A Year in the Château

by Sarah Long

  Jean-Louis nodded. ‘I can see there is an aesthetic advantage to it, though I confess at first I could not understand why you wanted to bring these parasites into the château. For me, the logical place for branches infested with mistletoe is the bonfire!’

  ‘Sacrilege!’ said Leo. ‘Don’t you share our tradition?’

  He held one of the branches over his head and turned his cheek towards Jean-Louis, tapping it with his finger.

  ‘Bien sûr,’ said Jean-Louis, placing a hearty kiss on Leo’s cheek, ‘on s’embrasse sous le gui, we kiss beneath the mistletoe, but we only need a tiny bunch, the rest is for the fire.’

  Nicola came into the ballroom.

  ‘Oh, am I interrupting something?’

  She walked towards them and both men opened their arms to draw her in between them. She kissed them both in turn on the cheek.

  ‘It’s a Norse tradition,’ said Jean-Louis, ‘I know it from my ancestry. The goddess Frigg’s son Baldr was killed by an arrow made of mistletoe. She wept tears onto the arrow, which turned into white berries that she used on his wounds to bring him back to life! Frigg then blessed the mistletoe and promised a kiss to all who passed beneath it.’

  ‘What a charming story,’ said Leo. ‘I always thought it was to do with the Druids and infertility, but I prefer the Norse version. And now we have our own trees of hope growing in the château, bringing love and healing to everyone here.’

  ‘I must go and clear away next door,’ said Nicola, breaking away from them. Her first Christmas without Dom. There would be so many other firsts: his birthday, hers, their wedding anniversary, the anniversary of their arrival at the château. At each milestone, she would remember the two of them together at the same point last year.

  If only she’d been there beside him on the roadside, maybe she, too, might have wept tears that turned into white berries to bring him back to life.

  *

  In her bedroom, Beth was wrapping her final present. It was for Nicola, a rare edition of Baudelaire’s Les Fleurs du Mal that she had bought on a recent trip to Paris with Simon. It was a delightful weekend – they’d stayed in a small hotel on the Left Bank and browsed the book stalls lining the Seine, feeling grateful that they had each other. Dominic’s sudden death had heightened their awareness of their mortality, and the folly of wasting the time that was left to them in argument and conflict.

  ‘It’s what Dom would have wanted,’ Simon said, as he cuddled up to her in bed, and Beth laughed at his use of the cliché. It was one of their in-jokes that whenever someone died, those who were left behind defined their every action as ‘what he would have wanted’.

  Beth wrote her message on the card, which carried an image of the famous Angel of Grief sculpture, showing a winged creature draped over a tomb and weeping in despair.

  When it rains, it pours, but soon the sun shines again. Better days are ahead and here is a gorgeous volume of decadent poems to build on your massive French language skills that have already come on so far. Love and luck to you, my dearest friend. Beth

  She left it lying on top of the present while she went to find the envelope in the chest of drawers. Simon came in and picked it up.

  ‘That’s a bit maudlin, isn’t it? Hardly going to put her in the festive spirit.’ He read the message inside. ‘Nice words, though.’

  ‘That’s what we do as friends. We don’t pretend everything’s all right all the time. This Christmas is going to be horrible for Nicola. The point is we acknowledge pain and look forward to a brighter future.’

  ‘You’re so right, as always.’

  He put his arms round her and kissed her.

  ‘Speaking of fine words, dare I ask? Have you read it yet?’

  ‘Have I read what?’

  She looked at him teasingly. As part of their rapprochement, Simon had asked her if she would like to read his book. ‘When I say my book,’ he’d added, ‘obviously I mean the bit of the book that I’ve already written, not the whole thing. God no, that’s years away.’ He wanted her honest opinion, he said. He didn’t care if she didn’t like it. ‘Just tell me what you really think of it.’

  ‘As a matter of fact, I have,’ she said now. ‘I galloped through it this morning. You’re lucky I’m a professionally paced reader . . .’

  ‘And? Come on, Beth, stop tormenting me.’

  ‘I thought it was . . .’

  She deadpanned, her face displaying no emotion.

  ‘. . . brilliant!’

  ‘You did?’ He broke into a smile. ‘I’m so glad. You’re sure you’re not just saying that?’

  ‘I love it! And not just because it’s the story of a man who almost ruins his marriage by chasing a woman from his past.’

  ‘Mmmm.’

  ‘And then luckily sees the error of his ways just in time to haul himself back from the abyss! Or at least, I assume that’s what will happen – you haven’t got that far yet.’

  ‘No, no, but you’re on the right lines. I hope the plot isn’t too obvious . . .’

  ‘It won’t be to your other readers, but it is to me because I recognise the story.’

  ‘Well, they do say write what you know . . .’

  ‘And may I say how flattered I am by my portrayal! I never knew you thought those things about me.’

  Simon looked flustered. ‘You know me, I’m a bit of an emotional cripple . . .’

  ‘Although there were a few details I could have done without . . . in the annoying habit category. I admit I recognised myself there.’

  ‘In the interests of authenticity, I drew on my own experience.’

  ‘Breaking eggs into my hands to separate the yolks from the whites, which you find so unhygienic.’

  ‘You’ve got to admit that’s a bit gross.’

  ‘And clearing my throat before speaking as though I’m about to deliver a speech.’

  ‘There are plenty of endearing details in there, as well! You know I heard somewhere that every writer has a compost heap, made up of every experience they’ve ever had. It all rots away unnoticed, then it matures into source material. And as most of my experiences are with you, it stands to reason you feature so prominently in my book.’ He kneeled down before her, like a fake knight. ‘Beth, you are my compost heap.’

  She threw back her head and laughed. ‘That’s the nicest thing anybody’s ever said to me.’

  *

  On Christmas Eve, the young guests were making themselves useful in the kitchen. They’d arrived late the previous night. Eva, Maddie and Gus had piled into John’s car after work and headed straight for the Eurotunnel. Maddie shared the driving along the dark motorways, untroubled by the snow until the final stretch down country roads, when John had to use his chains after a wheel became stuck. It was a good job he was so sensible, they agreed – he was proper father material, keeping snow chains in the boot of his car.

  It was the second visit for most of them, but John’s first. Nicola’s eyes had filled with tears as she welcomed them in out of the darkness, remembering the last time they had come through that door, in such different circumstances. High summer, blistering heat, numbed with grief.

  ‘What’s this we’re listening to?’ asked Dougie, frowning at the potato he was peeling. He held the peeler in a way that suggested he’d never seen one before, which was entirely possible. ‘It doesn’t sound familiar.’

  ‘It’s “Christmas in the Dogghouse”, Dougie,’ said Gus, expertly slicing carrots into batonnets. ‘Do you like it? It’s by Snoop Dogg.’

  Dougie shook his head in wonderment. ‘Extraordinary, this new music. And the names!’

  ‘It’s not new, this is ancient,’ said Maddie. ‘It’s a song from our childhood! I’ll be playing this to our baby when it’s old enough, as a nostalgic throwback to Christmases past.’

  ‘We’ve come a long way from Nat King Cole’s “Chestnuts Roasting on an Open Fire”,’ said Dougie.

  ‘Speaking of which, who wa
nts to do the worst job in the world?’ said Nicola, moving a hot saucepan of chestnuts from the gas ring onto the crowded table. The kitchen was cleaner than when they moved in, but still basic: an old range cooker, with a chaotic variety of pans hanging from a string attached across the ceiling. They had become accustomed to it, though, and were increasingly of the opinion that nothing needed changing.

  ‘Someone needs to peel the skins off while they’re still warm.’

  ‘I will,’ said John.

  ‘Good boy,’ said Nicola. ‘What a very suitable young man you are to be fathering my grandchild.’ She kissed the top of his head and exchanged a happy smile with Maddie. Everything was going to be all right after all. She was sure of it now.

  *

  Next door, Leo and Fizz were putting the finishing touches to the dining-room décor. In contrast to the white and silver of the crystal ballroom, with its ghostly mistletoed trees and sparkling frost effect, the dining room was designed in rich greens and crimson – a dark forest glade offering warm shelter.

  ‘I love the way the reds play against the bronze and green velvet curtains,’ said Fizz. ‘Fancy us finding them packed away upstairs.’

  ‘Madame de Courcy told me she’d put them away one spring in order to hang those horrid thin drapes, then forgot all about them. We should keep them up, assuming she doesn’t reclaim them this evening! This décor is how I want this room to be permanently. The trees in the crystal ballroom are obviously just a bit of seasonal fun, but what we’ve done in here is for keeps.’

  He stepped away from the table to admire the room. Taking his inspiration from the legendary French designer Jacques Garcia, he had focussed on his signature rich colours; the red was dominant and different shades of green harmonising. But he had added lighter touches of his own.

  ‘We don’t want to look like we’re stuck in the 1990s,’ he said to Fizz. ‘This is maximalism revisited for the modern age.’

  ‘That looks pretty cool,’ said Eva, coming towards them. She had risen late, missing breakfast, and was wearing her Christmas jumper, featuring reindeer and snowmen.

  ‘Certainly cooler than me,’ she said, twirling around so they could admire her tasteless sweater from all angles. ‘I’m taking a style break for the holidays. Note the necklace – that’s my other naff seasonal accessory.’

  Around her neck was a thin necklace of narrow multicoloured lightbulbs, which flashed on and off.

  ‘I love it,’ said Fizz. ‘It’s so retro kitsch.’

  ‘I should put you on the top of one of my Christmas trees,’ said Leo. ‘You’d sit nicely above the mistletoe.’

  ‘I saw those branches on my way through – they look fantastic! But don’t we have a proper old-fashioned Christmas tree as well?’

  ‘Not this year,’ said Leo. ‘We wanted to make it a little different.’

  ‘But I want everything to always be the same,’ Eva complained, putting on a cross face. ‘I’m the classic spoilt only child and I decree that Nothing Must Change!’

  ‘Everything has changed for Nicola,’ said Leo.

  ‘Of course, poor thing,’ said Eva, softening. ‘She looks so much better, though. I haven’t seen her since the funeral.’

  ‘She’s doing very well,’ said Leo. ‘We’re all looking after her.’

  ‘I’m sure you are,’ said Eva. ‘Hey, Fizz, what about you and your massive profile! I can’t go on YouTube without falling over your stuff. It’s brilliant!’

  ‘Thanks, Eva,’ said Fizz. ‘It’s keeping me entertained and I’m really building up a following now – it seems there’s a lot of people out there who are keen to embrace their inner Mademoiselle Bovary. Your mum has been a brilliant help, by the way. She was instrumental in getting that Le Déjeuner sur l’herbe photo done, which is when it really kicked off.’

  ‘She loved it, she told me. I’m glad to see her and Dad getting on so much better – it warms the cockles of my hard little heart to see it.’

  ‘There’s nothing hard about your heart,’ said Fizz. ‘Come with me, let’s go next door by the fire and you can tell me all about your love life. I’m starved of all that chat out here in the rural wilderness with only old people to talk to.’

  Eva laughed. ‘You love it here among your old people, I can tell you do!’

  *

  Some hours later, Gus and Maddie were put in charge of laying the table, setting out cutlery and multiple glasses as instructed by Leo, taking care not to disrupt the complicated central decorations involving holly, iridescent shot-silk ribbons, antique glass baubles and more candles than anybody would have thought possible.

  ‘I guess there’s safety in numbers,’ said Gus to Maddie, flicking through the scarlet place cards, which Mary had inscribed with gold ink in her meticulous Gothic script. ‘With sixteen of us for dinner, there’s not much chance of Mum brooding quietly in a corner.’

  ‘I thought we’d be doing the big celebration tomorrow,’ said Maddie. ‘As far as I’m concerned, Christmas Eve is for wrapping up presents and watching telly. Oh, and drawing up the cooking timetable. Do you remember Dad’s lists?’

  ‘How could I not!’

  Dominic had always loved Christmas, and got deeply involved in its organisation. Every year he would bring out his notebook, containing a detailed history of the cooking methods employed over the decades. The weight of the turkey, the oven temperature, roasting times, whether or not it was covered in foil, and the family’s verdict. The notebook as a piece of Christmas ritual was as precious as the worn old stockings they used to hang out at the end of their beds.

  ‘Oh, Maddie, it’s so awful, isn’t it?’ Gus put down the place cards and turned to her. ‘Knowing we’ll never see him again. Most of the time, you know, I just get on with it, and then suddenly it hits me.’

  ‘I know.’

  She put her arm around his shoulder, then pulled herself back into brisk mode.

  ‘Anyway, it is what it is. This year, you can forget the turkey and Dad’s notes. It’s goose. And it’s not even on Christmas Day, it’s a day early! But on reflection, I think it’s great, don’t you? Apparently in France they always celebrate it on Christmas Eve, and it’s better to go along with that than being stuck in our rut, wishing Dad was with us.’

  ‘I guess. You know she’s invited the farmer – what’s his name?’

  ‘Jean-Louis,’ said Maddie, picking his personalised name card from the pile and placing it in its allocated position. She noticed he would be sitting next to her. ‘She talks about him a lot,’ she added. ‘Do you think there’s something going on there?’

  Gus looked horrified.

  ‘Don’t be obscene – Dad’s barely cold in his grave! And he’s much younger than Mum. Anyway, there are other infiltrators. The former owner, Madame de Courcy, for one – she’ll be sitting on my right. Mum said to make sure she doesn’t put the cutlery in her bag – she’s known to be a little light-fingered, apparently.’

  ‘That’s the landed gentry for you – tight as anything,’ said Maddie. ‘Look at Leo. He’s the first to admit he experiences physical pain whenever he has to spend money.’

  ‘Madame de Courcy’s nephew is also coming. He’s visiting her from Paris,’ said Gus. ‘Beth told me the old lady was thrilled to be invited. Back in her old home, with other people doing the cooking and paying for the heating.’

  ‘I rest my case – she sounds like a right old Scrooge,’ said Maddie. ‘The other guest is Chris, the hippie who sold them that weird wardrobe. Now largely emptied of Dad’s clothes – I think Mum couldn’t wait to get rid of them after the Painful Discovery.’

  She and Gus had talked a lot about the revelation of their father’s affair, and agreed there was little to add. ‘We’ll never know the full story,’ Gus had said. ‘Dad’s dead and that’s the real tragedy. The rest doesn’t matter.’

  ‘That’s one topic that will be off limits this evening,’ he said. ‘There, the table looks wonderful. I think we’ve earned a
glass of champagne, don’t you? Sorry, I mean sparkling elderflower in your case.’

  *

  The réveillon de noel was the pinnacle of their culinary year, a succession of riches reflecting the serious food culture of their adopted homeland. Blinis with caviar and smoked salmon, oysters, foie gras on pain d’epices with his glass of sauternes (they suspended their conscience for the night), goose, cheese, and finally, the bûche de noel, a rich chocolate moussey log that was so much better than Christmas pudding – according to John, who managed three helpings. A token doll’s-sized Christmas pudding had also been offered, together with mince pies, which the French guests were obliged to sample. Madame de Courcy, her nephew Max and Jean-Louis were of one opinion here, leaving their bowls untouched after sampling half a spoonful.

  Jean-Louis was the last guest to leave, and by the time Nicola returned from showing him out, the others had left the table and were sprawled around the crystal ballroom, Leo claiming he would never eat again, while Simon wondered if he could just manage another tiny spoon of runny Vacherin cheese to help down his calvados digestif.

  ‘You took your time,’ Simon teased her. ‘Did you walk him home?’

  ‘We were just chatting,’ said Nicola casually, sitting down next to Maddie on the sofa, beneath the silvery apple branch.

  Maddie turned to her mother.

  ‘He’s lovely,’ she whispered, so nobody else could hear. ‘We had such a great conversation over dinner. I was glad you put him next to me. I’m assuming that was deliberate?’

  Nicola was lost for words. To her embarrassment, she realised she was blushing. On the doorstep with Jean-Louis, she had suddenly seen the way forward for them, the perfect solution for their future. It wasn’t a question of her leaving her friends at the château to move in with him – that was unthinkable. Nor could she expect him to move in with her; he belonged on the farm – that was obvious. Instead, they would keep both their homes, and visit each other in an ongoing series of date nights. A fulfilling courtship that would continue for the rest of their lives; it was incredibly romantic. She hadn’t said anything to him about it, and she certainly didn’t want to discuss it now with Maddie. Luckily, they were distracted by Dougie rising to his feet in front of the fireplace.