if I could—’

  ‘Ah, there you are. We like the house. It’ll do,’ says Keef.

  And suddenly this house, which Ollie chose and I moved into and have resented for the last six weeks, is my house, my space, my home. It kept me safe when my world was falling apart. Suddenly it matters to me. I have nothing but this house and Ralph, a bed, some bedding and a half-finished chair.

  ‘We’re cash buyers, so I’m presuming we can come to a deal on the price. There’s a lot that needs doing, so we’re really just buying the position,’ Keef drones on.

  Carine looks at me and I look back at her. We may be thinking the same thing. We hold each other’s gaze.

  ‘Actually, Carine,’ I say slowly.

  ‘Oui, Madame?’ Her head cocks, her neat bob shifting, and her lips twitch with a smile. The sound of the bed being assembled upstairs has stopped and Fabien is now behind me.

  ‘All done,’ he says. ‘Where do you want the table?’

  I turn to him. ‘In the kitchen, please, Fabien, where I can see the view.’

  ‘Parfait,’ he says.

  ‘Actually, Carine,’ I repeat, and Fabien stops in his tracks.

  The buyers are staring impatiently at me, keen to agree a deal. He is chewing the arm of his aviator glasses. Her arms are folded over her chest. No one speaks. They are anxious for me to name my price.

  ‘Le Petit Mas de la Lavande is no longer for sale.’

  ‘I see,’ says Carine.

  ‘What – has someone else nipped in before us? Okay, okay, I’ll give you the asking price if that’s what it takes.’ He sighs heavily, sweat forming on his brow in the warm June sunshine.

  ‘No. There’s been a change in our … my situation,’ I say, trying to control the waver in my voice.

  ‘You and your husband are staying?’ Carine asks.

  ‘I’m staying, Carine. Just me.’ I lift my chin, feeling brave, joyous and terrified all at the same time. ‘I’m staying at Le Petit Mas de la Lavande. I’m not selling it. I’m not going back to the UK, with or without my husband.’

  This time Carine smiles. ‘I see. Of course, et bravo,’ she says, filling me with confidence.

  ‘You mean you’re not going to sell?’ says Keef.

  ‘Offer her more than the asking price!’ hisses his wife. ‘I can’t be bothered to trail round any more of these old places.’

  Keef sighs. ‘Go on, then. We’ll pay your asking price, and ten per cent. And you’ve had a lucky day. Make sure it all goes through quick, though. And you can take all that crap away too!’ He waves at Fabien and the truck. Fabien says nothing, but I see his fist curl.

  ‘Le Petit Mas de la Lavande n’est pas à vendre,’ I say, in my pidgin French. ‘I’m going to live here. Stay here.’ I don’t need to look for somewhere else to live. Ollie has agreed that I can have the house. It’s mine to do with as I choose, and I’m choosing to stay in it.

  ‘Well, really!’ says the woman, and Ralph barks, as if to endorse my decision. I look at Fabien, who is patting Ralph’s head, and Carine nods, making me feel I’ve done the right thing for me.

  ‘We have plenty more houses for you to see,’ she tells her client
s.

  ‘But I want this one. Offer her more,’ says the woman.

  ‘This house is already sold. It has a new life and a new owner,’ says Carine, firmly.

  That’s me!

  Ralph barks more as the woman stalks towards the car behind Keef. My dog can contain himself no longer and throws himself at her. She’s flapping her hands at him and he’s delighted she wants to play: he covers her white jeans with dusty orange paw marks.

  ‘Oh, my God!’ she shrieks, and runs to Carine’s tiny car, slamming the door as Keef squeezes himself into the front passenger seat.

  ‘Welcome,’ says Carine. ‘I like your style. You know what you want … and what you don’t want. A woman after my own heart,’ she says, and I explain that that couldn’t be further from the truth. I have no idea what I’m doing here. ‘Bonne chance,’ she says. ‘Maybe we could have coffee when you’re in town next.’

  ‘I’d like that,’ I say. ‘Sorry about the waste of time – and the white trousers.’

  Carine waves a hand, dismissing it all. ‘It’s no problem. I have a feeling, though, that they may be regular customers, the sort that come out here for the good life, then sell up and move home six months later.’

  That was exactly who we were. Were.

  ‘Only the ones who love it stay.’ She smiles. ‘Au revoir. À la prochaine,’ she says, folding herself into the car, next to a red-faced Keef. She starts the engine and disappears down the drive. I swear she hits every pothole as she goes.

  Fabien is still standing there. His little Jack Russell sticks her head out of the cab’s window to see what’s going on. Ralph looks up at her. ‘If I let her out, she’ll disappear,’ Fabien says. The Jack Russell barks and again Ralph sits and pants.

  ‘This is for you,’ says Fabien, taking something from the front seat of the truck. He holds out the silk dressing-gown to me.

  ‘Oh, no, really. I have to watch my money, now I’m going to be staying.’

  ‘It’s for you.’

  I take the dressing-gown, but it’s heavier than I’m expecting. It’s wrapped around something.

  ‘Open it.’

  Inside is the leather-bound recipe book with the aged pages. Recipes with lavender.

  ‘Fabien!’ I exclaim.

  ‘It is a gift. A moving-in gift!’ He laughs. ‘I can see you are going to be a very good customer in the future.’

  I’m touched by the present, but he’s right. He knows a good customer when he sees one. I’m going to need much more now that I’m staying. It’s good business sense and tears are in my eyes: tears of relief, of trepidation about how I’m going to make a living, of joy that one part of my life is over and a new one is beginning.

  ‘Merci beaucoup, Fabien. Très gentil,’ I say. I open the book and a little bunch of dried lavender falls out. Fabien picks it up, sniffs it and hands it to me. I take it, my fingers brushing his. Something like an electric shock passes through me.

  ‘I hope we will be friends.’ He smiles, his green eyes alight. My stomach flutters and his charm makes me shy again.

  ‘I hope so too,’ I say, and gaze down at the book in my hand, running my fingers over it.

  And Ralph barks. I think he’s as happy to be at home as I am.

  ‘Yes, and you,’ Fabien tells Ralph.

  ‘Thank you for bringing the furniture, Fabien. Would you like something to drink?’

  ‘Non, merci. I have to return to the shop.’ He gets into the cab where his Jack Russell is waiting patiently. ‘Bienvenue!’ But his earlier words echo in my head: here to invade us. I’m determined to show him I’m here to be a part of local life, not on the outside looking in.

  ‘I hope you will be very happy.’ He raises a hand, and I watch the truck drive away.

  I have a feeling that, when the pain stops, I’m going to be just that, I think as I hold the book and the dressing-gown. I look out over the view, trying to imagine it covered with lavender. A happy, healing place indeed. I breathe in the lavender scent and smile.

  SEVEN

  The following morning I’m up early. After cleaning the house from top to bottom last night, getting rid of the layer of dust the mistral left, I’d made up my bed, just as I do now, with the floral eiderdown I bought from Fabien. I place the dried lavender on the pillow: last night, it gave me the gentlest of dreams. The birds are singing. The cockerel in the distance and the donkey, a little closer, are heralding another new day.

  I get dressed and go downstairs to the kitchen, enjoying the feel of the cold tiles under my bare feet. I’m wearing the wrap-around dress I bought at the brocante and it feels so different from anything I’ve worn before. I run my hands over the soft fabric and like the way it makes me feel. I take a deep breath. Right now, I have to think about what I’m going to do with my life. How I’m going to make a living, now that I’m here to stay. The old recipe book is on the table. I find comfort in laying my hand on it, touched, too, by Fabien’s kindness. It’s been a long time since anyone did something as thoughtful for me. I open the first page. ‘Tuiles de lavande,’ I read, running my finger under the words and saying them aloud. Biscuits with lavender. Perfect! I’m going to make a recipe from the book each day. I’ll show Fabien how grateful I am for his gift and kindness, that I intend to embrace all things French and lavender. I’ll make the biscuits and take them to Fabien as a thank-you present for the book and dressing-gown. My day has a purpose already. It’s Monday, market day! Maybe Fabien will know of any jobs going. In fact, he’s sure to.

  I pick up my basket, slip on my shoes. ‘Be good, Ralph!’ I say and, putting the book on a shelf so he can’t damage it, I leave the house, closing the front door behind me, then walk down the drive to go shopping for the ingredients. The smell of pine is in the air as I stroll into town along the grassy riverbank, past the beautiful blue settee under the tree by the river.

  ‘Bonjour,’ I say to the two men playing chess, and to another sitting on the settee. I wonder again what this place is. It’s like a film set.

  ‘Bonjour, Madame,’ they reply as I pass, barely looking up. I feel a strange sense of melancholy: perhaps I should ask someone about this place. I’ll ask Carine. Maybe we can have that coffee today.

  What was the word for ‘flour’ again? I check Google Translate and run the word, ‘farine’, over and over in my head.

  At the end of the path I walk down the lane, past olive trees and tall cypresses. Small brown birds flit among them. I can hear voices from open windows, couples in loud discussion, families. An old woman sits outside her front door dressed in an overall, her stockings wrinkling round her ankles, preparing green beans, and a child rides around on a bike. They all greet me with a nod and I head for the market and the shops.

  ‘Farine’, I remember, and reach for a bag. Now, what sort of sugar? I look at the row in front of me. I don’t know any of the brands. Well, perhaps sugar is just sugar. I take the pack with flowers on it. I decide to buy the butter from the cheese stall I passed outside, with what looked like a homemade slab behind the glass.

  With my bags full, I walk past the estate agent’s and see Carine. She waves, and I can’t wave back as my hands are full, but I smile. She comes to the glass door and opens it.

  ‘Del,’ she says, and kisses me three times.

  ‘I’m so sorry about yesterday,’ I say. ‘I hope I didn’t make things too difficult for you. Especially with you coming out on a Sunday to show them around.’

  ‘Not at all! It’s not a problem. In fact, it has made the job easier. The couple are now so desperate to buy they will take the next house I show them!’ She winks at me and I laugh. ‘They look heavy,’ she says, gesturing at my bags. ‘Do you have time for coffee?’

  I should get back. I don’t want to leave Ralph on his own for too long, but on the other hand a friendly face and a coffee would be lovely.

  Carine locks the shop, having put a sign in the window to say she’ll be back in half an hour, and leads me through a stone arc
h and along a cobbled street to a small café hidden among the shops selling ‘Provence’ products and a smart guesthouse with lavender lollipops at either side of the light grey front door.

  The café has a small covered terrace outside, with a couple of tables and a wisteria, heavy with blooms, trained up along the wall. Inside it’s dark, with just a few tables beneath red-and-white-checked cloths, glasses and paper napkins, all ready for lunch. I’ve never been here before. Ollie preferred the bigger, smarter brasseries and bistros on the main road.

  ‘Bonjour, Henri,’ says Carine, poking her head into the little restaurant.

  ‘Ah, Carine!’ He’s an attractive man, silver hair tied back in a ponytail, which suits him. He’s in chef’s whites and wipes his hands on a tea towel hanging from the apron tied around his waist. He’s not fat but is clearly a man who enjoys his food. I’d call it comfortable. He kisses Carine warmly, then looks at me.

  ‘Mon amie, Del.’ Carine introduces me and tells him I’ve just moved to the area, into Le Petit Mas de la Lavande.

  ‘Ah, oui? It’s a beautiful house. I heard some English people had bought it,’ he says, in French.

  ‘That’s me,’ I say quickly. ‘But just me.’ I make my situation clear.

  ‘Ah,’ he says, and waves us to a table. ‘Welcome,’ he says, and pulls out a chair. I’m grateful he doesn’t ask any questions. ‘Lunch?’ he says to Carine and then to me. ‘I have lamb today.’ He points to a small chalkboard with today’s plat du jour on it. ‘Or coffee? Maybe an aperitif.’

  ‘Just coffee, please,’ I say.

  ‘Sure?’ Carine says. ‘Henri’s plats du jour are always delicious.’

  ‘Merci.’ He nods, his hands behind his back.

  ‘I have cooking to do myself,’ I say.

  ‘You are a chef?’ he asks.

  ‘No. I used to enjoy cooking. I’m hoping I might again.’

  ‘Bon,’ Henri says. ‘It’s an important part of everyday life here in France. Perhaps you will come and try my food another day.’