December 2015
Paul has renovated the caravan, examining every fixed and moving part, repairing loose beading and replacing a wonky tap. I cram winter clothes into the tiny wardrobe and roll up towels and stuff them in the overhead lockers.
Mollie becomes my shadow, permanently attached to my side, forcing me to stay cheerful because her future mustn’t be clouded by uncertainty.
We take the ferry to Calais and head south on the Autoroute, Paul battling to stop the caravan snaking in the buffeting headwind. He soon masters the knack, the caravan submits and we drive on, racking up tolls and stopping to refuel on black coffee and Orangina.
We trundle through Sainte Violette, raising some stares. On the wall outside the bar is a large sign saying that the lease is available.
But not for much longer, I think, with a smile.
We take the winding country road out of the village and ahead of us, in all its sodden winter glory, lies Les Quatre Vents, our place for all seasons.
Paul yanks the steering wheel ready for the sharp right turn. The car makes it, but the caravan gets wedged against the old gatepost. He slams the car into reverse, metal scrapes against wood.
“Shit.”
The car rocks as the van settles. Paul gets out to view the damage. The caravan has swung out at an angle, blocking the road.
“Stay in the car, Mollie,” I say as I prepare to help.
“I’ll unhitch it. You hold the van steady.”
Paul unhooks the tow bar and I struggle to support its weight.
“Hold the van up while I drive the car forward.”
“Can’t. It’s too heavy,” I groan.
How I wish Owen was here to help. Paul drives the car closer to the house and jogs back down the track. Between us we manhandle the caravan out of the road and closer to the house.
“Leave it here for now. I’ll make some tea.”
“But we need gas and water,” I say.
“What d’you think that is?” Paul points out an electricity meter box and a green metal hatch cover, where our brand new water supply is buried. “Henri’s organised everything.”
We sip our tea, Mollie snuggling up next to me as Paul unpacks a flat box containing a television. He fiddles with it for ages but can’t get it working. Dusk creeps up on us and Paul draws the curtains.
“I’m shattered. Let’s leave the caravan here for the night. I’ll move it round the back in the morning.”
We’ll be sleeping just a couple of metres away from prying eyes and passing traffic but I’m too tired to care.
We wake to a sound like a whispering tide. As I listen, the timbre changes to a rustling, rising in volume then falling away.
“Pheasants. They raise them at the farm across the road,” Paul says sleepily.
I lever myself up on one elbow, open the blind and peer out of the window. Opposite us is a huddle of farm buildings visible behind the naked trees. Strange that I didn’t notice the farm when we were here in the autumn. I squint to read the painted sign, nailed to a tree: La Petite Ferme.
Paul notices where I’m looking. “The family’s called Gaspard. According to Henri, they stay aloof from the rest of the village. Henri’s invited us for an early supper tonight.”
“Great. He should have some more news for me about the bar.”
“And he’s been liaising with Maxim, our architect. He sent me the first draft of the plans yesterday but I haven’t looked at them yet. I’ll show you when we go somewhere with WiFi.”
Henri’s house in the next hamlet is a short drive away and, when we arrive, he’s in the yard scattering grain for a troupe of free-range hens. He looks different: smarter clothes, healthier complexion, less gaunt.
“Can I help?” begs Mollie, tugging at my sleeve.
“Of course.” Henri hands her a rough woven bag, shows her how to take a pinch and walk around as she scatters it.
“Keep moving so the birds at the bottom of the pecking order don’t miss out.”
“What’s pecking order?” Mollie asks, and Henri explains.
The hen house is hand-crafted in wood.
“Is this where they sleep?” I ask.
Henri nods. “I built it last winter. The stilts are to keep out the foxes.”
Henri finishes feeding the hens and puts down the tin. “Come and see what’s inside the barn.”
Intrigued, Mollie and I follow, leaving Paul in the yard, taking a call on his mobile phone. Henri puts a finger to his lips as he lifts a scrap of frayed blanket and uncovers a hay bale. On the top, huddled in a sort of nest, are five new-born kittens. Gently, he scoops up a black and white one, small enough to nestle inside his palm, and shows Mollie how to cradle it against her chest. The kitten yawns and rubs its head on her jumper.
“Look, Mummy. He’s sleeping,” she declares, enraptured.
“He’s still very tiny. His eyes aren’t open yet.”
“We must put him back now.” Henri lays the kitten next to its brothers and sisters and replaces their covering.
“Can we have one?” begs Mollie.
“No, darling. Anyway, you have Dylan,” I say, briefly forgetting her rabbit is hundreds of miles away at home with Owen.
She makes a sad face and I bite my lip, annoyed with myself that I had brought up the rabbit. We head out of the barn.
Henri’s house is built of grey and honey-coloured stone, evolved over decades, if not centuries. The roof is red clay tiles and wood smoke curls from the chimney into the grey-blue sky. At the upstairs windows, white wooden shutters, with black metal fixings, flap open, and, on the ground floor, there are window boxes planted with thyme, mint and other herbs.
Entering the house is a step into a man’s world—no curtains to soften the shutters, wooden furniture with no upholstered seats or cushions, and a bare flagstone floor. There are a few books but no pictures or photographs and empty beer bottles, in varying shapes and sizes, line one windowsill, passing for ornaments. The main room is warm with logs glowing behind the sooty window of a wood burning stove.
Henri extracts a bottle of Ricard from his bookshelf, where it’s wedged between a bible and a road atlas of Europe, dated 1988. He pours out two measures, hands one to Paul and fetches water from the kitchen tap in a small crested jug.
“Emma? Sorry, did you want one?”
I shake my head. “Glass of wine, please.”
I follow him out to the kitchen where shelves built from reclaimed wood are stacked with pans and chipped crockery. I run my hand over the rough door of a free-standing cupboard. It’s painted pale grey and I wonder if Henri knows the colour he’s picked is high fashion in London.
“Did you build the kitchen yourself?” I ask.
He looks up from pouring my wine. “I did. There’s not much work around here in winter.”
The kitchen wall is unpainted and the plaster is a patchwork of pale and darker shades of pink. Henri follows my gaze and pats the wall with the flat of his hand.
“Still waiting for it to dry out. These old walls act like a sponge and soak up years of damp.”
He turns to stir a pan bubbling on the stove. I catch the scent of tarragon and keep my fingers crossed that Mollie will eat it. He carries on talking as he stirs.
“I’m still fixing the house up. It’s a slow process. The bathroom’s next.” He wipes his forehead with the back of his hand. “It’s downstairs, along the hallway if Mollie needs it. I was going to put a new one in upstairs but funds have been tight.”
“What’s the latest news on the bar?” I ask, but before Henri replies, Paul joins us in the kitchen and sets up his laptop on the scrubbed pine table.
“Can I use your WiFi to show Emma the architect’s plans?”
“Be my guest.”
At home in England, Paul has been developing his back-of-a-napkin ideas for remodelling Les Quatre Vents using a professional architectural design package. His grand scheme is strong, while I’m hooked on the small details, like the way he can supplement the design by bringing window boxes, trees and manicured blades of grass zooming onto the page to beautify our wasteland plot.
Paul sent his outline design and a long email explaining his ideas to Maxim, the architect Henri recommended. I peer at the screen as Paul loads the plan and see immediately that he’s ignored Paul’s proposals.
The architect has stretched the building, adding two ugly extensions, making it even longer. To the right of the front elevation he’s inked-in an archway leading to the outbuildings we plan to convert into holiday homes to rent out but his schematic shows the old barn and dairy, modernised into soulless brick boxes.
Paul stiffens. “What the fuck is this?”
“Shush, Paul—Mollie’s here.”
“This isn’t the L-shape I asked for.”
Henri abandons the pot he’s tending on the stove and studies the design.
“Your kind of long, low building is traditional,” he explains. “We call it a longère. Longères were built with their backs to the wind and people and animals lived side by side in adjacent parts of the building. They stored winter feed for animals in the roof space to provide insulation.”
“Why does that affect our design options?”
“The planning authorities might insist on keeping this original shape. No Ls, no Us. Just straight.”
“I want to explore my proposals first.”
“Sure. I’ll go with you to talk to Maxim.”
The smell from the pan on the hob caramelises but the men are engrossed. Should I intervene to stop it burning? I half-rise but Henri gets there first and pronounces it ready. He rolls up the sleeves of his dark denim shirt as he ladles chicken onto plates and I realise why he looks different. He’s shaved off the offending moustache to reveal a younger, more attractive Henri underneath.
As we take our seats at the table, Paul begins another question about planning rules but his time is up. I cut across him.
“Enough about planning. Let’s talk about the bar. What’s our next step?”