The French for Christmas

by Fiona Valpy

  The next morning I’d set off to call on my two sets of neighbours, thinking I should go introduce myself for politeness’ sake. There was no car outside the doctor’s house—he must already have gone to work, I guessed—but I knocked at the door hoping his wife might be in. The house was firmly locked up though, as was the garage. (Okay, I admit I tried the door, hoping to get a peek into the late-night workshop, but the panes of glass were too heavily frosted for me to be able to make out anything inside.) I passed the woodshed with its neatly stacked log pile, and stuck my head into the barn, where the white horse peered at me over the top of its stable door. ‘Well, hello there,’ I said, surprised to see it here instead of in the field at the back of the house. It must have been brought in yesterday evening, out of the frosty night air. ‘Sorry, I’ve nothing for you. I’ll bring you an apple next time, I promise.’ The horse, evidently unimpressed, snorted and turned back to pull some wisps of sweet-smelling hay from the wooden manger on the far wall.

  I crossed the lane, making my way to Eliane and Mathieu’s house, which had a promising plume of wood-smoke drifting above one of its chimneys. But, although I knocked and called at the front door, and even tentatively walked around to the back of the house and called there, there was no sign of anyone. A robin, maybe the same one from the apple tree the day before, hopped onto a clod of earth in the middle of a neat vegetable patch and then flew up to perch on the handle of a garden fork that was stuck into the rich, freshly dug soil. Dark green cabbages rested in the bed next to taller, knobbly Brussels sprouts, and leeks whose neatly braided leaves ended in fountain-like flourishes. Not wanting to trespass further, I left, resolving to call again another day—though in truth I was a little relieved too, still relishing the sense of being alone and not having to make conversational small talk with anyone for a while. My new neighbours haven’t approached me in the days since then either; clearly French country-folk are happy to respect one another’s space.

  The rooster crows again, twice over this time, as if he knows his first attempt to sound reveille didn’t succeed in getting me out from under the covers. I sigh deeply, still determined not to be bullied into getting up before I’m good and ready. To tell the truth, I’d rather try and sleep a bit longer because, otherwise, I know how the day will stretch out, dauntingly long, ahead of me. If I could, I’d stay under the covers, like a hibernating bear, until Christmas is safely behind me and it’s safe to come out, blinking in the spring sunshine.

  The first few days here were fine. I was happy to pass the time unpacking and getting myself settled in, slowly getting familiar with my new surroundings, mastering the art of setting and lighting the fire, curling up on one of the sofas to read for hours on end, relishing my solitude. Not having to think. But already I can see that time may start to drag and I fear a return of the depression that may roll back in at any moment. It sits out there, like a fog bank off the Maine coast. The distraction of a new place can only hold it at bay for a short time, I know. So, despite Foghorn Leghorn over the way, I’m determined to try to doze a while longer. Then, because Rose told me Saturday is market day there, I’m planning on taking myself down to Sainte-Foy-La-Grande. Just to give myself something to do. And also because I know I really need to make myself eat something other than the cans of soup and crackers I’ve been resorting to for the past few days since my arrival here. Mamie Lucie’s recipe book sits on the table in the kitchen, looking at me reproachfully as I spoon bright orange gloop into a pan to heat through. One of these days, I tell it, I’ll cook something proper, I promise...

  Still under the covers, I close my eyes, hoping to slip back into blessed unconsciousness once again, but then immediately open them again, wide with fear... Because there’s a strange, furtive noise coming from just outside the house. It sounds like someone’s tiptoeing across the gravel, breathing heavily. The only windows up here are roof lights, so I can’t peek out at the intruder, who pauses every now and then—I imagine him trying the front door and the windows downstairs—before the footsteps tiptoe round the end of the house. Oh no, now he’s on the other side... I can hear that heavy breathing, and soft footfalls crossing the grass. He’s going to break in through one of the sets of French doors. Will the doctor and his wife hear him? If they’re that old, then probably not. Will they hear if I scream? They’re probably still fast asleep this early on a Saturday morning.

  I’m panicking now, my own breath coming fast and shallow. Surely it’ll be better to confront him downstairs while he’s still outside—and with my thick sweater on instead of just in my pyjamas—than wait until he’s in the house? Quickly and quietly I pull on my layers of warmer clothes and creep downstairs. Moving swiftly and silently into the kitchen, I grab a large breadknife and cross to the terrace doors, preparing to brandish the knife and scream at the top of my lungs in the hope of creating such a disturbance that the intruder will flee in terror. Used to city life, I usually carry a canister of pepper spray in my purse, but I jettisoned this before I left London, thinking I wouldn’t need such things in the safe, tranquil French countryside. How I regret that now! So instead I snatch up the pepper pot from the table, thinking at least it’s better than nothing.

  A dense white fog has closed in overnight. Its chill has turned the air itself into a solid wall of blankness, obscuring the rest of the world so that I feel even more isolated than ever.

  And then I freeze in my tracks—freeze being the operative word on this frigid December morning—at the sight before me. Under the apple tree, which emerges out of the fog like a phantom, stands the most enormous pig I’ve ever seen, gazing longingly up at the apples still hanging from the branches. I tap on the glass and it peers short-sightedly towards the house, then, not the least bit bothered by my presence—and disdainfully ignoring the fact that I seem to be threatening it with two items of kitchen equipment better suited to making a ham sandwich than to actual self-defence—it begins to root blissfully amongst the fallen fruit, crunching the rotting apples between its large, ivory teeth.

  I put my hands on my hips and shake my head in exasperation. So much for rural tranquillity! Between the crowing rooster, the screeching owl, the barking dog, the midnight mechanic and now this hungry hog, the chance of a little peace and quiet would be a very fine thing indeed.

  I tap on the window pane again, harder this time, but the pig doesn’t even look up. So I unbolt the French doors and, grasping the breadknife and pepper pot in what I imagine to be a fearsome fashion—showing this critter I mean business—I step out onto the terrace.

  I realise two things in quick succession: fortunately the far side is bounded by a low wall which would offer some protection if the pig decided to charge; and unfortunately the flagstones of the terrace are covered in a carpet of dead leaves which have become slick with the saturating dampness of the fog. My feet slide out from underneath me and, giving a loud yell, I land on my behind with a thud that knocks the wind out of me momentarily. I heave myself up, hanging on to the wall for dear life, and rub my right hip, which took the brunt of the fall. My shout, and the clattering of breadknife and pepper pot onto the flagstones, hardly disturbed the pig at all. He looks at me appraisingly, his little eyes blinking as he chews an especially delicious rotten apple, and then nonchalantly turns his back on me and goes back to rooting in the damp grass for more booty.

  I collect up my scattered weapons, sliding wildly again and windmilling my arms in a most inelegant manner, before retreating inside. As I turn back towards the house, I notice a movement behind an upstairs window at the doctor’s house, as if someone has drawn back from the glass from where they’ve been watching my escapades. Great. Now my elderly neighbours know that a crazed knife-wielding pig attacker has moved in next door to them. I do so love to create a good first impression! They’ve also witnessed my fall, no doubt, so my pride now hurts almost as much as my backside does.

  Admitting defeat on the pig-scaring front, I replace the pepper pot and the knife beside the
breadboard on the kitchen counter and stomp back upstairs to get dressed properly.

  As I brush my hair, I catch sight of myself in the bathroom mirror and I notice the faint frown lines that have etched themselves between my brows. When did that happen? I pause, hairbrush in hand, suddenly remembering the expression of serene disdain on the face of the pig as it surveyed the city slicker brandishing the pepper pot and breadknife at it, and I start to laugh.

  And as my reflection laughs back at me, she looks relieved that, after such a long absence, it turns out her owner’s sense of humour hasn’t upped and left for good after all.

  * * *

  The pig has disappeared into the fog by the time I’ve brushed my teeth, peeled off my layers of nightwear (gingerly pressing on the large red circle on my hip where I fell, which is already beginning to darken to a becoming shade of purple that matches the bruise on my elbow), and pulled on my jeans, a thermal undershirt and several more layers of sweaters. I make a pot of coffee and cup my hands around the mug to warm them as I sit at the kitchen table, gazing out at the wall of whiteness.

  The crisp winter sunshine that I’d envisaged has failed entirely to materialise so far. I can’t even check out a weather forecast as the Internet isn’t working. There’s a very faint network signal, but the password Rose gave me doesn’t seem to allow me access. After a bit of a hunt I’ve discovered the router, which is under the console table in the sitting room but, despite the fact that it’s plugged into the mains, its lights are all off. I pick up my phone, hoping against hope, but I can’t get any reception on that here either. One of these days I’ll have to try walking to the top of the hill to see if I can get any signal up there. But so far I haven’t bothered. I’ll take it with me to the market though and hopefully be able to pick up a network in Sainte-Foy.

  It’s weird being so disconnected from everything and everyone. All at once the lack of communication with the outside world and the—no doubt complicated—technicalities that will be involved in restoring it, overwhelm me. Suddenly exhaustion crushes my spirit and doubts come crashing in.

  How could I ever have thought I could do this? For a moment I toy with the idea of loading everything back into the car and heading back to London. I could do that easily: run back home to the warmth and familiarity of my own house; spend Christmas with Rose and Max, or even—there’s still time—get a flight back to the States. I smile wryly and take another sip of my coffee. As that pig out there must have believed, it’s certainly true that the grass always seems greener on the other side of the fence. In reality, I know that what awaits me back in London is a silence and an emptiness even more profound than the one I find myself in here. All those reminders of what should have been. I realise that, in the few days I’ve been here, I have at least stopped living in that other, parallel life, my make-believe happy-ever-after. And I haven’t popped a pill in days. So even if it’s foggy outside, my internal fogginess is beginning to lift a little. That sense of seeing the world from behind a plate of glass has evaporated into thin air now that the novelty of a new place has reconnected me with Planet Earth, my feet more firmly planted on the cold French ground.

  And even though I haven’t once turned a page, Mamie Lucie’s notebook still sits there on the table in front of me, waiting expectantly. It’s strange that a simple, inanimate object can have such a powerful effect, constantly reminding me of that side of my life which I now seem to be incapable of resuming. I sigh. I’m getting there, Mamie, I promise.

  Rousing myself for action instead of wallowing in my thoughts, I go back upstairs to fetch my bag and the car keys. I think I hear the faint crunch of footsteps on the gravel: that darned pig again, no doubt. I throw open the front door, ready to confront the beast and shoo it away, but there’s nothing there.

  With a strangely disconcerting swirl, as though some presence has just disturbed it, the fog shifts, seeming about to clear, but then closing in again. It makes me feel a little giddy and I put a hand out to steady myself against the door frame. As I do so, I glance down, my peripheral vision caught by a flash of red. And there on the doorstep sits a little basket tied with a jaunty red bow. I gasp, remembering the Saint Nicolas gifts from my childhood. Thinking hard, I try to recall what today’s date must be. It’s Saturday, the first one in December. So it must be the sixth! Stooping to pick up the basket, I see there’s a slip of paper tucked in beneath the wrappings. ‘Bienvenue’ it reads. Nothing more. I peel back a sheet of baking parchment and there, nestling beneath it, discover a little cache of star-shaped cookies, iced with white frosting. I bend my head and breathe in deeply, inhaling the familiar scent of butter and spice.

  ‘Merci, Saint Nicolas,’ I say, my words hanging in the air until the fog, shifting and swirling once again, swallows them up.

  I set the basket on the table in the kitchen, next to Mamie Lucie’s recipe book. Still clasping my car keys, I stand for a moment with my hands on my hips again, taking in the festive red bow, the sweet-smelling cookies and the notebook beside them. And suddenly I don’t feel at all alone after all.

  ‘Okay, Mamie, I get the message. Let’s go see what the market has to offer.’

  I creep down the steep hill in the car, headlights on, hugging the right-hand verge. The fog grows even thicker as I find a parking place next to the river in the little town of Sainte-Foy. On the passenger seat next to me, my phone suddenly pings, picking up a signal, incoming text messages lighting up the screen.

  There’s a cheerful one from my mother—‘hope u got there ok. Do u have email? If not txt back. All fine here xx’—and then several increasingly anxious ones from Rose. I punch in her number, smiling at her gleeful screech as she picks up. ‘There you are! I’ve been worried about you with this radio silence. Is everything okay? I ended up phoning Eliane to make sure you’d actually got there.’

  ‘I’m fine, it’s all fine, Rose. So lovely to hear your voice! The house is great. But I can’t get a signal on my phone there and the Internet seems to be down.’ I describe the sorry state of the Wi-Fi router to her.

  ‘Oh God, what a pain. Sorry, Evie, it sounds like it’s been fried in a winter storm. The same thing happened once before. I’m not sure what to suggest. It’s probably going to mean a trip to Bordeaux or Bergerac to buy a whole new router. And then you’d need to install it of course...’

  ‘Don’t worry; I’m happy to make do without it. And now that I know I can get a signal down here, I can check emails and make calls when I come to do my shopping. It’s taken me a few days to get settled in, is all. This is my first time venturing forth!’

  ‘Okay, well, if you’re sure. Sorry—I can’t think of anyone else there we could ask to help you. Your neighbours are all of the pre-Internet generation, I’m afraid. Oh, and you’ll probably also get a signal if you go up the road above the house up to the top of the hill. Just follow the cockleshell markers for the pilgrim way—they’ll take you in the right direction.’

  ‘Great. I’ll try that too. I’m going to get into a routine of daily walks now. As soon as the weather picks up a bit, that is. Don’t worry; I promise I’ll stay in touch from here on in.’

  I sit in the car a while longer, checking emails and composing a reassuringly cheery reply to my mom. The fog alternately retreats teasingly out across the broad, brown river and then closes back in again. There’s nothing from Will. I thought there might be a reply to the brief, business-like message I’d sent him before I left England to let him know I’d be away until early January, telling him where I am. Just in case... I even managed to wish him luck with his TV launch. But he’s clearly far too busy and far too important these days. Or too distracted by mystery girl Stephanie Whatsername perhaps.

  I gather up my purse and a large straw basket that I’ve borrowed from the house and step out into the mist, following the flow of people heading for the marketplace in the middle of town. The narrow streets open out suddenly into a space that is filled with a bustling throng. Colourful market
stalls are clustered around the imposing Mairie that dominates the square. I stand still for a moment, people pushing busily past me, and I feel a little overwhelmed by so much sensory overload after the past few days of self-imposed solitary confinement.

  The noise is the first thing I notice. Voices jabber and call, and I’m assailed on all sides by quick-fire French, spoken with an accent very different to that of the Parisians. Progress into the place is slow, as people greet one another and then linger in clusters, catching up with the latest gossip, the storm of chatter interspersed with frequent gusts of laughter.

  Then my eyes open wide as I take in the produce on offer. If there’s a heaven where my grandmother has gone, then I imagine it must look a lot like this. Fruit and vegetables are displayed in neat pyramids, bright orange and yellow citrus fruits contrasting with the more sombre, leathery green leaves of cabbages and something called blette, which I realise is Swiss chard. Sunny orange carrots are eclipsed by a staggering array of squashes in all shapes and sizes, mottled yellow turban squash, gnarled grey-green Hubbards and flame-coloured pumpkins. In contrast, the neighbouring fish stall is a study in understated elegance, muted shades of silver and black scales reclining on a sumptuous bed of crushed ice; midnight blue mussels nestle among tendrils of glossy brown seaweed, with a shoal of coral-pink prawns adding a dash of colour. Noticing a heap of the little clams we call steamers back home, I pause, contemplating; I could buy some to make a proper New England chowder, the perfect creamy comfort food for this winter weather, or perhaps cook them the French way with some white wine and shallots, using Mamie Lucie’s recipe which must be in her notebook somewhere… Food for thought, quite literally.