A French Affair

by Jennifer Bohnet

  A gust of cold air blew in as the door opened and a chorus of ‘Bonjours’ went back and forth as a group of young men entered and made for the stools around the bar. Watching as the barman served them bottles of beer as he took their food orders, Belinda smiled to herself as she heard the words ‘beaucoup des frites’ several times. Briefly she wondered whether the campsite café had been a ‘chips with everything’ sort of place.

  The crêpe, when the barman placed it and her glass of wine on the table, looked delicious and he wished her ‘Bon appétit’ before turning away to collect glasses from a nearby table.

  As she ate her lunch, Belinda heard some of the muted conversations around her. The words ‘anglaise’ and ‘étrangère’ caught her attention and she guessed they were talking and wondering about the unknown Englishwoman. Inwardly she shrugged. They’d find out soon enough – village grapevines were the same the world over.

  When the barman came to take her empty plate away and asked if there was anything else she’d like, she shook her head. ‘Non merci,’ but knowing the man had at least some English, she asked, ‘Could you give me directions to the Auberge de Campagne, s’il vous plaît?’

  ‘Rue du Moulin. Left by the cemetery.’

  ‘Merci.’

  Belinda paid the bill, gathered her things together and, holding BB’s lead tightly, left the bar. Rue du Moulin, a single-track road, was easy to find and Belinda found the ‘Auberge de Campagne’ about two hundred metres along on the right-hand side. Larger than the surrounding houses, it was set back from the road with a short drive lined with some well-pruned bushes leading to the shallow flight of steps up to its front door. A large ship’s captain-type brass bell was fixed to the wall near the door. Smiling at the ‘We speak English here’ sign, Belinda climbed the steps and pulled the cord.

  The woman who opened the door several seconds later was about her own age and gave Belinda a friendly smile.

  ‘Bonjour. I’m Belinda Marshall and I have a room booked with you for a couple of nights.’

  ‘Hello and welcome. I’m Fern LeRoy. Come on in and I’ll show you all six and you can take your pick. Not many tourists around at this time of year,’ and she held out her hand.

  ‘You’re English?’ Belinda said, shaking the offered hand.

  ‘Yes,’ and Fern bent down to stroke BB. ‘Aren’t you the beautiful one? I hope you like Lady, my girl.’ She glanced up at Belinda. ‘I’ve got a West Highland White terrier. Come on, let’s introduce them. She’s in the boot room.’

  ‘BB usually loves other dogs, particularly bitches,’ Belinda said. ‘Shouldn’t be a problem.’

  It wasn’t. Within minutes, the two dogs were playing happily together and Fern took Belinda upstairs to choose a bedroom. She chose the second room she saw – a large room at the back of the house overlooking a beautiful garden and the countryside.

  ‘You have a lovely auberge here. Bigger than I was expecting.’

  ‘It’s an old maison de maître,’ Fern explained. ‘Built in the nineteenth century for a prosperous businessman, when there were such people in rural Finistère.’

  Belinda detected a strained note in the short laugh that followed the explanation before Fern spoke again.

  ‘Would you like a cup of tea? Or are you dashing off somewhere?’

  Belinda knew she should return to the campsite to start assessing things, but the more time she could spend away from the place and the inevitable confrontation with Alain Salvin, the better right now.

  ‘Tea would be wonderful,’ she said. ‘I’m guessing you’ll be stocked up with English tea, which somehow the French never seem to make properly.’

  Belinda followed Fern back down the unexpected wide staircase with its gentle curve at the bottom. The huge kitchen with its La Cornue range, two shabby-chic old-fashioned dressers laden with crockery, an American-style double fridge and a large wood-burning stove in the granite fireplace at the far end, was a mix of traditional and new melded together in a homely way. Shiny copper pots hung above the cooking area and a refectory table with half a dozen chairs placed around it was in the centre of the room.

  Fern filled the kettle and switched it on before busying herself getting mugs and biscuits ready.

  ‘Your kitchen is amazing. I’m no cook, but even I could be tempted to try my hand here,’ Belinda said. ‘Did you design it?’

  Fern nodded. ‘I’ve always longed for a large, heart-of-the-home-type kitchen, and I finally got my dream here. A bit late in life as the kids are all independent these days so family meals rarely happen.’ She shrugged and changed the subject. ‘Milk and sugar?’

  Belinda shook her head. ‘Just a dash of milk, please.’

  Fern poured two cups and passed one to Belinda.

  ‘What about luggage? No offence, but you don’t seem the type to travel without a change of clothes, but I didn’t see a car outside.’

  ‘My car’s the other side of the village.’ For some reason, Belinda hesitated saying where it actually was. ‘I had lunch in the bar and they gave me directions here. BB needed a walk too,’ Belinda smiled. ‘Talking of lunch, do you do evening meals? Can I eat here tonight? I don’t need anything fancy – an omelette would be fine.’

  ‘I can do better than that,’ Fern said, hesitating. ‘I do have an official dining room, but do you fancy a kitchen supper with just the two of us? Unless you’d prefer to eat alone?’

  ‘Kitchen supper for two sounds ideal,’ Belinda answered. Company and a friendly face would probably be more than welcome after the next few hours at the campsite. ‘I’ve got some business things I need to sort this afternoon, not least collecting my car. I’ll be back around six, if that’s okay?’

  Fern nodded. ‘Supper at seven then.’

  Belinda, relieved that Fern didn’t ask any questions, quickly finished her tea before snapping BB’s lead on. ‘Bye for now then. I’ll see you later.’

  Fern closed the front door behind Belinda and, already planning the meal she’d cook for the two of them, returned to the kitchen, Lady trotting at her heels. It was good to have someone to cook for again. Christmas, when the girls were home, had been the last time she’d done any proper cooking. This evening she fancied cooking chicken in red wine – her version of the French classic coq au vin, followed by a cheeseboard in true French style. She had a rather nice gorgonzola and a wedge of Cantal in the fridge. If Belinda wanted something sweet afterwards, there was a chocolate cake which would go well with coffee. There, that was supper sorted.

  Opening the freezer drawer and taking out a couple of chicken breasts, Fern couldn’t stop wondering what Belinda was actually doing here in Brittany, particularly at this time of the year. Not many people chose to come before winter was completely over. Maybe she had business in the area? She’d said she had a few things to sort out this afternoon, but the village didn’t even boast a small ‘zone industrielle’ – the French equivalent of an out-of-town shopping and small industry centre. There were a couple of local artists and a writer tucked away in their own cottages busy creating, while down on a secluded stretch of the river a young couple had recently started a trout business, but that was the extent of business in the area – apart from the bar tabac, the village shop and boulangerie of course.

  Preparing the veg to go with the chicken, Fern thought about the run-down campsite on the other side of the village and dismissed the thought instantly. No way could she see Belinda being involved with that. Belinda struck Fern as someone who liked her home comforts. She knew without asking that Belinda would detest the idea of shower blocks and rows of communal toilets.

  Maybe Belinda was house hunting? There were so many places currently on the market, she’d be spoilt for choice. She was too young to retire, so perhaps she fancied a holiday home? Pulling the cork on a bottle of red Bordeaux, Fern poured it thoughtfully over the chicken she’d placed in the Le Creuset casserole dish. If she was looking to buy somewhere, would a friendly warning about the pitfalls of bu
ying a property in the heart of the French countryside from a stranger be welcome? Until you’d experienced these pitfalls, you’d never know they even existed. And Fern was now an expert in dealing with the unexpected problems that living in France threw up. If she hadn’t had Laurent smoothing the way in the beginning when she first arrived, she doubted she’d have coped.

  ‘I’ll have to wait and see, won’t I?’ Fern said, glancing across at Lady snuggled in her basket. ‘Maybe Belinda will open up a bit over supper. Anyway, whatever she’s here for, it will be nice to have company for a change this evening. And a new friend for you too, if only for a few nights.’

  6

  On the walk back to the campsite, Belinda’s thoughts darted here, there and everywhere. One minute she was mentally remaking a list in her head of things she needed to check out, the next she was stopping to admire the view and enjoy the fresh air. The countryside here was truly beautiful.

  She turned off the road onto the campsite lane and, stepping around the potholes, made her way up towards the reception chalet. There was no sign of the 2CV she’d parked alongside earlier and when she climbed the steps to try it, the chalet door was locked. Part of her was relieved that Alain Salvin had taken himself off goodness only knew where, but another part was cross that he hadn’t stayed around. A relief in one way as she could now have a good nose around without him being there. Explore by herself, take some up-to-date photographs to show Nigel the current state of the place and try to start outlining a few basic plans for improvement. At the very least, get some ideas flowing around her brain.

  Standing on the steps with her back towards the reception door, looking around, Belinda realised the main access path splintered into several routes, most of which appeared to disappear under a canopy of trees or out-of-control shrubs. Overgrown foliage on either side of one of the paths, though, had been cut back recently. Belinda screwed up her eyes in an effort to read a dilapidated sun-bleached wooden sign in desperate need of a fresh coat of paint that was pinned to a tall tree. It was impossible to make any letters out, but as it seemed a reasonably clear path, she’d start her exploration along it and see where it led.

  BB whined at her and shook his head; his own inimitable way of saying, ‘Unclip the lead, I want to explore’.

  ‘Sorry, BB, you’re on the lead for now. I don’t want you getting lost,’ Belinda said, bending down and stroking him. ‘Come on, let’s brave the jungle.’

  The path she’d chosen as her starting point led her deep into the campsite. Nigel had told her it was spread over roughly six acres and in its day had won awards for its spacious layout and beautiful unspoilt setting. Wandering along the path, Belinda struggled to imagine how the neglected site had looked in the past. It was going to take a lot of work before it recovered the way Nigel insisted it would.

  As she wandered around, Belinda realised all the paths on the site looked to be interconnected to a path that went around the circumference of the place. Pushing her way along one of the paths, knocking flowers off the overgrown flowering camellia shrubs that crowded in, she stopped short. In front of her was a large paved area with several wooden picnic benches piled up around the edge and a brick-built barbecue and pizza oven. The entertainment area. To one side of it was a long stone building with ‘Café’ painted above the boarded-up entrance that Nigel had shown her a photo of. She rubbed some grime off the window and peered inside, but it was too dark to make anything out.

  Walking past the building to where the path joined the main one that circumnavigated the site, Belinda stopped and looked over the hydrangea bush hedge and caught her breath as she saw the river and its path a mere fifteen metres away. Looking along the hedge, she saw what appeared to be a gap and moved towards it. To her delight, she found a wooden gate set into the space, which yielded when she pushed it and opened enough for her to squeeze through. A few yards down the path on the right, there was a backless wooden bench in desperate need of painting, but Belinda sank down onto it, grateful for its presence.

  A small dinghy, moored close to the bank, was moving gently on the water. Belinda sat there for several moments, mesmerised as she watched a trio of ducks take flight. A heron landed gracefully upstream in the gently flowing water and an animal that moved too quickly in the water for her to be sure but was very otter-like in its movements swam before her. She’d forgotten how beautiful Brittany was, even on an overcast winter afternoon.

  As that treacherous thought struck her, she returned to the gate and started to walk along the main path before veering off left and walking back into the centre of the site along another path.

  Along this path, several individual wooden chalets were spaced a good distance from each other in a higgledy-piggledy manner. Each had its own terrace for al fresco eating and hardstanding for a car.

  Belinda, though, was surprised to see one was tidier and better maintained than the others. Even the flower bed in front was weed-free and spring bulbs were flowering. A bicycle with a basket fixed to its handlebars was leant up against the side of the chalet. If she didn’t know better, she’d say someone was staying there, maybe even living there permanently.

  Belinda climbed the shallow steps onto the decking area in front of the cabin and knocked on the door. Silence. No sign of life. Thoughtfully, Belinda walked back to the path and took a photograph.

  This part of the site felt a little bit spooky, with too many trees and overgrown bushes making it dark. Glimpsing two buildings further over, she discovered they were the shower block and toilets. The outsides of both were in need of a good power wash and a fresh coat of paint. The insides were also in definite need of a good clean. Belinda took several photographs before she continued to make her way back to the main reception area.

  To her surprise, as she walked, ideas about updating and improving the site began to filter into her mind, and she spoke into her phone recorder, making notes. As she neared what she recognised as the back of the office chalet, she saw another building hidden amongst the trees. Walking over to it, she realised it was a house. A faded notice on the door said ‘Private. Interdit. Staff’.

  When Belinda tried the door, she wasn’t surprised to find it was locked. To one side of the house was a large hangar with maintenance vehicles and other machinery in it, including a golf buggy, tractor, quad bike and chainsaws. Most of the equipment looked in need of a good clean and overhaul but hopefully would be usable.

  Overcome by a sudden shiver of cold, Belinda realised the sky was clouding over and she was getting cold. Time to get in the car and put the heater on to warm up while she tried to put her notes in order and waited for Alain Salvin to return.

  A quarter of an hour later, a noisy car exhaust alerted her to the fact that someone was coming. Alain Salvin. His 2CV might be a classic, but if he didn’t give it some loving care and attention soon, it would end up in the scrapyard. Belinda watched him get out of the car and waited for him to acknowledge her. Instead, he ignored her and began walking towards the office steps. What was his problem?

  Furious, she wound her window down.

  ‘A moment, Mr Salvin.’

  She registered the shrug of his shoulders and the deep sigh he made before he turned and stared at her. She returned his stare before speaking.

  ‘Breakfast meeting here tomorrow morning at 8 a.m. Make sure you have the keys to everything. Do not be late. Have a good evening.’ She threw a false smile at him before revving the engine and driving away.

  7

  An hour or so later, after a reviving shower and half an hour working on her laptop back at the auberge, Belinda decided there was time before dinner to make a couple of Skype calls, one to Chloe and one to Nigel.

  She rang Chloe first because of the twins’ bedtime. Closing the connection afterwards, Belinda sighed. Although relieved to hear they were all well, she was missing them already and she’d only just arrived.

  Afterwards, she rang Nigel. As soon as they’d exchanged the normal pleasantries, s
he dived straight in. ‘Did you actually walk around the site before you bought it?’

  ‘Most of it,’ Nigel said.

  ‘I’m sending you a file of photographs and a provisional incomplete list of what needs to be done, as well as a list of the equipment we need to buy. Bringing this place up to our usual Milton Hotels standard in the timescale you’ve given me will be difficult.’

  ‘Getting the place up to scratch will be a challenge, I grant you, but we always thought you liked a challenge.’

  ‘This campsite is more than just a challenge, although it does have potential. There’s a couple of run-down buildings on the site that need demolishing. The long traditional mas on the far edge laughingly called a café… that, though, is a gem.’ Personally Belinda thought that particular mas could be the key to making the campsite a success in and out of the season.

  ‘It is?’

  ‘Fully restored, it would be a wonderful venue for weddings and other large functions. A basic café needs to be nearer the entrance.’

  ‘So, finally, there is something you like about the place.’

  Belinda decided to ignore the amusement she could hear in Nigel’s voice.

  ‘You also need to know I’m probably going to stay at the auberge in the village for an indefinite period. There is nowhere on site where I would consider sleeping currently, although I haven’t yet had a chance to check out the staff cottage.’

  ‘Stay at the auberge for as long as you need to. Anything else?’

  ‘One major problem, your so-called manager, he’s got a real attitude problem. Either that or he hates the English. Or maybe he hates women. Not sure I can work with him. Can you sack him?’ Belinda could have sworn she heard Nigel smother a laugh.