The French for Always

by Fiona Valpy

  Karen smiled encouragement, reaching for her handbag and car keys. ‘Now, you’d better go and wash your face and slap a bit of camouflage on those eyes before you go back up to the château. Bon courage. And see you Tuesday.’

  * * *

  Gavin kept a low profile while there were still guests in the château—she didn’t know and didn’t care which empty bedroom he’d found to sleep in. Finally, once Sara had waved Mr and Mrs Nolan off down the drive, their Range Rover packed to the gunwales with Brittany’s wedding gown and veil, the bouquet, the remains of the cake, and Bitsy’s pink velvet-lined travelling case, she made her way back to the cottage to try and unblock the sink, carrying a plumber’s plunger in one hand and a large adjustable spanner in the other. She found Gavin there, stuffing clothes into a duffel bag.

  ‘Sorry, Sara,’ he muttered, head down, not looking at her. ‘I just can’t do this anymore.’

  ‘Do what, Gavin? The work on the château? The wedding business? Or our relationship?’ Sara was amazed at how calmly she spoke, like a parent speaking gently and reasonably to a recalcitrant child. She felt numb. He’d now strayed so far off the path of reasonable human behaviour that she didn’t seem to be able to come up with an appropriate emotional response. Or maybe it was simply a defence mechanism kicking in so that she could deal with the bare essentials of the situation in which she now found herself, her mind automatically shutting out the waves of anger, terror and pain that had washed over her again and again over the last two days.

  ‘Any of it,’ he mumbled, grabbing the keys of his Audi, not meeting her eye. Then he paused, straightening up to look at her as she stood there with the plumbing tools in either hand. ‘This was a mistake. I’m just not ready for the commitment.’

  There is was again: the ‘c’ word. Her worst fears realised, suddenly a pulse of pure fury surged through Sara’s veins. ‘Is that it?’ she screamed, brandishing the plunger as though it were the sword of truth. ‘You’re leaving, as easily as that? What about the business? What about the future? What about us?’

  ‘Sorry. I just have to get out of here. I’ll be in touch.’

  A white-hot pain blinded her, a potent hit made up of equal parts of fear, anger and grief possessing her body, taking over her actions, faster than thought.

  Her right arm drew back and then, with every shred of her wordless fury and frustration concentrating itself into that one reflexive action, she hurled the heavy forged-steel wrench at his head.

  Adrenaline may have greatly boosted her strength, but it did nothing for her aim and Gavin easily dodged the missile. Gathering momentum as it spun through the air, the wrench crashed into the wall behind him and there was a dramatic explosion of splintering wood and pulverised plaster as the old, crack-raddled surface disintegrated in a cloud of dust.

  Shocked into silence, Sara stood motionless, horrified by her own action and its explosive outcome.

  Without a word, without even turning to look at the damage behind him, Gavin bent down to pick up his bag and walked out into the sunshine, leaving her standing there, shaking, as the dust cloud settled slowly onto her hair and her shoulders.

  She heard him start the car and drive away, the fading sound of the engine drawing her, stumbling, through the doorway of the cottage, along the path to where the château slumbered, oblivious, in the afternoon sunshine.

  She stood, stunned, the tinnitus scream of summer cicadas loud in the silence. A faint cloud of dust, kicked up by the wheels of Gavin’s car, floated in the air above the drive. As she watched, rooted to the spot, it faded away, leaving only a shimmer of heat and the surreal sense that her life for the past eighteen months had been nothing but a magical illusion, one that had now disappeared in a puff of smoke.

  She pressed a hand against the carved cream stone of the château’s cavernous doorway, to steady herself and to reassure herself that something solid and tangible still remained. The sun-warmed blocks of limestone emanated a sense of peace, and history, and imperturbability. She thought of the hundreds of others who must have passed through this doorway down the centuries, and gathered strength from the thought that they would have lived out their own personal tragedies and triumphs within these ancient walls. Could she transform this disaster into a triumph of her own? Or would she have to beat a retreat, returning, defeated, to try to resurrect the tatters of her old life and her old business back in London?

  She rested her aching forehead against the stonework for a moment, craving the comfort of the building’s strong embrace, as a child craves the security of its parents’ arms, gathering strength from its solid presence. Then, on shaky legs, she made herself walk back to the cottage to go and find a broom and start cleaning up the mess.

  It looked as if it had snowed. A fine layer of plaster dust coated every surface in the single room that served as kitchen, dining and sitting room. Her footprints made tracks across the worn floor tiles as she went to inspect the damaged wall. The jagged ends of brittle laths, eaten away by woodworm over the years, framed the sizeable hole where the plasterwork had collapsed so explosively. Dustpan and brush in hand, Sara set to work, trying to focus on clearing up the wreckage of the wall rather than contemplating the wreckage of her life.

  Once she’d swept up the debris, she began to wipe off the remaining film of plaster dust. Mopping alongside what was left of the wall, she noticed that the hole had exposed a bundle of old rags, presumably packed in behind the wooden laths as a crude form of insulation when the wall had been plastered originally. She fetched a black bin bag and then took hold of a corner of the tatty material and tugged gingerly, trying not to let any more pieces of broken plaster fall onto the newly washed floor. Suddenly, with a slither of sleek fur and a sinuous undulation of its thin, rubbery tail, a mouse leapt from the rags and scuttled away under the kitchen units, making Sara screech in fright and revulsion.

  ‘It’s only a little mouse,’ she admonished herself, her voice loud in the silence. ‘Come on girl, get a grip.’ She picked up the metal wrench and hooked the end of it under the rags, lifting them out carefully in case any more rodents lurked in their grubby folds.

  The fabric appeared to be mostly old moth-eaten blankets, but one of the pieces was darker than the rest. She pinched the rough black worsted between thumb and forefinger to pull it from the tangle. Then, with another reflexive shudder of horror, she dropped it onto the floor. She could hardly believe her eyes. The whole day seemed to have turned into some surreal nightmare from which she feared she might never escape. Because there on the damp floor, like a dark ghost, lay a black military jacket. On one of its sleeves was sewn a badge in the form of an eagle with its powerful wings outstretched. And in its talons, clearly distinguishable, the silver threads glinting dully under their covering of dust, it gripped a laurel wreath encircling a stark, geometric form which made Sara gasp again: the unmistakeable outline of a Nazi swastika.

  Dizzily, as the blood rushed to her head, Sara reached out a hand to steady herself against the kitchen units, feeling as though the walls were collapsing in on her metaphorically now, as well as literally.

  She’d looked upon these buildings as her allies, their ancient stones reassuringly solid, and drawn strength from the sense of benevolent history they seemed to exude. But here was proof of a much darker side: what else did these walls conceal?

  During the course of the building work in the château, she’d come across piles of mildewed newspapers in the attic, dating from the 1920s; and more ancient history was written into the ancient beams, the rough stone walls, the time-smoothed grain of the polished wooden floors. But they’d found no other evidence of the war years, despite the fact that Château Bellevue had stood here through both World Wars, not to mention the struggles of earlier centuries. Sara knew that this particular area of France had seen as much of its share of the horrors as anywhere else in the country. She’d seen the discreet monuments, dotted here and there on the streets of Sainte Foy La Grande, marking the places w
here members of the Resistance had fallen. But people didn’t seem to want to talk much about those dark times, keeping the memories firmly locked away from the light of day and, on the rare occasions when she’d had the chance to ask, no one had been forthcoming about the part the château had played in it all.

  Looking more closely at the jacket lying on the floor in front of her, she realised it must have been the mouse’s nesting material of choice as it was completely eaten away in places. In spite of this, as well as the eagle-and-swastika badge, one lapel sported another emblem picked out in the same silver thread, a double lightning flash forming two angular letters: SS.

  Sara shivered, despite the warmth of the early evening air. Panic rose in her throat once again as the tangle of thoughts and images in her head threatened to overwhelm her. Get a grip, she warned herself. Losing it is not an option. Gathering her inner strength, she briskly picked up the jacket and shoved it into the bin bag along with the tattered blankets that she’d pulled out of the wall space. She swept up the last few fragments of plaster, gave the floor a final wipe with the mop and then, determined now, feeling surer of herself, she caught up the bag of rags and a box of matches and marched out into the walled garden. In one corner, the furthest from the old pear tree, she raked together a pile of dried weeds and sticks and then, as the setting sun cast the dark shadow of the walls across the ground towards her, she knelt and set a match to the tinder. A bright flame licked its way along a slender filament of grass, flickered doubtfully for a moment as it met a dry twig, and then caught, drawing in air, gathering strength. Sara felt her own strength growing with the flame, her recent anger, fear and revulsion feeding it, helping her shake off her former sense of suffocation.

  Perhaps Gavin’s departure was the best thing that had happened to her in a long while.

  She pulled the jacket from the bin bag and bundled it into a ball, setting it on top of the blazing sticks so that it would catch. The fire licked at the wingtips of the silver eagle, before starting to devour the swastika. She watched, making sure the emblem was completely consumed, before feeding the rest of the tattered blankets into the flames. And as the smoke rose into the night sky, she stretched her arms above her head, breathing deep, finding her voice had returned with Gavin’s departure. ‘Good riddance to bad rubbish,’ she said out loud, her words flying upwards with the sparks and disappearing into the darkness.

  She watched until the fire had died own completely and then poured a watering-can-full of water over the smouldering embers to make sure they were safely extinguished. Clapping the ashes from her hands, she closed the gate of the potager behind her and then stood for a moment, defiant in the darkness, surveying the cluster of buildings slumbering before her.

  She’d invested so much in this place... In terms of physical hard work, she’d grafted on the buildings, lovingly re-pointing stonework, sanding and limewashing beams, painting walls in colours that glowed with serene depths of tone befitting these ancient rooms. With the help of Claude, their part-time gardener, she’d laboured in the grounds, carving out a structure and a logical flow in the haphazardly laid-out gardens, and working the heavy clay, digging in tons of compost to improve it so that she could establish her planting schemes, soft carpets of prairie plants interspersed with obelisks of English roses and silver-leafed olive trees. In financial terms, she’d risked every penny she had on a future that had seemed to have such a good chance of succeeding when the two of them were committed to it, but now seemed distinctly tenuous. And emotionally, she’d invested everything she had too: her hopes and dreams, her love, her trust. She took stock now, steadying herself against the castle’s walls, sensing its ancient foundations solid beneath her feet, taking a deep breath.

  Okay, so the emotional investment was a write-off. Gavin’s behaviour had ensured that there could be no way back on that score. But she had the château, with six more weddings booked through August and the beginning of September. Daunting though it seemed, she’d just have to manage without him. Thank goodness she had the support of such a good team. And then, at the end of the season the château could be sold and she would return to London and try to pick up the threads of the life she’d left there. She just needed to get through the rest of this summer...

  Back in the cottage, she stood under a lukewarm shower until the plaster dust and the smell of smoke from the bonfire were washed from her hair and skin. She lay down on the bed, loneliness her only companion, and the silence closed in around her.

  But then, in the quiet darkness, a tiny scuffling sound made her sit up and listen. The mouse had returned to the space behind the wall and was busily making itself a new nest, rebuilding its ruined home. She smiled to herself. It was quite nice to have the company.

  And if that mouse could do it, then surely she could too.

  * * *

  Sara smiled in turn at each member of the company gathered around the kitchen table. ‘So that’s the situation, I’m afraid.’ She’d decided that there was no point trying to whitewash it. ‘Gavin’s gone back to England.’ (Had he? She had no idea, but it seemed the most likely scenario. He’d probably have run home to that bossy mother of his—and of course she’d be delighted to have him back. ‘Goodness me!’ she’d exclaimed on first meeting Sara, ‘but she’s really quite petite. I was expecting something more along the lines of Charlie Dimmock!’ Sara suspected no one would ever be good enough for Mrs Farrell’s golden boy.)

  ‘But I think we can manage, as long as you’re all sure you’re happy to do a few additional shifts?’

  ‘Suits me,’ nodded Karen. ‘The extra money will come in handy.’

  Twin sisters Hélène and Héloise Thibault exchanged a glance and nodded. ‘It’s good for us. We need to save up money for university next year anyway. We’ll earn more money and have less time to spend it—it’s a win-win situation.’ The girls lived in the local village of Coulliac and had just left school. Gavin had always referred to them as the ‘Héls Belles’, a nickname that had stuck.

  Antoine, the sommelier, bar-tender, waiter and general dogsbody, shrugged. He was a student of winemaking at the university in Bordeaux, and the only member of the team to live on-site, in what used to be the piggery but was now a bright studio apartment. ‘I’m here anyway and the weddings are my social life. It’s no problem.’ This was quite a long speech for him. He’d been taken on for the season as he spoke both French and English fluently, as well as for his knowledge of wine and ability to mix a mean Bloody Mary, but he appeared to be a man of few words in either language, flushing bright scarlet whenever addressed directly. And especially, Sara had noticed, when in the presence of the Héls Belles.

  ‘Okay, great. Let’s focus on this coming weekend then.’ Sara handed each member of the team a photocopied programme with details of the next wedding and their shifts. She pulled her glasses down from where they perched on top of her head and scanned the programme. ‘So it’s a pretty straightforward one this time. The house party here Thursday to Monday, the wedding on Saturday afternoon, the usual timing for the service and then straight on into the photos, drinks and meal. Antoine’s on the bar. The florist will be in first thing on Saturday morning and the caterers will be in after lunch to set up. Henri Dupont is taking the photos, so he knows the form.’

  ‘Ooh là-là! Better wear our steel knickers, girls,’ laughed Karen.

  ‘I know, I know,’ Sara sighed, shaking her head. ‘But he does take a good photo. And he’s local. And not completely extortionate when it comes to pricing. We aren’t exactly spoilt for choice around here.

  ‘Now, any questions, anyone? Then let’s get started on the bedrooms. Hélène, can you give the windows in the big sitting room and the snug a clean please? And Héloise, could you do a pass with the feather duster to get the cobwebs off the beams? I noticed a couple in the barn.’ It was a relief to focus on the business in hand, moving forward to the next event.

  ‘Don’t worry, Sara, we’ve got it under control,’ sa
id Karen, beginning to sort bottles of cleaning materials into four buckets.

  Sara re-scanned the papers on the table in front of her. ‘The only thing I haven’t managed to put in place yet is a DJ. I don’t suppose any of you knows someone locally who might be able to stand in for the next six Saturdays? I’ll have to ring round and see if anyone’s free.’

  Karen whistled through her teeth. ‘That’s not going to be easy at such short notice and at the height of the season. Can’t you just set a playlist running?’

  ‘Not really.’ Sara picked up some stapled sheets from the pile of papers. ‘Gavin was really good at tailoring the music for each wedding; it makes all the difference between a so-so party and a great one.’

  Just then they were interrupted by the sound of a vehicle pulling up at the kitchen door, its radio blaring out ‘Let Me Entertain You’ at full volume. Karen glanced through the window and turned to Sara with a grin. ‘Well, well. What a coincidence!’

  The music was switched off as suddenly as the van’s engine and there was a tap at the door. ‘Coucou! Le vin est arrivé!’

  ‘Aha! Thomas, the very man,’ said Karen.

  ‘Oh là-là. I used to think the British had the worst French accents in the world, but now I know it’s the Australians. How many times do I have to tell you, it’s To-mah. The emphasis on the second syllable; no ‘s’?’

  ‘Okay, okay, Tommy-boy, keep your beret on! Honestly, you French are always so nitpicky.’

  This good-natured exchange of insults over, Thomas Cortini began unloading the delivery of wine from his family’s vineyard in the next valley over, Château de la Chapelle. As Antoine helped him carry the boxes into the cellar, Karen nudged Sara. ‘Why don’t you ask him to DJ? He’d be ideal,’ she hissed.

  ‘D’you think he might do it? I hate to ask him. He’s probably too busy.’