Escape to the French Farmhouse

by Jo Thomas

  ‘I’m offering you a job, a place to live, and food,’ I repeat.

  She stares at me defiantly, wanting to turn down my offer, but eventually she says, ‘I will think about it,’ as if she has lots of options right now.

  ‘But one thing, Steph—’

  ‘Stephanie. You can call me Stephanie,’ she says, rolling out the name with beautiful vowel sounds. ‘I prefer Stephanie.’

  ‘Stephanie,’ I say. ‘Just one thing. We all need a second chance in life but there won’t be a third. If you steal from me, you will have to leave. Understood?’ I am shaking inside but I can hear my mother’s voice speaking kindly but firmly to me as a teenager. The boundaries need to be put in place for this arrangement to work. Mum would probably have done the same as I’m doing now. My friends were always coming to her when they’d fallen out with their parents. She’d put food on the table and make up a bed, let their parents know they were safe and send them home in the morning. This is me, learning from my mum.

  There is more shouting outside. This time Tomas cries and Ralph starts barking. There is louder shouting. Tomas cries harder. Stephanie gazes at her son. ‘Okay, I will come and look.’ Within minutes their belongings have been shoved into blue carrier-bags that look as if they’ve done many moves before. Tomas is clutching Monsieur Lapin as we pull back the curtain and it falls, listlessly, open.

  The man stops shouting mid-flow and turns his attention to Stephanie, clutching Tomas and her blue bags.

  ‘Hey!’ he shouts, and talks quickly at her, his arms flying. Clearly he’s the landlord, or the tenant who’s letting the rooms. He wants to know what she’s doing. She can’t just run out on the room. She has to pay rent. She stands there and, for a moment, she looks like a young child herself. An older woman, possibly his wife, the one shouting, wearing a faded dirty dressing-gown, follows him down the stairs. My hackles rise.

  ‘Stephanie, keep walking,’ I instruct, and point to the door. My heart is banging, but I can’t back down now. I can’t leave this girl and her little boy here. I just can’t. I hear my mother’s voice again, calm but firm. Stephanie looks at me for reassurance. ‘Keep going,’ I say. The man turns to me angrily. Stephanie moves towards the door. The man takes two steps down the concrete stairs after Stephanie, who opens the door wide and walks out. He tries to push past me after her, shouting. But Ralph is having none of it. He launches himself towards the man, barking loudly, and the man retreats back up the stairs, fear in his eyes.

  Neither moves. Ralph continues to bark at the man on the stairs in his stained vest, with his unshaven face and the cigarette hanging from his mouth, the woman behind.

  Ralph doesn’t let them move.

  I glare at the pair. No one moves, until I turn and see that Stephanie is safely outside and walking in the direction of town. I give the man one last scowl, then turn and run out as quickly as I can to catch up to Stephanie. The man and the woman follow, shouting. But neither can run fast and no one else takes any notice as we race across the bridge to the alleyway leading into town. And when we stop running, we pause to catch our breath and stare at each other. Then a laugh of relief escapes us, and Stephanie lets Tomas slide from her hip to the ground, where he pats Ralph’s head, and we walk up the pretty path along the river, taking us home. As the sun softens in the sky, I have no idea what is likely to happen in the future, but right now I just want to go home to Le Petit Mas.

  SIXTEEN

  What have I done? We stand and look at the bare room. What on earth was I thinking? I’ve invited a complete stranger and her child to stay in a house with no furniture and offered her a job in my barely off-the-ground business. The cold reality of the situation is sinking in.

  The walk from town along the riverbank took us about twenty minutes, what with carrying Stephanie’s bags, Tomas stopping to examine irises and draping wisteria, chasing butterflies and the gently flowing river without toppling in. We passed the clearing where a few people were gathered, a couple playing chess, and I saw that a new settee had been installed under the wide-reaching arms of the big pine tree. They acknowledged us with ‘Bon après-midi.’ Stephanie, I noticed, put her head down and speeded up, almost embarrassed, slowing once we’d passed and letting Tomas walk on his own. I let Ralph off the lead too. The two sniffed flowers and chased each other, Ralph always on the side of the water, not letting Tomas near it. And, just for a while, I thought I was doing the right thing.

  ‘Maman!’ Tomas shouted, pointing at a fast-moving lizard, and I watched Stephanie enjoy his delight as she seemed to relax. We reached the end of the riverbank and headed up the hill to the entrance of Le Petit Mas de la Lavande.

  Stephanie looked at the house in what seemed like awe as we walked up the drive, Ralph leading the way. Tomas followed him, tottering, tumbling, giggling, getting up and doing it all again, not letting the bumps in the road put him off the joy to be had in being there.

  I led them up the few stone steps to the front of the house, where I’d stood on the day of the mistral and decided not to leave. I pulled out the big key and put it into the lock.

  ‘Wait!’ said Stephanie, and I turned back to her.

  ‘I don’t understand. Why am I here?’ Suddenly she looked like a terrified child again and I wanted to give her a hug, but I knew she’d never allow that.

  ‘You’re only here if you want to be, Stephanie. I have the house, the room. I now have work, too. I need help baking and getting this house fixed. In return you and Tomas can live here, for as long as you want, and help me.’

  ‘But I cannot cook!’ she said, dismayed.

  ‘You’re French – of course you can cook!’ I said lightly.

  She was suddenly defensive again, shattering our new-found trust. I could have kicked myself. ‘We didn’t all have the perfect French upbringing, you know! We didn’t all go out and buy bread every day, sit around the table with grandparents, learn to cook at our mother’s knee!’ she snarled angrily. ‘You’ – and by ‘you’, I’m presuming she means we Brits – ‘you think life over here in France is so perfect, but not for all of us! Some of us had to learn to bring ourselves up. Some of us don’t have family homes to go to. Some of us are still fighting to feed ourselves and our loved ones in any way we can.’ She stopped, angry tears in her eyes. I thought of the homeless by the river. She was right. I’m the lucky one.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ I said, trying to soothe her. ‘I don’t need you to cook, just to help me.’

  ‘If you tell me what to do, I can do it.’ She lifted her chin again. ‘I work hard!’

  ‘Then we’ll be fine. We’ll help each other.’ I smiled, the storm seeming to have passed. I turned back and opened the big wooden front door to the tiled hall.

  Now we’re standing in the empty bedroom, with windows looking out over the trees and the field sloping away.

  ‘You said you had room!’ says Stephanie, flatly.

  ‘I do!’ I stutter. ‘I just don’t have …’ How could I have been so stupid? A spur-of-the-moment decision, thinking I could make a difference, giving her false hope.

  ‘You have room,’ she agrees, ‘but no furniture. Not even a mattress!’ She looks around the big room, taking in the view, imagining, perhaps, what it could have been like. The sun is setting and the sky is turning pink and baby blue. What on earth can I do? I can’t let her go back! If the landlord would even have her! She’s in an even worse position than she was before. At least there she had a mattress to sleep on.

  ‘I’ll sort something,’ I say. I wonder if this is how parenting feels: you have to do something, but you’ve no idea what.

  Stephanie gives the room a final look as if glimpsing a life that might have been, then having the door shut in her face.

  I brought her here. I’m responsible for this mess. But I remember that room she lived in and know I did the right thing. I just have to think of another right thing.

  She turns and walks downstairs to where Tomas is sitting at the little tabl
e, with a glass of milk, eating biscuits. Well, he’s feeding biscuits to a well-behaved Ralph, delighting in his barking, and rewarding him with more. Stephanie marches over, scoops Tomas up from the chair and puts him on her hip. He begins to cry, reaching for Ralph, who is still sitting obediently, giving the occasional bark, hoping to be rewarded.

  ‘Wait, Stephanie!’ I say, as she scoops up her plastic bags with one hand.

  ‘It would seem, Madame,’ she says pointedly, but I know she’s hurt and disappointed, ‘that you do not have room for us after all. I cannot ask my son to sleep on the bare floor. We would have been better to stay where we were.’ She walks towards the front door. ‘I’m sure you thought you were doing a good thing.’

  She stops and looks at me. ‘Do you have children?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Well, you can’t have mine!’ Her words sting me, like a slap in the face.

  ‘I don’t want your child. I wanted to help you. Like I say, we all deserve a second chance. You’re practically a child yourself,’ I say.

  ‘I am a mother. A good one! Better than mine was! I didn’t have family to eat with or cook with. I am surviving the only way I know how. But I must put my child first.’

  The slap in the face still stings. She’s right. I thought I should be helping her and the child. But I have no idea what a child needs. I’m out of my depth. Instead of helping, I’ve just made things a hundred times worse.

  I watch as she walks towards the drive. Where on earth will she go?

  ‘Where will you go?’ I call after her.

  ‘Back to the river clearing. I have friends there,’ she says, over her shoulder. ‘Everyone will be gathering about now.’

  She carries on walking, Tomas reaching out his arms to Ralph.

  My eyes fill with tears and I look away, trying to stop them falling. And then I see the solution! Why didn’t I think of it before? Why hadn’t I remembered it?

  ‘Stephanie, wait!’

  SEVENTEEN

  I run back inside, grab the key from the kitchen drawer and run back out, beaming. Stephanie has stopped and put Tomas down. I don’t know if it’s because he’s heavy or she’s prepared to hear what I’ve got to say or show her. But I’m taking my chance.

  ‘Follow me.’ I wave my arm in a big circle and hold up a key with the other.

  For a moment she stares at me, but then, making my heart skip, she follows me.

  ‘Okay, it’ll need some work,’ I’m talking nineteen to the dozen, ‘and I’m not even sure we remembered to clear it when we were moving out. Ollie used it as storage space.’

  ‘Ollie?’

  ‘My husband.’

  ‘Your husband?’

  ‘He’s gone. Back to the UK. It’s just me now.’

  ‘Ah,’ she says. ‘With your furniture?’

  ‘Yes, with … everything.’

  ‘Ah.’ Things seem to be making sense to her.

  ‘Here.’ I bend down through the pine trees and go into a small clearing. I wait for Stephanie to reach me. She straightens and stands next to me.

  ‘Look, it might not be what you were expecting, but I’m pretty sure it’s got everything. As soon as I can get more furniture, you can move into the house, if you want to.’

  She says nothing. Is she going to swear, turn and walk away? ‘Do you want to see inside?’

  Slowly she nods and, if I’m not mistaken, her stare doesn’t convey disbelief and horror: it’s the look of someone falling in love.

  ‘It’s a gypsy caravan,’ she says slowly.

  ‘It was here when we bought the house, hidden away. I thought it might be nice for guests. But we were here for such a short time that I didn’t get around to doing anything with it. Well, actually, after my first look inside it, I forgot about it. Life’s been a bit … hectic,’ I say. ‘But I wish I’d remembered it on my first night here alone. At least there’s a bed in it, from what I remember.’

  ‘You stayed here alone, with no furniture, nothing?’ she asks.

  ‘Yes.’ I stop on the wooden steps I’m climbing. ‘I just knew I couldn’t go back.’

  ‘Same,’ says Stephanie, and I don’t know if she’s talking about going back to where she’s just come from, or to where she was before she ended up in that awful room.

  I don’t ask. If she wants to tell me she will. Right now, I have to fulfil my promise and find her somewhere of her own to stay. I push the key into the old padlock and turn it. Then I open the half-door, jump down from the steps and let Stephanie up them.

  ‘There’s a lot of stuff inside that Ollie left behind.’ His golf clubs, the exercise bike and the small electric lawnmower we had before he upsized to the big sit-on one. ‘But there’s a bed and a stove, and we can tidy it up.’ I look at the peeling lavender woodwork. Stephanie is inside it now. Ralph and Tomas have joined us. Tomas is climbing the wooden steps and sits at the top. A red squirrel darts across the grass to a neighbouring tree, to his excitement.

  Stephanie comes out and stands on the platform outside the caravan. I hold my breath. She looks at me.

  ‘It’s … it’s not right, is it?’ I stammer. ‘It’s not suitable for Tomas. I’m sorry. Like I say, I don’t have children. I wasn’t thinking. I just wanted to do something. That place was so horrid. I’m sorry,’ I gabble. ‘I’ll help you back with your stuff,’ I say, and look up at her.

  Her face breaks into a huge smile. ‘It’s perfect! Thank you! Tomas seems to love it! It will be an adventure! He’s safe here. We will sleep well.’ She gazes at the pine trees and breathes in deeply.

  ‘Right!’ I say. ‘Let’s clear this rubbish out, get it aired and the bed made. Tomorrow we’ll start fixing it up.’

  ‘And I can really stay here?’

  ‘For as long as you want,’ I confirm. ‘Or move into the house when I get some more furniture.’ And we laugh.

  ‘I have always dreamed of my own little place for me and Tomas. My own front door. This is perfect. Thank you,’ she says, with what I think might be a sparkle of tears in her eyes.

  ‘You’re welcome,’ I say.

  And that evening as the big sky turns from baby pink to red, we clear it out, clean it and make up the bunk bed with the remainder of the bedding I had. Then we eat omelettes cooked outside, over a fire in an old bin lid, and sit by it until the sky is dark and the stars are shining.

  Tomas is curled up asleep in one corner of the bed as I wish Stephanie a good night. ‘Up early tomorrow. We have desserts to make!’ I say, and call Ralph to my side, reluctant to leave his new playmate. I walk back to the house, feeling content. I glance up at the big sky over the empty valley and wonder if Mum is looking down on me. Whether she is or she isn’t, I can feel her with me, telling me I did just fine today.

  ‘Thank you, Mum, for everything. For giving me the strength to do this.’ I think of Stephanie and Tomas tucked up in bed, safe and sound. I did some good today. I open the front door and wind my way to bed with Ralph by my side. And as I walk up the stairs I remember Fabien’s words: ‘Enough to be content.’

  Fabien! Why do my thoughts always come back to him? Carine has been so kind to me and I hope we will be good friends. So I must stop thinking about Fabien. I can’t let thoughts about him get in the way of my friendship with Carine.

  EIGHTEEN

  The next morning Stephanie is up early with Tomas, appearing from the woodland clearing. Tomas is as pleased to see Ralph as my dog is to see him when I let him out. Stephanie and I stand on the terrace, the early-morning sun reaching through the trees, as dog and boy run about on the dewy grass, its scent fresh and new.

  ‘Where do you want me to start?’ says Stephanie. ‘Tell me what I should do.’

  ‘Whoa! Let’s have some breakfast.’ Just as I wonder how long it will take me to walk into town for bread, there is a parp, parp at the end of the drive: the bakery van.

  ‘Tell her to wait! I’ll get my purse!’ I say to Stephanie. She, Tomas and Ralph run down the stony d
rive to the road.

  When I join them, I’m slightly out of breath.

  ‘Bonjour,’ says the young woman from behind the counter in the Citroën van. ‘I heard there were new people here,’ she says, ‘so I thought I’d stop by. Bienvenue,’ she says.

  ‘Merci,’ I reply.

  ‘The last people who were here were very strange. The owner told me not to come because he didn’t eat bread.’ She laughs. ‘Who moves to France and doesn’t eat bread? Bread is our life blood, like wine!’

  I’m smiling to myself, the pain of Ollie’s and my split easing a little. I wish he could have seen this place as I’m beginning to see it, from the inside out. Maybe that was the problem: we saw each other’s worlds so differently.

  ‘Well, we’d like you to stop by every morning,’ I say warmly, as warm as the smell of the freshly baked bread. I look at the array of baguettes, the baskets of croissants and pains au chocolat and my mouth waters.

  We carry the table and chairs from the kitchen out to the terrace where Stephanie and I drink coffee and eat bread and croissants. Tomas has warm milk and a pain au chocolat, swinging his legs contentedly. Ralph never leaves his side. After breakfast, we move back into the kitchen and wash our hands. Tomas wants to help us work.

  ‘I have an order to make for Henri at the bistro,’ I tell her. ‘He wants desserts every day, bakes, like tuiles or shortbread, to go with his ice cream.’

  Stephanie looks worried. ‘But you know I can’t cook. I didn’t have that kind of home life growing up.’

  ‘Don’t worry.’ I pick up the old recipe book, feeling a flicker of excitement just from holding it. I put it in front of Stephanie on the work surface. ‘You teach me how to read this book and speak French, and I’ll teach you to cook!’ A smile creeps across her face. ‘Deal?’

  ‘Deal,’ she agrees.

  ‘Deal!’ repeats Tomas, and we all laugh, Tomas the loudest. I can see happiness returning slowly to Stephanie. This place has a knack of putting people back together. Thank you, Petit Mas, I think, as we flip through the pages of the book.