The French for Christmas

by Fiona Valpy

  I pick up the bag that contains my high-heeled shoes, which I’ll swap once I’m safely inside, and gather up the bay wreath that I’ve made as a Réveillon gift for my hosts. I’ve had to be creative in the absence of any chance of a shopping expedition, but I’m quite pleased with my efforts. I cut branches from the bay tree that grows on one side of the terrace, shaking off the snow and choosing sprigs with as many bayberries as possible, then wired them into a circle and added cinnamon sticks and star anise here and there, plundered from Rose’s store cupboard, tying it with a broad cream grosgrain ribbon. It’s both decorative and practical, and I hope Eliane will hang it in her kitchen and slowly dismantle it through the months to come as she uses its component parts to flavour her cooking.

  Didier chivalrously offers me his arm and I take it—well, the conditions underfoot really are awfully slippery, that’s why—and we proceed, with cautious steps, towards the welcoming glow of the lights that shine out across the snow from the windows of the cottage. The night is perfectly still and clear, the smoke rising straight up from the chimney stack and clouding the stars above the roof with its soft, sweet-scented mist that reminds me of wood fires back home.

  Bruno greets us at the gate, his tail wagging enthusiastically, and lets out a short bark or two to announce our arrival. Mathieu throws open the door and welcomes us in. The greetings over, we all stand in front of the fire in the sitting room, awkward for a moment, our unaccustomed finery making us feel a little self-conscious, until Eliane bustles through from the kitchen, pulling off her apron and smoothing her fine white hair into place. ‘Come, Mathieu, aperitifs for our guests!’

  Each with a generous glass of Kir, the blackcurrant liqueur adding a rosy hint of festivity to the dry white Bordeaux wine, the conversation begins to flow and soon we’re laughing and chatting as Eliane hands round a plate of little wild mushroom tartlets to accompany the drinks. I’m impressed that she has managed to conjure something so delicious out of thin air.

  Outside, the darkness is suddenly disturbed by a gust of gruff barking.

  ‘Bruno! Tais-toi!’ shouts Mathieu. And as Bruno falls quiet, we stare at one another in amazement.

  Because, through the silent night beyond the cottage walls, comes the sound of angelic voices, raised in song.

  ‘What on earth...?’ exclaims Eliane. ‘I don’t believe it!’

  She throws open the front door and we step out into the snow. And there, coming up the road, is an astonishing sight.

  First come several girls, ranging in age from about twelve to their late teens, carrying torches that light the way for a woman of about my age, accompanied by a teenage boy, who are pulling a sledge on which sits a bright-eyed toddler, tightly wrapped in cosy layers like a papoose. They’re all singing a French carol, which I recognise from my Paris days. ‘Un flambeau, Jeannette, Isabelle—Un flambeau! Courons au berceau!’ ‘Bring a torch, Jeannette, Isabelle, bring a torch, to the cradle run...’ Their voices, clear as a carillon of Christmas bells, float up to us on the frosty air, and we laugh aloud when they get to the second verse, waving their torches in greeting...

  ‘Who goes there, knocking on the door?

  Who goes there, knocking like that?

  Open up, I’ve arranged on a platter

  Delicious cakes, which I’ve brought here.

  Knock! Knock! Knock! Open the door for us!

  Knock! Knock! Knock! Let’s celebrate!’

  Behind them, a large truck is reversing slowly up the road with its tailgate down and from the back several lusty young men are shovelling grit onto the snow-covered lane so that the truck’s chain-clad wheels can grip safely. And, bringing up the rear of this unlikely procession, is a blue pickup truck, whose headlights are helping to illuminate the whole scene.

  Eliane brings her hands to her cheeks, laughing and crying all at once. ‘It’s Nathalie! And Hélène! And Héloise! Oh, and Gina and Luc, with little Pierre on the sled! I don’t believe it! And all the boys...’

  Mathieu hugs her to him with a burly arm. ‘A Réveillon miracle, hein, old lady? Trust the family to find a way for us to spend it all together!’

  He and Didier go out into the lane to help the carol singers pull the sled the last few yards up to the cottage and suddenly the little house is full of noise and laughter and bustle as they come, stamping the snow from their boots, pulling off jackets and gloves, crowding round Eliane and Mathieu to kiss them and hug them.

  The blue pickup has pulled up right before the gate and another man gets out of the driver’s cab and comes round to help the last passenger out, a little old lady with a walking stick. Flanked by two of the sturdy young men, she is carefully escorted up the path until at last she stands in front of Eliane.

  ‘Mireille! How wonderful. You all came! All of you!’ Eliane can hardly speak for the tears of joy that are running down her cheeks.

  ‘But of course. You didn’t think we’d leave you alone at Réveillon, did you, my dear sister? I’ve made enough venison à la Bordelaise to feed an army, knowing that it’s Mathieu’s favourite dish,’ she pauses to pinch his rosy cheeks and the old man blushes and beams at her in adoration, ‘and the boys managed to get down to the town this morning and bought about a ton of oysters. Raphael’s been shucking them all afternoon. I’m glad to see you’ve got company,’ she turns and nods regally to Didier and me, as we stand to one side to allow the family time to exchange their greetings, ‘because we’re going to need all the help we can get!’

  Eliane wipes her eyes, pulling herself together, beaming now. ‘Evie, Didier, let me introduce you to the entire Thibault clan, who are crazy enough to brave the ice and snow to bring us a proper Réveillon dinner!’

  I struggle to keep track of all the names as the family file past, one by one, and we exchange countless kisses. As far as I can work it out, in all the confusion of noise and laughter, Mireille has four sons, Raphael, Florian, Cédric, and Pierre. Raphael’s pretty twin daughters, Hélène and Héloise, home from university for the holidays, and Cédric’s daughter, Nathalie, are the carol singers. Gina and Luc, who were pulling the toddler—le petit Pierre, as everyone calls him—on the sled, are Cédric’s wife and son; Florian and his wife Marie-Louise are the parents of three of the sturdy young men who were shovelling the grit from the back of the truck, driven up here by their father; and then there are three more men who were also involved in the shovelling: two are the grown-up sons of Raphael and the other is their uncle, Mireille’s youngest son, also called Pierre.

  Mireille directs the wives of her three eldest sons to bring in pots and trays of food from the back of the pickup and then she and Eliane supervise the arrangement of these on a big trestle table, hastily put up in the kitchen by Mathieu and Didier and covered with a clean white tablecloth. Eliane uses my wreath as a centrepiece, lighting candles to flank it, and I help Gina set out cutlery, plates and glasses, as the noise levels reach a crescendo in the little cottage. Chairs are fetched and bottles of wine are opened and offered around by Florian and Cédric, and in and out of this flurry of activity the younger children scamper and giggle, delighted at their adventurous journey through the arctic landscape to get here, and the excitement of this impromptu party.

  Once everyone is settled around the long table, Raphael’s twins circulate with vast platters on which the oysters are displayed, bedecked with seaweed and lemon quarters. We each pile a few onto our plates—even little Pierre is given a couple, which he eats with gusto—and soon there’s nothing left but heaps of empty shells.

  ‘Délicieux. Worth all the hard work,’ pronounces Raphael, displaying a bandaged thumb as proof of the hazards involved in opening the oysters’ tight-clamped shells.

  The two elderly sisters, Eliane and Mireille, sit side by side at the top of the table. Eliane shakes her head, still hardly able to believe she has her beloved family around her. ‘How on earth did you manage to get into town today? And, which was even more impossible, how on earth did you manage to ge
t here tonight?’

  Cédric, who is pulling the corks from bottles of red wine to accompany the main course, pauses in his work and grins at his aunt. ‘I’ll give you three guesses! You know it would take more than the storm of the century to keep your big sister from getting the entire family together on Christmas Eve. First of all, she telephoned the Mayor and told him that if he could get a load of grit delivered from the regional depot in Libourne then she would volunteer her sons and grandsons to come with the truck and help grit the roads of the commune. On one small condition, though: that we be allowed to keep back just enough for gritting the lane to Les Pélérins as well. Then she sent Raphael off down to Sainte-Foy—where luckily the main road has been ploughed clear—risking life and limb for our Réveillon oysters.’

  His son, Luc, chips in eagerly, ‘Yes, and then tonight we came along the top of the escarpment to get here, gritting the road along the way. I helped shovel too, didn’t I Papa?’

  ‘You did indeed, mon fils.’ Cédric ruffles his elder son’s hair fondly.

  Mireille smiles serenely, nodding her approval as Marie-Louise brings a fragrantly steaming casserole of venison stew to the table and sets it down in front of her mother-in-law so that she can spoon helpings onto the plates that are passed up to her. ‘We parcelled up the meal and brought it in the back of the pickup. Here,’ she passes me a dish of mashed potatoes, ‘help yourself, there’s plenty.’

  I turn to Florian, who’s sitting on my left. ‘So what do you do when you’re not being press-ganged into gritting the roads for the local community?’

  He laughs. ‘In our day jobs, we work as stonemasons. Hence the truck. But our mother likes to deploy us wherever she thinks we’re needed most.’ He beams fondly at Mireille as she directs operations from the head of the table.

  ‘Fortunately for me,’ chips in Gina, who’s sitting on the other side of me. To my great delight, I’ve discovered she’s English, although her French is so good that I mistook her for a local at first. ‘Mireille took it upon herself to deploy her sons to come to my rescue in the aftermath of a summer storm. That’s how I met Cédric.’

  ‘Ah, yes, God works in mysterious ways,’ her husband says, raising his glass in a toast to his mother and Eliane.

  ‘He does indeed,’ Mireille raises her glass in turn. ‘Sometimes He just needs a little helping hand though!’

  Eliane shakes her head, smiling. ‘My dear sister, even if you hadn’t got involved, Gina and Cédric would most certainly have ended up together. It was their Fate. And, no matter what we humans do to mess things up, Fate has a way of working it all out in the end.’

  Cédric reaches for Gina’s hand and laces his fingers through hers. ‘Well, call it Fate or call it Family—thank goodness for happy endings!’

  At that, prompted by Raphael, we all raise our glasses together in a toast. ‘To happy endings,’ we chorus.

  I look around the crowded table, content to sit quietly for a moment as the sea of family chatter continues to ebb and flow, watching Eliane’s face as she presides over the unexpected Réveillon gathering. Her expression is one of pure joy, and written into it is a love so strong, so wholehearted, that it gives me hope. Just for a moment, in the midst of all that noise and light and warmth, I spare a thought for the little graveyard up the hill. For Eliane’s babies. For Mathieu’s father and brother, killed in the war. Looking at my hosts’ faces this evening, I see unfeigned happiness. And so much love. There are no traces of the shadows that I myself feel, of anger, fear and grief. So this is where forgiveness leads, I think. To open-hearted, full-on joy. It feels like a gift, given to me by Eliane and Mathieu. Showing me that they truly are living their lives on behalf of the ones they’ve lost. A way to be... My future.

  Didier has been commandeered by Mireille and seated between her and one of the twins—Hélène I think it is. But as I look around the table, savouring my meal and quietly basking in the sunshine of the family’s love and laughter, he glances my way. Catching my eye, he smiles and raises his glass just a fraction of an inch, in a private toast of our own. I wonder whether he’s feeling what I’m feeling, that this truly is a Réveillon celebration in the literal sense of the word: a reawakening of the soul; a re-entry into life.

  I think perhaps Gina notices our exchanged glance, because she nudges me and says, ‘Our Doctor Didier is a very popular addition to the community. We just hope he’s going to stay on. If only there were something to help keep him here... But I suspect Africa is calling him back. And you, how long are you planning on staying, Evie?’

  ‘Oh, probably just until the New Year. Then I shall need to get back to work. I’ll definitely be going back to the States in February for the arrival of my sister’s baby. I guess that’ll be a good opportunity to take a look around, think about my future. Maybe I’ll scout for premises for a small restaurant in the Boston area. Working with Eliane in the garden and the kitchen has fired my enthusiasm for cooking again. I’d like to adapt my grandmother’s recipes to give them a modern twist, and use them as the basis for the menu. I might even compile them into a recipe book—I’m thinking of calling it something like Sensational Seasonal Cooking!’

  ‘Ooh, that’s a great idea!’

  ‘What is?’ chips in Cédric, stooping between us and holding a platter of interesting-looking cheeses steady for Gina. She helps herself to several different slivers and then hands me the knife so that I can follow suit.

  ‘Make sure you take a slice of the Trappe d’Echourgnac. It’s a local cheese, cured in a walnut liqueur. The taste is amazing.’ She turns to her husband. ‘Evie’s going to write a cookbook taking traditional French recipes and adding a modern twist to them Génial, n’est-ce pas?’

  Didier overhears. ‘Well, I can vouch for the fact that she’s an excellent cook.’

  Eliane nods. ‘She knows how to get the very best out of whatever’s available too. I’m already looking forward to our Christmas lunch tomorrow!’

  Mireille fixes me with her bright-eyed gaze. ‘Good for you, Evie. But, you know, these days so many people have forgotten how to cook. They think preparing a meal involves putting a plastic pot into the microwave for five minutes. You should run cookery courses too, showing people what can be done with simple, fresh ingredients and a little imagination.’

  ‘That’s brilliant, Mireille,’ Gina’s face lights up with enthusiasm as the idea begins to gather momentum. ‘And I know just the venue for the courses...’

  ‘Of course! Château Bellevue. She could run courses there in the winter, when they’re not busy with weddings. You must introduce Evie to Sara and Thomas, Gina.’

  ‘They’ve got the accommodation, and a huge kitchen. And it’s such a beautiful setting. What do you think, Hélène? Héloise? The twins work there in the summer, you see,’ Gina explains in an aside to me.

  ‘It could work, yes; it would be wonderful. It would extend the season for them. And cookery courses would be much simpler to organise than the weddings are...’

  I pop a morsel of the walnut-flavoured cheese into my mouth. Gina’s right; it’s delicious, a combination I’ve never come across before. I nod slowly, mulling over the idea, the general enthusiasm for it around the table helping fire up my own sense of inspiration. ‘Sounds great. In fact, better than that, it sounds totally brilliant!’

  ‘And Gina, you could present a session on wine tasting as well,’ suggests Cédric.

  ‘Even better,’ I beam at her. ‘We could include wine tasting and suggestions for wine pairings with the different dishes. I’m sure I could get a lot of people from London interested. Maybe even from the States as well. A cookery course like that, set in a lovely French château... what a wonderful experience.’

  Didier raises his glass, calling for a moment’s silence. ‘I’d like to propose another toast: to our enterprising women. The three generations seated at this Réveillon table have used the opportunity for a brainstorming session and come up with what sounds like a winning business
plan. Here’s to them all!’

  ‘Thank you, all of you,’ I raise my glass in return. And all at once there’s such a lump in my throat that I have to swallow before I can speak. ‘Thank you for your friendship and your enthusiasm, as well as for including me in your family party.’ I can’t say any more, because the word ‘family’ has made sudden tears prick my eyes. So I take another fortifying sip of the rich red wine to allow the surge of emotions within me to pass.

  Sensing that I’m a little overwhelmed, Gina puts an arm around my shoulders and makes a toast of her own: ‘To friendships, old and new!’

  The others echo her, their words reverberating round the room, and seeming to amplify the warmth and light within this little cottage nestling in the snowy countryside.

  ‘And now,’ Mireille claps her hands, ‘the dessert!’

  Hélène and Héloise carry in a tray, on which sits the biggest and finest Bûche de Noël I’ve ever seen, and everyone bursts out laughing as little Pierre, who has been leaning his sleepy head against his father’s shoulder, suddenly sits up straight, his eyes growing wide with delight at the sight of so much chocolate cake. ‘Well, that’s certainly woken you up,’ grins Cédric, fondly ruffling his son’s fine, dark hair.

  Mireille cuts generous slices of the log-shaped roulade, an airy sponge cake which has been rolled up with a rich chocolate mousse. It’s as delicious as it looks, covered with a hazelnut praline that adds a satisfying crunch to the soft textures within.

  The cacophony of chatter and laughter falls silent for a few moments as everyone savours the dessert. I look up from my plate. ‘My grandmother always used to say that the best praise for a dish is a silence just like this one... I wonder, Mireille, would you and Eliane agree to be consultants on my cookbook?’ I ask.

  Eliane beams, and Mireille nods regally. ‘With pleasure, my child.’