A Year in the Château

by Sarah Long

  The eventual winner was Chris, who was awarded a thirty-year-old trophy that Simon had found in one of his boxes in the barn, a legacy from his sportier days when he was quite a fast runner, impossible though that now seemed.

  Then it was back to the tables for further refreshments and sedentary entertainments. Dougie’s friend from the Sorbonne encouraged his partner to recite one of her poems, though its dark and existential tone was a bit of a dampener, then Dougie brought out his version of a pub quiz – far too highbrow – producing puzzled blank stares from the participating adults, while the children wisely returned to the lake, where they stripped off to take a dip until they were finally rounded up by Virginie, who decided it was time to go home.

  ‘Please, do not let me break up the party,’ she said. ‘The rest of you must stay!’ But the other guests all followed her lead, amid effusive thanks for the afternoon.

  ‘Well, that was a riot,’ said Beth, slumping down in a chair. ‘Shall we have a party every week? They loved it!’

  ‘I’m not sure my quiz was correctly pitched,’ said Dougie. ‘Next time I’ll go for something more accessible – the songs of Johnny Hallyday, perhaps, or the A-roads of Calvados.’

  ‘Well, it’s nice to have company, but it’s nice when they leave,’ said Mary. ‘I’m going to clean up the kitchen, then we can all sit back and relax.’

  ‘Did we really get through all that bread?’ asked Simon. ‘I’m just thinking I could manage a light supper but they’ve cleaned us out, the little French cochons.’

  ‘Can’t believe you’re hungry; I couldn’t eat a thing after that,’ said Mary.

  ‘There’s less of you to nourish, my dear,’ said Simon, slapping his belly. ‘This beast takes some filling.’

  ‘I don’t mind going out for some bread,’ said Dominic.

  ‘You’re not driving,’ said Nicola, ‘not after all that rosé.’

  ‘I’ll go on my bike,’ said Dominic. ‘That’s the great thing about cycling: you never get breathalysed. There should be at least one boulangerie open – the French don’t allow the small matter of a bank holiday to come between them and their need for fresh bread. Want to come with me, Will?’

  ‘No thanks,’ said Will, ‘I’ve had my daily exercise. I’d forgotten how tiring it is to shuffle along in a sack.’

  Nicola watched Dominic walk briskly up to the house. It was a joy to see how energised he was, now that he was free of his office stress. It had been such a good idea to make this life change while they were young enough to enjoy it.

  ‘Buy a brioche, if they have one,’ she shouted after him. ‘We can have it for breakfast.’

  He turned to blow her a kiss.

  ‘Will do, Marie-Antoinette!’

  ‘Why’s he calling you Marie-Antoinette?’ asked Fizz. She had moved her chair into the sun, to avoid the lengthening shadows cast by the château.

  ‘It’s a reference to her famous words when she learned the peasants had no bread,’ Nicola explained. ‘When she said, “Let them eat cake,” she really said, “Let them eat brioche”, but that didn’t translate into English.’

  ‘Mmm, toasted brioche with apricot jam,’ said Simon. ‘Another reason to love the French.’

  They cleared the tables at an easy pace, gossiping about the departed guests.

  ‘I’m not a fan of children, as you know,’ said Fizz. ‘But I thought Virginie’s were delightful. Did you notice how well behaved they were, sitting up at the table and eating their lunch properly? Not like British kids, who would have been wandering off and complaining about what they wouldn’t eat.’

  ‘That’s how French children are,’ said Beth. ‘They are born with an innate respect for the table. You know they even teach them about food in nursery school? There’s a compulsory semaine du goût when they blindfold the kids and make them identify the four flavours.’

  ‘That sounds cruel,’ said Leo.

  ‘Only four?’ said Fizz.

  ‘Four principal flavours,’ said Beth. ‘Sweet, salty, acid and bitter.’

  ‘I get the first three,’ said Fizz, ‘but what do they count as bitter?’

  ‘I don’t know. Coffee, maybe. Or chicory.’

  ‘Four-year-olds drinking coffee?’

  ‘I don’t know the details, but you get the principle. Food is a serious subject that features on the educational curriculum.’

  ‘Marvellous,’ said Leo. ‘It’s also on our own curriculum for personal growth. Part of our ongoing adult education in the Château Lafarge school of culinary arts. My next goal is to master the perfect soufflé.’

  ‘Good to see Dicky again,’ said Dougie. ‘He’s suggested we visit them in Paris. We should go, Mary; it’s only two hours on the train.’

  Mary had her rubber gloves on and was wiping down the tables. She’d already stripped away the tablecloths and put them in the wash, but you needed to be thorough.

  ‘I would like that,’ she said. ‘I thought Perpetua was charming and a very talented poet. She’d have to be a poet, wouldn’t she, with a name like that? We should wait until it’s cooled down, though; I don’t fancy Paris in this heat.’

  ‘Paris in August? Absolument pas!’ said Dougie. ‘How can you even think such a thing.’

  ‘I’m going to see if the quails have laid any eggs,’ said Nicola. ‘There’s something I never imagined myself saying a year ago. How much my life has changed, to think that collecting eggs has become my daily chore! Along with tending my roquette and mâche. I’ll pick some leaves for a salad – a dainty supper to test our palate.’

  ‘That’s why it’s stupid to say there are only four flavours,’ said Fizz. ‘What are eggs, for instance? They’re none of those things.’

  ‘Rocket leaves could count as bitter, I suppose,’ said Nicola.

  ‘I’ll come with you,’ said Beth.

  *

  The quails were housed in a miniature Norman-style colombage shed that Will had taken great delight in building, reviving his carpentry skills last tested at school and making the roof from slates he had reclaimed among those that had originally covered the château. Encouraged by his success, he was now planning a larger project, a studio for Fizz to eventually set up a health and beauty treatment centre. Nicola found a dozen eggs in the pen, which she placed carefully in her basket.

  ‘Do you remember taking the kids to see Chicken Run at the cinema?’ said Beth as Nicola closed the gate. ‘Who’d have thought we’d one day have our own real-life version. Eva’s planning another visit, did I tell you? She’s taking a break from her tiresome boyfriend, which gives me hope.’

  ‘How lovely. Maybe she could come at the same time as Maddie and Gus – plenty of space in the attic rooms and it would be fun for them to travel together. I do miss them, don’t you? They drove me mad when we were all under one roof, but now it will be a real treat to see them.’

  They wandered down to the walled garden, happily discussing plans for when the children came over. A trip to the coast, naturally; maybe they’d go over to Mont St Michel and breathe in the atmosphere of the island monastery.

  The vegetable plot was lush with produce: runner beans hanging from their cane wigwams, comedy-size courgettes developing at such a pace it was hard to keep up with them, bright red tomatoes that smelled the way they never do in shops and haricots beurre, aptly named for their golden butter colour.

  ‘Another bean salad, I guess,’ said Beth. ‘And some lamb’s lettuce with chervil.’

  ‘Death by beans. It’s one glut after another, and let’s not talk about the plums.’

  They had been overwhelmed by the crop of Quetsches d’Alsace, small fruit that were falling all around them onto the grass, forming a purple carpet buzzing with bees gorging on their flesh. Nicola had made vats of jam, chutney and hoisin sauce, and the freezer was already packed with tarts, anticipating the winter evenings when they might be welcomed as the warm taste of summer, rather than greeted with groans complaining about plums again.


  They walked back to the terrace with their laden baskets to find Fizz stretched out on a sun lounger with her phone, while Will was working on his design for her studio. The extra tables had been packed away and order restored.

  ‘And then there were nine!’ called Simon from the far end of the terrace. ‘Far more manageable. I might as well set the table for whatever vegan delights you have unearthed for us. I’m guessing it involves plums.’

  ‘And cunning ways with beans,’ said Beth, ‘just for you.’

  ‘Glad to say there’s still a good chunk of that wheel of brie left to help it down. Your husband’s taking his time, Nicola. No sign of him or the bread.’

  ‘I expect he’s taken the long way round,’ said Nicola. ‘You know how he likes his exercise. Where are the others?’

  ‘Mary’s cleaning, obvs, and Leo and Doug have gone indoors to cool down. That’s the miracle of old stone walls – keeping the heat out in summer, and holding it in for the winter.’

  *

  By the time they’d set out the cheese and salads, there was still no sign of Dominic.

  ‘Straight to voicemail,’ said Simon, putting his phone down.

  ‘He may not have taken his phone,’ said Nicola. ‘I’ll check if he left it upstairs.’

  It was getting dark and she switched on the lights before making her way up the staircase and into their bedroom. Dom’s phone was on his bedside table, showing two missed calls from Simon. She tried to shake off her uneasy feeling as she went down again and out on to the terrace where everyone had now gathered. They looked up at her expectantly as she approached.

  ‘As I thought,’ she said. ‘He went out without it.’

  ‘There was probably a really long queue at the boulangerie,’ said Beth. ‘There always is when it’s a holiday. He’ll be back in no time.’

  ‘I’m sure you’re right.’

  ‘Game of cards while we wait?’ suggested Dougie, pulling a pack out of his pocket. ‘Nothing too challenging, just a quick round of Beggar My Neighbour.’

  He dealt the cards and they started playing, pretending not to be listening out for Dominic’s return.

  ‘That sounds like a car,’ said Will, putting down his cards.

  They heard a car door slam and urgent footsteps on the gravel.

  Jean-Louis was hurrying towards them. Nicola saw his sky-blue shirt first – he was still in his off-duty clothes, no tractor work for him today. Hopefully he’d have some news. Maybe he’d bumped into Dom and had a message for them as Dom had forgotten his phone, silly man. Her hopes faded as Jean-Louis approached; she could see his face was deadly serious.

  Please don’t come near, she thought. I don’t want to hear what you have come to tell me.

  ‘I am so sorry,’ he said, then faltered.

  Don’t say it, thought Nicola. This isn’t happening.

  But Jean-Louis gathered himself and carried on.

  ‘I was just driving to check on my cows and I saw a bicycle abandoned in the road, so I stopped my car to get out and take a look, and then I saw him lying there by the side of the road. He was so still, there was no movement, no sign of life . . .’

  He was looking straight at Nicola with tears in his eyes.

  Stop it, she thought. Tell this news to the others. Let it be someone else. It can’t be true.

  ‘I called the paramedics, of course, but I knew there was nothing to be done. I stayed with him until they came. I didn’t have your number; I wanted to come and find you but I thought no, I must stay with him, even though it was obvious to me . . .’

  Later, when she thought back to this moment, Nicola could only remember the sky-blue shirt coming towards her, then the darkness closing in before she lost consciousness.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  ‘Here you are – drink this,’ said Beth, sitting down next to Nicola and handing her a cup of tea. ‘I know you don’t want to, but you must.’

  Nicola sat bolt upright on the sofa, holding Dominic’s bike helmet, from which she refused to be parted. Through the blur of the hospital, the formalities, the terrible, terrible phone calls to her children, she had kept it beside her, as if it could somehow bring him back.

  ‘He always wore it, he was such a stickler, he used to be furious with me for cycling off without one. I can smell him, Beth.’

  She buried her face in the helmet, inhaling the musty smell of him, overlaid by the perfume of his shampoo, chosen by her to enhance the silver fox hair he was so proud of.

  Beth put her arms around her friend – there was nothing she could do to take away the pain. It was twenty-four hours since Nicola’s life had fallen apart and she hadn’t moved from the sofa since getting back from the hospital. They had all taken it in turns to sit with her.

  ‘Will has gone to pick up Gus and Maddie from the station,’ she said gently.

  ‘I should have gone with him.’

  ‘It’s better to meet them here. More private.’

  ‘I’ve done a crap job of taking care of their father. It wouldn’t have happened in London, would it? Not even with all that traffic, because he was on his guard, he would never have gone out without his bloody helmet. Instead of which, I let him get slack. Over-relaxed. I let him get too relaxed, Beth – it’s my fault.’

  Then, for the first time, she cried. Guttural, animal howls of grief.

  ‘It’s nobody’s fault,’ said Beth, stroking her hair. ‘It was a freak accident, a pothole in the road.’

  ‘I was so looking forward to showing the children around,’ said Nicola through her tears. ‘I could imagine their faces, picture them having their first dinner at that table, letting them hold the quails. I was going to send them up the ladder to pick the apples, take them to the seaside. Dom bought them kites, you know. He said, “I realise they’re not kids anymore but you’re never too old to fly a kite, if ever this heatwave stops and we get some breeze up.”’

  ‘I know,’ said Beth, ‘he was excited about them coming. You both were.’

  ‘And now they’re here and he’s never going to see them. They’re never going to see him again, and neither am I.’

  Beth carried on stroking her hair. If only they could turn the clock back, if only they’d toasted some stale bread, if only he’d taken a different route, one without the pothole, if only they hadn’t had that last bottle of rosé with lunch. ‘If only’: the nagging pain following every bereavement.

  ‘That sounds like them now,’ she said.

  Maddie came in first, her heart-shaped face pinched beneath her blonde fringe. Beth was struck by her resemblance to her mother; it could be Nicola in the student union, anxiously waiting to take an exam. Gus followed her in, boyish in his T-shirt and jeans.

  They’re too young to deal with this, thought Beth.

  Nicola opened her arms to her children and Beth quietly slipped away. They needed the space to be together, to grieve and to come to terms with their unfathomable loss.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  ‘Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness,’ boomed Simon. ‘What do we have this evening, oh great market gardener?’

  ‘As usual, whatever we didn’t manage to sell off the stall,’ said Nicola.

  ‘Jerusalem artichokes,’ said Beth, ‘which I have combined with Chaource cheese to make the most marvellous soup, though I say it myself.’

  ‘Aren’t they terribly windy?’ asked Leo. ‘My father would never touch them; he said they were all you could get during the war and everyone suffered the most terrible side effects.’

  ‘I doubt he tried them this way,’ said Beth. ‘I don’t think there was much Chaource lying around in the Blitz.’

  It was mid-October. Following the shocking end to the summer, they had all struggled to come to terms with how their idyll had been shattered. But life at the château was gradually settling into a reassuring routine. There were still balmy, bright days, but their lives focussed more indoors, closing the heavy velvet curtains against the dark night
s, nurturing Nicola through her loss. She was grateful for their gentle administrations, helping her to get through the days, always on hand to offer comfort and support.

  The funeral had been held in England because Nicola wanted her children to say goodbye to their father in the land where they grew up with him. She chose a woodland site on the outskirts of London: a light, natural building where the sun poured in through coloured windows and birdsong could be heard between the readings. Mourners stood in line to offer their condolences: family, friends, colleagues, people she hadn’t seen in years, whose names she barely remembered but whose faces were full of pity.

  After the funeral, her housemates returned to the château, but Nicola stayed on to be with her children. She slept in Maddie’s old room, and when Dom’s ashes were returned from the crematorium, she kept them on the chest, above the drawers where once she used to fold away her daughter’s freshly laundered clothes. She’d wake up every morning, remember he wasn’t there, and glance over to see him where she’d left him. There was some comfort in it.

  For two weeks, she lived in a haze of indecision. Their new life at the château was a shared dream, one she and Dom had built together, and one that had just died. She should move back to London, to be near her children, now they only had each other. But as the immediate drama of tragedy faded into the day-to-day, she found she had little purpose in the city she once called home. Gus and Maddie had their own lives, which carried on – as she hoped they would – and she felt that her presence as sole surviving parent only served to remind them of what they had lost. Gus seemed relieved when she announced she was returning to France. She was an incongruous flatmate in her former home and while his young lodgers had been charming and solicitous, she knew it was time to go. Maddie had been more upset and urged her to come back soon. Nicola promised she would visit often – it was such a short distance – and Maddie should come over, with John this time, in happier circumstances.

  On the ferry, she had stood on the deck so the wind blew through her hair, carrying away the worst of the hurt and encouraging her to start again. Beth and Leo were waiting for her at the port. They drove her along the familiar route and as she walked through the doors of the château to find the rest of her friends so warmly welcoming her, she knew she had come home. Mary had baked her a cake, a fallen Victoria sponge.