A Year in the Château

by Sarah Long

  She stretched out on their old sofa, a survivor from the 1980s fad for Victoriana. Covered with a Colefax and Fowler fabric featuring sprays of roses, it had been covered up with a neutral throw and banished to the study in London when they’d succumbed to modernism. Even though it was a large three-seater, it was dwarfed by the proportions of their new sitting room. Or le grand salon as Dominic called it, puckering up his mouth in his new French pout that could start to get on Nicola’s nerves, she thought, before reminding herself that they were both tired and it had been a long day. All around them were piles of cardboard boxes awaiting their attention.

  ‘Surely le soleil is over the yardarm,’ said Dominic, sinking into an armchair.

  Nicola got to her feet.

  ‘Most certainly. I’m not even going near those boxes; they can wait until tomorrow.’

  She picked her way through more paraphernalia on her way through to the kitchen.

  ‘I love how it takes so long to move from one room to another!’ she shouted to Dominic. ‘We’ll be able to really lose ourselves here – so much space.’

  She returned with a bottle of prosecco and two glasses.

  ‘Here’s to our final British supper, which is to say Italian wine, chicken tikka masala and New York cheesecake. No wonder we are confused as a nation. From tomorrow, it’s French all the way! But I am glad I brought supplies for today; we’ve had enough excitement without having to think about shopping.’

  She poured out the prosecco and Dominic sat up to make a toast.

  ‘To Château Lafarge and all who sail in her,’ he said, looking up at Nicola and thinking how marvellous she was. Fancy her remembering to bring food for tonight, along with everything else. He didn’t know what he’d do without her.

  ‘To the current custodians,’ Nicola replied, taking a sip from her glass, then plumping up her hair in anticipation of a selfie. ‘Let’s send a photo to the others.’

  She crouched down beside him and grinned at her phone, held out at arm’s length.

  ‘Do try to look a bit more natural,’ she said, looking critically at the image. ‘You always pull such gurning faces.’

  Dominic tried to relax his features into a carefree smile.

  ‘I can’t help it if I’m not a little show pony like you.’

  ‘That’s better.’

  She inspected the result, the two of them cuddled up in the armchair, against the backdrop of the grand windows, and edited the photo with a dramatic warm filter.

  ‘Amazing,’ she said, then added the caption waiting for our chums and sent it to the WhatsApp group she had renamed Chatelains.

  Dominic drained his glass and wrapped his arm tightly around Nicola’s waist. All was well. He was elated about this new life and his happiness was combined with a profound sense of relief. How foolish he’d been, all those years ago, to make such a stupid mistake. And how lucky he was that Nicola had never found out. Now he could put that sorry business firmly behind him and start again, properly this time.

  ‘Shall we have a little lie-down before supper?’ he asked, raising his eyebrow in what he hoped was a sexy French way. ‘Make sure the bed has survived the move?’

  CHAPTER SIX

  ‘Allez, allez, allez, allez!’

  Beth’s fist pumped the air as they drove past the Eurotunnel check-in and on to passport control, where long lines of cars were waiting.

  ‘What are you, a French football hooligan?’ said Simon, frowning at the sight of further delays ahead.

  ‘Contradiction in terms – it’s not the French fans who bring disgrace on their country, staggering around with beer cans.’

  She turned to face Leo, who was folded up on the back seat, his long legs tucked decorously to one side.

  ‘All right, my friend?’

  ‘Yes. I’m just thinking about all my things packed up in that van. I hope they don’t go missing. There are some important pieces in there; everything I need to get started on selling clients back home the dream of French country interiors. Plus, I’ve packed all my best outfits. I’ve got to look the part if I’m selling myself as an international interior designer now – rather than just part of the London crowd.’

  ‘Don’t worry,’ said Simon, ‘you can always borrow mine. Trousers could be a challenge, mind you – I doubt we’re the same waist size but I can always give you a pair of tracksuit bottoms.’

  He grinned affectionately at Leo in the rear-view mirror.

  Leo pulled a face.

  ‘Tracksuit bottoms! I’ve never worn a pair of those, and have no intention of starting now.’

  He didn’t look like he was moving to the country, dressed in a turquoise Prada mac and cream trousers.

  ‘New beginnings,’ Simon replied. ‘It’s time to try different things.’

  ‘I can’t tell you how excited I am,’ said Beth. ‘Nicola says they’re preparing a special welcome feast. We’re going to sit round that massive table tonight and every night. I honestly can’t think of anything better. Which is just as well because there’s no turning back for us since we’ve actually sold our house. Unlike you and the others, Leo – you’ve still got your fall-back options if it all goes tits-up!’

  ‘It won’t go tits-up. Why would it?’ said Leo soothingly. Although he was secretly relieved that the inheritance from his late father meant he was able to buy his share of the château outright, with no immediate need to dispose of his London home. He tended to keep quiet about his trust fund; he knew he was fortunate to come from a wealthy background, with income from tenants on the family estate allowing him not to worry about money. Beth was particularly spiky about it – unfairly, in Leo’s opinion. It wasn’t his fault he was born into wealth – you can’t help where you come from – and he was proud that his ancestors featured in the Domesday Book. He had rented out his house at below the market rate, to a young man he knew through work, chosen for his extreme carefulness and aesthetic sensibility. No risk of him scuffing the walls or trampling crumbs into the carpet.

  ‘We have to make it work,’ said Simon. ‘I admit I was the last one to come round to the idea of moving to France but I honestly believe the only way to make a go of it is to properly burn your bridges.’

  ‘Quite right, Simon,’ said Beth, putting her hand on his knee. ‘I finally feel properly relaxed for the first time since those bastards gave me the sack. It’s a whole new chapter for us. Bring it on.’

  The trauma of being fired, she realised, had been eating away at her in spite of her robust protestations. The idea that she, a staunch feminist all her life, had effectively been given the sack for sticking up for her sisters made her sick to her core. So much for solidarity.

  Saying goodbye to Eva had been the hardest thing. Their daughter had taken the sale of her childhood home as a personal blow. Never mind the fact that she had her own flat, paid for by her parents; she seemed to expect that the family house should be maintained forever in case she fancied dropping by. On the day before completion, Eva had taken an emotional tour with Beth around all the rooms; it was like saying goodbye to her childhood, she said. It was a painful experience but Beth realised that a little distance might actually be good for the complicated mother–daughter bond that had dominated her thoughts too much since she had stopped working.

  ‘We’ve chosen the wrong lane here,’ said Simon, thumping his hands on the steering wheel. ‘Look at that queue, we’ve obviously got the trainee border controller!’ He was further outraged when, after showing their passports, they were pulled aside to have their car inspected.

  ‘Do we look like drug smugglers?’ he asked the uniformed woman who was leaning in to flick his steering wheel with what looked like a feather duster.

  ‘Can you open your bonnet for me, please?’ she replied.

  ‘Sure,’ he said, then whispered to Beth, ‘Do you know how to open the bonnet? I’m not a bloody mechanic – I’ve no idea!’

  Beth reached across his lap to pull a lever beneath the dashboard.<
br />
  ‘You’ll have to become a bit more savvy once we’re left to our own devices in our rural wilderness,’ she said.

  They missed their scheduled departure and were put in a line to wait for the next one.

  ‘So much for only one hour motorway-to-motorway,’ said Simon.

  ‘What is this life if, full of care, we have no time to stop and stare,’ said Leo from the back seat. ‘Heed the soothing words of William Henry Davies.’

  ‘Exactly,’ said Beth. ‘That is the whole point of this new life. We have given ourselves the luxury of time.’

  ‘Not much to stare at here, though,’ said Simon, gazing out at the expanse of tarmac.

  ‘There will be,’ said Beth, ‘just you wait.’

  *

  In the self-service restaurant aboard the Normandie ferry, Dougie and Mary were loading up their trays with full English breakfasts. They had opted for the long crossing from Portsmouth to Caen because it involved less driving. Neither of them were confident drivers and every car journey was a nervous collaborative exercise, with Mary reading the road signs and advising Dougie about when to change gear. She wished they had taken their tests when they were younger and more oblivious to the inherent danger of moving at speed in a powerful machine.

  ‘Last time we’ll have one of these for a while, I daresay,’ said Dougie, carrying his fry-up as they sat down at a window seat offering a fine view of the Portsmouth docks as the ferry glided along the coast. ‘It’s a shame we didn’t have time to inspect the historic dockyard. I’ve always wanted to visit HMS Victory.’

  ‘We can take it in when we come home to visit,’ said Mary. ‘I can’t believe you’re having baked beans; it makes me quite nauseous just watching you.’

  Dougie loaded a forkful into his mouth.

  ‘They symbolise the British way of life. I can imagine I’m going to fight in the trenches, with only tins of beans and bully beef to sustain me. I certainly intend to visit the battlefields when we’re there – it’s a whole new area of study for me.’

  ‘I don’t expect we’ll get bully beef for dinner,’ said Mary. ‘Nicola is a marvellous cook. I’m worried about letting the side down when it’s my turn.’

  ‘Just leave them to it, there are enough show-off cooks in the party, too many of them spoil the broth. You have other domestic skills.’

  ‘Yes, though I must say I’m a little daunted at the thought of cleaning a place that size. The sheer scale of it! I’ll be much happier once we’re installed in our own quarters, with only our flat to worry about. As it is, there will be nine of us messing up that primitive kitchen. And just two bathrooms with mouldy old taps, then centuries of filth engrained everywhere throughout the thirty-two or however many rooms. It really requires a team of housemaids. Still, it’s important to challenge yourself, don’t you agree?’

  Mary was a prominent medievalist – the author of many important papers – and the only thing that helped her switch off from her constant overthinking and academic analysis was the uplifting, soul-enriching task of cleaning. Their house in Highsett was too easy, she had come to believe; the straight lines and simple design meant it was a doddle to keep in sparkling condition. But the potential of Château Lafarge’s high windows and infinite dark corners had kept her awake last night just thinking about it. She had bought a long-reach extendable ostrich feather duster especially to reach the cobwebs that she was sure would be waiting for her. Friends had sometimes gently suggested her housekeeping might be a borderline case of OCD, but she failed to understand how taking pleasure in a clean home could be considered a disorder.

  ‘That is the joy of this experiment,’ said Dougie. ‘We all bring our particular talents to throw into the mix.’

  Watching him tucking into his eggs, Mary wondered which particular talent he would bring to their new domestic arrangements. He was famously useless at anything practical, bless him, and his back problems ruled him out of any physical work. On the other hand, his agile mind – the mind she had fallen in love with – meant he was fascinating company; she just hoped the others continued to think so when they were exposed to him on a daily basis, as opposed to the occasional dinner party when his brilliance was invariably admired. He could be rather annoying, with his know-all ways; it wasn’t necessarily what you wanted over breakfast. At least he was good with money. She wouldn’t say he was mean, exactly, but he didn’t like waste. And listening to Simon and Dominic discussing their extravagant plans for the renovation, she could see that his carefulness would be invaluable for keeping them all in check.

  She had been flattered to be invited into this experiment, as Dougie insisted on calling it. Nicola was such a dear girl, only a couple of years younger than herself but it seemed like more. Mary had adored her since their first meeting when they became neighbours, but if it hadn’t been for that coincidence, it was hard to imagine them becoming friends. Nicola and Beth, together with their dashing husbands, seemed to inhabit a more glamorous world and it came as a surprise to her and Dougie that they were considered suitable candidates. ‘We’re not very clubbable,’ Dougie had pointed out, before being overruled by Nicola, who said that this wasn’t a club, for who on earth would want that? Rather, it was a country house weekend with no going-home date, which sounded quite irresistible.

  Dougie was nervous about how quickly they’d rushed into it. To buy a historical monument without undertaking a detailed survey was madness, it went against all his sensible instincts. But somehow, he’d been swept along by the group euphoria and it was too late now to sound the alarm bell. For years he had been carefully investing their salaries – their frugal lifestyle involved little spending – which meant they didn’t need to sell the Cambridge house. They rented it out instead to a young couple with a baby. That way, we have our escape clause, he’d said, and Mary, too, was relieved that they had a way back if things didn’t work out. She tried not to think about the baby crawling all over her floors and smearing food on the walls.

  ‘I see this as an extended reading party,’ said Dougie, waving his fork. ‘I’ve decided to shelve my anxiety that the château is going to crumble into a heap of dust. Do you remember that summer we retreated to the Alps to work on our theses? The luxury to focus on our studies away from the outside world, the fruitfulness of sharing ideas with kindred spirits. Like when Mary Shelley was holed up with Percy and Lord Byron and had a nightmare that inspired her to write Frankenstein. Who knows what great works will emerge from our collective creativity when we are all assembled within those ancient and noble stones!’

  ‘Nothing so melodramatic in my case,’ said Mary, whose strengths were analytical rather than fantastical. ‘I don’t think Gothic fiction is my thing but I do intend to finally complete my paper on the broken leaf of the Magdalene manuscript of The Hare and the Serpent.’

  ‘Ah yes, that old chestnut!’

  It was something she had been working on for years. Only one manuscript of the thirteenth-century poem had survived and part of it was damaged, which had led to learned speculation on what the missing words could be. Mary was confident she was the best person to produce the definitive answer. In her darker moments, she did wonder what was the point. It was so long ago and, really, who cared? But that sort of thinking undermined the rich purpose of scholarship – it was better not to go there.

  ‘They said there’s a quiz in the Blue Note Bar, later,’ she said. ‘Shall we join in?’

  ‘Definitely. I doubt there’ll be much competition.’

  *

  Dougie’s optimism proved to be unfounded. A few hours later, they suffered a bitter humiliation, coming second from the bottom after being trounced by some other passengers.

  ‘It’s hardly surprising,’ Mary whispered to Dougie, as the compere led a round of applause for Steve and Kylie from Bridport. ‘As we don’t own a television, we can’t expect to score well on Love Island contestants. And we’ve never pretended to know anything about sport.’

  ‘Dumb
ed-down Britain,’ said Dougie crossly. ‘Why can’t they have questions about normal things like history and geography? You got one right, though how on earth did you know the name of the winner of I’m a Celebrity Get Me Out of Here!?’

  ‘I sometimes watch it on my laptop when my concentration’s flagging,’ said Mary. ‘I like it when they have to eat insects.’

  Dougie looked at her with admiration.

  ‘You surprise me every day. It’s just a shame you didn’t extend your guilty viewing to include a few more trash programmes – we might have stood a chance!’

  They spent the rest of the crossing reading in armchairs. Mary browsed the off-duty store with its seductive range of miniature perfume bottles and novelty shortbread tins. She bought a giant-sized Toblerone and a bottle of gin and returned to find Dougie standing by the window.

  ‘We’re arriving!’ he said. ‘It’s farewell to perfidious Albion. I can smell liberty, equality and fraternity! Look, there it is, the shores of the glorious Hexagon await us. How absolutely thrilling!’

  Mary watched with him as they drew closer to land and recalled when she had made this journey before. She was ten years old, a serious child, and her parents had brought her on an educational trip to the Normandy beaches to see where her father had taken part in the D-Day landings. In his careful, quiet manner, he had sat down with her on the sea wall at Arromanches and pointed out the remains of the harbour, the portable pontoons that he and his comrades had brought over from Britain to enable troops and their equipment to land where they were least expected. After that, they’d wandered through the cobbled lanes and he’d bought her a crepe, cooked in front of her on an enormous circular hot plate, then sprinkled with lemon and sugar and folded up in a paper serviette. Her father died of a stroke twenty years later and whenever Mary caught the smell of pancakes frying in butter, she thought of him.

  ‘I’ll drive this end,’ she said as they made their way down to the car deck. ‘Then you can look at the map.’