The French for Christmas

by Fiona Valpy

  My tongue appears to be swollen and sticky and I can only mumble indistinctly, swaying with a dizziness that makes me nearly black out.

  He cranes his head, looking past me to the open door of the sitting room. ‘Okay, come. Let us get you in here.’

  He guides me through and helps me onto the sofa. I draw my knees up to my chest again, shivering violently, as he arranges the woollen throw over me.

  I hear his footsteps cross back to the front door and then leave, crunching away across the gravel. ‘Don’t go, Bradley!’ I try to call after him, but all that comes out is a weak croak.

  Damn! That’ll teach me to throw up in the middle of the best dream ever.

  I let my impossibly heavy eyelids close again, and sleep pulls me under...

  There’s a light now; one of the lamps on the console table has been switched on. And there’s a soft pillow under my head instead of the rough fabric of the sofa. I open my eyes a tad, squinting against the light.

  The best news of all is that Bradley is back! He crosses the room and shakes my arm gently. ‘Madame, you need to take these. Here, some water to wash them down.’

  I prop myself onto one elbow and take the pills he’s offering me, gulping down the water which cools the acid-seared soreness in my throat.

  ‘That’s good. Drink it all if you can.’

  I collapse back onto the pillow and open my eyes a little wider. There he stands, gazing down at me: dark, wavy hair pushed back from his brow; a shadow of stubble emphasising the chiselled V of his jawline; and those gorgeous blue eyes, the colour of a clear winter sky.

  Perhaps I’ve died and gone to heaven. Please, God, let this moment last forever, I think.

  ‘Okay, you’ll feel a little better soon. The fever should begin to come down a bit now. And if you think you’re going to vomit again, I’ve put a bucket here beside you.’

  Hmm, well that certainly spoiled the magic of the moment. A pretty practical dude, old Bradley.

  Although...

  Perhaps it’s the distinctly un-romantic mention of the bucket that does it, or perhaps those pills are getting to work fast, but my mind begins to clear a little and so does my vision. I manage a weak smile of remorse and regret.

  ‘Thank you,’ I whisper to Bradley Cooper’s French lookalike.

  ‘Je vous en prie,’ he replies, his face creasing into a broad smile of relief—probably because I’m not looking like throwing up again anytime soon. ‘Apologies; we haven’t been properly introduced. I’m your neighbour, Didier Dumas.’

  I’m befuddled and confused with fever, so it takes a moment for this to sink in. ‘But I thought my neighbour was Doctor Lebrun?’

  He shakes his head. ‘Docteur Lebrun has retired. He and his wife have gone to La Réunion for the winter. I am Docteur Dumas, a locum. I’m standing in for him until a replacement can be found.’

  I digest all of this for a few moments. Then, with an effort, gather my wits about me. ‘Evie Brooke. I’m a friend of Rose and Max’s, the owners of this house. And I’m so sorry. This is the most terrible way to have introduced myself. I don’t know what came over me, but whatever it was, it was nasty and it was sudden!’

  ‘The norovirus, I expect. A winter vomiting bug. It does the rounds at this time of year. Perhaps you picked it up on your journey down here. You seem to have a very violent strain of it, but don’t worry,’ he stops and presses his cool fingertips into the sides and back of my neck, ‘it doesn’t look like anything more serious. I’ve given you paracetamol and something to help settle the nausea. And now you must drink lots of fluids because you were dangerously dehydrated with the fever and the vomiting.’

  I do wish he’d stop reminding me about the vomiting. Partly because it makes my stomach churn again; and partly because it’s excruciatingly embarrassing remembering what I did to his nice shiny shoes by way of saying hello.

  I close my eyes again. It’s comforting to lie there, the shivering slowly subsiding, my body beginning to relax, and listen to the sounds of someone else moving about the room. It reminds me of being at home with Will, the two of us so comfortable together that we took each other’s presence for granted. I remember the soundtrack of our everyday lives, back in the days before grief silenced us: the sound of him clattering down the stairs, whistling cheerfully; the hammering and drilling as he put up shelves, just after we moved in, while I painted the room next door, both of us singing along to the radio that blared from the hallway; the quiet thud of the refrigerator door closing as he pushed it to with his elbow, his arms full of ingredients for the meal we’d be making together; working alongside one another in the kitchen, chopping and mixing and stirring. ‘Here Evie, taste this and tell me what you think,’ he’d say, as we experimented with new dishes for the bistro before opening day...

  I’ve gotten used to being on my own, and it’s only now that I realise how much I’ve missed the company of others. Or an other.

  I open my eyes a fraction and watch Dishy Doctor Didier from under my eyelashes as he brings in kindling and makes a fire. It feels totally unreal, lying here uselessly like this while a complete stranger looks after me but, sick as I am, there’s nothing else I can do. His footsteps approach and I quickly shut my eyes, feigning sleep. He comes to kneel beside the sofa and gently pats my shoulder to rouse me.

  ‘There, now we will get some warmth into the house,’ he smiles. I may feel like death warmed up, and he may have a wife or girlfriend waiting for him back at home for all I know, but even so my heart rate picks up a little at the sight of those beautiful blue eyes so close to mine.

  ‘Merci,’ I croak.

  ‘And now, Madame Brooke, you must get into bed and I will bring you a glass of this delicious electrolyte powder’—he waves a sachet at me—‘which you must try to sip. And then I will leave you to sleep, which is the best medicine of all.’

  He helps me up and I manage to climb the stairs, brush my teeth and splash some cold water on my face. I put on a pair of warm flannel pyjamas, the functioning part of my brain wishing that I’d packed some rather more alluring nightwear; they’re not exactly Victoria’s most titillating Secret. But then the last thing I had expected was that I’d be entertaining Bradley Cooper’s equally gorgeous French cousin in them.

  He knocks on the bedroom door and sets a glass of the rehydration drink down on the bedside cabinet. ‘I have also taken the precaution of bringing you the bucket, in case of further vomiting.’

  Seriously, is he never going to let the vomiting thing drop?

  He looks around the room, taking in the simple furnishings, which are perfect for a summer holiday home but look a little spartan in the winter.

  ‘You have no heating in here? Wait there!’

  Wait there? Listen Didier, mon ami, I’m going nowhere. Firstly, because I have nowhere else to go; secondly, because I feel so lousy right now that I don’t think I’d be capable of moving even if I wanted to; and thirdly because you are gorgeous.

  ... I hope I said that in my head and not out loud by mistake; too much time living alone will do that to you.

  I’m beginning to feel drowsy again and let my eyes close, so thankful to be resting my aching bones here in my comfortable bed.

  He creeps into the room with an electric radiator which he plugs in. It ticks quietly to itself, warming up and radiating a gentle heat into the chill air of the bedroom.

  ‘Try to drink all of that if you can. And I’m leaving these’—he shows me a blister pack of paracetamol—‘right here, so you can take two more if you wake up in the night. There’s a jug of water too, you see? I’m going to leave your front door on the latch and I’ll look in on you in the morning. But these bugs are usually a short, sharp shock. Twenty-four hours and the vomiting should stop.’

  Okay, puh-lease, that’s it; we’re done with the mentioning of the vomiting already!

  ‘I’m just next door. Come and get me if you start to feel worse again.’

  I nod, obediently take a
sip from the glass and then settle my aching head on the pillow.

  ‘Bonne nuit, Madame Brooke,’ he says softly. And I drift into a deep sleep and dream that I’m dancing with Bradley Cooper in a church lit by a thousand candles, until Will appears and tips a bucket of water (thankfully nothing worse!) over both our heads.

  * * *

  When you’re trying to become a hermit and shut yourself off from the rest of the world, being poleaxed by a winter bug turns out to be an excellent way of getting to know your neighbours.

  I woke on Sunday morning, weak as a rag doll, but no longer running the raging temperature, and managed to get showered and dressed, stagger downstairs to refill the pitcher of water and then collapse onto the sofa. Didier must have banked up the fire before he left the previous night, because there were still enough glowing embers to coax it back into life. So, by the time he came to check on me, I was lying under the woollen throw, before the cheerful blaze in the hearth, gazing at the glorious day outside the window.

  A crisp frost, like the fine dusting of icing sugar on a chocolate torte, covered the ground; the apple tree’s rosy baubles, bright as the colours in a child’s painting, were outlined against the backcloth of perfect blue and, as I lay watching, the robin hopped and fluttered between the branches and the frozen earth beneath. It’s very beautiful, my Not-Christmas tree.

  There was a knock at the door and then Didier called, ‘Hello? It’s only me.’

  I heaved myself a little more upright and smoothed my hair behind my ears. ‘I’m in here.’

  ‘Bonjour, Madame Brooke. It’s good to see you looking a little better this morning. How are you feeling?’

  ‘Please, call me Evie. I’ve stopped wishing I could curl up and die, thanks. So a lot better than last night.’

  He checked my temperature. ‘Still above normal, but it’s come down a few degrees. The worst should be over now. Have you been able to keep the fluids down?’

  I nodded. ‘Yes, as you can see I’m living dangerously without the bucket this morning. But don’t worry; I think it’s now safe to stand within a yard of me.’

  He smiled. Well, one thing was for sure, I hadn’t hallucinated those blue eyes yesterday. And, even in the clear light of day and without a raging fever, he still did bear an uncanny resemblance to Bradley Cooper.

  ‘What do you feel like for breakfast? Do you think you could manage a little dry toast?’

  I shook my head firmly as my stomach did a somersault at the mention of anything more substantial than water.

  ‘Just some rehydration drink then. Take it slowly. Lots of water and rest today, okay? Don’t go doing anything too energetic like, say, chasing pigs for example!’

  But of course. Mortification dawned as I realised that my gorgeous Bradley-lookalike neighbour must have enjoyed every moment of my less-than-graceful frolicking on the terrace the previous morning. Ah well, at least I could blame my flaming cheeks on my high temperature rather than my confusion… But I was still feeling too sick to care very much for very long.

  The last thing I heard was Didier bringing in another basket of logs and building up the fire. Suddenly exhausted again, I rested my head back onto the pillow, drowsy in the warmth of the sunlit room, and drifted off to sleep.

  And now it’s Monday morning and I’m feeling like a new woman. Albeit one with a slightly dizzy head and wobbly legs, but the headache and nausea have passed, thank the Lord. I fill the kettle and, as it begins to hum to itself, I try to slice a little of the bread—now hard and stale—from the market on Saturday. It was only the day before yesterday, but it seems an age ago that I was sitting in the church listening to the children sing the song of Saint Nicolas.

  The baguette looks too unappetising even for toast. Gingerly, in case it proves too much for my still-delicate constitution, I unwrap the basket of cookies and nibble on the corner of one of the frosted stars. In fact the sweet gingerbread seems, if anything, to settle my stomach—and it’s certainly a lot more appetising than the electrolyte sachets that Didier’s left me—so I retire to the sofa and lie in front of the cheerfully blazing fire with a mug of weak tea and another of the cookies. How wonderful it is to feel well again, or at least so much better.

  I wonder whether Didier will call in today. Of course he’ll be working as it’s a weekday. But it would be nice to thank him properly for his help and his kindness. And, if I’m honest, to have a chance to get to know him better. Now that my head is no longer a confusion of fever-induced dreams, certain questions come to mind. Such as, is he (a) married or (b) gay? Those seem to be the two most likely options for a guy that good-looking.

  And, as I sip my tea and savour the softly spiced cookie, which is almost as therapeutic as a hug from my Mamie Lucie, I realise that I may just be getting better in more ways than one.

  So, I muse, the recipe for curing grief turns out to be as follows: take equal measures of sadness and pain; mix together with some words of comfort, the kindness of strangers and some memories of happier times; bake at a high temperature for some length of time; then allow to rest, until well-risen and lighter than before.

  ‘Coucou!’ My train of thought is interrupted by the arrival of a visitor, but it’s not Doctor Didier.

  ‘Entrez!’ I call, and in walks a tall, elderly lady whose pure white hair is tied back in an elegant chignon. She wears work clothes, corduroy pants and a thick sweater, and her hands, which are holding a heavy-looking cast-iron casserole, are work-roughened, the bare nails cut short.

  ‘Oh, pardonnez-moi, Madame, I wasn’t sure whether you’d be out of bed. Didier said the door was unlocked. He asked me to check on you this morning. I’ll just put this in the kitchen, if I may?’

  I scramble to my feet and come to show her the way, even though it’s clear she knows the layout of the house well. She sets the casserole down and then proffers a hand. ‘Eliane Dubosq. Pleased to meet you at last, Madame Brooke.’

  ‘Please, call me Evie. I’m so delighted you’ve come. And I’m sorry I haven’t thanked you for your lovely Saint Nicolas Day gift—I assume it was from you—but events rather overtook me.’

  ‘I know,’ she smiles and nods. ‘Didier told me. No need to apologise. And it’s good that you are back on your feet again now. I’ve brought you some soup, made with vegetables from my garden. You will need to regain your strength.’

  ‘Please, will you have a cup of tea? And I can offer you one of these delicious cookies, which were clearly baked by an expert!’

  We settle down in the sitting room and she gazes about her. ‘It’s nice to have the house lived in at this time of year for a change. Usually it’s sad and cold here in the winter. I like looking out of my window and seeing the smoke from the chimneys of both the houses over on this side of the road, seeing signs of life. When I heard Anne and Gilles Lebrun were off to La Réunion, I thought Mathieu and I were going to have a very lonely winter indeed at Les Pélérins—the last ones left! Having you two young people here is a sign that there’s still hope for the countryside. Most people want to live in cities nowadays.’

  She shakes her head sorrowfully. ‘The rural way of life seems to be dying out, just at a time when the world needs it more than ever.’

  I nod. ‘My grandmother always used to say we should live our lives with the seasons. I guess in the city, people are less tuned in to that rhythm. It’s easy to become disconnected from it.’

  ‘Precisely. When we begin to take Mother Nature for granted, it’s no wonder she gets angry and takes her revenge on us with all this strange weather. She is a woman, after all, and we women don’t take kindly to being ignored!’

  It’s another beautiful day today, so it’s easy to forget the leaden skies and the dense fog of a day or two ago but, now she comes to mention it, the weather has been pretty changeable.

  ‘Is this more typical?’ I ask her. ‘This lovely sunshine?’

  ‘Oui, but don’t take it for granted. There are thirteen moons this year, so we can
expect things to be pretty turbulent.’

  ‘Thirteen moons? What does that mean?’

  ‘Every now and then we get a year that has thirteen full moons. Check your diary, if it shows the phases, and you’ll see. And folklore tells us that, in years which have thirteen moons, we can expect storms. In all ways. It’s not just confined to the weather. Our individual lives, world events, war, flood, famine; thirteen moons mean trouble. Of course,’ she smiles, ‘it’s only folklore. But if we pause in our busy lives for a moment and ponder where that folklore comes from, we find it’s usually based on some foundation of truth. Those of us who live in the countryside like to mix our science with a good pinch of superstition too, you see.’

  She pauses to take a sip of her tea.

  ‘Now, tell me, Evie, how are you settling in? Rose told us that you were in need of a refuge and that you were seeking peace and quiet. That’s why I didn’t come straight round when you arrived; I wanted to give you some space. Are you all right here? Not too lonely?’ Her direct French way of asking is refreshing after so many months of politely tactful British skirting around the issue.

  ‘I’m fine. Although I was just starting to miss conversation and human company when I got sick. It’s a great way to meet the neighbours, I’ve discovered! Although I’m not sure I made the best impression on poor Didier. I really wasn’t very nice to know when we met.’

  ‘Don’t you worry; he’s used to it in his line of work.’ Eliane pats my hand reassuringly.

  ‘How long has he been here?’ I ask, hopefully nonchalantly enough to disguise any whiff of a vested interest.

  She shoots me a keen glance though and I know I’m not pulling any wool over those clear grey eyes that seem able to read my innermost thoughts.

  ‘He took over from Doctor Lebrun when he retired in September. Didier came to us from Paris—another escapee to the country. So the easiest thing was for him to move into Anne and Gilles’ house while things are in a state of flux. We all wish he’d stay, but he says it’s just temporary until the commune can find a permanent replacement. It’s not so easy these days though, finding people who want to come and live the rural life.’