He ordered an Americano and began to unload books onto the small round table in a clumsy fashion. As his coffee arrived, he knocked a hardcover onto the floor, causing a rather loud bang. He seemed oblivious to the outside world as he opened a notebook and began scribbling quickly with one hand while grasping for his cup with the other.
I ordered another tea from the still unfriendly waiter, which made the man stop what he was doing and look over at me. I half smiled at him, wondering if he recognized me from when we’d been here in the autumn, before continuing with my work. I couldn’t help noticing he’d stopped writing and was now staring out the window, with the occasional glance over to my table. I checked my reflection in the screen of my phone to make sure I didn’t have dirt on my face or in my hair—I did live in the country now—but all was well.
Draining his cup, the man walked up to the bar and asked for another coffee, diverting via me on his way back.
“Excusez-moi, Madame, mais êtes-vous Américaine?”
Am I American? I thought. Is it so obvious that I’m not French?
“Australienne,” I said proudly. “Et vous?” I asked, although I was sure that, with his presumptuousness, he had to be French.
“Oh, I’m English,” he said, sounding now unmistakably British.
“Ah, I didn’t notice you had an accent,” I said.
“And yet the locals never fail to mention it,” he said with a chuckle. “Mind if I join you briefly?” he asked. I looked over to his belongings, still strewn over his table.
“Please do. I was just finishing up.” I motioned with my hand to the empty chair facing me and shut my laptop. I was intrigued. “I’m Ella, by the way.”
“Charles,” he said quickly and I was reminded of the multiple visits I’d made to Serge’s fromagerie before I’d even learned his name. “But people call me Chuck. Except the French, they refuse to call me anything but Charles. But then, have you tried to pronounce ‘Chuck’ with a French accent? Quite absurd, really. But who cares about me? Tell me what you’re working on. There normally aren’t too many new faces in town over winter,” he explained warmly. I guess he didn’t remember seeing me across the square.
“I work for a food app in Paris,” I said. “I’ve actually just moved here.”
“Fabulous news!” he said. “This town is as quiet as a dead mouse.”
I ignored his odd choice of simile and asked, somewhat desperately, if he also lived in town.
“Sort of,” he said. “I’m what you could call a drop-in local. I spend a few months here and a few months there. But I’m here for a good stint at the moment,” he continued.
Could Chuck be my first country friend? I wondered. Now, sitting opposite him, I figured he had to be around my age, or slightly older.
“And how did you end up in Chinon?” I asked, still curious as to what he was doing in this tiny town.
“Well, my grandmama left me a little land and an old house when she passed away.”
I offered my condolences before asking the question I was most nervous about the answer to: “So, do you like living here?”
“It has its moments. I like the quiet. The countryside is beautiful.” I pictured him walking down country lanes with a hunting dog, wearing wellingtons and carrying a large walking stick. “But it can be a little dull,” he continued.
“Ah,” I said. “That was what I was most worried about.”
“Well, compared to Paris, things move slowly here. But I find that it’s a nice contrast to the city. Allows for a little more headspace to think and ponder. I’ve never done well in captivity,” he said. I wanted to laugh but wasn’t sure if he was making a joke. “And what brings you to Chinon?” he asked.
Even though I’d only just met Chuck, his willingness to open up made me feel completely at ease. And it seemed so natural to be chatting to another English-speaker that my own backstory just sort of slipped out. I told Chuck about how I’d fled Melbourne to set up a new life in Paris, how I’d met Serge, and how he’d somehow convinced me that moving to a goat farm was a romantic idea. The only thing I couldn’t bring myself to mention was the pregnancy. I wasn’t ready for that to define me yet, and soon enough the belly would simply speak for itself.
Chuck looked out the window and said dreamily: “An escape to the country. How idyllic.”
“I guess,” I said, unenthusiastically.
“You’re not thrilled by the concept?” he asked.
I should have probably sugar-coated how I felt about leaving Paris, but I was sick of pretending.
“I just want to be back there. Back among the people, the shops, the cafés! It’s so quiet out here, I don’t know how anybody copes,” I said, unable to hold anything back.
“You’ll find your place and your people out here,” he said. “And maybe you’ll even come to appreciate the slower pace of life. Do make sure you check out the local market, too, because when in doubt about life in France, I’ve found all you need to do is fill your stomach with good food and wine, and your heart will follow.”
Chuck’s outlook was comforting and as I spoke with him, I felt my shoulders soften.
“But enough about me. Tell me what you’re working on?” I asked.
“I’m working on a novel,” he said.
“So, you’re a writer,” I said. “Have you published anything I might have heard of?”
“Probably not. I’ve had a few poems and short stories in literary journals, but I wouldn’t recommend them. And I won’t bore you with the details.”
I didn’t even know the names of any literary journals.
“So, what’s your novel about?” I asked.
“It’s all rather experimental, really, so you’ll have to excuse me if I seem a little scattered. It’s a multigenerational family saga that I’m writing from quite a few perspectives. I must admit I may have bitten off more than I can chew.” He looked relieved to have gotten this off his chest.
“How long have you been working on it?” I asked.
“Ten years,” he said, and I struggled to hide my shock.
“But only during the colder seasons,” he rushed to say. “In summer, I try to head back to London and enjoy the few months of the year there when it doesn’t rain.”
I looked out the window and wondered if the weather in London was really any worse than here in Chinon. “Sounds like you’ve got life sorted,” I said.
“At least on the outside,” he replied.
We kept chatting, and Chuck told me about his philanthropy work in London, in particular how he was affiliated with some of the small art festivals and galleries. He didn’t tell me in as many words, but I understood that he wasn’t short of a penny, and I assumed his bank account was full of old money. He was surprisingly unpretentious and very matter-of-fact about what he did. He was, in fact, rather charming. “Anyway, I should let you get back to it,” he said, grabbing his coffee cup and making to leave.
“So, you’re in town for a while longer?” I asked, hoping to not sound too eager.
“I am. You’ll find me working here most days. Stop by for a coffee, or a dismal cup of tea,” he said, looking at the gray liquid in my cup.
He haphazardly shoved his books into a leather carryall and left the café. What were the chances of meeting such a friendly English-speaker on my trip into town? Perhaps country living has something going for it yet.
I couldn’t wait to tell Serge about my new acquaintance. But wait I’d have to. He took hours at the farm supplies store and, by the time he picked me up, I was too cold and exhausted to even bother explaining how I’d met an interesting English author in Chinon.
Thinking about my situation as we drove home through the mist, I decided that I’d have to sort out my driver’s license quickly. I was used to being free to go wherever I wanted in Paris, and I didn’t want that to change just because I was pregnant and living in rural France. And perhaps now I had something, or rather
someone, worth driving to.
Chapter
12
A FEW DAYS LATER WE were back in the car, heading to the Chinon hospital for my first trimester ultrasound. I’d been anticipating the appointment for days, looking forward to seeing how much our baby had grown beyond the speck it had been at the dating scan.
And I’d been looking forward to getting an updated photo.
Dampening my excitement was our tardiness. We were running late to the appointment because Serge had, once again, prioritized looking after the goats over looking after his pregnant girlfriend. Yes, I understood that if they weren’t milked they’d get engorged, but would a few hours really matter that much? In the short time we’d been on the farm, I seemed to have slipped right down the priorities list. This was a big day for me and baby, and I wished Serge would take it more seriously.
“Shall I just leave you at the entrance?” he asked me as we approached the hospital.
“What?” I half yelled. “Why?”
“I mean, I will park the car and then come in,” he said.
I apprehensively agreed and told him to hurry.
Once inside, I was quickly ushered into the ultrasound room and given a gown to change into. I’d never known a hospital to be so efficient. Why now? Hurry up, Serge!
And then the technician returned and she was squirting goo on my stomach and rolling the ultrasound wand over my tiny bump.
She enthusiastically pointed out body parts, but the whole while I was distracted, thinking about the fact that Serge was missing this. He should be here, I kept repeating in my head.
“Nothing to worry about, this happens a lot,” the technician told me in French, interrupting my thoughts.
“What happens a lot?” I asked, lost and suddenly afraid.
“I can’t find the heartbeat,” she said.
“You what?”
“It’s very normal.”
“But I’ve already heard it once,” I said, my own heart jumping into my mouth.
Where the hell is Serge?
“We’ll just check with the internal camera,” she said, and then asked me to remove my underwear.
“Oh,” I said, devastated to be revisiting the dildo cam.
Seconds later, a quick and strong “thump, thump, thump” played out of the monitor.
Thank God, I thought, feeling like I could breathe normally again.
After a few more measurements, the technician instructed me to get dressed and assured me that everything looked perfect before leaving the room. As I was pulling on my clothes, Serge burst through the door.
“Did I miss it?” he asked, looking at me.
“You did. But everything is fine,” I said, fighting back tears. “Apparently, we can pick up the report and some pictures at reception.”
“I’m so sorry, Ella,” he said. “I got a phone call that I needed to take.”
“A phone call? Who was it?”
“It was from a potential new supplier. He thinks he might be able to get my cheese stocked at Galeries Lafayette Gourmet.”
Although getting stocked in this Parisian department store’s food hall would be a big step for Serge, was it really worth missing the ultrasound? Couldn’t he have called back later today?
“It doesn’t matter. It’s fine,” I said. “I just wish you could have been here with me. I didn’t really know what was going on.”
“Oh, Ella,” he said, trying to hug me. I shrugged him off and told him we needed to vacate the room.
In the car, Serge asked me if everything was OK. I was having trouble processing how I’d felt when the technician couldn’t find the heartbeat. The thought of not having this baby in my life, even though momentary, had been terrifying. But most of all, going through that brief but confronting moment without Serge had made me feel very alone. It was scary enough dealing with all this pregnancy stuff in French, and then on the one occasion that I really could have used my French partner by my side, he was on an “important phone call.”
“Everything went fine,” I said eventually.
“And you are OK?” he asked.
“I’m OK. Pretty tired, actually.” And I was tired. For perhaps the first time since moving to the country, I was looking forward to getting back to the farmhouse.
When we got home, Serge pulled off his shoes and reached for his work boots.
“Where are you going now?” I asked desperately.
“I need to go package up the cheese for a delivery,” he said.
“Seriously?” I asked. “I was hoping we could spend some time together. I’ve hardly seen you since we moved here.”
“It needs to happen this afternoon, but I will be back before dinner.”
I watched him leave, fighting back tears.
I sat down to do some work, although I was distracted. I wandered around the house looking for something else to do and ended up in the “nursery.” Seeing the state of the room, I couldn’t hold in my emotions any longer. My tears burst forth with gusto. We’re not ready to have a baby! What the hell were we thinking?
The nursery was a mess, and while I could tolerate the reality of Serge and me living somewhere ugly, I wanted our baby to live in a precious world of beauty and wonder. I ran my hand across the tatty floral wallpaper, stopping my fingers over a bubble. I pricked it with my nail, managing to rip a small hole in it. I pressed it down, but it popped out again, warped from years of sticking out. Feeling frustrated, I gave the paper a little tug.
The next thing I knew, I’d ripped the majority of one sheet off the wall. And it felt good. I was motivated by anger, frustrated with Serge for having missed the ultrasound and pissed off that he’d deserted me as soon as we’d got home. Screw this mess of a house, I said to myself as I ripped away. I don’t need a man by my side for everything, I reinforced under my breath.
I kept going, panting from the exertion, until the room was an eyesore of bare, shabby walls and paper on the floor. It felt wonderfully cathartic.
Later, my anger having subsided, I donned my wellingtons and went to find Serge to try to explain my “progress” on the nursery before he saw it in person. He had promised to lead the renovations, and I couldn’t help but wonder if I’d jumped the gun a little. But what does he expect if he’s never around? I told myself.
When I found him, he was immersed in some troubles of his own, fixing a fence. It didn’t escape my notice that while I was busy pulling things apart, he was putting them back together.
Since we’d arrived on the farm, one of the first things that I’d learned about goats is that they love to escape. Any gaps in fences, any low-lying wire, any slight incline on either side of the barrier, and it’s game on. The slightest whiff of freedom and they’re off. They could be bounding off to the abattoir down the road, and that wouldn’t matter because the thrill was in the escape. Or that’s at least what it seemed like. As a result, Serge always seemed to be fixing fences. If they were my goats, I’d just let them go.
“Hey,” I said.
“Can you hold this?” he asked immediately.
I held on to the wire as instructed and asked him how things were going.
“I don’t know how they keep getting out. Maybe they have a pair of scissors to cut the wire.”
“You mean wire-cutters?” I asked.
“Sure,” he said, looking despondent.
“Is everything OK, Serge?” I asked.
“Mais oui. Bien sûr.” He smiled, but I could tell it was forced.
There was something he wasn’t telling me. I considered pushing him on the topic, but I hoped he’d open up when he was ready.
“How is your work? Are you making progress?” he asked out of the blue. I was surprised he was even worrying about my work when he had so much to do on the farm. I contemplated just saying that things were going well, but my wallpaper-ripping extravaganza had left me feeling dramatic.
“It sucks. Well, this week
has sucked. No matter how long I sit and stare at my laptop, I’m just not managing to get anything done. Perhaps it’s because I’m surrounded by things that need fixing, or moving, or burning . . .,” I said, gearing up to mention the nursery.
“Right,” said Serge, although it was one of those responses that made me feel like he wasn’t really listening. Why did he ask if he doesn’t care about my answer?
I continued. “I miss having an office with colleagues. It’s so lonely just staring out at the countryside. I miss feeling like I’m part of a team working toward something. I miss getting jacked up on coffee and buzzing through work.” I filled Serge’s sustained silence with a messy, verbal assault on his ears.
Eventually, he responded by saying, “It will take time for things to settle down here,” although it sounded more like he was reminding himself of this fact. And then he added: “Besides, you are pregnant. You need to slow down.”
“Slow down? God, if I slow down any more I’ll topple over. If anything, I need to speed up.”
Serge looked at me, exasperated. I could see he was tired, too. Perhaps he needed a break from the farm as much as I did. Although farmers didn’t really get a break, which was another fact I’d learned when the goats didn’t get the memo last Sunday and ended up mowing our neighbor’s paddock.
“Why don’t you just call Michel and ask him to come and help you? I’m sure he’d be very willing,” I suggested. “He probably misses the farm anyway. At least you could get some tips on where to let the animals graze, or how to stop them from knocking down all the fences.”
“I don’t want to bother him, Ella. He’s retired now. I should let him enjoy some peace. He worked so hard for so many years.”
The way Serge said “so hard” made him sound like he’d been farming his whole life. His stubbornness about doing everything himself didn’t bode well. I wondered how long he’d have to battle it out on his own out here before acknowledging that perhaps he needed some help, or at least some guidance. By now he must have realized that farming didn’t necessarily run in the family.
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