A Year in the Château

by Sarah Long

  She pulled a grumpy face, but already she was imagining Mademoiselle Bovary expressing her discomfort at these reduced circumstances. Living in a château but sharing a toilet with eight old people!

  ‘That’s the spirit. I’ll leave you to it. Come down when you’re ready for a spot of lunch.’

  *

  It’s true that the shared bathrooms aren’t ideal, Nicola thought as she went downstairs to leave Fizz to her ablutions, but honestly, that shouldn’t be the first thing you think about when coming to live in this magnificent historic house. If you were to take your chatelaine fantasy to its limits, you’d have one bath a year and cover everything up with powder and perfume. The modern obsession with personal hygiene was so anodyne – what happened to romance and big ideas in our lives? Anyway, her medical training taught her you could be too clean for your own good, washing away your natural resistance to germs so you fell prey to the slightest bug. She couldn’t be doing with it.

  All the same, it was pretty galling to think how long they’d be living like this. A year, at least, by the time they’d agreed the plans and found their builders. She knew from experience that you could safely double your allocated schedule as well as your budget when it came to home renovations, even on a humbler scale than this enormous undertaking. It was safe to say they’d be queuing for the bathroom for many months to come while they waited to construct their dream apartments. At least they didn’t have to get ready for work every day. They had only roughly marked out the plans but she had already decided how her bathroom would be: decorated with tangerine curtains and a couch draped with grey silks where she would recline and look at herself in a mirror held by a cherub as featured in Velazquez’s Toilet of Venus. And certainly not shared with eight other people.

  *

  It was nine o’clock by the time they sat down around the dining table for the long-awaited inaugural dinner. The others had arrived earlier, followed by their removal vans.

  ‘Just like a royal progress,’ as Dougie had pointed out in delight. ‘Consider me a Tudor monarch, with all my retinue, bleeding my noblemen dry as I call for weeks of ruinous hospitality!’

  Continuing his theme at the table, he asked if they would be served swan from the lake, and where was the pig roasting on a spit?

  ‘That’s for another time,’ said Nicola, coming through with a large platter of oysters, prised open with some difficulty by Dominic, and another of langoustines surrounded by grey shrimps.

  Simon rose to his feet and beamed round at the assembled company. ‘I’d like to propose a toast,’ he said. ‘It was a brave and possibly foolhardy decision to do this but I know we are all delighted that we took the plunge and here we are now in this magnificent château.’

  ‘Hear, hear!’ said Leo. ‘And thank you for allowing me the tower room. I couldn’t be more thrilled. I hope you’ve all noticed I’ve changed into my celebratory arrival outfit: Renaissance pink slacks as a tribute to the old stones of our dream home.’

  He stood up and did a twirl, greeted by delighted applause.

  ‘Thank you, Leo, for setting the sartorial bar so high,’ Simon continued. ‘From tomorrow, we will all be pitching in and doing our bit, but tonight’s feast is all down to Nicola and I’d like to thank her for that. More importantly, I’d like to thank her for coming up with the wild idea in the first place. It’s down to her that we find ourselves here and I just know it’s going to be a riot. To Nicola!’

  ‘Hang on,’ said Dominic, irritated by Simon’s over-affectionate tribute to his wife. ‘I think you’ll find that it was my idea to leave London. Bravely jacking in my job in search of a better life. Nicola only fine-tuned the idea.’

  Beth was also annoyed by Simon’s simpering puppy-dog look of love. His recent schoolboy crush on Nicola was embarrassing and inappropriate. It was over thirty-five years since they were – briefly – a couple, and she had thought they both looked back on it with nothing more than a slightly nostalgic cringe – like remembering a bad mullet hairdo or the awful Eighties clothes they wore at the time. But there was an edge to Simon’s toast she hadn’t detected before.

  ‘If we’re competing to claim credit, can I put my oar in?’ she said. ‘Cast your minds back to the great minivan tour of the home counties and ask yourself, who was it who suddenly delivered the genius idea of moving to France?’

  ‘Yes, yes, it was you, clever clogs,’ said Simon. ‘It’s always you because you’re smarter than everybody else, I’m the first to admit it and I love you for it. I also admit that I was the stick-in-the-mud who thought France was an appalling idea. My bad, as usual. I offer my sincere and heartfelt apologies for being such a short-sighted old boor. Anyway, let’s not argue and lose the beauty of the moment. Raise your glasses and let’s toast all the geniuses who brought us here. To the nouveaux châtelains – please note and emulate my outstanding pronunciation!’

  There followed much noisy clinking of glasses and Simon sank back into his seat, his eyes still on Nicola, who was flushed with the wine. Her complexion always took that rosy hue after a few glasses; it only enhanced her appeal and led his drink-fuddled thoughts straight back to the days when she used to be his girl.

  He once envisaged them living under the same roof, assumed they would be together forever, although it was never discussed – it’s not something you talk about when you’re twenty. Then they went their separate ways. She had tried to be kind when she dumped him. It was in a pub in Camden, she was wearing a bright pink mohair jumper and big hair, the way they all had it in the Eighties, and he was spider-thin, dressed all in black with his signature Doc Martens, as you’d expect from the front man of a Stranglers-inspired student band. She told him what a great person he was, that it wasn’t him, it was her, all the bloody clichés. But they’d both found new partners and miraculously maintained their friendship through the years. How bizarre, and completely amazing, that they were now cohabiting and would never have to say goodbye again. He didn’t know why he had suddenly become so fixated on her, but last night he couldn’t get to sleep for thinking about her and how it could have been.

  She was leaning across the table now to speak to him.

  ‘That’s lovely of you to single me out, Simon,’ she said, ‘but as Dom and Beth say, I can’t take all the credit. Maybe I had the germ of the idea but we all evolved it together – it’s a proper group effort.’

  ‘If it’s a group effort then you’re the team leader,’ said Simon. ‘I’d follow you anywhere, you know that. Where you lead, I follow.’

  He leaned across to take her hand.

  Beth, who was sitting next to Nicola, gave him a sharp look then grinned at her friend.

  ‘Let’s see if we’re all still on speaking terms this time next year,’ she said. ‘We’d all like to think it was our idea, but success has many fathers, and failure is an orphan. If it all goes tits-up, the rest of us can agree it was indeed Nicola’s fault.’

  ‘Miserable cow,’ said Nicola, pinching Beth’s arm affectionately. ‘But I wouldn’t have dreamed of doing it without you. You are my best friend and I can’t think of a better way of living out the rest of my life than sharing it with you and all you other gorgeous people.’

  ‘Christ, this is all a bit Friends,’ said Dominic. ‘Let’s get the DVD and keep it playing on a loop so we can all act out the parts. I’ll be Joey; Nicola is Rachel, obviously.’

  ‘Obviously,’ Simon agreed. ‘She even looks like her.’

  Beth raised an eyebrow at Dominic, who smiled back at her. They were both put out by Simon’s wine-fuelled infatuation.

  ‘I’ll be Monica,’ said Leo. ‘She has such great hair. And I’ll never forget that shade of purple summer dress.’

  ‘What are you talking about?’ Dougie asked.

  ‘It’s telly,’ said Fizz. ‘I don’t know how you’ve managed to avoid it. It feels like it’s been on repeat for the last twenty-five years.’

  ‘I do wonder if we’ve missed out, not having a t
elevision,’ said Mary. ‘There are so many cultural references that are dead to us. Rather like being unfamiliar with the bible; imagine what a negative impact that would have on our appreciation of art and literature.’

  ‘Nonsense, Mary,’ said Dougie. ‘You’ve just confessed to me about watching that jungle thingy. I bet there’s all other kinds of rubbish you’re looking at on your computer while pretending to work!’

  ‘We can have a dedicated TV lounge in one of the salons,’ said Dominic. ‘Slump in our armchairs and turn into vegetables. Seriously, though, it’s a great way to improve our French – total immersion in mindless quiz shows in another language.’

  After dinner, they went through to the grand salon, which was now cluttered up with mismatched furniture from all their different homes. It made Leo flinch just to look at it all. Will sat down at his piano and ran his fingers over the familiar keys. It had been quite a performance, bringing it over at considerable cost, but worth it to have it here, guaranteeing evenings of entertainment.

  ‘Any requests?’ he asked.

  ‘“La vie en rose”,’ said Mary. ‘One of my favourites and so appropriate.’

  They all joined in, singing along with varying levels of tunefulness, and worked their way through a repertoire of old French favourites, ending with Fizz rising up to give a solo rendition of ‘Je ne regrette rien’, with full emotional wobble, before sashaying up to Will to give him a passionate hug.

  ‘Temple-woman’s too young to have much to regret, I’d say,’ Beth whispered to Nicola as they watched Will turn round on his stool to pull Fizz onto his lap. ‘You can only really sing that song if you’re a gnarly old woman who’s been round the block a few times.’

  ‘Sweet, though, isn’t it?’ said Nicola. ‘Young love, at least on one side. And one old bloke redeemed by the love of a young thing. To be fair, she’s an improvement on the first model.’

  ‘Anyone would be an improvement on Marjorie. It’s hard to think of anybody in this world who would not be an improvement on Marjorie.’

  They giggled at the thought of Will’s first wife. She was the games monitor type, always bossing people around and drawing up lists. Once she’d decided to marry Will, she’d made a token effort to get on with his friends, but you could tell she didn’t like them. In fact, she’d made the mistake of telling Will she found them rather silly, which had worked its way back via Dom, dashing any chance of them warming to her.

  ‘I don’t regret anything really, though, do you?’ said Nicola. ‘Or maybe we have a self-editing defence mechanism that stops us dwelling on what might have been.’

  ‘The only thing I regret right now is that we didn’t do this sooner,’ said Beth. ‘I’m loving it already.’

  Will stood up and led Fizz by the hand to sit on the modern-upholstered love seat – the only large piece he had brought along, apart from the piano – that was incongruously parked between two old school armchairs belonging to Dougie and Mary.

  ‘Time for some ghost stories,’ said Dominic, opening the drinks cabinet that he had taken great pride in arranging that afternoon. ‘Luckily we found the brandy glasses earlier, so let’s try this calvados while we summon up the spirits of the château – there must be plenty of people who died within these walls over the centuries.’

  ‘That’s horrible,’ said Fizz.

  ‘I disagree,’ said Dougie. ‘There is comfort and continuity in the knowledge that so many lives have come and gone; death is just part of the circle. I’ve conducted some preliminary research into the history of our new home and there is one story that you will enjoy concerning Eloise St Claire, who was once mistress of the house.’

  Mary watched him anxiously. She did hope he didn’t lose them with an overly detailed account.

  Dougie ploughed on with his story.

  ‘Her husband returned early from the war to find her in the arms of another man. It appears he killed the lover, then locked her up in the tower for nineteen years until her dying day. Her ghostly form can still be seen at night, around the tower after midnight.’

  Mercifully brief, Mary noted with relief.

  ‘My tower!’ screamed Leo. ‘I wish you hadn’t told me that, I won’t sleep a wink now.’

  ‘Don’t worry, Leo, it’s all a load of baloney,’ said Simon. ‘Every château has to have an invented ghost to bring in the punters. We should open our home to tourists one day, once we’re fully renovated – we’ll save it for then. Have a glass of this to calm your nerves.’

  He passed a glass of calvados to Leo and took one for himself.

  ‘I could get used to this,’ he said, holding up the glass. ‘First nose, you sniff it thus, without moving, then second nose, you swirl around the glass to let the oxygen release further nuances of aroma. I’m getting apple and pear, walnut, even a little butterscotch . . .’

  He knocked back the contents, then put the glass to his nose again. ‘And then you get a whole new range of complex aromas from the empty glass – it’s quite extraordinary.’

  ‘Tell us another ghost story, Dougie,’ said Fizz, snuggling up to Will. ‘Much more fun than watching Simon sniffing empty glasses.’

  ‘What about Agnes of Eltz?’ said Mary. ‘She is very much a woman for our time, even though she lived in the twelfth century. She grew up pretending to be a warrior with her brothers, and didn’t care for the boring knight her parents had arranged for her to marry. One day he forced himself upon her and she responded by slapping his face. He swore he would seek vengeance for the humiliation and waited until the men of the house were out hunting, then stormed the castle, killing the guardsmen. Agnes put on her brother’s armour to fight back and the knight killed her, not realising it was his betrothed. Her ghost still defends her castle, and he appears as a phantom horseman outside the gates, seeking forgiveness.’

  ‘Good story,’ said Fizz. ‘I like the feisty warrior woman – very Game of Thrones.’

  It would make a good item for a vlog, if she could find a suit of armour to dress up for the part, or maybe just a toy helmet to give the flavour.

  She jumped up.

  ‘We could play a great game of hide and seek here; it’s such a creepy place.’

  ‘We’re not six years old!’ Simon protested.

  ‘You can be the seeker,’ Fizz said, turning him around to face the wall. ‘Close your eyes, count to a hundred, then come and find us. No peeking!’

  Simon did as he was told while the others scattered, giggling, through the château.

  The room was eerily still as he counted under his breath; he half expected a knight to leap out from behind a curtain, wielding a sword.

  ‘Coming to find you, ready or not!’ he shouted, then checked behind all the curtains of the grand salon – luckily, no phantom intruders lurked there. He moved into the small salon, the library, the study, still with no result. The silence was chilling.

  ‘This is properly creepy,’ he shouted up the staircase, mostly to reassure himself. ‘I feel like I’m Jack Nicholson in The Shining!’

  He was halfway up to the first-floor landing when he stopped dead in his tracks. Someone was turning the lock in the front door. It was impossible, everyone was inside, and besides, there was only one set of keys and they had been discussing over dinner how they needed to get copies cut. Maybe it was a ghost.

  ‘Hello!’ he called out, watching in disbelief as the door creaked open.

  A small woman with a neat white bun appeared.

  ‘Bonjour, monsieur! I hope I’m not disturbing you but I saw the lights were on, and wanted to offer you this.’

  Madame de Courcy waved a bottle of calvados in his direction.

  ‘But are you all alone?’

  She looked into the deserted salon, noticing the empty glasses and coffee cups.

  Simon came down the stairs to greet her.

  ‘No, they’re all around somewhere, I think – I know – just not sure where. We were playing a game . . .’

  He did
feel a fool. Madame de Courcy laughed in delight.

  ‘Oh, you English! Playing cache-cache at your age, how completely charming. I am in awe of your joie de vivre. Welcome to my château, monsieur—’

  ‘Simon, please.’

  ‘Monsieur Simon, of course, I remember you from the signature, how could I forget? Such a pleasure to see you again.’ She gave him a smouldering smile.

  It was true what they said about French women, Simon thought. They never lose their gift for la séduction.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  The following morning, Dominic already had the coffee on when Simon ambled into the kitchen, looking the worse for wear.

  ‘Morning!’ said Dominic, handing him a cup. ‘Did you sleep all right?’

  He looked pretty rough, to be honest. Dominic only had to take one look at Simon, with his jowly face and heavy physique, to feel incredibly good about himself. He’d go out for a bike ride before breakfast; it was important to keep himself trim. And to remind Nicola what a catch he was. Simon’s overt flirting with her didn’t bother him in the slightest – he was hardly a threat! In fact, he found it flattering that his wife should still have that effect on her ex-boyfriend.

  ‘Bit fitful, to be honest,’ said Simon. ‘I got off in the end but couldn’t remember where I was when I woke up.’

  He produced the bottle of calvados, which he had picked up on his way through from the salon.

  ‘Too much of this last night didn’t help! I’m going native, by the way, having a splash of it in my coffee. I understand it’s what constitutes a Norman breakfast. Want some?’

  That’s pretty hard-core, thought Dominic. To think Nicola might have ended up with this old reprobate, instead of me. He liked a drink, and so did she, but they flattered themselves they kept within reasonable limits.

  He shook his head.

  ‘Bit early for me. And I think you’ll find Normandy farmers only have their morning tipple after they’ve done a stint in the fields.’

  ‘Hair of the dog, just this once. And it will help kick-start my creativity, that’s my excuse.’