A Year in the Château

by Sarah Long

  When the last crate had been loaded into the van, Jean-Louis led Nicola up a side street until they arrived at a small bistro. They settled into a table in the window and Jean-Louis ordered a carafe of red wine while they looked through the menus.

  ‘I’ll have whatever you’re having,’ said Nicola, closing the menu.

  ‘Good, I shall order their specialities: andouillette and tripes à la mode de Caen. Then you will see why we take lunch so seriously.’

  He raised his glass to her, almost shyly, she thought.

  ‘Santé. Thank you for accepting to have lunch with me.’

  Nicola clinked glasses with him.

  ‘Pleasure. Thanks for saving me from the Anglo-Saxon curse of the sandwich.’

  ‘A sandwich is no good after a morning’s work like we have just undertaken. Maybe it is acceptable for someone who is only sitting in an office.’

  He shrugged as if such an activity was unthinkable.

  ‘I am hungry, actually.’

  Her taste buds were awakened by the delicious smells that were emitted from the kitchen every time a waiter came bursting through the swing doors.

  They talked of the market, laughed about the customer who wanted to know precisely when the Alexander apples had been harvested, as he could only eat an apple that was directly from a tree, otherwise it would have lost its crunch.

  ‘You have your colour back,’ Jean-Louis said approvingly. ‘Even though you still have your summer tan, I could see you were pale beneath – it was to be expected. But now I see once again the roses in your cheeks.’

  ‘Oh really?’ said Nicola. She was embarrassed.

  ‘A real English rose – you say that, I think?’

  ‘We do, though I never think of myself as one. An English rose to me is a young girl in a cotton-sprigged dress wearing an Alice band and long plaits, with a shy and modest manner.’

  ‘I don’t like the sound of that. I prefer my version, which is you.’

  They were interrupted by the arrival of the andouillette, presented with a flourish by the waiter.

  ‘Bon appétit,’ he said, and judging on what Nicola could see on the plate in front of her, this sounded like a challenge rather than a pleasantry. The sausage looked like a large penis, but Nicola dismissed this childish thought and cut into it.

  The smell assailed her first; she’d heard that andouillettes carry the whiff of the farmyard, but that was being too polite. It smelled of death and old people, but mostly it smelled of . . . well, shit.

  ‘It’s very robust, do you agree?’ asked Jean-Louis, enthusiastically shovelling in a mouthful.

  Then she peered at the contents, now exposed in gory cross-section. As a committed meat-eater, she was relaxed about eating all parts of an animal; indeed, it seemed contradictory to say you’ll eat a leg but not a cheek, like being a fussy cannibal.

  But this was different. Inside the animal-gut casing – again, she was fine about that – were what appeared to be writhing white worms attempting to escape.

  She felt faint and pushed the plate to one side.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘I’m the least fussy eater in the world and I’m all in favour of nose-to-tail butchery to avoid waste, but I can’t do that. I never thought I’d be defeated by a sausage.’

  Jean-Louis grinned at her.

  ‘Do you mind?’ he said, helping himself to the discarded delicacy and scraping it onto his own plate. ‘We don’t want to offend the chef; I come very often to this restaurant.’

  The tripe proved less troublesome and though Nicola wasn’t mad about the rubbery texture, she adored the rich brown gravy, wiping the bowl with a piece of bread to extract every last drop.

  They agreed that dessert would be a step too far, so Jean-Louis called for the bill, which Nicola insisted on splitting, and they stepped out into the fresh air.

  ‘There is somewhere I want to take you,’ said Jean-Louis. ‘I know you will love it, with your green hand – sorry, I mean green fingers. Do you have time?’

  ‘Yes, I have time, that is the benefit of retirement,’ said Nicola, then wished she hadn’t. She didn’t mean to remind him of their age difference. He was mid-forties, she guessed – hardly toyboy territory, but at least a decade younger than her.

  He drove her out of town, in the opposite direction from the château, following the river path towards the surrounding hills.

  ‘Oh look, there’s Chris’s place,’ said Nicola, pointing out the watermill sitting imposingly by the side of the road. It had formerly been a cheese factory and was far too large for its present use, several storeys high with windows – many of them broken – glittering in the afternoon sun. Parked in front was a collection of gypsy caravans and, oddly, a red London double-decker bus.

  ‘The American who came to your party?’

  ‘That’s the one. Do you want to call in and have a look around?’

  ‘No, I can see no benefit in acquiring old objects – and you have a château full of them already. Why does he have a bus in his garden?’

  ‘His business partner is a landscape designer; I can only assume he has a home-sick Brit as a client.’

  They drove on further into the hills, then Jean-Louis parked up on the outskirts of a sleepy village. Every village in Normandy was sleepy, Nicola had noticed. It didn’t matter where you went, you rarely saw anybody walking the streets; no sign of life apart from wood smoke rising up from the chimneys of the houses, the only suggestion that they might, after all, be inhabited.

  ‘I have brought you to the source of the river,’ said Jean-Louis, leading her to an educational panel that was mounted close to a thoughtfully provided picnic table on a well-tended expanse of grass.

  ‘It recounts the origins of the wealth of our region,’ Jean-Louis explained. ‘The mills were built mostly in the nineteenth century, when the textile industry expanded, though we had a lace and wool tradition centuries before that.’

  Nicola dutifully studied the panel. It had fascinating black and white photos of workers filing into work at the mills. Their clothes were of another age but the landscape remained largely unchanged.

  ‘But that is not what I brought you to see. I have a more practical objective. Let’s walk by the water. You see it is far smaller here at the source – a fast, shallow stream ideal for growing one of my favourite local products.’

  They walked a little way upstream, and he pointed at the river where an abundance of green weed was floating on the surface.

  ‘Watercress,’ said Jean-Louis. ‘Let’s find a stick and we can fish it out. I know how much you like foraging.’

  He found a couple of branches fallen from a nearby tree and handed one to Nicola.

  ‘Mind you don’t fall in!’ he said, grabbing her arm as she slipped down the muddy bank. They dredged up enough to fill two carrier bags that Jean-Louis produced from his pocket.

  ‘It will make a fine soup,’ he said, ‘but my favourite recipe involves Coquilles St Jacques with a watercress emulsion and topped with caviar. I’d like to make it for you. Will you allow me?’

  ‘That sounds better than andouillette.’

  ‘It is more refined,’ he said. ‘More suitable for someone with your sensibilities.’

  And then he drew her close and put his arms around her.

  It’s too soon, thought Nicola, but she didn’t pull away. The pain of the past few months were a lifetime away; she only existed now, in this moment. And she liked him very much.

  ‘I have wanted to do that since the first time I saw you,’ said Jean-Louis. ‘But I do not want to impose myself. I can wait; I am a patient man.’

  Nicola remained calmly within his embrace. As long as she didn’t respond, it wouldn’t feel like she was cheating on Dom. Though obviously he had already muddied that water. Her calmness was coupled with something else – a sense of freedom and the knowledge that there was something exciting around the corner. It was too soon at the moment, but one day she could envisage being
ready to take the next step.

  They walked back to the car, hand in hand, and he opened the passenger door for her. They drove back in intimate silence, happily united in an unspoken agreement.

  *

  ‘You dark horse, I can’t believe it! That was definitely not just two friends having lunch together,’ said Beth, lying stretched out beside Nicola on Dom’s side of the bed. ‘That was a date. And a very nice date by the sound of things!’

  Nicola had decided not to tell anyone, but the urge to share was too strong, and she wanted confirmation that she wasn’t making a horribly embarrassing mistake by even contemplating the thought of getting involved.

  ‘It wasn’t really a date. We split the bill.’

  ‘Hello! It shows how long you’ve been off the dating circuit. I think you’ll find that modern women pay their own way these days, even on first dates.’

  ‘Don’t remind me how unmodern I am. I’m acutely aware of the age difference . . .’

  ‘Age is a just a number, we’ve always agreed. And why the hell not? He’s a lovely man who clearly adores you.’

  ‘Most people would say it’s too soon.’

  ‘I’m not most people. Anyway, what is a decent period? Two years? Five years? Maybe make it ten so you wait until you’re really decrepit.’

  ‘Two months does sound scandalous.’

  ‘Rubbish, you haven’t actually done anything yet, not even been on a date – or so you claim. Anyway, I know someone who got together with her best friend’s husband just two weeks after the friend’s death! I said good on her, you know how quickly handsome widowers get snapped up – you have to get in early.’

  ‘Jean-Louis isn’t a widower.’

  ‘Apparently not. You don’t know much about him, though, do you?’

  ‘There you go – you do think it’s too soon!’

  ‘That’s not what I’m saying.’

  ‘We’re not going to rush it. And I’m certainly not telling the children yet.’

  ‘Oh, they’ll be furious, whenever you tell them,’ said Beth. ‘There’s nothing you can do about that. I was forty-two when Dad announced he’d met someone, and it still cut like a knife, even though my mum had been dead for eight years.’

  ‘We all want to believe our parents were each other’s one and only. Although at least that myth has been put to rest in the case of me and Dom.’

  ‘Which brings me to my next point. Children. Barring a mercy intervention by an Italian doctor, you’re not going to provide Jean-Louis with a bonny brace of babies.’

  Nicola shook her head.

  ‘He doesn’t want them, he already told me. He actually mentioned it in a general chat, quite soon after we met – said he wouldn’t want to become a father now he was in his forties. And when I said yesterday I was concerned about the age difference, he told me straight out that it was immaterial.’ She put on a French accent. ‘You know, Nicolette, I am not looking for someone to bear me children, I want only you.’

  ‘How adorable! You can be his Brigitte Macron! I love her and her stilletos. What a role model.’

  ‘I’m never wearing heels again, not even for him.’

  ‘Quite right. You need to hang on to your knees for as long as possible. Anyway, he evidently prefers you in wellies – more suited to his purpose.’

  ‘So you don’t think I’m acting like a deranged widow?‘

  ‘More like a love-sick teenager, I’d say.’

  Beth squeezed her friend’s hand.

  ‘It does feel exciting,’ said Nicola, ‘but it’s very sudden. I never thought I’d have these feelings again. I was with Dom for ages and never looked at anyone else when we were together. I always thought he felt the same – shows how wrong I was there . . . Anyway, let’s not go through all that again. The point is, I love the way I’m feeling right now, but I’ve no idea how it’s going to pan out. I can’t wait to see him again tomorrow but I can’t look any further ahead than that.’

  Beth looked at her in wonderment.

  ‘You’re really smitten, aren’t you?’

  Nicola nodded. ‘I really am.’

  ‘Look, none of us know what the future holds,’ said Beth. ‘If there’s one wise thing I’ve learned it’s that you must live for today. Especially at our age. Oops, sorry, there I go again.’

  ‘That’s how I feel! It brought it home to me, being back in London with Maddie and Gus. I’m thrilled about the baby, but I don’t want to spend the rest of my days looking after a grandchild. Not every day, I mean. I’d love to have proper time with the baby – maybe even lovely French holidays when they’re older – but I want to be granny babysitter, not granny nanny. I relish the freedom to spend the days as I choose. That’s why we bought this place, isn’t it? So we could live a different way, enjoying the everyday pleasures.’

  ‘Exactly. And you’ve just added the possibility of a young lover to your list of everyday pleasures.’

  ‘He’s not my lover! As I say, we’re taking things slowly.’

  ‘Slowly, slowly, catchee monkey.’

  ‘Where do you get these expressions?’

  ‘Just be happy, Nicola. That’s all I want for you. It’s what we all want for you. You know things are much better now between me and Simon?’

  ‘He told me. I’m so relieved.’

  ‘There were moments when I thought it wasn’t going to work out. We were already having problems back in London, with both of us out of work and hanging around the house all day. I worried that coming here was just pushing it away and seeking distraction. Then he was being so embarrassing, following you around like a drippy teenager – it was humiliating for me, too.’

  ‘I know, it was horrid for you.’

  ‘But he really does seem to have come to his senses. I do love him, you know, even though he’s a total arse.’

  ‘He’s your total arse.’

  ‘You mean, I’m welcome to him.’

  They laughed.

  ‘I’m so pleased you’ve sorted things out,’ said Nicola, ‘and not just for your sake. I’m being selfish here but I can’t see how I would have got through the past few weeks without you. Can you imagine how I would have coped if you’d decided to walk out of the château? With or without your Arse.’

  ‘Ah, you’re lovely,’ said Beth, giving her a warm hug. ‘Don’t worry, we’re here to stay. Both of us.’

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  The nights had drawn in, the days were at their shortest and a blast of winter weather ruled out any hope of working in the garden. Instead, the chatelains were preparing for their first Christmas in their new home. It was the unspoken understanding that this would be a painful time for Nicola; everyone wanted to make it as good as it could be for her. Maddie and Gus would soon be arriving, under happier circumstances than their last visit, driving over with John and Eva.

  In the library, before the crackling fire, Mary was taking a break from cleaning and was bent over her jigsaw, while Nicola was stretching a newly made fabric cover over her old chaise longue. She had used one of the rolls of fabric that Leo had discovered in the attic, to his intense delight. Nicola had chosen a burgundy patterned velvet for her project, while Leo had already used the vintage silver tulle to great effect in the crystal ballroom, transforming it into a winter wonderland in readiness for their Christmas celebrations.

  ‘Isn’t that just the most insanely beautiful sight?’ said Leo, as he came into the room.

  ‘Thank you, Leo,’ said Nicola, sitting back to admire her handiwork. ‘I’m pretty pleased with it myself.’

  ‘I mean that view,’ said Leo, standing by the window. ‘A pristine white carpet running down to the frozen lake, thick snow balancing on the branches of the trees – it’s like living in a Christmas card. Your chaise is gorgeous, too, Nicola, don’t get me wrong.’

  ‘I really understand hibernation for the first time,’ said Nicola. ‘It’s like being woodland creatures. Everything we need is here; we can just stay
warm and safe until spring comes.’

  Their winter preparations had been immaculate. Logs were piled high in the woodshed, the pantry was stuffed with kilner jars of orchard fruits and a new chest freezer had been installed in the arrière cuisine to store the glut of vegetables that would see them through until next year’s crop.

  Mary looked up from her jigsaw board.

  ‘Has someone just arrived? I can hear an engine running.’

  Jean-Louis appeared at the library door, in his heavy outdoor clothing. He looked adoringly at Nicola, who reacted by pointing to the chaise, splendid in its new cover.

  ‘Look, Jean-Louis, all my own work. Are you impressed?’

  He walked over to inspect it, touching her hand lightly as he approached. She squeezed it in response.

  ‘I am very impressed. I see you are a femme de l’interieur as well as being an accomplished gardener. But it is Leo I am here for.’ He turned to face him. ‘I have those branches you asked me for. Shall I bring them in?’

  ‘Ooh, heaven, yes, please!’ said Leo. ‘If you could put them in the crystal ballroom, I’m going to deck them with silver paint and snow-white decorations. It’s bringing the outside in, you see, breaking down the boundaries between exterior and interior.’

  He followed Jean-Louis to the front door.

  ‘I’d love to help you, but my shoes . . .’

  He looked down at his velvet loafers.

  ‘Don’t worry, Leo, I can manage.’

  Jean-Louis retraced his footsteps through the snow to his tractor and returned, dragging three apple branches behind him. He shook off the excess snow before carrying the branches into the crystal ballroom. Leo had already put in place old wine casks, cut in half, in which he planned to arrange them.

  ‘That’s perfect, Jean-Louis,’ he said. ‘You see how well the mistletoe works?’

  Each branch had been invaded by a perfectly round clump of mistletoe, adding variety of form and texture.