Richard Serrailler had never been a cook, or indeed any sort of a housekeeper, but he liked things to be orderly, and he enjoyed good food. He longed for a home-cooked dinner, and company for eating it. He missed Delphine, though he despised her for what she had done, continuing the relationship with her old boyfriend while staying in the cottage with him, and finally robbing him.
He felt morose. He could not focus on anything for long. He went for solitary, dismal walks and drank too much wine in the evenings.
It was on the day he caught himself pouring a third glass of Sauvignon at lunch that he knew he ought not to stay alone any longer.
The drive through France to the ferry port could be done in a day but he took the slower roads rather than speed down the toll motorways, stayed a night in a small hotel in the Dordogne and another in Normandy. He walked about the villages, sat at cafe tables in the evening sun, ate well, and felt a relief that he had made the decision to return. His only concern was where he could stay – Hallam House was let and the tenants had another couple of months there. But he felt lighter of heart than he had for a long time. He liked France but he did not belong there, any more than the rest of the expats he watched gathering in their groups in this or that cafe every day. The difference was that he knew it. He had never planned to see out his days there but Delphine had put a brake on future plans.
He sat on until the lamps shone out from the bars and cafes around the little square, enjoying a small, carafe of red, thinking that Cat would be pleasantly surprised when he turned up at the farmhouse front door. He wondered if he would see Simon, from whom he had not heard for some months. His son disappointed him. Even the third triplet, Ivo, was now married to an Australian nurse. They never saw him but he sent regular emails and photographs. He seemed in many ways to be a closer member of the family than Simon.
The waitress came to clear the tables. He offered her a drink but she was finishing in five minutes, she said, and ready for home. She smiled. And ‘peut-être mon mari n’aime pas que j’accepte. Mais merci, monsieur, vous êtes très gentil.’
The music was turned off inside the cafe. He got up, a little stiffly after the long drive, and went to walk round the village before going to his hotel.
It was clean, quiet and comfortable, but he slept badly, waking several times and having strange, flickering dreams, and when he woke he realised that he had been shivering and sweating. He showered and walked out to find a pharmacy, where he bought paracetamol and throat lozenges.
By the time he was on the road again, after three strong coffees and a croissant, he felt better and decided if he was getting a cold, he would be able to stave it off until he arrived back in Lafferton.