A Year in the Château

by Sarah Long

  ‘You’re such a natural stylist,’ said Fizz. ‘That could be straight off the set of a French movie.’

  ‘And so could you,’ said Leo. ‘That dress is perfect for our fête champêtre; you can’t beat white linen.’

  Their mutual appreciation was an ongoing source of amusement that reached its zenith with Leo’s solo appearance on Mademoiselle Bovary. After the Le Déjeuner sur l’herbe post had boosted her following so dramatically, she decided to focus in on Leo, filming him sitting by the window of the crystal ballroom, reading a copy of Madame Bovary, wearing the pale blue and grey lacy outfit she so admired that he’d worn on their trip to the seaside. She then showed him parading through the grand rooms of the château, staring wistfully through the tall French windows over his beautiful country domain. Fizz’s commentary, that here at last she had found her bae – a millennial trapped within the (incredibly young-looking) body of a fifty-eight year old – had clearly struck a chord. The post earned her a tsunami of likes. Judging from the comments, it was not only Leo’s elegant appearance that they liked, it was his contrast with the other château residents, inadvertently featured in the background, looking very much their age. There had been some ruffled feathers, particularly from Dougie and Mary, about invasion of privacy, but it had blown over. Will was a little put out about her referring to Leo as her bae – surely that should be him? Fizz quickly pointed out that Will had no interest in discussing outfits with her, and anyway, it was only pretend, a bit of fun. Though with 20,000 followers and rising, she was hoping it would soon become something rather more lucrative than a bit of fun.

  Will wasn’t really complaining. He was happy to see her settling down and getting on so well with everyone – it had worked out far better than he’d hoped in that respect. He was enjoying spending time with his old friend Dominic, who had encouraged him to buy a bike and accompany him on vigorous rides through the lanes, providing quality bonding time as well as the chance to keep his weight down to a level acceptable to Fizz.

  ‘Make way for the chef!’

  Simon appeared, pushing a barbecue on wheels that he had unearthed from the pile of their possessions that had been hastily stored in an outbuilding on moving day.

  ‘Can’t believe we haven’t bothered to get this out earlier, with this marvellous canicule going on. I love that word! Canicule, dog days of summer, vague de chaleur . . . It makes me feel hot and French just saying it.’

  He whipped the cover off the barbecue and stared at it as if he’d never seen it before.

  ‘It’s been gathering dust in that barn the same way it sat virtually untouched for thirty years in our garage at home. I remember now why I never got it out; it means I have to do all the work.’

  ‘You old Neanderthal,’ said Mary. ‘Why do you think it’s a man’s job? Are women too feeble to lift the tongs?’

  ‘It’s a primal thing, as you suggest. Dragging the carcass back from the hunt to toss it on the fire.’

  ‘Simon, what are you wearing?’

  Leo had looked up from his flower jars and was staring at Simon’s Union Jack socks extending up his calves, leaving only his suntanned knees exposed beneath an enormous pair of khaki shorts.

  ‘Do you like them? Thought I’d reflect the nationalistic theme of our lunch. ‘

  ‘It’s a bit Britain First,’ said Leo. ‘We don’t want to give the wrong impression.’

  ‘The locals will love them – they all vote Le Pen round here; madly jealous that we’ve succeeded in getting a Leave vote. I’m going to urge them to follow our example and take back control. That’s a joke, by the way, Mary, you know my true feelings.’

  ‘Did you buy those socks for yourself?’ asked Mary.

  ‘Ironic present from a colleague. And actually, I rather like them. Shall we go the whole hog and put an England flag up beside the lake?’

  Nicola raised her eyebrows and went to join Beth in the kitchen, where she was mixing chicken pieces in a yoghurt marinade.

  ‘Everything under control?’ she asked. ‘I’ll get going on the salads.’

  ‘I’m rather wishing we’d opted for a cold lunch,’ said Beth. ‘You can’t go wrong with coronation chicken for feeding a crowd and it would have saved Simon from doing his swaggering act over the barbecue. He’ll probably incinerate the meat like he did the last time when he managed to scorch the skin while the inside remained so pink it was inedible.’

  ‘That’s all right, it will just reinforce the French conviction that Brits can’t cook. They’ll go home happy. We could put Dom on barbecue duty if you think that’s safer.’

  ‘Definitely safer, but Simon won’t hear it from me, you’ll have to suggest it.’

  ‘We could let him build the fire then encourage him to move aside when it comes to the cooking. He won’t mind.’

  ‘Simon never minds anything you suggest,’ said Beth. ‘Putty in your hands.’

  There was an edge to her voice that Nicola hadn’t heard in a long time.

  ‘You know that’s not true,’ she said gently. ‘Simon and I are ancient history. I thought we’d got over this?’

  ‘Sorry, just getting a bit ratty with this bucket of raw chicken.’

  ‘That’s OK.’

  ‘Although it is true that since we’ve moved here, he can’t keep his eyes off you. Don’t tell me you haven’t noticed?’

  Nicola had noticed, but she didn’t think it helpful to say so.

  ‘Nonsense, you two are solid as a rock. As are Dom and I. It’s only fun and banter, you know what Simon’s like.’

  ‘It’s not the fun and banter I’m talking about, it’s the way he always makes a point of sitting next to you and looking at you with his stupid cow eyes when you leave the room.’

  ‘Now you’re being paranoid.’ Nicola took hold of Beth’s shoulders. ‘Listen to me, there is nothing between us. It’s probably just that I remind him of his youth or something. A bit like when you see an ancient photo of the old family pet and it takes you back to childhood.’

  ‘Ha! I like the thought of you as an old dog.’

  ‘Woof.’

  ‘Miaow! Come here, pretty puss, and give me a hug.’

  ‘That’s more like it,’ said Nicola, wrapping her arms round her. ‘Gurlfriends! Now, enough sharing already, I’ve got kilos of carrots to grate.’

  *

  By one o’clock, the preparations were complete and Simon was cracking open a couple of bottles of Côtes de Provence.

  ‘The greatest part of my education since moving to France has been an appreciation of rosé wine,’ he said. ‘Too many memories of overdoing Mateus rosé in the Seventies had left me scarred, but now I can’t get enough of the stuff. Perfect for summer quaffing, and there’s so much more of it on offer, have you noticed? Loads more shelves devoted to it in the supermarkets than to white wine.’

  ‘It just looks right,’ said Will, raising his glass. ‘Youthful summer blush, just like my wife.’

  He clinked his glass against her tumbler of Perrier. She looked ravishing in her strapless linen dress, exposing her sun-kissed shoulders. He couldn’t wait to see her admired by their guests.

  Dougie took a sip from his glass, then frowned and picked up the bottle to check the label.

  ‘I thought so! This tastes far better than it should. Why on earth did you splash out on the cru classé? The ordinary one is perfectly good enough, especially for a party.’

  ‘Chill, Dougie,’ said Simon. ‘These are just a little treat to get us started, a reward for the worker hosts. Plenty of plonk chilling for our invités, don’t you worry.’

  ‘Who do you think will be first?’ Mary wondered.

  ‘Looks like our first guest is already here: that draft-dodging hippie from the brocante,’ said Dominic. ‘Chris has form when it comes to filling his boots and he won’t want to waste any drinking time.’

  They turned to see Chris arriving, a tall dashing figure wearing a patchwork shirt and a pair of jeans that looked e
xactly the type that people used wear sitting in the bath to ensure a perfect shrink-to-fit.

  ‘Hey guys,’ he said, ‘don’t tell me I’m first!’

  Chris’s home and business were combined in a massive watermill situated on the town’s outskirts, each storey crammed with treasures, including the armoire that now stood in Nicola and Dominic’s bedroom. They hardly needed to buy another one – there were plenty of them included in the sale of the château – but Dom had taken a particular shine to an eighteenth-century painted marriage cabinet; he said they must have it as a symbol of their revitalised marriage since they’d moved to the château. ‘Not that it needs revitalising,’ he’d said, before kissing her so passionately that Chris didn’t know where to look and had to busy himself removing the price tag.

  It had taken six strong men to heave the wardrobe up the stairs and since then Chris had become a regular visitor, regaling them with stories of his upbringing in Yellowstone Park in Wyoming where his father was a ranger. Like many Americans, he had travelled to Europe to avoid the draft and then found little reason to return. Dougie said Americans in France were the equivalent of survivors of the British Raj in India, staying on to grow old like the venerable settlers they were. It was an apposite comparison as Chris travelled to India every winter to load up a container with silk lampshades, elaborately engraved chests and painted doors that he sold to fanciful French home-owners looking to import exoticism to their country retreats.

  Nicola handed him a glass of wine and he sat down to join them at the table.

  ‘Do you need a hand with that fire?’ he asked Simon, who was prodding at the smouldering charcoal.

  ‘Would you mind?’ said Simon. ‘I had it going beautifully but it seems to be fizzling out.’

  ‘Sure.’

  Chris leaped to his feet and took up his place behind the barbecue, stoking it up with immediate results.

  ‘That’s a relief,’ said Simon. ‘Now I can enjoy myself. You’re a natural, Chris, I can tell. All those years in the wilderness paying off.’

  ‘I’m comfortable around fire. Seems to me the world is divided into those who can manage a fire and those that can’t. I guess it’s my natural element. What’s yours?’

  ‘I reckon I’m water,’ said Simon. ‘A fast-running stream.’

  ‘Or a stagnant lake,’ said Beth, giving him a filthy look. ‘A breeding ground for toads and plankton.’

  ‘I’m aether,’ said Leo.

  ‘That’s not one of them!’ said Nicola.

  ‘Yes it is.’ Mary nodded. ‘Aristotle added it as a fifth element because he realised the stars could not be made of air, fire, water or earth.’

  ‘I’m glad you have your resident scholar to clear that up,’ said Chris. ‘Oh good, here come some more guests. I was beginning to feel a little conspicuous.’

  Madame de Courcy was approaching them slowly, looking around the garden as she paused to lean on her stick. She was a welcome guest at her former château, now she’d learned to limit her visits. Matching his pace to hers was Jean-Louis, who had discarded his overalls in favour of a pair of chinos and a sky-blue open-neck shirt.

  ‘Your fancy man’s looking good,’ Beth said to Nicola. ‘Didn’t recognise him at first.’

  ‘Ooh yes,’ said Simon, ‘he’ll be singing sexy Jane Birkin duets with her in no time.’

  ‘Shut up, you two,’ said Nicola crossly. ‘Take no notice of them, Chris, they’re like a couple of kids.’

  ‘That’s the guy who grazes your land, right?’ asked Chris. ‘He came into the shop once with his girlfriend to buy a silver teapot. She was a cutie. Italian.’

  ‘She’s gone back to Italy now,’ said Nicola.

  ‘Leaving the coast clear,’ said Simon mischievously. Jean-Louis was looking a little too handsome for his taste. He resented the way he was obviously so infatuated with Nicola. He needed to get to the back of the queue.

  ‘And look, here come the kiddies!’ said Leo, as a handful of blond children came into view, running towards the lake and chasing each other with whoops of delights. Their parents made their way, smiling, towards their hosts. Bernard was a carpenter, who designed and made finely crafted furniture that was displayed in his show rooms on the high street, its clean, modern lines contrasting with the ancient medieval beams above his shop window. Virginie was a whirlwind of energy. When she wasn’t rushing up to Paris to work on fashion shoots, she was harvesting honey and making jam to fill artfully designed jars that were lined up for sale in Bernard’s window. Leo couldn’t get enough of them.

  The usual double cheek-kissing ensued round the table – it was optional among Brits but compulsory with the French; nobody could sit down and relax until everyone present had been embraced. Dougie, in particular, found this an unnecessary and exhausting procedure, and he sat down with relief once it was over.

  ‘We’re so glad you could make it,’ said Nicola to Virginie. ‘And how delightful to have your children bringing the place to life. We’ve planned some games for after lunch that we hope they’ll enjoy.’

  Leo was deep in conversation with Madame de Courcy. She had developed a special relationship with him since discovering that he, like her, came from an old and distinguished family. ‘As if they’re the only ones with ancestors,’ Beth whispered angrily to Nicola. ‘Where do they think the rest of us sprang from? We all come from an “old” family, it’s just that some of us don’t have a family seat and noble heritage to boast about. Off with their heads, I say.’

  ‘We own her family seat now,’ said Nicola, ‘and she’s reduced to her humble pavillon down the road, so let her wallow in the past if it makes her happy. Leo’s always pleased to find someone to discuss his family tree, so let them be.’

  ‘Shoot me if I ever say I’m going to research my family tree,’ said Beth. ‘That’s one middle-aged hobby I’ll never get into.’

  ‘You say that because you fear you’re descended from a long line of housemaids, same as me. You’d change your tune if you thought you might be sprung from royalty.’

  The rest of the guests arrived, a disparate crowd of friends they had made through the practical business of renovating the château – ‘Aubergine hair!’ Fizz said delightedly at the sight of Monsieur Robinet’s wife – and others who had found them through various connections. A former colleague of Dougie’s, who was at the Sorbonne and had a house nearby, turned up with his poet partner, Perpetua. And a couple of Parisian lawyers, who owned a neighbouring manor house and had made a point of befriending the new chatelains, insisting on talking to them in their bad English.

  ‘I’m loving the mix of intellos and artisans,’ said Simon. ‘Can’t wait to see how they deal with the egg and spoon race.’

  *

  The lunch was deemed a triumph, and once the plum clafoutis had been dispatched, Dominic stood up and banged his spoon on the table.

  ‘I’d like to thank you all for coming today and for generally making us feel so welcome. There were those who thought we were mad to leave our homes to settle in a foreign land where we knew nobody. But we have proved them wrong and you have proved them wrong. We’ve had our challenges with the fabric of the château – though I’m sure you’ll agree the new roof is a great improvement! – but we couldn’t have asked for a better environment, nor for better neighbours. We lived in London for thirty years, where we barely got beyond nodding terms with the people who lived next door. Yet here we are, in this magical setting, in our home that we love, and in a community that we are proud to call our own. So, before I get too weepy, and before we move on to the after-lunch entertainment, I’d like to propose a toast. To our friends and neighbours, and to many more years of happiness together.’

  ‘I thought you were going to start blubbing there,’ said Nicola as he sat down following the warm reception of his words and mass clinking of glasses. ‘The British stiff upper lip seems to have gone out the window.’

  ‘Not sure it was ever that stiff,’ said Dominic. He
kissed her on the lips.

  ‘It’s worked out so well, hasn’t it? I honestly couldn’t be happier. Thank you, my darling.’

  ‘Whoa, that’s enough of that!’ said Simon, getting to his feet at the other end of the table. ‘Time to put an end to the cheesy stuff and get down to the important business. Some of you may have spotted a heap of sacks over there beside the lake. When I blow my whistle . . .’ He produced it from his pocket and gave a demonstration. ‘I want you all to run down there and climb into a sack. You must then run all the way round the lake as quickly as you can. When you get back to the starting point, you must climb out of the sack and pick up a spoon, like this, and an egg – from our own chickens, naturally – which you must balance on it, then do another circuit. Anyone whose egg smashes is disqualified. Are we clear?’

  ‘Crazy English!’ said the Parisian lawyer, clapping her hands in delight. ‘We love your sense of humour. It’s very Benny Hill!’

  ‘Never mind Benny Hill, this is the fundament of our education system. We are who we are because at school we developed our moral fibre by taking part in the egg and spoon and sack race. They didn’t teach you that at your lycées, did they? Now, let the games commence!’

  He gave a flamboyant blow on his whistle and everyone pushed back their chairs and went racing down to the water.

  ‘Competitive, I like it!’ Simon shouted, following them down at a leisurely pace. The best thing about being the organiser was not having to take part. He watched the children leading the way, but Chris the draft dodger soon pushed into the lead, closely followed by Dominic, who was no slouch, with all that manic cycling he went in for. The children were less successful in the egg and spoon race, insufficiently coordinated to keep the eggs well balanced, whereas Nicola was steaming ahead. He watched her and compared her ungallantly with Beth, some distance behind. It was unacceptable to make comparisons, he knew it was wrong, but he couldn’t help seeing what he saw and feeling what he felt.