Mwah-Mwah

by Chloe Rayban

  ‘Face,’ I said and won the toss, so right it was.

  The road led on, looking silvery in the starlight. It was easier pedalling on tarmac and I started to have faith that we actually might see a bed that night.

  We covered several kilometres and not a single person passed. Then Matthilde slowed to a stop and listened again. Faintly in the distance I could detect the sound of some sort of vehicle rumbling ahead of us. We put on a spurt and soon caught sight of the orange light swivelling round.

  ‘Un tracteur,’ called out Matthilde. By pedalling furiously we caught up with it.

  It drew to a halt as we overtook it. I listened as Matthilde explained we were looking for Les Rochers. The driver replied in the guttural accent of the region, rolling his r’s – impossible to understand. But he got down from the cab and piled the bikes on the back.

  It was pitch-dark by the time we turned into the drive of Les Rochers. And there walking down the avenue in the gloom was a familiar figure carrying a torch – Michel.

  The farmer pulled up outside the house and Michel helped us down. Matthilde practically fell in a heap into his arms, going on and on about the dreadful experience we’d had. I climbed down too exhausted to speak.

  Madame de Lafitte came out of the house. She spoke to Matthilde quite sharply. It seemed French adults were just like English ones – they go right over-the-top when they’re worried.

  When I got up to my room I found I had a message on my mobile from my mother. I called her back.

  ‘Mum?’

  ‘How are you, poppet?’

  ‘Fine. I just got back and found your message.’

  ‘Back? It’s late. Where from?’

  ‘We went on a bike ride and got kind of lost.’

  ‘Guess what? I’ve found I can change my ticket and stay over for the weekend. You can join me in Amsterdam. We could go to the Van Gogh Museum.’

  ‘Van Gogh?’

  ‘You know, the painter you love? Sunflowers?’

  ‘I’m not so sure about sunflowers now. Aren’t they a bit kind of corny?’

  ‘He didn’t only paint sunflowers.’

  ‘Yes I know but … How would I get there?’

  ‘By train. You can go via Lille. Change there.’

  ‘Alone?’

  ‘You could do it easily and you’ll have your mobile. Then we can spend the weekend in Amsterdam and, if you want, you can come on home with me.’

  ‘But I can’t leave now.’

  ‘Hang on. I thought you hated it there.’

  ‘It’s not that bad really.’

  ‘Oh? So what’s changed?’

  ‘Nothing’s changed. I’ve just got used to it, that’s all. The weather’s nice now.’

  ‘And what’s the cousin like?’

  I hesitated. Mum had this embarrassing kind of second sight. Tell her the teensiest detail about some fanciable boy and she tends to go on and on about him.

  So I just said, ‘Not too bad.’

  ‘And you’re getting on better with Matthilde?’

  ‘Kind of.’

  ‘Oh well, in that case, by all means stay. But I thought you’d jump at the idea.’

  ‘Maybe Dad would like to join you.’

  ‘He’s far too busy.’

  ‘How’s the conference?’

  ‘Boring. It’s about compressors.’

  ‘What are they?’

  ‘You wouldn’t want to know. How’s your French coming on?’

  ‘OK, I think.’

  ‘The big test is when you start to dream in French.’

  ‘Dream! I don’t think I’ll ever get to that stage.’

  She then went into a load of advice about learning phrases and trying to think in French. Think in French – as if speaking wasn’t enough. But she dropped the idea of me going to Amsterdam. Typical of parents to try to drag you away once you’ve started enjoying yourself.

  Chapter Nine

  I woke next day to find a clear unbroken sky of pure forget-me-not blue. When I opened my window, the most incredible perfume wafted in. Seemingly overnight, the strange spooky vine had burst into life and long fronds of lilac-coloured flowers were curling over my window sill. Down the avenue, the trees weren’t looking half so scary. A fuzz of frail green leaves was unfurling along the branches.

  It had rained during the night and when I went down I found the garden all green and glittery. It smelt of new leaves and fresh grass. The rain had brought out a parade of snails who were gliding across the wet gravel. They had perfect striped shells and were the biggest, fattest snails I’d ever seen. I heard footsteps behind me and found Narcisse collecting them in a basket.

  I continued on my walk down to the moat. It had risen a couple of inches during the night and, as I approached, there was a kind of synchronised diving session from the frogs. More yellow irises had come into bloom and the dragonfly of the day before had met up with several friends. They were hovering over the water like a convoy of miniature helicopters.

  I wandered over the bridge and down the avenue keeping half an eye on Narcisse, who seemed to be gathering quite a harvest. Sure enough, when I returned from my walk, I found his basket plonked on the kitchen step filled with a highly mobile cargo. Up all sides of the basket, fat tortoiseshell snails were making a bid for freedom. This was France. I had a pretty good idea where those snails were going to end up. I was just about to help a few of them on their way when Florence came out and grabbed the basket by the handle.

  She made some appreciative noises and filled a big flat terracotta bowl with bread and milk, by way of a last supper I imagined. I watched as she tipped the snails out into the bowl and covered it with a massive flowerpot. I decided to wait a while and, when she wasn’t looking, liberate them in a field somewhere, a good long way from the kitchen.

  It was too cold to sunbathe that day and Michel came up with the bright idea of playing tennis. There was a public court nearby and he said he’d seen some rackets somewhere.

  Matthilde pointed out that there were three of us but Michel didn’t seem to think this mattered. He went off to collect the rackets while we got changed. I laced up my trainers with some misgivings. I’d chosen netball rather than tennis at school, I bet the others would be really brilliant.

  Predictably, Matthilde came down dressed for the part. She’d found a white T-shirt and shorts and looked ready for Wimbledon. Michel and I had to make do with our everyday jeans and T-shirts. He was carrying an old holdall with the rackets.

  The court wasn’t far off, half a kilometre or so down the main road, beside a municipal football field. As we approached, I saw a little old car parked beside the court and someone was knocking balls around – a lanky guy with ginger hair, a bit older than us.

  ‘Oh, there’s someone there already,’ I pointed out. Maybe I’d be let off tennis after all.

  Michel didn’t seem concerned, he continued down the road.

  Matthilde squeezed up her eyes and exclaimed, ‘Ce’naypasvrai. C’est Arnaud.’

  ‘Who’s Arnaud?’ I asked.

  Matthilde did one of her over-the-top eye-rolls and said something that I could only interpret as: ‘Don’t ask.’

  ‘A friend. ’Eez parents ’ave an ’ouse ’ere,’ said Michel. He was soon shaking Arnaud by the hand and slapping him on the back. There was a quick exchange of French between them and then Arnaud turned to me.

  ‘Bonjour,’ he said. ‘You are English?’

  I nodded, ‘Oui.’

  I couldn’t help noticing that Arnaud was dressed in immaculate tennis whites. He had hi-tech tennis shoes and one of the latest rackets. A brand-new Adidas sports bag lay on the ground with a box of bright yellow fluffy tennis balls beside it.

  As Matthilde joined us, I noticed something else – it takes one to know one – Arnaud was a blusher. He had the kind of skin that turns red at the slightest cue. As he leaned forward to give Matthilde a kiss on both cheeks, his ears turned bright scarlet.

  Matthi
lde gave Michel a look that could kill and Michel returned it with a wide grin. And I realised that this meeting was no accident. Michel must have set it up with Arnaud earlier.

  Arnaud, still visibly recovering from greeting Matthilde, led us on to the court.

  ‘OK,’ said Michel, unzipping our holdall. ‘On joue?’

  I stared down at the choice of rackets. They were old wooden ones, somewhat warped, one of them had a string missing.

  ‘We can’t play with these,’ I protested.

  ‘Pourquoi pas?’ asked Michel, gallantly taking the one with the broken string. Matthilde selected another with a set expression on her face and I took the last.

  Arnaud was busy tossing a coin and getting us sorted into pairs. I was on his side and we won the toss to serve. Luckily, he was the one doing the serving; it wasn’t my best stroke.

  Four aces scorched across the court and Arnaud and I congratulated ourselves on one game to love. Then it was Michel’s turn. The thing about a warped racket is that it makes each ball totally unpredictable. There followed the most hilarious game. Arnaud was rushing back and forth, covering the court while I stood glued to the spot, totally out of it. Game followed game and the others kept cracking up. But Arnaud insisted on stoically keeping the score, even contesting the occasional ball.

  Anyone could see that Arnaud was showing off for Matthilde’s benefit. But she was unimpressed. Half the time she wasn’t even looking in his direction. He got more and more hot and bothered as she refused to take the game seriously. But how could anyone playing with rackets like ours? Michel, Matthilde and I soon had tears of laughter running down our faces. After a particularly brilliant, if purely accidental, drop-shot that completely floored Arnaud, Michel ended up flat on the ground, helpless with laughter. Arnaud paused, taking stock of the situation. He waited till Michel had recovered and then had a quiet word with him.

  Arnaud seemed to think his services were ruling the game, so I was sent to the other side while he took on the three of us. Three to one, we were somewhat more evenly matched. We played on, changing the rules from time to time to allow for the curious behaviour of our rackets until we achieved something that vaguely resembled a match.

  When at last we admitted defeat, Arnaud took his victory modestly. We tried to keep straight faces as he packed his gear into the car looking very pleased with himself.

  As soon as he was out of earshot, we collapsed. I was laughing so hard it hurt. We walked back, hot, sweaty and with tummy muscles aching with laughter. I had to admit sport is bonding.

  That evening Madame de Lafitte and old Oncle Charles went out to play bridge with some friends in Moulins. We were left to our own devices. We messed around in the kitchen making omelettes, competing over the most outrageous fillings. Michel insisted on having sardines in his. Disgusting!

  Then after supper we played cards on the kitchen table for a bit. It was a game I didn’t understand and I had a suspicion that Michel let me win once or twice. I was just about to turn in when Matthilde and Michel started talking animatedly about something and Matthilde disappeared upstairs.

  Michel had found a torch and was signalling to me to come outside.

  ‘Why, what for?’ I asked.

  He put a finger to his lips and turned off the kitchen light.

  ‘Regarde,’ he said, pointing at the sky.

  I looked up and caught my breath. The stars were shining as bright as fireworks. I’d never seen a sky like it. There were stars upon stars upon stars stretching away into infinity in giddying spirals.

  Matthilde came out of the house carrying a rug. She seemed intent on taking Michel off somewhere. ‘On y va?’ she asked him.

  He turned to her and said something about me. Matthilde shrugged and Michel insisted that I went with them.

  There was a new moon that night. A tiny fragile arc that hardly gave any light, so it was the starlight that lit up the gardens. Out in the open it was so bright it actually cast shadows.

  I followed intrigued as Michel led us across the lawn. We crossed the stone bridge and walked down the dark avenue of trees, Michel lighting the way with his torch. He pushed through a gap in the hedge, holding the branches back for us. We set off across the fields, soft grasses swishing against our bare legs. The air was filled with the spicy scent of the wild herbs we crushed underfoot. As we skirted the meadow, I became aware of night sounds all around us – soft flutterings and scrabblings in the hedgerows. Grasshoppers and moths darted in and out of the narrow torch beam.

  Once through the meadow, the land sloped sharply upwards. We climbed for ten minutes or so. It was rocky and quite steep. We were all out of breath by the time we reached the top.

  Michel spread the rug on the ground. I looked around, I could make out the dark shapes of trees far below and a ghostly herd of white cattle moving slowly through the gloom.

  Michel pointed upwards.

  ‘Etoiles filantes,’ he said.

  ‘What’s that?’ I asked.

  ‘Stars zat fall,’ he explained. ‘We will see tonight. The first to see must make a wish.’

  Matthilde had parked herself in the middle of the rug. Michel paused, looking down at her, and said something that must have meant ‘budge over’ because reluctantly she moved a few centimetres to her left. Michel settled down beside her and pulled me down too.

  We lay on the rug, one on each side of Michel, staring up into the sky.

  I shivered. There was something scary about the vastness of it all. We were looking up into space that went on and on for ever. I saw Matthilde reach over and take Michel’s hand. And then he took mine in his other hand. His hand was warm; it was a boy’s hand, strong and slightly rough, and it brought on another rush of that giddying free-fall feeling. Which I knew was stupid. He was only holding my hand in a brotherly fashion. It didn’t mean anything.

  The three of us lay there absolutely still – waiting. Minutes ticked by. My heart was thumping so loudly in my chest I felt sure the others must have noticed. I could hear their breathing and I could feel the warmth of them through the cooling air.

  And then I saw a star falling so fast …

  ‘Look!’ I cried at exactly the same time as Matthilde called out, ‘Regarde!’

  ‘You must both wish,’ said Michel.

  I closed my eyes tight and made my wish. As I did so, I had the distinct impression that the two of us had wished the same thing.

  That night my checklist came up with more positives.

  Positives:

  1) Hot weather. France seems to get much more of it.

  2) Stars. They seem to have more of those too.

  Negatives:

  1) French boys. Not enough of them to go round.

  Chapter Ten

  The following day turned out to be Monsieur de Lafitte’s birthday. He was coming home from Paris to celebrate. Madame de Lafitte was making a big fuss over the dinner and Florence was staying late to serve it. She was preparing all his favourite things.

  In the morning Madame de Lafitte drove Matthilde and me into Moulins to buy presents. Matthilde spent ages in a bookshop and eventually chose a book about the history of hunting and had it wrapped as a ‘cadeau’ in special paper with a curly ribbon.

  Then Madame de Lafitte took us into the most amazing chocolate shop. It was one of the poshest shops I’ve ever been in. It had a ceiling painted with roses and cherubs and all the chocolates were laid out in glass display cases as if they were really precious objects like jewellery or something. The ones she was buying had real gold leaf inside, which you could eat. Madame de Lafitte said it was meant to be good for you.

  I watched as the chocolates were weighed out on oldfashioned scales and packed in a little gold-lined box with velvet on the outside. The assistant glanced at me with a smile and asked if I would like to ‘goûter’, which means ‘taste’. I nodded and she passed Matthilde and me a chocolate each to try. It was dark and delicious and you’d never have known it had metal inside.
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  I’d counted through the euros I had and was wondering what I could possibly buy which would be grand enough to give to Monsieur de Lafitte. But Madame de Lafitte said he particularly liked English tea and we managed to track down a pack of Earl Grey tea bags in a shop that sold nothing but tea, every kind, including those horrible pee tea bags I’d had in Paris.

  After that we actually did have an ice cream in the Grand Café. It wasn’t all that grand actually. In fact, it was rather old and shabby. But all the walls were lined with mirrors in fancy gold frames. Where the mirrors faced each other, your reflection was reflected back at itself. I could see thousands and thousands of me, going on and on, eating endless ice creams, getting smaller and smaller as if I was trapped in a never-ending world of glass.

  When we got back Florence was in a flap about the cooking. It was just a family meal but she was treating it as if royalty was visiting. Matthilde and I had to lay the table with a huge linen tablecloth and napkins with the de Lafitte monogram embroidered on them. The best china was taken out of the big oak cupboard in the salon. It was very heavy and also had the crest engraved on it in gold. Matthilde said it had been in the family for hundreds of years. Each place had to be laid with three glasses, two sets of knives and forks and a mysterious little implement that opened and closed like eyelash curlers with a miniature two-pronged fork.

  Monsieur de Lafitte arrived at about five. He walked straight into the salon and said he wanted to talk to Michel. I offered to go and find him for him.

  I searched the garden for ages and then it occurred to me he might be in the orchard. Pushing open the door, I called his name. There was no answer but I noticed a bird fly up with a cry of alarm from one of the trees. I went to investigate and found Michel sitting in a cleft in the trunk. He was whittling at a stick with a penknife and had an angry look on his face.

  ‘Grandpère is here,’ I called up.

  ‘I know,’ he called down, but didn’t move.

  ‘He wants to see you.’

  Michel shrugged but still didn’t make a move.

  ‘You have to come down. It’s his birthday.’