by Chloe Rayban
He placed them, one by one, in front of me.
‘Well?’ I asked, wondering wildly what he thought of them.
He looked at me with a perfectly straight face and said, ‘Incroyable.’
I looked at him doubtfully. ‘You don’t like?’
‘No! I say “incroyable” – ’ow you say mind-blooming!’ ‘Mind-blowing!’
‘Yes!’
We then went into a long mutual fan session about the band. I think I impressed the socks off him by telling him I’d actually got hold of a white label of theirs that hadn’t been released yet.
* * *
After breakfast I went and stretched out on the one good sunlounger, which was free for once. I settled down with a sunhat over my face to keep out the glare. I felt incredibly lazy, even ready to doze off. I hadn’t had that much sleep the night before. I could hear the faint sound of Florence’s radio coming from the kitchen and the clip clip clip of shears as Narcisse trimmed the hedge. The hat smelt deliciously of hot straw and, when I closed my eyes, little swirling patterns of red and green danced across my visual field.
I lay there reliving that moment in the corridor last night. In my new version – the action-replay of the kiss – it had been intentional. In fact, it was even better in slow motion. It lingered rather longer than the original.
I felt a shadow fall across me. The hat was lifted off. Matthilde stood over me looking bored and out of sorts. Obviously, I wasn’t going to get any peace.
‘Eef you lie there you will be burned,’ she said.
‘I’ve put on loads of sun cream.’
‘Grandmère wants us to go to ze market.’
True enough, Madame de Lafitte was walking across the lawn with a basket in her hand. She wanted us to buy eggs from a particular farmer. It seemed we were expected to walk there. Matthilde was just doing a big moan about it being too far when Michel emerged from the house, coming up behind his grandmother.
Madame de Lafitte turned and a few words were exchanged. I expected she was going to give Michel a hard time about the night before, but instead she gave him a kiss on both cheeks and handed him the basket. I had a sneaking suspicion that she was providing Michel with an excuse to get out of the way while his grandfather calmed down.
Michel seemed only too happy to walk to the village. He turned to me and said briefly, ‘Tu viens avec moi?’
He’d said ‘tu’, which clearly meant that he was only asking me to go with him, not Matthilde. I got to my feet expectantly. All of a sudden Matthilde didn’t think it was so far any more. She took the purse from her grandmother and asked what else she wanted us to buy.
We took a short cut leading across the fields. A path led alongside the moat and we soon came to a weir where the river fed fresh water into it. Michel showed off a bit walking along the top of the weir the way boys do, making it look twice as dangerous as it was. I pretended to ignore him but Matthilde made a big fuss about him slipping off and getting drowned.
Our path soon branched away from the river and led between meadows with cows in them. We had to climb a fence and Matthilde wanted to be helped over. It was a pretty easy fence actually and I swung over it with no problem.
Michel raised an eyebrow as he lifted Matthilde down and then he winked at me and made a big play at pretending he’d put his back out, which made her furious. She didn’t have any trouble getting over the next fence.
As we walked along, I hoped Michel wouldn’t mention the film we’d watched the night before and he didn’t. But the two of us kept yawning and Matthilde gave us a curious look.
Our route took us through a field full of young bullocks and they started following us. Matthilde and Michel were obviously used to cows and didn’t seem to worry. But I could hear their hoofs pounding on the ground behind me. The hairs rose on the back of my neck as the sound of their hoofs and even their breathing drew closer. Every impulse told me to run. I was making a dash for the fence when Michel caught me by the arm and swung me round to face them. To my intense relief the bullocks backed off in a huddle looking stupid.
Matthilde was in fits. ‘Pauvre ’Annah. Elle avait peur,’ she said, pretending to be amazed that I should be scared. It was her turn to exchange glances with Michel this time.
‘No I wasn’t,’ I lied. But I guess when it comes to making fools of ourselves, Matthilde and I were now one-all.
The village was in a festive mood when we arrived. Accordion music was being played over loudspeakers and stalls with bright awnings had been set out on either side of the street. There were people selling clothes and bric-a-brac as well as fruit and vegetables and there was a man who kept bees who had a display of honey and soap and beeswax candles. I bought a bar of handmade soap that smelt of chocolate for Mum and looked around the market for something to take home for Dad. Eventually I settled on a smoked sausage crusted with chillies.
The farmer we bought the eggs from had a crate of newborn chicks. Matthilde wanted to buy one to make up for not having Edith. But Michel insisted it wouldn’t be fair bringing up a chicken in a Paris flat. They had a bit of an argument about it.
Once we’d done the round of the stalls, Michel said he was going to treat us to a drink in the café. The bar was full of farmers in muddy boots drinking red wine. The place smelt of cigarette smoke and garlic and cows. There was a low buzz of French voices punctuated by the occasional burst of rough laughter. Matthilde and Michel spent a long time deciding what we were going to drink and eventually settled on a bright green syrup which the barman topped up with fizzy water and ice cubes.
We took our drinks outside and sat at a table in the sun. As I took my first sip, Michel lifted his glass and chinked it against mine and said, ‘ ’Ere’s looking at you, kid’, which was a quote from the film we’d watched. The way he looked at me over the glass made me think that the kiss last night hadn’t been a mistake at all. I felt myself going hot and cold all over.
Matthilde noticed and frowned, saying, ‘Quoi?’ Michel mumbled something about it being from a film, which seemed to satisfy her.
The green drink tasted oddly of peppermint and I know that, as long as I live, I will never ever taste peppermint without thinking of that moment.
I’d finished my drink and was savouring the lingering minty taste and the warmth of the sun when a car drew up and hooted at us. Matthilde shaded her eyes and then said, ‘Mais nonsaypajoost, c’est Arnaud!’
Arnaud climbed out of the car and came over to our table. He shook Michel by the hand and kissed both of us and stood awkwardly waiting to be invited to join us.
Matthilde got up from her seat and gave me a hard look, making it plain that we were about to leave. I grabbed the basket and got up too.
Arnaud took the basket, saying, ‘You want me drive you back to Les Rochers?’
Michel nodded. ‘Pourquoi pas?’ He went and opened the front passenger door for Matthilde, and put the basket on her lap. He paused and said to me, ‘I think, ’Annah, we like to walk, no?’
Arnaud climbed into the driving seat with a grin. ‘D’accord. A bientôt.’
As they drove off Matthilde sent a resentful look in our direction. Poor Arnaud. Matthilde was not the ideal person to have a crush on.
‘I ’ope you like to walk,’ said Michel.
‘Oui, oh yes, that’s fine,’ I said, trying to sound casual, trying to ignore the little tingles of anticipation that were running up and down my spine.
‘Arnaud, ’ee like Matthilde,’ he said by way of explanation.
‘So I noticed.’
We walked on in silence for a while, my mind racing. Had Michel actually suggested we walk back together to have some time alone with me? Or was he simply giving Arnaud a break? I scrutinised him out of the corner of my eye. He walked at some distance, idly kicking a stone, giving no indication of one or the other.
Then abruptly he broke the silence, asking, ‘You ’ave seen my grandfather today?’
I shook my head. ‘No. He mus
t have gone out before I was up.’
He kicked another stone, harder this time.
I could sense that he wanted to talk about the row of the night before, so I prompted, ‘Matthilde said the argument was about school.’
Michel nodded. ‘My father ’ee want me study classics, old stuff, so to become a lawyer.’
‘And you don’t want to?’
‘Eez so boring. Can you imagine? You must learn all these books. That means hours and hours at a desk …’
‘And your grandfather, he wants that too?’
Michel nodded. ‘My father ’ee send me ’ere to think it over.’
‘I see.’
He started walking faster. I practically had to run to keep up with him. ‘So what do you want to do?’
He continued at that speed, staring hard at the ground. ‘What I want is to learn electronics, infotech, stuff that is useful …’
‘Useful for what?’
He slowed down, talking earnestly now. ‘You really want to know? I want to work in films.’
I stared at him. ‘Doing what?’
He shrugged. ‘Actor, director, lighting, camera, I don’t mind … anything.’
‘But films are really difficult to get into.’
‘I know. But all this study is a waste of time. I can start at the studios, doing leetle jobs, ’elping out.’
‘But your father wouldn’t like that?’
He frowned angrily. ‘They want me to go the Grandes Ecoles. ’Ave a profession.’
‘My dad’s a teacher. He says it’s best to let people choose their own career, that way they work harder.’
‘In France eez not the same. You ’ave to learn all ze boring ’istory, philosophy, classics, to ’ave respect.’
‘Isn’t there anyone on your side? What about your mother?’
‘My mother agree with me. It make big trouble. That eez also problem. They say eez my fault.’
‘I suppose your parents want what’s best for you,’ I said, hoping to calm him down.
He swung round abruptly to face me. ‘Even you, you do not understand!’
‘Well yes, I do. At least I think I do. It’s just what you want to do is so difficult.’
‘Then I try, I work. I make it ’appen,’ he said stubbornly.
‘Maybe,’ I said haltingly, ‘you could do something with your music.’
He flushed with pride. ‘Last year, when I was on ’oliday in the Midi, we ’ad a soirée in a restaurant. A smart place – Le Dauphin. I made up a song for a friend and when I play it, ze manager ’ee say I was so good I could play professional …’
‘Professionally?’
‘Yes. If I was in England or in America, it would be different. But my family …’
He shrugged and started walking again. I hurried after him. ‘Well, whatever they think, I’m on your side.’
He kicked angrily at another stone and missed it, catching his toe and stumbling forward clumsily to land on all fours.
I had to stifle a laugh at that. ‘Maybe you could be a comedian,’ I suggested. ‘A sort of French Mr Bean.’
He got to his feet rubbing the mud off his jeans, still looking angry. Then he made a teasing grab at me with filthy hands. I ran off with a shriek. We weren’t that far from Les Rochers. I was up and over a fence before he could catch me. We arrived at the house hot and out of breath. Thankfully the race seemed to have blown away Michel’s angry mood.
We found Matthilde in the kitchen crossly unpacking the basket.
‘Où est Arnaud?’ asked Michel innocently.
Matthilde took an egg out of the basket and threatened him with it. Michel grinned at her and went off whistling to himself.
‘Poor Arnaud,’ I said. ‘He’s quite nice really.’
‘ ’Ee is like a big lost dog, always coming ’ere,’ she said. She left me to finish unpacking the basket and stomped off to her room.
That evening I had a call from Jess.
‘Hi, how’s things? What you been up to?’ she asked.
‘Not much. We went for a walk to the village and bought stuff.’
‘Walked?’
‘Yes.’
‘What about the cousin? Has she arrived?’
‘Yes. But she’s not a she. She’s a he.’
‘A boy? Sixteen! What’s he like?’
‘He’s OK.’
‘Come on, you can do better than that. Tall? Short? Fit? Eyebrows that meet in the middle?’
‘No, he’s fine. He’s quite tall, dark and, umm, he’s into movies.’
‘Like what?’
‘Old ones. Black and white.’
‘Old movies?’
‘Yes.’
‘He sounds weird.’
‘He’s not. He’s just French. French boys are different.’
‘You can say that again.’
‘He’s into cool music too – he likes Naff.’
Jess started on a spiel, wanting to know exactly how he’d heard of them and which songs etc.
‘Look, I’ve got to go or I’ll be late down for dinner,’ I interrupted her.
‘Dinner. You mean you have to be on time?’
‘Yes. We have proper sit-down meals here.’
‘The whole family?’
‘Yes.’
‘Without the telly on?’
‘Yes!’
‘Rather you than me.’
Jess rang off after that. Suddenly, I remembered her house. They had a TV in every room and they were all on all the time. I couldn’t recall ever sitting down to a meal with her family. We just helped ourselves from the fridge when we were hungry.
Over dinner that night everyone seemed to be fussing about the following morning. Madame de Lafitte leaned over and asked me, ‘ ’Annah, est-que tu viens à la messe avec nous demain?’
‘La messe?’
‘Mass. It is Easter Sunday,’ she explained. ‘A really important fête.’
I hadn’t realised the week had gone by so fast. Easter Sunday already. At home it would have meant hot cross buns for breakfast, an Easter egg hunt in the garden and then gorging on chocolate all day. We never went to church.
‘But I’m not a Catholic,’ I said by way of an excuse. I was rather nervous about church, all that standing up and sitting down at the right time and finding your page in the prayer book. And in French too. I was sure I’d make a total idiot of myself.
‘You must come,’ said Madame de Lafitte. ‘All day I ’ave been ’elping with the flowers. The church eet looks beautiful.’
It seemed rude to refuse so I nodded and said, ‘Oui. Merci beaucoup.’
‘Très bien,’ said Madame de Lafitte. ‘Et Michel?’ She turned to him.
‘Non, Grandmère,’ he said and came out with a stream of French that seemed to displease everyone.
Madame de Lafitte replied with a long speech in which the name Jesus cropped up a few times but Michel shrugged and replied briefly with a sentence in which I recognised the word ‘superstition’.
The following morning I woke early. I checked my watch. It was seven a.m. I’d been told we would go to mass before breakfast. I dressed quickly and went to the window to find the weather had changed. A light drizzle was falling. It was quite cool.
There was some sort of commotion going on outside. Something had disturbed the dogs. I saw one of them come bounding across the lawn barking fit to bust and then the other joined him. Someone was throwing a stick for them. As I leaned out, I saw Michel approaching from the far end of the park. He must have woken even earlier than me.
I watched as he and the dogs started a silly game. He’d pretend to throw the stick in one direction without letting go, then he’d throw it in another. It took a moment or two for the dogs to catch on. Sultan was much brighter than Titan. After a few false starts, he crouched down and waited with a big doggy smile on his face to see where the stick would really go, while Titan went hurtling off in the wrong direction. But Michel was being fair to Titan, he wasn�
��t going to humiliate him. He threw a few easy sticks in his direction and made a big fuss of him when he brought them back. I watched intrigued.
It was on one of these forays that Titan disappeared beneath a low-growing bush. He stayed there ages and Michel started whistling at him. For some reason he wouldn’t come out and I could see the bush swaying as he scrambled round under it. The dog emerged with something that looked like a large fluffy tennis ball in his mouth.
Oh-my-god! It was Edith! I raced down the stairs and forced open the big oak door and found Michel kneeling on the ground beside the dog. Titan was sitting with a great lopsided grin on his face looking really pleased with himself.
‘Regarde,’ said Michel. ‘Edith. Elle va bien.’
Edith was nibbling at the lawn in a nonchalant fashion. She walked a few steps and then turned back to look at us with a blade of grass sticking out of her mouth.
‘Wow, Matthilde will be so happy!’ I said, reaching down and picking her up. I was about to run up to Matthilde’s room with her when Michel said, ‘Wait, I ’ave idea.’
He put a finger to his lips. ‘Do not say Matthilde anysing. Promise!’
I felt this was a bit mean, it was probably another of his big teases. But sharing a secret made us feel closer somehow. So I went along with it.
‘OK.’
Michel disappeared with Edith in the direction of the barn.
When I returned to the hall, I found the others had all come down. They were dressed in their Sunday best. Even old Oncle Charles had a smart coat over his usual sagging jacket and baggy trousers.
‘You will need a coat, ’Annah. It will be cold in the church,’ Madame de Lafitte warned me. Reluctantly, I went upstairs and returned in my school coat. To my surprise the coat was greeted with murmurs of admiration. Even Matthilde agreed.
‘Beautiful. Eet is so English. Is it Scottish tweed?’
The French never cease to amaze me. Apparently they thought my coat was terribly chic, in fact they gave it the ultimate compliment: it was ‘le style anglais’.
When they had finished purring over my coat, we all squeezed into the Land Rover and drove to the church in the village. From the doorway I could see that the place was packed with people all as smartly dressed as the de Lafittes. I kept close behind them, hoping it wouldn’t show that I had no idea what I was meant to do. At the doorway, each of them in turn dipped their hand in a font of holy water and went down on one knee making the sign of the cross. I tried to copy Matthilde but I had a horrible feeling that I got the left and right in the wrong order.