Telling an Oxford student that the pressure had got to them was just about the worst form of insult. A month ago I would have done almost anything to prove Mr. Partridge wrong, but now…
“Thank you for the offer,” I said. “I appreciate your efforts. Truly. But I believe I’m coming to the conclusion that perhaps law isn’t for me after all.”
“Did you get accepted to a Master’s program somewhere else?” he demanded.
“I didn’t even apply anywhere else.”
“Then what on earth are you going to do?”
I turned this question over in my mind for a good while. “I have no idea,” I said, at last. Part of me vibrated in panic while the other half soared with relief.
Mr. Partridge didn’t say anything for a moment. I knew how bizarre my answer sounded to someone inside the Oxford universe, a place where every step up was minutely planned and anticipated, where a choice that turned its back on academic or professional achievement was unthinkable.
“Are you absolutely certain you don’t want to take a few days to think this over?” His voice had now taken on the hushed, soothing quality I’d heard being used with mental patients.
This was my last chance to go back to my old life. From day one though, I had hated studying law and I knew now with every cell in my body that I would always hate studying law. There were so many other things I had discovered I loved however - smooth wooden banisters running under my palm and old stone wells. Maybe we had lost our paradise in Marey, but that dream had allowed me to realize what I loved and, more importantly, what I did not.
“I’m sure,” I said.
Chapter 9
I was still sitting with the phone cord twisted around my wrist when Franck crept back into the room.
“Bad news?”
I wasn’t quite sure how to answer. Was it bad news? I wasn’t sorry so much as stunned.
“I got a 2:1,” I said.
“That’s what you wanted, right?” Franck asked, unsure. “Isn’t that a good mark?”
How asinine to have spent two years sacrificing everything just to be awarded a number that meant nothing in the real world.
“It’s what I wanted. We won’t be going back to Oxford though.” I peered up into Franck’s face, expecting shock and disapproval, but I only saw a huge smile. “I told Mr. Partridge I didn’t want to do the Master’s program after all. I have no idea what we’re going to do next,” I admitted.
Franck pulled me up from the bed and gathered me in his arms. I nestled my head under his chin and inhaled his familiar smell of apples and freshly cut wood. “That is the best news I have heard in a long time.” He kissed my forehead and then that tender spot behind my earlobe. “I happen to be good friends with the unknown. Allons, I have a chilled bottle waiting for us downstairs.”
In the days that followed I often felt that sickening feeling of teetering on the edge of a cliff with imminent disaster directly below. I had absolutely no idea how Franck and I were going to earn enough money to eat and have a roof over our heads, let alone figure out what we really enjoyed doing in life. This, however, was alleviated by moments of untrammelled glee that I associated with being in elementary school and hearing on the radio that it was a snow day.
Franck didn’t know any better than I did what the future held; this didn’t bother him in the slightest. He was confident that, thanks to his capacity for hard work and the protection of his guardian angels, we would thrive. Still, despite my worries, that “non” during my phone call with Mr. Partridge had come from somewhere deep inside me - a place that I hadn’t listened to in a very long time.
Franck and I slowly came to the decision to move back to Vancouver to figure things out, closer to my family and a better job market than Burgundy. We couldn’t stay chez Germain indefinitely if we were going to build our own life.
“If only we’d got that house,” Franck often said, with more wistfulness now than bitterness.
“If we had got the house, we’d have a huge mortgage to pay, tons of repairs to do, and no money to do it with,” I reminded him. Of course, part of me lusted for that lost project just as much as Franck. Still, it had taught me to dream again and nobody – not even a scheming notary or rich buyers from Switzerland - could take that away from me.
I finally bought our airline tickets back to Canada. I also did my best to placate my family by telling them I was going to try to qualify as a lawyer in Vancouver. It wasn’t dishonest, really. Most of the time I believed that I would have no choice but to go that route. How long could I play hooky for, after all?
Then just five days before we were scheduled to leave for Vancouver, a short scribbled note arrived from Franck’s family notary. The handwriting was appalling. Franck and I sat on the warm stone steps to the kitchen with André hovering behind us, squinting at the note in an attempt to decipher the Maître Lefebvre’s hieroglyphics.
“I think that this says ‘maison.”’ André pointed to one of the more legible scrawls.
“And that looks like the number eighteen written in Roman numerals,” Franck said.
“Doesn’t that say ‘Magny’”? I asked them, pointing to another word.
Mémé came out and swatted us off the steps with her dishtowel. She had no patience for loungers in her path. She had just finished making about thirty or so quiches and needed to take them across to the freezer in the grange.
“What’s that in your hand?” she demanded of Franck.
“We’re not quite sure,” Franck said. “It’s from Maître Lefebvre.” She plucked it out of Franck’s hand and scanned it with her habitual authority.
“Charming Eighteenth Century Village house located in the centre of Magny-les-Villers,” she read, without pausing. “Wonderful view on the Roman church across the street and exquisite oak beams in attic. Call for further information.” She passed the note back to Franck and marched across the gravel courtyard with her bags of quiches.
“How could you read that?” Franck called after her.
She emerged from the barn a few seconds later, mid-shrug. “His writing is exactly the same as his father’s. His father wrote my divorce settlement.” She snapped her dishtowel at an errant wasp, dismissing any further questions on that subject.
Franck touched my arm. “His office must be closed now, but do you want to go to Magny and see if we can find the house he’s talking about?”
I grimaced. My heart had been broken over the property in Marey. I couldn’t picture wanting to buy any other house for several months, maybe years, at least.
His touch turned into a light caress. “It’s not far for us to go. It would be a nice walk.”
“It’s probably already sold,” I said.
“I doubt it,” Mémé said. “Why would he bother sending you the note otherwise? I don’t think Le Maître would make such an effort unless he really needed to get rid of something.”
I sighed, realizing that Franck was not going to give up until he had seen the house, one way or another. “There’s no point in going to Magny today. We probably wouldn’t even be able to tell which house he is talking about. Go ahead and call him tomorrow morning to make an appointment, just to satisfy your curiosity. Don’t forget we’re leaving in five days, though.”
Franck scanned the note again. “I have a good feeling about this.”
I had no feelings about it at all. I wasn’t ready to fall in love again.
The next morning, Franck had called Le Maître before I had even crawled out from under our duvet. Of course Franck urged the secretary to make the appointment as soon as possible, but apparently it was unthinkable for Le Maître to meet us before three o’clock that afternoon.
Leaving for the scheduled rendezvous, I felt as cynical as a jaded divorcée in the lead up to a blind date. By three o’clock the temperature was hovering around forty degrees Celsius. Standing in the sun, even for a few seconds in my light dress, gave me the impression I was being baked alive. We took shelter in the a
lcove’s shade of the little Roman church where I had poured my heart out to the Virgin Mary statue just days before. I didn’t even spare a cursory glance around me to try and figure out which of the six or so village houses we would be touring. It didn’t really matter; I was determined to be unimpressed.
Half an hour later Le Maître came roaring up in his Renault and took out two of the scarlet rose bushes planted alongside the church in his attempt to park. Le Maître emerged, shrugged an apology to the flattened flowers, and made his way over to us. We stood up and he shook our hands.
“Madame, Monsieur Germain,” he intoned with an air of unshakable professionalism that was undermined by the wine vapors which emanated from his pores.
“Bonjour, Maître,” Franck said. “Which house will we be visiting?”
Le Maître waved vaguely toward the three houses on the opposite side of the road. “That one.” He patted his pockets. “Mon Dieu, where are the keys?” This was annoying but it also made me less wary. It didn’t appear that, unlike Maître Ange, Maître Lefebvre could organize a scam even if he wanted to. Franck and I exchanged a look and retreated to the cool of the nave once more.
After five minutes of searching every pocket and tuck in his clothing as well as emptying out the glove compartment of his car, Le Maître made an irate call to his secrétaire. He demanded what she could have possibly done with the keys to the house. It was clear from the vastly entertaining string of swear words that followed this brief exchange that she basically told him to go to hell.
Just when I was sure that the visit was not going to happen, a huge bundle of long, iron keys was extracted from some hidden rear pocket of Le Maître’s pants. It was incredible that he could have missed them in his body search. The wine consumption at lunch must have been prodigious indeed.
Le Maître triumphantly dangled the key ring in front of us. I had always loved old keys, and these ones were spectacular, but that didn’t mean I wanted the house that went with them. I had to keep a clear mind.
He beckoned us across the street and we followed him underneath a little archway of stone, which the enamel plaque on the crumbling plaster wall designated as the “Passage Saint-Martin”. Le Maître veered to the right and began to climb a flight of large stone stairs, each one about seven feet wide.
Mid-climb Franck stopped in his tracks and I bumped into his back. “These have to be from the local quarry,” he said, pointing down at the ripples of pink and ochre that ran through the stone. Uh oh. His grandfather (the fabled Pépé Georges who could sulk for days and who was now one of Franck’s squad of Guardian Angels) had worked all his life in the local quarry; Franck had a soft spot for anything that came from there.
The first door the Maître unlocked was a run-of-the-mill metal door, painted an unedifying shade of gray. I peeked around Franck and was satisfied to see the walls of the veranda itself were unpainted concrete. Ugly. The veranda was roofed with pieces of glass that magnified the heat. I was sure I was going to keel over while Le Maître tried several keys unsuccessfully.
When the door finally swung open we all surged forward to get into the relative cool of the house. I turned to shut the door behind me to keep out the heat and my hand fell on one of the most arcane and complicated latching mechanisms I had ever seen on a door. My eyes travelled higher. The door itself was intricately carved wood that reminded me of the door of the church across the street. Inserted in it was a black metal design of flowers.
Franck had a thing for stone. I had a thing for keys, locks, and doors.
As I penetrated further into the dark interior of the house my nostrils were assaulted by the stench of mothballs and mildew. It took a good minute or two for my pupils to dilate, but when they did I could make out the wallpaper - a fake rattan pattern of greens and yellows in the hallway that gave way to a leaf and flower explosion of browns, greens, and oranges in the living room beyond.
“It reminds me of my grandmother’s house when I was little,’ Franck commented, wistfully.
“It’s hideous,” I said, loud enough for Le Maître to hear.
Le Maître waltzed into what looked like a tiny kitchen, the walls of which were papered in green ivy.
“It is hideous,” he agreed. “But look at this view.” He swung open the shutters, and I saw from the flaking white paint that we were in the house I had noticed after emerging from the church following my stream-of-consciousness conversation with the Virgin Mary statue. He opened the single pane windows. “Voilà!” he exclaimed, and drew back so we could have a look.
Franck gave me a gentle nudge towards the open window. Because the house was up that flight of stone stairs from the street level, the windows were level with the church. It was an intriguing perspective. I paused to admire its entranceway of old oak beams and square stones and its long, thin minion window. My eyes travelled up the small but elegant spire that was topped with a metal rooster.
All we would have to do to get the weather forecast was look out the kitchen window in the morning over our café au lait and check if the rooster’s head or tail feathers were facing south. Something familiar fluttered under my breastbone. We’re not going to buy this house, I reminded myself, so there was no point in daydreaming about eating breakfast here. We were going back to Canada in five days.
“Hey!” I exclaimed, despite myself. “I can see Stéphanie and Thierry’s roof from here.”
Franck came over and I felt his hand brush the small of my back. “We didn’t have any family in Marey,” he said.
I turned my back on the view and inspected the kitchen. The view was just about the only thing it had going for it. The room was tiny and half shoehorned under the stairs that led to the attic. A massive white ceramic sink took up at least a third of the wall which left space for only a small fridge and stove to be placed under the crooked line of the stairs.
“C’est très petit…small,” I was going to say, but was stopped by a thunk as Le Maître clonked his head on the very low door jam.
“Merde! Fichu ancient doorways!” His brows drew in with regret at his not very strategic outburst, but he added in a petulant tone, “That door jamb should have been raised long ago.”
He pointed at the simple latch that looked as though it had been made of beaten metal. “Look at that! That must have been hand beaten by the village ironmonger a few hundred years ago. I don’t believe they have even bothered to change the door since then.”
Franck caught my eye and cocked a brow. He followed Le Maître circumspectly into the next room, leaving me alone in the kitchen.
As soon as they were gone I ran my finger over the cool beaten metal of the massive latch. I pictured the village ironmonger bent over his fire several hundred years before, banging it into shape. Sweat would have dripped from his face into the open fire, filling his low ceilinged workshop with steam. I was scandalized at the thought of anyone changing or modernizing this piece of history. I closed the door reverently and worked the latch. It still slid into place perfectly.
Now that the door was closed, I noticed the hinges. I’d never seen such marvellous things, beaten in a curlicue design and each about seven inches long. They were like something out of a medieval castle. I didn’t want the rest of the house, I told myself as I opened the door again, I just wanted this kitchen door and its hardware…and the front door too…and maybe those stone stairs for Franck…
I joined Franck and Le Maître in the living room which was lit by a solitary bulb on the ceiling. I could only just make out the walls – a riot of orange and brown which made me feel less in danger of falling for the house. Franck was over by the window on the far wall, trying to get it open. He had managed to open the shutters just as I joined him and we took in the view over the humble Roman church. Its effect was more seductive for me than any view over a Gothic cathedral. Something in that church had given me a taste of peace. It was the same thing that had made me talk – dare I say pray? – to the Virgin Mary. I had never prayed in any other
church before in my life. I tore myself away from the view to glance around the living room again. It didn’t matter. We could not buy a house before we left, especially one with wallpaper this nauseating.
Just then my eyes alighted on the massive stone fireplace that took up almost half of the back wall. Franck had noticed it too; he walked over and stood inside it without hitting his head. He ran his index finger over a thick ribbon of ochre rippling through the roughly hewn stone.
“This is incredible,” he said. “Not only is it typically Burgundian, but I do believe we could roast an entire cow in here.”
Le Maître was inspecting a small cupboard door inset into the wall to the right of the fireplace. Its latch and hinges were stunning, obviously the handiwork of the same ironmonger who had fashioned the latches and hinges of the kitchen door several hundred years before.
“That’s a strange place to have a cupboard,” I said, drawing in for a closer inspection.
Le Maître smiled at me. “Put your head inside.”
I hesitated but Le Maître looked so amused that curiosity got the better of me. I slid open the beautiful iron latch. Maybe a hidden treasure? A blast of cool air hit my face; as my eyes adjusted to the darkness I could make out that the walls of the long hole inside were made up of huge blocks of stone. I couldn’t resist reaching my hand out and feeling the surface of the stone which was polished smooth with use and time.
Le Maître quizzed. “Can you guess what it is?”
I removed my head. “No idea.”
“I’ll give you a clue. Almost every house used to have one but now they are increasingly rare. They let the cold in, vous voyez, so most of them have been filled in and drywalled up. “Still no idea?”
I thought for a moment. “Nope.”
Le Maître clicked his tongue at my answer. “It’s a réfrigérateur!”
A fridge? “Really?”
My Grape Escape Page 7