I nodded. 'Well, as soon as I get connected I will have.'
'Then you must look him up. He is a legend in France, a real legend.'
I wondered if something had been sadly missing from my education. If he really was that famous, surely I would have heard of him?
The two brothers and I chatted companionably for a while longer until lunch arrived. I had to admit it looked divine and I was suddenly very hungry. A large salmon steak nestled in a seasonal salad dressed with a sublime-smelling balsamic dressing, all on a large, oval white plate. It looked like something out of Jamie Oliver Does France rather than the kitchen of a little café in a rural village.
'Gosh, that looks amazing!' I exclaimed.
'Oh yes, we have a great chef here,' said Julien.
'Eh, Jacques, viens, il y a un de tes compatriots,' Julien called out to a thirty-something guy who had appeared by the door to the café, his chef's whites marking him out as the one who had prepared all the fabulous food.
He sauntered over to check out the new English girl and I took a moment to take him in. Tall, long-legged, short hair styled in a brush cut and a rangy, loose-limbed walk. Cute, I thought. There was certainly no shortage of lush men in this village!
His whites had the name 'J Tournier' embroidered on the chest.
A real French chef, I thought.
'Ey oop lass,' he said in the broadest of Yorkshire accents. My heart sank.
'He is also English but he has married a French woman,' said Louis, as if that forgave him his transgression for being a foreigner.
Hmm, I thought, I'm sitting in deepest France surrounded by British people in a French café with an English chef. This wasn't exactly what I'd signed up for.
'Jack Tournier,' he said, stretching out his hand to shake mine. 'Another newbie eh?'
'Very,' I replied, 'I only arrived this morning.'
'Blimey, and you've already met these reprobates. Bad luck eh!' He laughed, clapping the Twin Hunks on the back.
'They had to drag me out of a ditch... well, not me exactly, more the car I was in.' I smiled.
'Crazy Gérard was picking her up from the airport,' said Julien.
'Oh well, that explains a lot,' he laughed. 'I'm surprised he was even sober at this time of the day. He's usually unconscious by mid-morning.'
'What?' I said. 'You mean he's a rampaging alcoholic with a taxi licence?'
'Yes, that's about it. Welcome to France, where we shrug our Gallic shoulders at "Elf and Safety".'
'So do you own this place then?' I asked.
'No, more's the pity. Claire and Stéphane own it but they are away visiting their grandchildren near Nice.' He got up from the arm of the seat he had been perching on.
'Well, back to the coalface. Looks like it's going to be a busy lunchtime session. Nice to meet you. Drop in any time.'
'Yeah, I will,' I answered smiling up at him. 'Thanks. Nice to meet you too.' Jack turned and retreated to the kitchen.
'Well boys,' I announced, standing up to leave, 'I'd better be getting off. I need to do a bit of shopping then get back for the arrival of the furniture.'
'No one will come during lunchtime, this is France,' said Julien. 'Your delivery men will be in a café somewhere having a big lunch and a carafe of wine. And the shop doesn't open until three o'clock either.'
'Three o'clock!' What am I supposed to do until then? What happens if people can only shop in their lunch break?'
'Then it's tough luck, innit,' came a voice from the shadows. 'They only seem to work a few hours a day. Does my bloody head in. Lazy bastards.'
Every head on the terrace turned in the direction of Tracey Tarrant but she just ignored them all and went back to texting on her smartphone while Warren Hartson glared at her. I sat down again, a little embarrassed at being the cause of her outburst.
'This is France,' said Julien. 'Lunch breaks are for lunch, not for shopping. Here food is to be savoured. Most places outside the towns close for two hours for lunch.'
'So my usual half an hour for a sandwich and a latte at my desk wouldn't go down well here then.'
'I think the French would probably go on strike,' he smiled.
I smiled back. 'Yeah, I've heard it's your national sport.'
'Let me buy you some lunch. It's the least I can do after what happened earlier.'
'Well, in that case… thank you, lunch would be lovely.' I smiled back at Julien and our eyes held each other's. For a moment, it was as if there was no one else there. It felt like one of those seminal moments in an old black and white film, when the hero and heroine realise they are falling in love. My heartbeat quickened. The loud scrape of a chair being pushed back broke the moment.
'I'll get some more drinks.' Louis practically stomped off towards the bar, leaving me wondering what on earth his problem was. Julien watched him go but I couldn't read the expression on his face.
Chapter Five
The church bell striking three times was my cue to leave. I thanked Julien for lunch and waved goodbye, having first exchanged phone numbers, and wandered across the road to the little épicerie. The owner, a middle-aged lady with aubergine-coloured hair, was just putting out a sandwich board announcing she was open for business.
They certainly like their extreme hair colours here I thought, making a mental note to wait until I next went back to London to get my hair done.
I was really looking forward to stocking up on the lovely fresh fruit and vegetables that I had heard about. The French only ate food that was in season apparently. No carbon footprint the size of a yeti to bring mangetout from Kenya for them. If it wasn't in season, they didn't eat it. I'd also heard that this was the area for foie gras, which had become a bit of a sore point back home. It wasn't really my thing either but I would put money on the French not giving a damn about whether force-feeding geese was politically correct or in line with current animal welfare concerns. They'd just eat it.
Wishing the proprietor 'bonjour', I went inside to see what delights it held. The interior was gloomy and having been shut up for several hours in the warmth of the midday sun, very stuffy. I could just make out racks of wilted lettuces and wrinkled carrots. I picked up a cucumber but its flaccid body drooped in my hand so I quickly put it back. I'd seen fresher fruit and vegetables in the rubbish bin of my local corner shop back in London. The shelves contained a paltry selection of biscuits, instant coffee and tinned vegetables. If the dust on the tins was anything to go by, they had been there for some time. I didn't dare look for 'sell-by' dates.
A cold cabinet at the front of the shop was home to a few slabs of dry cheese, their surfaces like a lunar landscape, full of crevices and cracks, and some sorry-looking packs of reconstituted ham, not even the proper stuff. It reminded me of a shop I used to go to with my grandmother in Norfolk run by a mad old woman with no teeth. It wasn't what I was expecting. Wasn't France the home of gastronomy?
I found a reasonably firm lettuce, some tomatoes that didn't threaten to explode in my hand, coffee, Liptons Yellow Label tea (well, it was tea of sorts), a bottle of cheap rosé, a couple of baguettes – I could keep one till the morning – and the world's most expensive pint of milk. One euro sixty for a pint! I could buy four for that money at home. I took my basket to the till and handed it over to the lady with the aubergine hair who proceeded to chat to me in French. 'No parle français,' I said feeling my face redden. 'Sorry.'
'Never mind, you will learn it soon enough,' the woman replied in nearly flawless English. 'You're new here aren't you? I haven't seen you around before. Are you on holiday?'
'No, I've moved here for a while, I'm renting Les Tuileries.'
'Really? Old Monsieur Marin's place?'
'Yes, that's the one. You speak amazing English. Where did you learn?' I was genuinely impressed.
'Oh, just from having some English friends and wanting to learn it. You should find yourself some French lessons. The Alliance Franco-Brittanique in Bussières does free ones. You can just dr
op in on a Saturday morning. That is market day too. They have an informal coffee morning. It starts about ten o'clock.'
'Really? I'll have to give them a try. If I'm going to be here for a while, I need to get to grips with the language.'
'That lot over there…' she nodded her head towards the café, 'most of them have been here years and can still barely speak a word. That's one of the reasons I decided to learn English. It's no good if I can't talk to my customers.'
'But shouldn't they be learning French? I mean, we're in your country.'
The women just gave me a knowing smile. 'You can get to know some other English people at the club too.'
'More English people? I'd quite like to get to know the French.'
'Well, yes, but it is also important to have friends that you can talk to and laugh with. I still do not understand the English sense of humour or the Welsh accent for that matter! The French here are very inward-looking. Most of the people in the village have lived here for generations. They are all married to each other or at the very least their second cousin's goat.' I looked shocked.
'You mean, you haven't noticed that they all have six fingers round here?' She winked at me.
I smiled back awkwardly, hoping that the French family who had just come in didn't understand her.
'I'm from Paris,' she continued, 'so I'm definitely not from le coin, you know, the area. They dislike us Parisians more than the foreigners. I'm just trying to find a buyer for the shop and then I'm moving back up to the north. They are a little less inward-looking there.'
'I'm sorry to hear that. Every village needs a shop. Well, I'd better get on. Thanks so much for the heads-up on the French classes. I really appreciate it.'
'You're welcome. See you again. By the way, I was only joking…'
I turned and smiled, giving her a 'yeah, you got me' look.
'… about the goats.'
I set off down the hill, stopping at a terrace in front of what I assumed was the village hall. 'Salle des Fêtes', it said in big letters above the door. It sounded so much nicer than 'village hall' or 'community centre'. A place where happy things took place. Leaning on the railings, I had an almost 180-degree view across the valley. It simply took my breath away. Rolling fields gave way to the rise and fall of hills which broke like waves across the countryside. I picked out several small churches, more like chapels, dotting the landscape. Small clusters of houses spread out around them and bullet-like poplar trees pierced the clear blue sky. A little road, almost empty of traffic, wended its way between twin rows of plane trees towards Bussières in the distance.
It reminded me a bit of Wiltshire. Here and there were small copses of oak, chestnut and beech trees, resplendent in their new spring coats, and above my head, birds of prey wheeled and swooped on their unsuspecting victims. The thin blue vein of the river threaded through the valley, bridged by little stone crossings, glittering in the sunshine. I could hardly believe that this was my home. How lucky was I?
Reluctantly tearing myself away, I picked up my bags and walked at a leisurely pace down the hill. I'd forgotten how hot it was and before long, I had embarrassing dark patches of perspiration spreading under my arms. Crossing the road carefully this time, I checked to the left and right. I'd spent more than enough time in French ditches since my arrival this morning. As I trudged up the hill towards St Amans de Pierrepoint, I became aware of a sound that I hadn't noticed on my way down. Running water. I couldn't quite pinpoint where it was coming from but it was certainly nearby. Peering through the undergrowth, I could just make out a pond hidden behind the trees. A bit further up the road, where the trees thinned out, I found a gap and went through to have a look. It was like something out of a fairytale. A stream ran down the hill over a series of little waterfalls. Shafts of sunlight broke through the trees and glinted off the surface and the water was so clear, I could see the pebbles at the bottom of the stream. It looked so enticing and my throat was burning. I'd never drunk water that didn't come from either a tap or a bottle. Dare I? Surely it couldn't be any worse than the water in London. That was just recycled sewage, wasn't it? Cupping my hands, I dipped them into the coolness, drew the water to my mouth and sipped it. It tasted good, slightly metallic, definitely not Evian, but cold and refreshing. I drank a little more then sat down and dipped my toes in the water at the place where it ran off down the hill. It was far colder than I'd imagined and it cooled my tired feet. I wiggled my toes, delighting in the feeling.
In the distance I could hear a car making its way at speed up the hill. As it drew level, I saw Tracey Tarrant at the wheel. It slid to a halt by the little pond and her not-so-dulcet tones called out to me. 'What the 'ell are you doing there?'
'Well, I'm just resting my feet. It's a hard walk up that hill,' I replied, wondering how someone with a singing voice like melted chocolate could have a speaking voice like someone splitting granite.
'Wanna lift?'
I thought for a moment. I didn't relish the thought of the long walk up to St Amans de Pierrepoint, but then equally I didn't relish the thought of even a few minutes in the company of the mouthy Tracey. 'Umm...'
'Well don't bleedin' put yourself out.' Tracey started to put the car in gear.
'No, sorry, I didn't mean to be rude. I'd love a lift.' I collected up my shopping, loaded it onto the back seat then got in next to Tracey.
Tracey gunned the engine and we shot off up the hill, scaring a rabbit that had unwisely chosen that moment to run across the road. Fortunately, the journey was too short to strike up any meaningful conversation and I was thankful when we pulled into the driveway of my neighbour's ritzy pad.
'Fancy a drink?' asked Tracey. I thought I detected an almost pleading note in her voice.
'Thanks, but I can't. I've got delivery men coming this afternoon with furniture for the cottage. Another time maybe?'
'Whatever.' Tracey turned and headed towards the house.
'Bye then,' I called at her retreating back. Tracey waved a heavily-ringed hand dismissively without even so much as a backward glance.
God, what a hideous woman, I thought. Just goes to show that you can give someone money but you can't give them class. She's absolutely the last person I wanted to spend any time with.
Lifting my bags out of the back of Tracey's convertible, I headed towards the sanctuary of Les Tuileries. It was a relief to step back into the cool of the little cottage and I took off my shoes so I could feel the cold terracotta tiles underfoot. In the kitchen I unloaded my shopping, putting the milk, wine and salad stuff into the little fridge, then made myself a cup of coffee and cut some cheese and a piece of baguette and went out into the garden. There was a small outbuilding by the pool and looking inside, I found a couple of old but usable sun loungers. Dragging one out, I positioned myself by the Chartreuse-coloured swimming pool. It was so lovely just to sit. Sit and do nothing. I felt my shoulders relax and the tension flow out of me. This was bliss. Absolute bliss. I polished off my baguette and cheese, which actually tasted far better than it looked, and waited for the arrival of the furniture.
Chapter Six
'Knock, knock. Hello... anyone home?' called a man's voice, breaking into my daydreams. Stretching out my aching neck and back, I dragged myself reluctantly up from the sun lounger, presuming it was the man to deliver the furniture.
I opened the door to find a middle-aged couple standing on the doorstep. They were well dressed and had that polished, beatific look that could only mean one thing. Jehovah's Witnesses.
'Hello,' said the woman. 'Do you worry about the state of the world?' I was slightly taken aback that she was English.
'Er… I've not really given it that much thought to be honest. I do worry about global warming though.'
'And Jesus?'
'What? Does he worry about global warming too?' I smiled but they just looked at me blankly. 'Look, I'm sorry, I've just moved in today and I'm a bit worn out from the journey. I don't mean to be flippant. I know it's just
part of your religion to go out and try and convert people but my mum is a Wesleyan and my dad a lapsed Catholic so my religious upbringing was nothing if not confused. Just give me the magazine and I'll make a donation to your church. Hang on a sec.'
I went to find my purse and came back to the door. They were still standing there, smiling beatifically so I handed over a few euros and took the magazine the man offered.
'Thanks,' I said, giving the cover a brief look.
'If you ever need us we have a stand at the market in Bussières,' he said
'Great. I'll bear that in mind. Have a nice day.' I closed the door firmly and went to the bedroom window to make sure they were leaving. I had envisaged going to the market for fresh produce rather than religious instruction. This place was certainly full of surprises.
I went back outside to my sun lounger but no sooner had I sat down when there was another loud knock. Please don't tell me they've come back to try and save my soul, I said to myself as I went to the door.
L'amour Actually Page 5