by Jamie Ivey
Meanwhile, I'd endured an identical length of stay, in a draughty, dank room with a succession of unsavoury room-mates. Gradually my stomach returned to normal and the midwives judged I was strong enough to look after wife and child.
It was therefore with great relief that I pushed open the door to our house to be greeted by the stale musty smell of absence. We'd left the underfloor heating on, and inside it felt like the height of summer. Two half-full mugs of coffee waited on the sideboard, a magazine lay open on the table and the cushions on the sofa were a disordered mess. In the corner of the room the Christmas tree had rained brittle brown needles onto the presents below and on my desk there was a pile of invoices I'd promised to settle.
The unexpected heat woke Elodie and she regarded us with wide unblinking blue eyes. Setting her down, Tanya showed me the ritual she'd learnt in the hospital. First a sterile fluid to cleanse the eyes and nose, then an antiseptic wipe for the remains of the umbilical cord, a change of nappy and into new clothes. What surprised me was the speed with which I'd bonded with my new daughter. The elements of parenthood which had always terrified me – the screaming and the nappies – seemed incidental, an irrelevance. I fished a bottle of wine from the rack, uncorked it and poured two glasses.
'Cheers to Elodie,' we chorused.
Tanya took a small sip. 'Do you realise what day it is?'
I shook my head.
'Christmas Eve, and we don't have a scrap of food in the house.'
All across the valley French families would be sitting down to the largest feast of the year: platters of fruits de mer, the obligatory foie gras, a roasted capon (a large castrated rooster) with truffle gravy, salad, cheese, and then – wait for it – not one, not two, but thirteen desserts, representing Christ and his disciples. For once the wine would not be the local BIB (bag in box) but a fine red from one of the region's best vineyards. Then those that could still walk would drag themselves off to the village church for Mass, before returning home and collapsing into bed and, judging from the empty January streets, hibernating for a month.
Instead, Tanya and I made do with some bread from the freezer and some mouldy cheese. Afterwards I was overcome by a sudden sense of guilt. Elodie's room lay empty. I'd cleared it out in preparation for decorating in January. The walls were a sterile white, the floor bare and the place musty and unsuitable for a baby. Leaving Tanya asleep on the sofa, I mopped the floor, retrieved children's posters and paintings we'd picked up in local attic sales and arranged them as best I could on the walls. Suspending a mobile from the ceiling took an annoying half an hour as all the string became entangled, but I worked with a blinkered determination.
It was either the electric screwdriver or my wails of despair that finally woke Tanya. She peered round the door frame to find me on the floor, amid the infernal combination of nails, screws and an incomprehensible instructional booklet printed on cheap white paper. I had reached diagram 13A of 15 and discovered one misplaced screw at step 2B. I was exhausted and there was no way Elodie's cot was fitting together unless I dismantled everything and started again.
Tanya came over and ruffled my hair. 'It's very sweet,' she said, kissing my forehead, 'but she's sleeping in the Moses basket.'
Late on Christmas morning a blue Citroën 2CV came dipping down the track towards our house.
'It's Madame Grimaud,' Tanya said excitedly, smiling.
Madame Delphine Grimaud was our fairy godmother. Born in Paris, she made a career in television before retiring to the region and buying a vineyard. Eccentric but adorable, she'd somehow managed to create one of the region's best wines – a boutique 100 per cent Cabernet.
When we'd first moved to the area we'd been summoned to her château. A perfumed envelope with a pink satin tie had contained a handwritten invitation – she'd heard of the English couple selling rosé in the French markets and wanted to meet us. For some reason she took to us and the presents never stopped flowing after that – care packages of olive oil picked and bottled on her estate, or lavender essence to ward off the scorpions. Scarcely a week went by when there wasn't a little something on our doorstep.
'My darlings, how are you?' A long Armani-jean-clad leg swung out of the car. 'I heard all about it – terrible, simply terrible. How did you survive all that ghastly hospital food?' Next out of the car was a lit Gauloise, then another leg, until finally Madame's face emerged, wrinkle free and ageless thanks to the attention of Paris's best plastic surgeon. Trailing as much ermine as a monarch on state business, she swept towards us, extending a gloved hand. Poking out from the heavy folds of her fur coat were the wet inquisitive nostrils of her tiny white pet dog, Fifi, a bichon frise. Brown-eyed, with delicate features and exquisitely coiffed, Fifi was the canine mirror of his mistress. To strangers he was a snarling ball of fanged anger, but with us these days he was docile and friendly, eagerly licking my outstretched hand.
'Now, where is the little crevette?' Delphine said, employing the familiar French name for a baby.
'Happy Christmas, Delphine,' said Tanya, warmly embracing our friend. 'Come on in for a drink.'
'Bah non, I've come to whisk you away to the village, for the annual drink – c'est le vin d'honneur. Mais first – the presents.'
Opening the boot of the 2CV Delphine clasped a huge carrier bag, branded with the name of the most expensive baby shop in Aix. Inside there were little bonnets, Babygros, dresses and trousers.
'I grabbed a little of everything. One must always look one's best, even if one is only a few days old.' In a single movement she stubbed out her cigarette and whirled Elodie into the air. 'Eh ma crevette, comme tu es jolie.'
As usual it was proving hard to get a word in, with Madame sweeping us along with her joie de vivre. Following the baby clothes from the boot of her car was a feast to dwarf even the one we'd planned. Home-made foie gras – although we were never sure whether it was Madame or one of her legion of servants who was responsible – a slow-cooked daube, half a salmon baked with fennel, a Hungarian goulash and a tarte Tatin for eight.
'With a new baby you are not going to have much time,' offered Madame by way of explanation. 'The daube is from Olivia, the salmon from Pierre; we've all pulled together. Oh, and the tarte Tatin from the traiteur – I just couldn't resist.'
Together with Tanya she arranged the food neatly in our fridge and before long it was replete, a proper Christmas larder. I have to admit I was pathetically grateful; our bland desolate lunch had metamorphosed into a gourmet experience, and the prolonged hug I bestowed on Delphine made the old pro blush.
It may not be comfortable (in fact it's anything but), it may not be environmentally friendly (and judging from the cloud of diesel that erupted from the exhaust, it wasn't), but undoubtedly quite the best way to arrive for a Christmas drink in a rural French village is by 2CV.
The narrow country lanes are free from bullying 4x4s, and there's just the cinematographic stream of the countryside passing slowly through the rattling windows, a glimpse of a church spire here, an isolated old farmhouse there, an olive grove, and the white giant of Mont Ventoux in the background.
The engine prattles along, with each gear change inducing a geriatric chassis-shaking spasm and each hill a hacking wheeze reminiscent of a forty-a-day smoker. All this grease and grime, the low-slung brittle floor, the tin thin doors, somehow makes you part of the journey. Distance is still something to be conquered, and safe arrival to be celebrated.
Unless, of course, you happen to have a four-day-old baby, in which case I warn you that such a journey may induce mild hysteria.
Shaken and stirred we arrived in the Provençal village we'd come to cherish. The bedraggled hairdresser's which doubled as a coiffure chien, the boulangerie with its erratic opening hours and the rickety old Bar du Centre, which stirred from its slumber in the summer and doubled as a restaurant. Apart from these three gloriously decayed businesses there was little to go to the village for – perhaps a walk to enjoy the shade of the tight cobbl
ed streets and the mellifluous play of the fountains, or a stolen hour in the shade of the plane trees taking on members of the club de boules. There was a reassuring sense of timelessness to the village; the world could whirl ever onwards, but here a blackberry would always be something picked in the hedgerows.
The crowd at the bar erupted with applause as we arrived. A champagne cork popped, flying in a celebratory arc over Elodie's makeshift carrycot, and a fountain of fizz flowed into mismatched glasses. Agricultural labourer and vigneron, cleaning lady and homeowner; all stood together saluting the new arrival.
'Santé!'
The women quickly surrounded Elodie, each in turn asking to hold the little crevette. It wasn't a flattering name but even I had to admit she was just like a little prawn, all pink and curled up.
'How much does she weigh?' asked Madame Parmentier, the wife of the boulanger and the source of all gossip in the village. 'How long was the labour?'
'Two and half kilos, and it took six hours.'
'You look back in shape already,' added Vivienne, the owner of the bar, who was overdressed as usual, notorious for taking her sartorial cues from Cannes rather than rural Provence. She rested a curious hand on Tanya's belly. 'I know an excellent place for rééducation.'
'Rééducation?' queried Tanya.
The women glanced at me and led Tanya away to a corner of the bar.
Ange, a local builder, slapped me on the back with a disproportionate amount of force. It was the sort of blow appropriate for ramming a stone plinth into place, but no way to greet a human. My bones rattled along with the village bells, which were just striking midday.
'Heard you had a bit of a problem with the steak tartare,' he said, handing me a large pastis to replace the empty champagne glass. 'My advice to you – have another one as soon as possible. You have to kill the enzyme that caused the problem; leave it too long and you'll never be able to eat the dish again.' Despite the somewhat dubious reasoning Ange looked genuinely distressed – as if my bout of food poisoning was somehow more significant than Elodie's birth.
'It was terrible,' I confessed, playing along and enjoying the attention. 'Still, you're right, best to give it another go. A life without steak tartare…' I left the sentence hanging, enjoying the Gallic shrug of agreement.
'Best one I ever had was in Paris,' confided Ange. 'Rich client wanted to discuss an extension. The meat was diced at the table, you could choose more or less of each herb, an extra twist of the pepper grinder, an additional squirt of Tabasco – you get the idea. Magnifique!'
The Christmas drink in the Bar du Centre was one of my favourite events of the year. There were plenty of other occasions when residents got together to celebrate their communal life – Bastille Day, the end of season fête, the women's association's annual pesto soup – but typically they were more formal, with temporary tables positioned across the village square and seating plans posted outside the mairie for people to sign their names on. The same groups always stuck together, meaning the opportunities to make new friends were fairly limited.
However, the Christmas drink was an altogether different occasion. Our chauffeur Delphine, perhaps the richest and most well-known resident of the valley, was sitting at the bar, regaling anyone who cared to listen with stories of her TV-presenting days – her favourite being the moment the president tried to proposition her.
'His hand was halfway up my skirt and we were live.' She smiled and patted Fifi on the head. 'No man has ever looked so happy discussing the fiscal deficit.'
As always, the mayor had put some money behind the bar, and the rest Vivienne the owner donated as a thank you to her clientele. There were even nibbles; a bowl of garlic cloves marinated in oil to take away the edge, some spiced chickpeas dusted with parsley and, rather incongruously, a huge bowl of popcorn. There is nothing like free food and drink, and the bar bubbled with different conversations.
'I'm telling you, she's twenty years younger.'
'Bah non!'
'Bah oui!'
'I've never seen him so sprightly, even hunting again.'
The theme switched. 'Twenty boar already this year. They've even been sighted at the basin.'
'Not been there for a decade.'
'Bah oui.'
'It's the drought.'
One of the pleasures of being a foreigner was that nobody particularly expected me to contribute. I could sit, sip on my drink, occasionally nod my head and take everything in; the smoke-stained mirror, the flaking paint on the chairs, the smell of once-a-year Christmas aftershave, and the lingering odours of the hunting dogs.
Three years ago when I'd first walked into the place, heads had swivelled, conversations stopped and I'd felt about as welcome as a vampire at a convention of virgins. These days a drink was poured without me even asking. Somehow I'd graduated to the status of semi-local.
Tourists drank beer out of huge litre mugs, second homeowners out of pretty 25-cl branded glasses and regulars out of wine glasses or whatever else was to hand. There was a set price for the first two drinks; for the third you just handed over whatever you thought appropriate. Sitting at the bar for an hour or so with a copy of La Provence was one of my pleasures in life. I hardly read an article; instead I just drank in the atmosphere, eavesdropping on slices of local gossip and revelling in the odd piece of theatre, such as the day two live chickens got loose and emptied the place.
The only downside to the bar was Serge, an unpleasant man who usually occupied a seat in the corner. Ignoring the ban, he smoked the occasional cigarette, letting the stubs smoulder between his fingers until his flesh began to burn. Always unshaven and wearing the same pair of dirty jeans and a jacket, he stared at the rest of the patrons with eyes that never seemed to focus. Even when I looked directly at him he refused to avert his gaze. I'd once enquired what was wrong with him and been told that a decade ago foreigners had bought his parent's house. The sale took place before the stunning growth in prices and Serge had been embittered ever since. Thankfully, he was absent on Christmas Day.
Ange had by now moved on to the delicate subject of the best egg to bind the steak tartare with – Bresse chicken, goose or quail.
'The flavour of the quail is definitely more subtle. The problem is you need so many of them. Goose, on the other hand, has something of the richness of quail, but chicken is definitely the poorest.'
I was halfway through my second pastis and Ange and I had switched to the dilemma of whether to use shallot or onion in the mix, when Tanya signalled that it was time to get Elodie home.
Delphine took a long final draw of her drink. 'Come on, my young ones,' she said, putting a protective arm around both our shoulders and leading us into the crisp air.
The journey home was an uncomfortable one for me, and not just because of the suspension.
'Il faut le faire,' Delphine said with surprising urgency, reviving the exclusively female conversation from the bar. 'You know men – eyes for anything in a skirt, and those muscles aren't going to come back magically.'
I blushed.
'Ignore those women in the bar, you should see my man in Paris, go shopping at the same time. We'll make it a double date – I'll have a refresher session and we'll lunch at Bofinger, it's just round the corner.' Delphine roared with laughter and nearly crashed into a plane tree, swerving across the road and temporarily losing the rear end of the car.
'Is rééducation what I think it is?' I asked as we pulled to a stop on our drive.
'Absolutely, and a hundred per cent funded by the French state. We are a nation of great lovers and we have a reputation to uphold,' said Delphine, enjoying my discomfort as she said goodbye.
Gathering Elodie in our arms, we retreated inside for our gourmet lunch, happy in the knowledge that the only education to be discussed for the rest of the day was our daughter's.
Chapter 4
January is a tough month in Provence. It's bitterly cold, windy, overcast, damp and generally unpleasant. Stone-fringed basins
freeze and snow blocks the mist-cloaked mountains. The weather saps the spirits and the lifeless landscape grinds on the mind. Skeletal rows of vines dominate a desolate panorama. Fingers of discarded growth lie limp on the muddy ground and the wire trails, usually hidden by the verdant summer foliage, call to mind a battlefield rather than a vineyard. In almond orchards, discarded husks hang from leafless branches. Even the silvery leaves of olive trees are blighted by withered reminders of the long-forgotten harvest.
Dogs kicked out into the cold bark occasionally but their cries dissolve in the pervading stillness. Carrion hawks sit in eager, wind-blasted vigil but only the wild boar, driven by hunger from the hills, move below. Cicadas hide deep underground, the combined heartbeat of millions causing barely a tremor.