The French for Always

by Fiona Valpy

  Liz was my favourite aunt. Actually, she was my only aunt, but she’d have been my favourite even if I’d had others. You may have heard of her—Liz Chamberlain became something of a celebrity in the swinging sixties when she made a name for herself with her photography. Her iconic portraits of rock stars and artists are still re-printed from time to time (especially, it has to be said, accompanying obituaries these days). But she moved to the depths of rural France at the end of the seventies and completely turned her back on the glamour and buzz of her London life, becoming a bit of a recluse. She never lost her eye for beauty, although she turned her camera lens from celebrities to the countryside surrounding her new home, picking up commissions to take photos for books on the wines of Bordeaux and the landscapes and wildlife of southern France. Her passion waned with the advent of digital photography as, she said, the challenge and artistry had gone. ‘It’s the end of an era.’

  As I drive south towards my new home, the car crammed with my worldly belongings and a dozen packets of chocolate HobNobs (essential survival rations), I can hear Liz’s voice. Perhaps her spirit is with me on the journey. That thought calms me a bit and gives me confidence as I leave behind my familiar, safely under-control life in England for the unknown here in France.

  A fresh start. I suppose that’s something we don’t often get in life, a completely clean slate. Although to be honest, the blankness of that clean slate is just a little terrifying when you’ve been used to having your days filled by a full-time job, with a steady salary and a busy social life on which to spend it.

  I’ll need to create a new structure for myself out here, I decide. A healthy and balanced lifestyle of exercise, good diet, wine only in moderation (although admittedly that one could be tricky, given that I’m going to be living in one of the biggest and best wine regions of the world), and some serious studying for my Master of Wine qualification. I will use this opportunity as a sabbatical for some intensive self-improvement, returning to England tanned, toned and well-qualified, with a newly acquired air of French sophistication, in order to relaunch myself into my stratospheric career in the London wine trade. And then that slimy toad Ed Cavendish will be sorry he chucked me for the younger and better-endowed—financially anyway, her figure’s nothing to write home about—Camilla.

  Calm, deep breaths, I tell myself as I turn off the autoroute and onto the road that runs past St Emilion to Sainte Foy La Grande. Item 2 on my To-Do list. Why does Letting Go take so much effort?

  * * *

  I’d hardly been back a fortnight, after that last buying trip to France in the spring, when the call came. I realised that I’d known this was coming, but had been studiously ignoring it. Like a child who puts their hands over their eyes believing that if they can’t see the monster, the monster can’t see them.

  I was sitting at my kitchen table as my mother told me the news of my aunt’s death, my Saturday morning shopping list in front of me. Bread, it said. Eggs, milk, washing-up liquid. Frozen in shock and grief, the words burned themselves into my dry eyes, mundane and meaningless. Mum’s voice over the phone was calm and composed, and for a moment I thought I’d fallen through a hole in time and was listening to her telling me of my father’s death a year before. She’d been so cool and collected then too, and it upset me how remote she seemed from him, in death as in life; their marriage had always appeared to be more one of convenience than passion.

  But I forced myself to listen to the words she was saying this time and they were different.

  ‘A neighbour found her yesterday afternoon. A stroke they think, very sudden. Celia Everett called to tell me. She and Hugh are being wonderful getting everything organised at that end, which is a huge help as their French is so good and they’re on the spot. The funeral should be towards the end of the week. Apparently Liz left instructions.’

  My throat and chest felt constricted with the crushing pain of grief and loss. It hurt to speak.

  ‘She knew it was coming,’ I said dully. A sudden vision flashed into my mind of Liz in her study during my last visit, sorting through piles of papers. And then I remembered the heaps of clothes in her bedroom, and a roll of black bin bags. A spring clean, she’d said. And I thought of the vintage top she’d insisted on giving me, now hanging in my wardrobe, and a sob escaped me like an air bubble rising up from the deep ocean floor.

  ‘Oh, Gina, darling,’ said my mother. ‘I know how much she meant to you. Stay where you are, I’m coming over.’

  I placed the phone carefully on the table in front of me, its outline swimming as my tears fell, blurring the ink on my Saturday morning shopping list beside it. I was still sitting there, numb and shivering, when Mum rang the doorbell half an hour later. The world had become a colder place without my aunt in it.

  * * *

  Not much further to go now. I negotiate the series of roundabouts on the ring road that skirts Sainte Foy and then take the road that winds up the hill towards the rambling stone farmhouse, which perches on the edge of the ridge above the broad valley of the Dordogne River. It’s going to be strange living in Liz’s house—I still can’t think of it as mine. But even if it is a bit daunting doing this journey on my own, it’s still a lot less traumatic than the last flying visit had been, with Mum, for Liz’s funeral.

  The cremation had been arranged for the Friday afternoon and we were met at Bergerac Airport the evening before by Hugh Everett. ‘Of course you’ll stay with us,’ Celia had insisted during one of the many phone calls she and my mother had exchanged over the course of the week. I would have far preferred to stay in Liz’s house, but that idea was swept briskly aside by the formidable organisational taskforce (Sussex and Gironde branches) that had taken charge of matters.

  As we sat in beautifully upholstered (Sanderson chintz) armchairs in the Everetts’ beautifully decorated (Farrow and Ball) sitting room, sipping gin and tonics out of beautifully sparkling (Edinburgh crystal) glasses, Celia clasped a hand to her own beautifully upholstered (cashmere and pearls) bosom and sighed deeply. ‘Such a shock for us all, a terrible loss. And especially hard for you, Gina; we know how close you were to Liz and how fond she was of you.’ She paused and looked across at Hugh, who had just sat down on the sofa beside Mum and was in the process of taking a long and thankful draught of his drink. ‘Darling,’ she prompted, ‘I think you have something to tell Gina?’

  ‘Yes, indeed,’ Hugh turned to me. ‘Liz had everything extremely well organised. A while ago she asked me to be an executor of her will, and I’m pleased to tell you, Gina, that she has left her entire estate to you. Not that it amounts to that much—it’s really just the house and its contents. She had a little money invested to give her an annuity, and her state pension of course. And there’s the occasional royalty from her books and photos, but that’s just a trickle these days. The house is worth a bob or two though if you want to sell. Needs a bit doing to it, of course, but around here you can usually find an expat looking for a project to take on.’

  It was all moving too fast for me to take in. My immediate reaction was, ‘No way am I selling Liz’s house,’ but then I pulled myself up short. ‘But, Mum, shouldn’t some of this come to you?’

  ‘Oh, darling, that’s so sweet of you, but no. I really don’t need more than I have. Your father left me very comfortably provided for, as you know. Of course Liz wanted you to have this, and quite right too. Just think what it would mean if you sold the house. You could use the money to pay off the mortgage on your flat, or to move up the property ladder and invest in something a little more desirable. It’s a lovely opportunity.’

  My aunt’s dead body was lying in a funeral home a few miles away and her own sister was sitting there, in the lamplit warmth of Celia’s elegant drawing room, coolly talking about selling her house and it being a ‘lovely opportunity’. I love my mother dearly, but honestly, at times she can be so cold. Sometimes it’s hard to believe that she and Liz are—were—sisters, the one so warm, funny and bohemian, living a
rather hermit-like life tucked away in the depths of rural France, and the other such a reserved and proper Sussex matron, with a penchant for social Bridge and designer handbags.

  I felt my face flushing and my eyes filling with angry tears at my mother’s heartlessness as she’d prattled on about selling the house. Celia may be sharp and sometimes overbearing, but she’s also kindly and perspicacious and she’d seen how wretched I was feeling. ‘Well now,’ she patted my arm, ‘there’s more than enough time for you to think things over. You don’t have to make any decisions in a hurry and anyway it’ll take a while for the notary to sort out all the paperwork. Let it sink in for a while. We’ll keep popping in to check the house now and then, and of course Liz’s neighbour, Madame Thibault, keeps an eye on the place. She’s taken Lafite in, you know. Apparently the old cat was sitting beside Liz’s body when Mireille Thibault found her, as if he was watching over her until help arrived. It was really very touching.’

  I remembered Mireille. Liz had introduced me to her the last time I stayed with her. ‘Come and meet my lovely neighbour. Mireille Thibault, my niece, Gina Peplow.’

  A tiny, very upright lady dressed in black had shaken my hand, her face an etching of deep wrinkles that creased even further with her warm smile. ‘Liz has told me a great deal about you,’ she said.

  ‘Mireille lives in the house just up the lane,’ explained Liz. I’d nodded, having noticed the small stone cottage set amongst plum trees on our walks to forage for mushrooms or gather blackberries from the thickets of brambles that sprout exuberantly along the verge here and there.

  ‘Yes, and now I must be getting back,’ she’d smiled. ‘Two of my grandchildren will be arriving any minute and if I don’t get there first they’ll eat the whole of the cake I’ve made. They’re always starving when they come out of school. Goodbye, mademoiselle; enjoy your stay with your aunt.’ She’d hugged Liz and disappeared off up the drive.

  Back in the Everetts’ sitting room, those memories of my aunt and her neighbour had seemed almost more real than that strange and strained evening without her.

  In a daze of emotional exhaustion, I’d choked down supper and then taken myself off to bed. Despite all the little comforting touches Celia had provided—a vase of fresh flowers, a bottle of mineral water, some relaxing bath oil—I felt empty and un-comforted. Lying under the quilted coverlet in the Everetts’ second spare room (my mother was down the hall in the main guest suite), I spent a sleepless night, wishing I was in Liz’s spare room—my spare room now—so that I could have felt closer to her on that last night her body was on the Earth.

  The crematorium was as drab and depressing as these places are the world over. Liz had left very specific instructions, and Hugh and Celia had arranged everything accordingly. The coffin was the plainest pine, but I placed an armful of scented white lilies on it, my farewell gift to my aunt.

  When we entered the room where the service was to be conducted, my eyes swam as I made out a crowded blur of faces. Despite Liz’s directive that her funeral was to be small, with no fuss, she couldn’t deter the many friends, both French and English, who had turned up to see her off. I caught sight of Mireille Thibault, waiting patiently to one side as a few of the assembled throng came up to offer their sympathies. She put her arms round me in a warm embrace, saying nothing, and for the first time since hearing the news of Liz’s death I felt comforted. Overwhelmed, I stayed in the circle of her arms for a minute until, patting my back gently, she pulled back and her bright, wise old eyes looked into mine. ‘You’ll be coming to the house this weekend?’ she asked. ‘Come and knock on my door. Lafite will be pleased to see you.’

  ‘Are you coming back to the Everetts’ after the service? They’re having a reception and you’ll be most welcome.’

  ‘Thank you, but no. I’m just going to say my adieus to Liz here and then go home. But I’ll see you tomorrow. Bon courage, my dear.’

  And courage was exactly what I needed half an hour later, as the coffin slid silently through the curtain and my beloved aunt was gone...

  * * *

  Lost in my thoughts, I nearly miss the turning into the lane between the vines. I swerve at the last moment, just making the turn.

  And then have to stand on the brakes with all my force as the car comes face-to-face with a dark blue pickup that’s coming down the narrow lane towards me. My tyres screech and skid on a patch of loose gravel and, as if in slow motion, the back end of the car slides gracefully into the ditch. The engine stalls and I sit in sudden silence, shaking all over at my narrow miss. So near and yet so far—I’m only a few yards from the driveway to Liz’s house and here I am, disastrously stuck in what I can only wish was a proverbial rut but sadly and incredibly annoyingly turns out to be a real one.

  There’s a tap on my window. The driver of the pickup has jumped down from his cab and run over. He peers in at me and I have an impression of warm eyes in a deeply tanned face. I roll down the window.

  ‘Excusez-moi, madame,’ he says, concerned. His French has just a slight twang of the south-west accent that’s so common around here. ‘Are you all right?’

  I don’t know whether to laugh or cry. I’m shaken, but unhurt. I nod, covered in embarrassment. ‘Just stuck.’ I open the door and try to clamber out but the angle is awkward with the backside of the car in the ditch and the nose in the air, and I miss my footing and almost end up on my own backside, slipping onto my knees and covering my jeans with mud in the process. Not the most dignified of entrances.

  ‘Oopla!’ says the man, clutching my arm with a strong hand and helping me back onto my feet. He grins widely, obviously highly amused at my predicament and my increasingly dishevelled state, then hunkers down to get a closer look at the back wheels.

  ‘Don’t worry; I’ll tow you out of there. No damage done, fortunately. You were going far too fast for these small roads. ‘

  I bristle slightly. Listen, mate, I want to say, the last thing I need right now is a lecture from a smug, know-it-all Frenchman. I’ve been travelling for twenty-four hours, have lost my job, my boyfriend, and most of my family, haven’t slept properly in months, have had to up sticks and move so far from my comfort zone that I can’t even remember what my comfort zone looks like any more, and now I and all my worldly goods have ended up in a muddy ditch. So it hasn’t exactly been my day, has it?

  But I don’t say this, partly because my French isn’t up to it and partly because I manage to remind myself just in time that he is the one with the tow rope and the four-wheel drive. And so, unless I want to leave my car stuck here and carry everything I own up the drive to my new home one cardboard box and bin-bagful at a time, I had better be polite.

  I smile and manage a faint, ‘Merci, monsieur,’ as he fixes the rope under the car. I clamber awkwardly back into the driver’s seat and then he carefully edges his pickup back, taking up the slack, and the car rights itself as it regains the road.

  The man unhitches the tow rope and comes back round to my window, brushing down his dusty green overalls. ‘There you go. A bit muddy on the derrière, but no harm done.’ He grins again, his dark eyes twinkling, and I’m not sure whether he’s talking about me or my car. I re-start my engine but he’s still leaning in at the window, giving me an appraising look. In the midst of my confusion and embarrassment, I register that he’s really rather good-looking. Which only makes me blush even harder.

  ‘Yes, well, thanks again.’

  ‘It’s my pleasure. Oh, et bienvenue en France!’ He pats the roof of the car and steps back to let me pull away. I glance into my rear-view mirror just before I turn into the driveway and see that he’s still standing in the lane, watching, before climbing back into his pickup and driving off. Almost as if he’s seeing me safely home. Although more likely he’s just having one last laugh.

  Thankfully, I pull into the courtyard and turn off the engine, sitting for a few seconds to let the realisation that I’m here—at last!—sink in and to allow both my embar
rassment and the engine noise, which is still ringing in my ears, to subside.

  It’s early June, but feels like high summer already, and the leaves on the lime trees are a dense, dark green. As my hearing adjusts, I realise the sound I’m hearing is coming from their fresh-scented pale yellow flowers which are abuzz with bees in the golden warmth of the evening. The pots of pink geraniums by the kitchen door, which either Celia or Mireille must have put outside after their hibernation indoors over the winter, are dry and dusty.

  I ease my stiff limbs out of the driver’s seat, brushing as much mud off my jeans as possible, and dig in my handbag for the keys. Dragging my heavy suitcase and holdall from the boot, I unlock the kitchen door, pushing it open. And step into the cool half-light of my new home.

  * * *

  The French For Love

  Available now!

  * * *

  ‘This book is the perfect summer read and has exactly everything that I look for when selecting a book to take with me on vacation. Light and perfectly worded, Fiona does a wonderful job with the flow and the characters are so much fun. I absolutely adored the French countryside as the backdrop and loved the translation aspect of the book. I’ve never taken a French class and that ended up being okay because the author makes it very easy to read between the lines. Overall, this book is so much fun and will definitely leave you feeling warm and fuzzy inside. I highly recommend it.' 4.5/5 — ChickLitPlus.com

  'I would definitely recommend this book as a summer read to anyone. The heat of the sun here would combat any british summer blues, or indeed compliment an unexpected heat wave. This is definitely one to pack in your suitcase. A little bit of romance, a nice glass of wine and a wonderful summer setting.' — Fabulous Book Fiend