by Jo Thomas
Serge tells Fabien his family, too, are living elsewhere. He’d like to see more of them now his wife has passed away. He has no one to take on the lavender farm after him.
‘Would you like some plants to take with you?’ Stephanie translates for me.
‘Me?’ I say, surprised.
‘Oui.’ Serge gestures to an area where some pots are sitting in a damp patch, having been recently watered.
‘I wouldn’t have a clue what to do with them. I’m not really a gardener …’
He picks up one of the plants, then leads us to the field where Tomas is soon helping him to plant the lavender. When they have finished, Serge sits up on his haunches. ‘Très simple!’ he says. ‘Like falling in love.’
‘Simple, like—’
‘Falling in love,’ I cut Fabien off. ‘If only love were that simple. Falling in love is simple. It’s staying in love that’s the hard part.’
‘Finding it and recognizing it can often be pretty hard too!’ Fabien laughs, and my stomach flutters.
‘You will know it,’ says Serge, and Stephanie translates. I’m presuming he’s thinking about his wife and missing her. ‘You feel it in here.’ He bangs his chest. ‘Love is like the lavender when you have it in your life. It brings peace when you have it.’
He struggles to his feet, his hips clearly painful. He walks stiffly towards the plants and picks a couple up. ‘Et maintenant …’
‘And now,’ Fabien translates, ‘you have it in your life.’ Serge proffers the lavender and Fabien holds my gaze. It takes all my effort to pull it away from him and direct it to Serge.
I thank Serge and kiss him on both cheeks, then a third time, as he reminds me with a laugh. He instructs Fabien to take all of the plants by the back door and load them on to the truck for me. As I’m thanking him again, Stephanie and Tomas are helping Fabien. From a distance the three look like a family.
Serge tells me to take care of the plants and to come and find him if I need any help or advice. He’s happy to see lavender returning to Le Petit Mas. He’ll be watching, he says, pointing over the valley to my house opposite. Just for a moment, I stand in the lunchtime sunshine and imagine the whole valley covered with lines of purple.
We leave Serge and jolt down the bumpy drive. I’ve had a whole education in lavender and what it means to the area, and am determined to nurture my few plants. I feel I have my part to play and, somehow, that these plants are weaving me into the fabric of the place.
Fabien drops us off and I thank him again.
‘I shall return to check on the lavender plants,’ he says from the cab, his arm out of the window, Mimi by his side.
As the sun sets on another day, Stephanie, Tomas and I set to work, digging over the ground at the top of the field, planting and watering our lavender. When we’ve finished, we go back to the house and toast the new plants, with rosé from the bottle Serge also gave me. Lavender has returned to Le Petit Mas and I hope I will keep it blooming here. We sit and watch as the swifts fly overhead and the woodpecker rat-a-tat-tats in the woods.
As evening sets in, the bats swoop to and fro, and Tomas dozes in Stephanie’s arms. I remember the love and safety I felt in my mother’s arms when I was young and feel I’ve found some peace at last. I wonder what tomorrow’s recipe will be, knowing for sure that it will include lavender. I am beginning to feel content just being me, being here. Enough to be content.
TWENTY
I’m standing at the top of my field, which rolls away from the house, wandering through the lavender plants, watering them, using the bottle from the wine Serge gave me, now filled with water. I keep having to go back to the house to refill it.
It’s been a few days since we visited Serge and we seem to have found a rhythm to our working day. Stephanie is taking the desserts into town to deliver to Henri, and picks up payment. Delighted to be trusted, she gives me the money in full. After lunch, we turn the page in the old book and study the next recipe. I read it aloud in French and she translates, if necessary. Then I work out what we need to buy and how we’ll make whatever it is, adjusting our techniques to fit with the quirks of the oven. She and Tomas go back into town and pick up the ingredients, ready for baking the following morning. She brings me the change, showing me the receipt, making sure every cent is accounted for.
Fabien seems to find more and more reasons to come to the house. He likes to check on the lavender, he tells me. Every time he arrives, my stomach flips, hard though I try to stop it.
‘Fabien!’ Tomas greets him like an old friend, as Fabien scoops him up and kisses him on each cheek, as I imagine he does with his nephews and nieces. Ralph sits obediently, at Fabien’s word, when he puts Tomas down.
‘Bonjour, Fabien. How’s the brocante?’ I make polite conversation.
‘It’s busy,’ he says. ‘How are the plants?’
We all walk to the field, which is filling gradually with purple flowers, Tomas never leaving Fabien’s side and Stephanie close behind. We talk about the plants and the cakes Stephanie and I have made. It’s the only way I can distract myself and stop myself falling for him. He’s so good with Tomas, and Stephanie seems to adore him for that. I’m beginning to wonder exactly how she is feeling about Fabien and it’s starting to worry me. I think she may have a crush on him, and I don’t want to see her hurt. He’s too young for me, but too old for Stephanie. Perhaps I should warn him about how she may be feeling.
Monday’s market is much better than it was last week. We set up our stall and watch people pass between the two marketplaces, barely seeing us in the shadows. Again I offer samples, but the French, out early, aren’t interested. Seeing this, Stephanie pulls back the hoodie she hides behind in public and talks to people as they pass, telling them about the farmhouse, how we’re growing lavender again, and they turn to welcome me. Some even stop and buy from me.
Stephanie is glowing. Her hair is clean, brushed and not tied back, and I wonder for whose benefit that is. I think of Fabien, and worry again. I look at Henri, standing in the doorway of the bistro, watching Stephanie at work, like a proud uncle, and then me. He’s been a good friend to me. With the money I make from the desserts and the stall, I’m earning enough to feed us and put some away for next month’s mortgage payment. But it’s tight. And with Ollie still sending me regular messages from the UK, asking if I’m sure about my decision, no matter how many times I tell him I am, I can’t help wondering if I’ve done the right thing. But even if I wanted to, I couldn’t go back now: Stephanie and Tomas are relying on me.
TWENTY-ONE
After a good day on the stall, I wander round the market, thinking I might be up for a couple more lavender plants. I see Serge, who greets me like an old friend. I tell him I’ve come to buy two more plants and he puts them into a box for me.
‘You’ve given me too many!’ I tell him.
‘Un cadeau, because of your beautiful smile,’ he says. ‘I am happy that the valley is coming back to life.’ I understand his words, and smile all the way home to plant them.
This morning, we finish baking in good time: soft, moist sponge, with sticky lemon drizzle and floral lavender.
We seem to have developed a good system for baking some of the favourites and introducing something new every day. The woman in the bakery van has offered to take some of my lavender tuiles and shortbread to sell on her rounds. I’ve accepted happily. The macarons still need to improve, but all the packages now have little stickers, saying the contents are from ‘Le Petit Mas de la Lavande, la Coeur de Provence’, with a little purple heart. It was Stephanie’s idea, and when we told the printer in town what we wanted, he gave me a very good deal and wished me luck. Later we took him some biscuits to thank him.
Stephanie has gone into town with Tomas to deliver today’s desserts to Henri. The woodpecker is hard at work in the copse of oak and pine trees where Stephanie’s caravan is now cleaned and polished to within an inch of its life. She even has plans to redo the paintwork in
the same colours as our little stickers. A washing line is hanging between the trees, and though I’ve said that, now money is coming in, we can get some furniture and she can move into the house, she says she’d like to stay in the caravan. Finally, she has a home of her own.
Cyril, the red squirrel, is popping in and out of the bushes around where I’m working, teasing Ralph in a fruitless game of tag. Eventually he loses interest and goes back to chasing little white butterflies. The smell of lavender fills the air. Big fat bumblebees move throughout the original hedge, from bloom to bloom, and I’m hoping they’ll get to work on the new plants too.
In the distance the cockerel is still letting us know it’s another new day, even though it’s mid-morning. I’m stretching out my back, trowel in hand, when I hear the familiar sound of a vehicle coming up the drive and Ralph’s ecstatic welcoming barks.
I hear the door slam. It’s a sound I know well now: Fabien’s van door. My heart skips, even though I know it shouldn’t. But he is my friend, a good friend, and I’m pleased he’s here, but I know I have to speak to him about Stephanie: she blossoms every time he comes here, which he does a lot. Either with something that’s arrived at the brocante he thinks might suit the house, or something for Tomas, like the small truck he found in a house clearance and some cars, which Tomas adores. And Stephanie adores him for it, I can see.
‘Hey.’ I hear his voice and my heart leaps into my mouth.
‘Hey,’ I say, pulling off my gardening gloves.
He steps forward and kisses me on both cheeks. I hold my breath so that I can’t breathe in his deliciously spicy aftershave.
‘They’re looking good,’ he says.
‘Yes, I’m really pleased,’ I say, looking at the few plants, then the rest of the empty red earth, peppered with white stones, like confetti. ‘I just wish I could see this whole field covered.’ I glance at Serge’s.
‘Actually …’ says Fabien.
‘Were you looking for Stephanie?’ I say quickly, realizing he’s not here to chat with me. ‘She’s in town, delivering to Henri, with Tomas.’ I’m falling over my words and cringing at my clumsiness.
‘Actually,’ he repeats slowly, ‘it’s you I’ve come to see,’ and a large lump rises in my throat. Fabien is ten years younger than me. Of course there will never be anything between us. I just wish … What? That I was ten years younger? That I could have a child like Tomas? But I’m not, and I can’t.
‘Come,’ he tips his head towards the front of the house, ‘I have something for you.’ He smiles and my insides melt. I’m hot, very hot, and I put it down to hormones, and my premature change that has meant I can’t conceive. The hormones that Ollie blames for my defection and attempt at a new life. I grab a bottle of water off the terrace table and follow Fabien to the van. He walks around to the rear.
‘Here,’ he says. ‘These might help fill the field.’ He drops the back of the van and I see rows and rows of tiny lavender plants.
‘Uh …’ I catch my breath. ‘How … where?’
‘With Serge. We did a deal.’
‘But …’ I’m lost for words and all I can say is, ‘I need to pay you.’
He laughs. ‘Serge had lots of plants. He told you. He’s finding it harder and harder to manage his farm and he wanted you to have them. He’s delighted to have found them a home.’
‘This is amazing!’ I say. ‘The lavender farm here is coming back to life. Merci, Fabien.’
‘I’m glad you’re pleased,’ he says. ‘And life as a lavender farmer seems to suit you!’ His green eyes are dancing, fixed on me. My nerves are buzzing.
‘You are …’ I struggle to find the words ‘… such a good friend,’ I say, unable now to meet his eyes. ‘It wouldn’t have happened without you.’
‘A friend?’ I look up and he’s raising an eyebrow, making my heart squeeze. I look away and then I have to look back at him, something drawing me that I can’t resist.
‘You know, Del …’ he says quietly.
‘About Stephanie!’ I blurt, and he’s taken aback. ‘When you come here to visit and check the plants …’
He stares at me, his face moving closer to mine and I can’t move or pull my eyes away.
‘But it is not the plants I come to see …’ He smiles and my heart starts to pound.
‘No?’ I manage, my mouth dry.
‘No,’ he says, shaking his head, moving closer to me. ‘It’s you, Del. It’s you I come to see.’
‘Me?’
He nods.
‘But I’m …’ What? Older? Still married? Overweight? Desperate to be loved?
‘Beautiful,’ he says, and I can hardly believe I’m hearing the word. ‘You are beautiful.’ He takes my face in his hands. I want to argue, but can’t think what to say. Instead my heart is floating high above us, soaring and swooping. I feel as if I’m living in a dream. This gorgeous man, who makes my heart skip every time I see him, is telling me I’m beautiful.
‘But I thought you … I mean, I’m ten years older than you. I’m …’
‘Beautiful,’ he repeats, his eyes scanning my face. I don’t know whether to laugh or cry as he moves his lips towards mine. And although everything is telling me I shouldn’t be doing this, I can’t stop myself.
And just as his lips touch mine, they are gone. ‘Oooffff!’ He reels away and the dream is shattered.
‘Fabien!’ Tomas has launched himself at Fabien’s legs, taking him by surprise. We laugh, and I see Stephanie, back from her visit to town, her face as thunderous as it was the first time I met her. Cold and closed against the hurt in her heart.
‘Stephanie!’ I call, hoping she didn’t see what I think she might have seen. But she doesn’t answer and runs to the caravan. I hear the door slam. Fabien and I gaze at each other, worried.
‘I’ll go after her, explain,’ I say.
‘Explain what?’
‘That it was nothing …’ I wave a hand, trying to think on my feet ‘… just a silly kiss.’
‘Just a silly kiss?’ he says, his face darkening too.
‘Yes, I mean, no …’ That’s not what I meant!! ‘I mean …’ I have no idea what I mean or what it was. I just know how I feel and how I’ve made Stephanie feel.
‘I think I’d better go,’ says Fabien, closing the van on the lavender plants. And I’m flustered. I take hold of Tomas’s hand as he waves to Fabien, begging him to stay and play.
‘Fabien!’ I don’t want him to go like this. I need to explain. But ‘The plants!’ is all I can think of saying.
‘I’ll bring them back later,’ he says, gets into the cab and turns the van in the drive, accelerating at speed in a cloud of dust. Suddenly there’s the blast of a horn and he swerves to avoid another car coming up the drive. I look in the direction of the caravan, then at Tomas, still waving, and then at the car.
Ralph appears from the back of the house, barking with delight.
Who can this be?
TWENTY-TWO
‘So, this is where you’ve been hiding?’
‘Lou!’ I say in disbelief, as she emerges from the back of the car, then throw myself forward and hug my friend, hoping the tears won’t spill: I’ve upset the two people closest to me.
‘And me!’ The other door of the taxi opens and out steps Rhi. ‘Surprise!’
I run around the car and hug her too. The taxi driver fetches their cases from the boot, then climbs back in and, with a friendly toot, disappears down the drive. I’m left staring at my two best friends and wondering what they’re doing here.
‘Ollie sent us,’ says Lou, answering the question before I’ve even asked it. ‘Wants us to see if you’re okay and when you’re coming back.’
‘Wanted us to check you were okay,’ says Rhi, more diplomatically.
‘I am, I am.’ I wipe away a stray tear from the corner of my eye and glance in the direction of the caravan. Now they register the little boy clinging to my leg, and stare.
‘This is Tomas,�
� I say, picking him up and setting him on my hip, as if it’s the most natural thing in the world. He buries his head in my neck. My two friends stare at him, then at me and then at each other. Ralph runs around barking, and Tomas looks up, giggling.
‘So, Tomas,’ says Lou, tall, bottle blonde, her fake tan just a tad too orange. ‘Are you childminding him?’
She reaches forward but he buries his head in my neck again.
‘No, Tomas lives here,’ I say, glancing again in the direction of the clearing and the gypsy caravan. When I turn back, Lou and Rhi are looking at each other. Where Lou is tall and dressed to kill, Rhi is shorter than me, in a sunhat and sensible shoes. She’s usually bubbly, but right now, they both look worried.
‘Oh.’ Then I explain, ‘No, I mean he lives here, but with his mum.’
‘Maman,’ says Tomas.
‘That’s right, Tomas.’ I give him a watery smile. His mum is probably feeling that yet another person has let her down. I must go to her and put things right. Both my friends are still looking worried. ‘Um, I just have to go and speak to Tomas’s mum. Tomas, would you like some milk and biscuits?’ I ask, then again in French, and my two friends raise their eyebrows, impressed.
I lead them all to the kitchen, grab milk, a plate of biscuits and a bottle of rosé, then take them outside to the table where I pour drinks. When everyone is happy, I leave Tomas with them while I run to check on Stephanie.
I knock at the caravan door tentatively. ‘Stephanie?’ I call, but she doesn’t reply.
I open the door gently and see she has packed most of her belongings back into their blue bags. She is lying on the bed, her face in the pillow. The little caravan is wonderfully clean and welcoming. A small vase of lavender sits on the side, filling the air with its scent. She sits bolt upright, her eyes as dark and defensive as they were on that first day.
‘Oh, Stephanie.’ I reach out to hug her but she backs away from me.