A Year in the Château

by Sarah Long

  He addressed his last remark at a woman who had just wandered into the shop. Of uncertain age but definitely the other side of sixty, with long hair dyed black and frightening make-up, she had appearance of a ghoul, the spirit of the 1960s in her Brigitte Bardot faded denim.

  ‘Oh yes, Quentin, we girls all love you, you’re such a distinguished English gentleman!’

  She kissed him on the cheek and wandered out again.

  ‘There are so many like her in this town,’ said Quentin. ‘They move down from Paris, bless them, to embrace the bohemian life, wandering around thinking they’re Marguerite Duras.’

  They said their goodbyes, exchanging numbers and promising to be in touch, with the complicity of strangers in a strange land, and stepped back out onto the street.

  *

  ‘The self-proclaimed master of self-reinvention,’ said Beth once they’d rendezvoused with the others. ‘You’ve got to hand it to him, he’s built himself a good life here. I could imagine living in this port. There seems a real community, people popping in all the time, not like us in our glorious isolation.’

  ‘Bit of a chancer, if you ask me,’ said Simon. ‘All that eccentric English gentleman shtick. He’s probably a suburbanite just like us, trying to make himself sound interesting.’

  ‘That’s harsh,’ said Fizz. ‘I thought he was charming, and I loved his portraits. I’d like Will to commission one for our bedroom – then you could look at me in duplicate, sweetie, in the flesh and on canvas. What do you think?’

  ‘Good idea,’ said Will. ‘You know I can never see enough of you.’

  ‘Leave it out, you nauseating lovebirds,’ said Beth. ‘Let’s do some shopping. This is exactly my kind of place – all quirky little plate and candle shops.’

  They meandered around the town with the slow pace of those with no particular objective. Dougie picked up a history of the D-Day landings in a second-hand bookstore and Beth found a set of antique pottery mugs – truly authentic, she said, for serving cider. Mary bought a length of plasticised table cloth, decorated with flowers, to protect the dining table and Nicola found a pair of rubber purple clogs for gardening.

  ‘That’s enough knick-knacks,’ said Dominic. ‘It’s time for what we came here for – a walk by the seaside.’

  The cobbled lane led them down to a wide sandy beach, with expansive views across the ocean. The tide was low, the water far away beyond a stretch of wet sand, but a walkway of wooden boards was set out on the soft dry sand higher up, allowing visitors to stroll along the coast, admiring the sea and the handsome nineteenth-century villas with witches’ hat turrets whose gardens opened directly onto the beach. A handful of people were flying kites and one or two hardy souls were braving the water.

  ‘Come on!’ said Beth, pulling off her shoes. ‘Let’s go for a paddle!’

  She ran towards the sea and one by one, the others joined her, feeling the sand beneath their toes as they headed through the shallow pools left by the ebbing tide, down to the waves lapping at the shore.

  ‘Never mind paddling, I’m going all the way!’ said Dominic. ‘Silly of us not to bring our swimming costumes, but here goes.’

  He stripped down to his underpants, displaying his taut physique, to Leo’s shrieks of delight.

  ‘Calvin Kleins!’ he said. ‘You’re a dead ringer for Freddie Ljunberg. I’ll stay here – these slacks are dry-clean only.’

  ‘We are so lucky!’ said Dominic, as he caught up with the others on the water’s edge. ‘Three o’clock on a weekday afternoon and we could be stuck at our office desks, and instead we are here.’

  He plunged into the water and broke into an energetic crawl against the icy flow.

  ‘All you need is a knotted handkerchief on your head to be the perfect English holidaymaker,’ said Will, from the safety of the shallows. You wouldn’t catch him swimming in these temperatures.

  ‘But that’s just it, we’re not holidaymakers, we are full-time French château dwellers,’ Dominic shouted back. ‘We’re not counting down the days until we return to the grind – we are living the life!’

  Nicola had stopped to gather some mother-of-pearl shells and looked up to watch them laughing at the water’s edge. The cold January night when they came up with this idea seemed a lifetime ago; Dom’s work stress had melted away and she was happy to see he was more carefree than he had been for years. Beyond that ocean, but not too far away, was the life they had left behind; the sense of escape was enhanced by the distance imposed by the English Channel. The French called it la manche, the sleeve that tapered into the narrow cuff of the Dover–Calais crossing. Yesterday’s tension about the money and renovation and irritations within the group was blown away by the sea air.

  She gave Dominic her scarf to dry himself off and they slowly retraced their steps along the boardwalk. A group of young people were playing beach volleyball on a thoughtfully provided pitch and some older men were engaged in a serious game of boules on a court laid out beside the grand casino, a monument to fin de siècle grandeur. A miniature white train drove past with a handful of passengers squeezed into the carriages as the driver pointed out the sights.

  ‘Such a civilised nation; everything is arranged for enjoyment,’ said Mary. ‘You know, Monet spent his honeymoon here, painting beach scenes, and Flaubert fell in love for the first time with an older woman on this beach when he rescued her cape from the rising tide. It really has the feel of a seaside town arranged for everybody’s pleasure.’

  ‘Speaking of which, I’m looking forward to our very late lunch,’ said Simon. ‘We’ve shown incredible restraint. Do you realise this is the first time we’ve eaten out since we arrived?’

  *

  They strolled past the covered fish market with stalls displaying glistening fresh seafood that could be sampled on high stools and small tables set up on the pavement, then arrived at their destination: a renowned art deco brasserie with long communal tables lined up outside, protected from the elements by a maroon canopy and patio heaters emitting a welcoming glow.

  ‘Never mind the planet, eh?’ said Simon. ‘As long as we can park our old arses on a nice warm seat.’

  ‘Table for nine?’ A business-like waiter ushered them to a table set with a white cloth and they shuffled into chairs pushed close enough for their arms to touch each other. He brought out two baskets of bread and a couple of carafes of chilled macon villages.

  ‘You can’t beat French waiters,’ said Beth. ‘They manage to be friendly and professional at the same time, with none of that fake matiness you get at home.’

  ‘I’m going in to find the loos,’ said Mary.

  Inside the restaurant was a well-worn zinc bar and tightly packed tables. The atmosphere was of an archetypal French bistro, enhanced by black and white snapshots of music and movie stars dining at this famous establishment that lined the staircase up to the restrooms.

  ‘You must take a look inside,’ she said, returning to her seat. ‘It’s so cosy, like stepping back into the 1950s – you feel like you’re on a film set.’

  ‘Warmer, too, I bet,’ said Simon, always mindful of his comfort.

  ‘We’re hardy Brits, remember,’ said Dominic. ‘We should really be wearing cap-sleeve T-shirts to reinforce the image.’

  ‘It’s lovely out here, and we can look out over the sea,’ said Nicola. ‘Just think, we can actually see the source of our dinner – it’s so on-trend.’

  ‘Never let it be said that we’re not on-trend,’ scoffed Dougie.

  They started with crab and whelks, presented on a raised platter of crushed ice with metal implements designed to smash the shells and coax out the flesh.

  ‘I’m not having any of those whelks,’ said Leo. ‘Ghastly things, like lumps of rubber. I’m sticking to the crab.’

  Dougie was keeping an eye on the budget and made everyone order moules frites, turning down Simon’s request for a Dover sole.

  ‘I hate to lower the mood by mentioning the roof, but
you’ll all thank me when the bill comes.’

  The waiter arrived with mussels piled up in large tureens, their soft orange centres contrasting against the purple-black carapaces. As the bowls filled up with discarded shells, he swept them away with quiet, practised ease.

  Fizz dipped a skinny chip into the parsley-strewn wine broth that had puddled at the bottom of her plate.

  ‘So much better than fish and chips. None of that oily batter and big fat soggy chips.’

  ‘I must stop you there,’ said Dominic. ‘Your enthusiasm for all things French is blinding you to the fact that fish and chips is one of our country’s finest achievements. Triple-cooked hand-cut chips, crunchy on the outside, light inside, then a moist flaky piece of cod encased in beer batter. I’m getting quite homesick just thinking about it.’

  ‘Washed down by a couple of pints – none of the tiny half-measures you get here,’ said Will.

  ‘With a massive bowl of sticky toffee pudding to round it off,’ said Simon.

  ‘Pie and mash,’ said Dougie wistfully, ‘and pork pies – you can’t get them here. Well, there is paté en croute but it’s not the same.’

  ‘Listen to you all!’ said Beth. ‘Going on about what you miss in the old country. You sound like a sad crew of expats of the very kind we were determined not to be! We are on a great escape and don’t you forget it. One thing I really don’t miss from home is people whingeing on all the time, worrying about the future of the country.’

  ‘True, it’s a relief not being assailed by the news every day,’ said Dougie.

  ‘I think you’ll find people do whinge and worry here, too,’ said Nicola. ‘It’s just that that we don’t notice because we’re in our little bubble. ’

  ‘What are you looking for, Leo?’ asked Fizz, noticing he had turned around in his chair.

  Leo turned back and showed her the image of a glowering young man on his phone’s dating app.

  ‘What do you think? He must be in here somewhere to be that close. Maybe he’s inside.’

  His phone was passed round the table so they could all appraise the photo.

  ‘No, he’s not for you,’ said Simon. ‘He looks bad-tempered. You deserve much better. And anyway, we can’t abandon you here. You might find yourself imprisoned by a lunatic in a fisherman’s cottage. We have a duty of care.’

  ‘Thank you for caring,’ said Leo. ‘And anyway, I don’t like his teeth.’

  They paid the bill, supervised by Dougie with his calculator, and decided it was too soon to go home, so moved on to a bar of immense charm where they ordered carafes of rosé in anticipation of the summer ahead. Fizz and Will went back to Quentin’s studio to discuss a commission for her portrait, and he joined them for un verre, which turned into several verres as they celebrated their new friendship.

  ‘He’s an all right bloke, actually,’ said Simon in the end. ‘Even something of a role model, I thought. Developing his creativity at a later stage of life, rather like me.’

  *

  It was getting dark by the time they rejoined their cars and began the drive home with Fizz, Nicola and Beth as the sober designated drivers. The brightly lit streets of the town gave way to broad roads, then narrow country lanes, until they drew in through the gates of the château. After the bustle of the seaside, the silent darkness of the château was striking, almost intimidating. Nicola went round switching on the lights and suggested a game of charades before they all turned in, wanting to prolong the jollity of the outing.

  ‘Cup of herbal tea and parlour games, that’s what we need,’ she said.

  ‘Forget the herbal tea,’ said Beth, ‘I’m pouring myself a large glass of wine after my evening of abstinence.’

  ‘Not me,’ said Fizz. ‘I’m off to bed.’ She turned to whisper in Will’s ear, ‘Don’t be too long.’ She gave him a playful kiss and waved good night to the others.

  Just one game, thought Will, and then I’ll join her. He didn’t want to risk her being asleep by the time he went up.

  Nicola put the kettle on while the others settled into teams and started to scribble down ideas, using the tin of pencils and scrap paper that were kept in a sideboard alongside other essentials for a middle-aged toy cupboard: packs of cards, Scrabble, chess, and other, shoutier games like Articulate and Linkee, which usually resulted in someone storming off in a huff.

  Beth opened two bottles of red and distributed glasses among the more committed drinkers of the group: Simon, Dominic and Leo, who were on a roll by now and claimed they needed more than herbal tea to enhance their charade performances.

  Mary went first, unfolding the title of Fifty Shades of Grey, which she knew to be a book and a film, though of course she hadn’t read, let alone watched it. She flashed up both hands five times, hoping that once they got as far as fifty, they’d guess the rest and save her the indignity of acting out scenes of sexual submission.

  ‘Fingers!’

  ‘Help!’

  ‘Gesticulate!’

  ‘Edward Scissorhands!’

  Mary shook her head. How slow could they be?

  The game was interrupted by a piercing scream from upstairs.

  ‘Eugh, yuck, that’s disgusting!’

  Fizz came rushing downstairs in her nightgown, whose transparent properties were not lost on any of them.

  ‘I just flushed the loo and it’s spilling out all over the floor. It’s still churning out horrible sewage everywhere, it’s creeping down the landing . . .’

  ‘All hands to the pump!’ said Dominic. ‘Thank God for all those buckets!’

  He led the assault on the back kitchen, seizing the mop and leading the charge up the staircase. Mary sat down, ashen-faced.

  ‘Do you mind if I opt out of this?’ she said. ‘I clean because I never want to face something like this!’

  ‘I’ll stay with you,’ said Fizz. ‘There’s no way I’m going up there until it’s sorted.’

  ‘Yes, of course,’ said Beth, ‘it doesn’t need all of us. Leave it to those of us who’ve had kids. Once you’ve done dirty nappies, something kicks in which makes you immune to disgust.’

  ‘On that basis, I’ll exclude myself,’ said Dougie, relieved to have an excuse.

  ‘It’s vomit that I can’t stomach,’ said Nicola, pulling on a pair of rubber gloves. ‘I always left that to Dom. Everything else is manageable.’

  She and Beth set off up the stairs to join the mopping-up operation.

  ‘I suppose we’re the sensitive ones,’ said Leo, who had also remained in his seat. ‘Our child-free status has made us unfit for dirty business, which is rather a blessing.’

  ‘It’s not a status we all chose,’ said Mary.

  Dougie moved towards her and put an arm round her shoulder.

  ‘No, we didn’t,’ he said gently.

  ‘Could you not have them?’ asked Fizz.

  Leo flinched at the directness of the question, but Mary didn’t seem to mind.

  ‘They never came along,’ she said. ‘I suppose we could have tried IVF but neither of us felt sufficiently strongly about it. Or rather, we didn’t want to get into that painful cycle of raising your hopes, only to have them dashed.’

  She remembered the relief on Dougie’s face when she told him she didn’t want to go through with it. If he had shown just a flicker of doubt or regret, she would have given it a go, of course she would.

  ‘I’m not going to have children,’ said Fizz. ‘Far too many people in the world as it is.’

  ‘That’s a pragmatic response,’ said Mary. ‘But you’re still young enough, you may change your mind. It was only when I reached the end of my fertile years that I started to feel regret. I do still think about what our children might have been like.’

  ‘You’d only be worrying about them,’ said Fizz. ‘Look at Beth and Nicola – they’re always fretting about theirs. Nicola told me the other day that part of the appeal of coming here was to get away from them. She didn’t exactly put it like that, but
she said she was glad to find herself more removed from their daily lives.’

  ‘It hasn’t worked then,’ said Leo. ‘I heard Nicola on the phone to Maddie the other day, something about the boyfriend’s unsatisfactory behaviour. It seems to me that it’s enough to have yourself to worry about, never mind feeling responsible for other lives.’

  ‘On a more prosaic level, we have our plumbing to worry about,’ said Dougie. ‘On which note, I’m going outside to attend to my needs. I hope that by the time we get upstairs it will be safe to retire to our bedrooms.’

  ‘True, it will be all the more bearable in the morning,’ said Leo.

  *

  Eventually Beth delivered reassuring news from the mopping-up party that the coast was clear and Leo made his way upstairs to his tower room. He climbed into bed, thinking about what a beautiful day they had spent, and picked up Sense and Sensibility from his bedside table, for what better way to end it than with a little Jane Austen?

  Just as Marianne was being scooped up by the dashing Mr Willoughby, his room was suddenly plunged into darkness. They’d had floods and effluence, thought Leo – he should have known there would be more to come. He flicked the light switch in vain a couple of times then flopped back on his pillows in the dark. He thought of his bedroom in London. Crisp sheets, carefully positioned low lighting and an en-suite with no danger of flooding. Not for the first time, he wondered what on earth they had done.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  ‘Thank goodness the sun is shining,’ said Nicola the next morning, as she brought a tray of coffee into the bedroom. ‘I’m not sure I could have coped with no electricity, outdoor toilet facilities and the pouring rain.’

  Dominic sat up in bed to take his cup.

  ‘Have you been out already?’

  ‘Yes, it took me right back to girl guide camp. I only went for one weekend, never again, the latrines were too much. I prefer our setting here – enough space for us all to find our own personal earth closet.’