L'amour Actually

by Melanie Jones

  From that moment on I knew I was doomed. Doomed to cat-ownership despite my best intentions. The rather unfortunately named Cédric was coming home with me.

  Chapter Twenty-eight

  'Take this bloody cat would you, chérie?' Julien walked in with the now re-named Basil attached firmly to his thigh. I had held my breath and waited for fire and brimstone to rain down on my head when I went ahead and gave him a name that went against French custom, but so far there had been no repercussions.

  'Come here, you naughty kitty,' I scolded as I prised his needle-sharp claws out of Julien's leg.

  'Putain de merde,' he swore. 'Be careful!'

  'Oh don't be such a baby. He's only a little kitten.' I gave Basil a quick kiss and put him down on the floor of the kitchen in front of his food bowl.

  'Would you like me to rub it better for you?' I said archly, giving Julien an exaggerated pout.

  'Later chérie. We have to go.'

  Julien was taking me to a lunch in the village which was hosted by la chasse. I had gradually got used to the sound of gunfire each weekend and the almost weekly visit from a hunter looking for his lost dog.

  As we pulled out of the drive, I noticed some movement next door. For a moment my heart skipped a beat. Maybe Tracey was back already, although I doubted that she could write and record a new album in less than a month. There was a lump in my throat when I saw it was strangers unpacking boxes. It looked like Tracey had moved on permanently. I felt Julien's hand on my cheek as I fought back tears and put my head to one side, pressing his hand against my face as a single tear broke ranks and ran down my face.

  'You miss her, don't you?'

  'More than I thought I would. I hadn't realised how much I relied on her.'

  'You still have me.'

  'I know,' I laid my head on his shoulder, 'but you're often so busy with the farm.'

  'But what about all the other English?'

  'They are all so much older than me.'

  Julien smiled. 'What is that expression you used about the Club in Bussières? "God's Waiting Room".'

  The salle des fêtes was like a warm embrace when I walked in from the damp cold of the day. Inside, everyone was decked out in their finest clothes, which for the most part meant a clean housecoat and wellies for the women and a shirt and trousers instead of the more usual camouflage clothes for the men. Wine was being served in plastic cups and bowls of crisps dotted the room. I had long since realised that the idea of the stylish Frenchwoman and gourmet food existed more in the minds of British fashionistas and food writers than in real life. Haute couture had barely managed to totter across the River Loire in its spike heels before it got swallowed up in a pair of sensible shoes and the sort of clothes that had been fashionable in England in the 1980s. It was a strange conundrum.

  The maire greeted me brusquely. My liaison with one of his compatriots had seemingly done nothing to make me any more acceptable in his eyes. He was still a committed Anglophobe who tolerated the invasion of Les Rosbifs, or in fact anyone who wasn't French, as a necessary evil in his commune. I took it in my stride. Some of them did little to endear themselves to their new neighbours and I knew they fuelled a large and very unwelcome Black Economy.

  I waved to Martine and Laure, who were at the other side of the room chatting with Monsieur Lenoël from the newsagent in Bussières. He was one of the pompiers who had taken me to hospital that fateful time and although he was nothing other than professional when we met, it still made me uneasy to think that he'd seen me half naked.

  The room was set up with rows of long tables dressed in white paper tablecloths with sprigs of winter foliage in little white vases dotted along each one. Bottles of wine were grouped along each table, only red and rosé as usual, white wine was only for heathens in these parts. There was also the habitual single set of cutlery, the custom being to eat each course with the same knife and fork. When I had first arrived I was constantly having to retrieve my cutlery which I left on my plate as I had done since I was small. Julien thought this was a ridiculous waste; but I still preferred to eat each course with a clean set. Giving me a cup of passable wine and with his hand on the small of my back, he led me to where Louis was holding court with a group of younger people from the village. It suddenly struck me how little I went out now Julien and I were in that place in a relationship where we were totally happy with just each other's company. We spent most nights together at Les Tuileries and during the day, while he was working on the farm, I busied myself looking for a job and preparing something delicious for our supper.

  As we approached the group, the conversation dropped off. I fixed a smile on my face and Julien, if he had noticed, feigned indifference. I had met most of them before at the Bastille Day fête and found them as warm as a box of frozen kippers. I had put a lot of it down to the fact that I didn't really speak French then, and it was never easy fitting in with a group who had known each other practically since the delivery room. Today was going to be different. I could speak passable French for starters.

  I tried to follow the conversation and was pleased to see that I understood more, but they spoke so fast that by the time I had formulated a comment they had moved on to something different. So I stood silently and listened, trying to show I at least understood what was being said. It was fairly depressing though and I could have kicked Julien for not bringing me into the conversation more.

  When he told me that, as one of the organising comité he would have to sit on a separate table, I very nearly did kick him.

  'The others will look after you,' he told me. I somehow doubted that. When the time came to sit down, I found myself virtually ignored and pushed to the end of their group next to a heavily made-up woman. She introduced herself as Pia and I opened the conversation by asking politely if she was from the area. The woman quickly pointed out she was Belgian not French in a way that left me in no doubt that I had made a faux pas. It was going to be a long lunch. On the positive side though, she spoke slow, clear French, rather than the relatively impenetrable local version and I breathed a quick sigh of relief that I would at least have someone to talk to who I had a fighting chance of understanding.

  The first course arrived, soupe de Gaston, which was served in a huge, steaming tureen with a ladle so we could all help ourselves. It was made of white beans, wine and a bucketful of garlic, with thick slices of baguette floating in it. The heat and the copious amounts of garlic made my eyes smart. After three mouthfuls, Pia pulled a face. 'Pipi de chat!' she announced, pouring the remainder back in the soup tureen. I had no trouble guessing what that meant. I looked around nervously to see if anyone else had heard while Pia poured herself more wine. 'So why did you move to France?' she asked

  'Oh, you know. I just wanted a change of pace, to connect a bit more with nature.'

  Oh God, I sound like one of those stupid programmes I used to watch, I thought. 'How about you?' It was a question I would regret asking.

  'I moved here for my health. I have bad asthma,' she told me. 'Hate the bloody French though.'

  I nearly spat out my soup. Our neighbours, thankfully, were all deep in conversation so it looked as if no one had heard.

  By the time the second course, a salad of endive and walnuts, was placed in front of us, Pia was in full flow, alternately throwing more wine down her throat and continuing her diatribe against France. It seemed there was nothing about it she liked, except the climate in the summer. I couldn't quite understand how this wet, cold weather could be any good for her chest and clearly living in France was no good for her humour.

  Next we ploughed through pâté de sanglier, followed by pâté de chevreuil. I didn't mind eating boar, it was just a type of pork after all, but I always felt uncomfortable eating deer. Images of Bambi kept appearing in my mind. Pia continued to moan.

  'Look, they even make us eat off the same plate. They are so common here. Not like Belgium and England. We are so much more refined.'

  I had kept quiet in t
he hope that it might discourage her from further comment, but by now, she was well into her second bottle of wine and it had well and truly oiled her vocal cords. So far, this was turning out to be the meal from hell. I looked hopefully across at Julien but he was engrossed in conversation with the maire and I couldn't quite get his attention.

  The next course, daube de sanglier, wild boar in a rich red wine sauce, was placed in front of us. I could feel myself flagging. Not so Pia, who despite developing a serious list to one side, was still droning on. From the tenseness I noticed in our neighbours, I suspected that Pia's xenophobic rant had reached their ears. Feeling a tap on my shoulder, I turned round to see the welcome face of Martine.

  'Would you like to take a little stroll to let our food settle?' she asked.

  I would happily have agreed to a triathlon if it got me away from the mad Belgian.

  'Come on, bring your coat. It's cold outside.'

  'I'll just let Julien know.'

  'Oh, don't worry about him. We'll be back before he even notices we are gone.'

  Outside, the cold air was bracing and just what I needed to revive my flagging energy and spirits.

  'Who is that woman?' I asked Martine as soon as we were outside.

  'She's just une dingue. What is it you say? "Mad as a box of frogs". Her husband left her not long after she moved here and she blames France and the French rather than her own objectionable character for it.'

  'She certainly has what we would call a chip on her shoulder.'

  'I think it was a bit mean of the others to put you with her.'

  'I expect they only did it so they wouldn't have to put up with me,' I sighed. 'Honestly Martine, I try so hard with them but they give nothing back. They hate me.'

  Martine looked away and thought for a minute. 'It's not you they hate, I'm sure of that. It can be very difficult when they have all grown up together for a stranger to try and fit in. We all adore Julien and Louis but sometimes situations arise that mean…'

  'Hey ladies, wait for me.'

  I turned to see Julien running after us. 'Where are you going?'

  'Martine and I were just going for a little walk between courses.'

  Julien caught up with us and pulled me towards him, wrapping me up in a bear-like hug. I laughed and reached up to kiss him.

  'I'm so sorry, chérie. I would much rather be sitting with you than with the comité but it's tradition.' 'You know what they say about traditions. They were made to be broken.' 'I thought that was rules.'

  'Picky! Have you seen who I'm sitting next to? Bloody Pia, the mad Belgian with the runaway husband.'

  Julien laughed. 'You poor thing.'

  'Well, I'm going to head back and leave you love birds,' said Martine.

  'Oh you don't have to. Walk with us for a bit,' I pleaded.

  Martine looked at Julien and then at me. 'No, if you don't mind I'll head back.'

  'Well, OK. See you later then.' I watched her go, wondering why she had changed her mind so suddenly.

  I slipped my arm though Julien's and we headed off in the direction of the little market square.

  'What is that building?' I asked, pointing at an old ruin attached to the next building and then to the mairie or town hall.

  'That's the old keep. This was originally a fortified castle with a church for the comte and comtesse in the middle and that's all that's left of it. It's why it's so big and grand for such a small village. The other little chapel, St Martin, on the edge of the village was for everyone else. It originally belonged to the Comte de Beauclerc. He built it for his wife but when she died in childbirth, he could not bear to stay here anymore so he just abandoned it and it fell into disrepair over the years. They used the stones to build the mairie.'

  'What a sad story. This village has certainly had its share of tragedy, hasn't it?'

  'Hmm. I suppose it has.'

  We sat on the bench outside the mairie watching our breath condense in the cold air. Julien slipped his arm round me and kissed the top of my head. I leaned into him and wondered if it was possible to feel any happier than I did when I was with him. The stupid Belgian didn't matter anymore, nor did the offhand behaviour of Julien's friends. All that mattered was Julien. I was in love with him. I was absolutely sure. As if he read my mind, his lips brushed my ear and he whispered, 'Je t'aime.'

  I turned to him and looked deep into his eyes. 'Moi non plus.'

  'Pardon?'

  'Moi non plus,' I repeated, certain that was what they said in that old Serge Gainsbourg song, the one about coming and going between your kidneys. On second thoughts, maybe I was wrong to rely on that for the correct response to a declaration of love from a Frenchman.

  'You neither?'

  'Pardon?'

  'That's what you said. Me neither.'

  'But… in that song, you know, with that Jane Birkin woman…'

  Julien roared with laughter. 'Serge Gainsbourg and Jane Birkin? We always said that the English never really understood that song.'

  I could have kicked myself for ruining the moment but still, he'd said it hadn't he? He loved me. 'Je t'aime, Julien.'

  He kissed me deeply, holding my face in his hands. 'I have never been so happy, chérie.'

  'Moi non plus,' I smiled. He smiled back at me and enveloped me in his arms.

  'Come on, we should get back. We still have another three courses of meat to get through.'

  'Oh God, I don't think I can,' I said, but knowing that Julien loved me, I could get through anything. 'Will there be cheese?'

  'Of course,' he replied, 'this is France.'

  Chapter Twenty-nine

  The flash of lightning lit up the bedroom and the crash of thunder that followed was enough to rattle the windows. I sat up quickly, roused from a deep sleep by the storm. I padded over to the window, still half asleep. The rain battering against it sounded as if someone was throwing handfuls of gravel and the wind was whipping the poplars in the garden into a frenzy. I had experienced some storms since my arrival in France but this was in a different league. The gusts of wind whistled under the roof tiles, blowing small clouds of dust through the wooden slatted ceiling. The big oak tree next to the house was creaking and groaning arthritically and I hoped that it would hold up. There was no hope of any more sleep until the storm passed so I went to the kitchen to make myself a cup of tea.

  Huddled under a blanket on the sofa with Basil snuggled up on my lap, I sipped a mug of hot tea as flashes of lightning illuminated the room, casting spooky shadows in the corners. Hot embers still glowed in the wood burner so I threw on a few more logs to get it going again. I was halfway through my tea when the lights went out. It was nothing unusual for the electricity to go off during a storm; in fact, it often took little more than a strong wind to knock it out. I felt my way to the dresser and took some matches out of the drawer then lit the candles I had dotted around the room, with the kitten attacking my bare feet as I went. I hoped that the henhouse was surviving the onslaught outside.

  The wood burner started to roar back to life as I settled down on the sofa listening to the wind rattling the windows. From my vantage point, I could see through the window out across the valley. Forks of lightning split the sky, crackling with pent-up electricity. The storm still seemed to be some way off and I wasn't normally worried about storms; however, this one was making me a bit nervous. The rain continued to batter the windows and the rolling booms of thunder became almost continuous. On my lap, Basil started to look around nervously, digging his little claws into me every time he heard a thunderclap. 'It's OK, minet. It will be over soon,' I told him.

  From the bedroom, a steady dripping started and I went to investigate. Water was leaking through the ceiling in big brown droplets that were splashing onto the bed. I quickly pushed it out of the way and ran to the kitchen to get a bowl. By the time I came back, more leaks had appeared and the water was starting to trickle down the walls at the point where it met the roof.

  'Oh shit!' I muttered
as I headed back to the kitchen to get more bowls. Basil followed me, mewing loudly. I bent down and picked him up, snuggling him close to my chest.

  'Poor kitty, you're frightened aren't you?' He purred like a little train and nestled into me. As I was putting him down gently on the sofa, a huge fork of lightning lit the room up like daylight, followed by a loud clap of thunder that made the ground shake. I jumped and Basil dug all twenty of his needle claws into me, making me shriek with pain. 'Jesus bloody Christ,' I said loudly, half at the kitten, half in fear.

  From the window, I noticed a glow in the distance, which seemed to get bigger as I watched it.

  'Oh no,' I said under my breath. The flickering and dancing lights were undoubtedly flames and I tried to visualise what was there, but the darkness and the storm had disorientated me. Was it a house or just a barn? Either way, it had taken a direct lightning strike. Over the noise of the storm, I could just make out the sounds of the pompiers' sirens and as I watched, faint blue lights could be seen making their way up the hillside towards the flames. I'm not a religious person but I found myself saying a quick prayer that no one had been hurt.