The French for Christmas (6 page)

A crisp frost, like the fine dusting of icing sugar on a chocolate torte, covered the ground; the apple tree’s rosy baubles, bright as the colours in a child’s painting, were outlined against the backcloth of perfect blue and, as I lay watching, the robin hopped and fluttered between the branches and the frozen earth beneath. It’s very beautiful, my Not-Christmas tree.

There was a knock at the door and then Didier called, ‘Hello? It’s only me.’

I heaved myself a little more upright and smoothed my hair behind my ears. ‘I’m in here.’

‘
Bonjour
,
Madame
Brooke. It’s good to see you looking a little better this morning. How are you feeling?’

‘Please, call me Evie. I’ve stopped wishing I could curl up and die, thanks. So a lot better than last night.’

He checked my temperature. ‘Still above normal, but it’s come down a few degrees. The worst should be over now. Have you been able to keep the fluids down?’

I nodded. ‘Yes, as you can see I’m living dangerously without the bucket this morning. But don’t worry; I think it’s now safe to stand within a yard of me.’

He smiled. Well, one thing was for sure, I hadn’t hallucinated those blue eyes yesterday. And, even in the clear light of day and without a raging fever, he still did bear an uncanny resemblance to Bradley Cooper.

‘What do you feel like for breakfast? Do you think you could manage a little dry toast?’

I shook my head firmly as my stomach did a somersault at the mention of anything more substantial than water.

‘Just some rehydration drink then. Take it slowly. Lots of water and rest today, okay? Don’t go doing anything too energetic like, say, chasing pigs for example!’

But of course. Mortification dawned as I realised that my gorgeous Bradley-lookalike neighbour must have enjoyed every moment of my less-than-graceful frolicking on the terrace the previous morning. Ah well, at least I could blame my flaming cheeks on my high temperature rather than my confusion… But I was still feeling too sick to care very much for very long.

The last thing I heard was Didier bringing in another basket of logs and building up the fire. Suddenly exhausted again, I rested my head back onto the pillow, drowsy in the warmth of the sunlit room, and drifted off to sleep.

And now it’s Monday morning and I’m feeling like a new woman. Albeit one with a slightly dizzy head and wobbly legs, but the headache and nausea have passed, thank the Lord. I fill the kettle and, as it begins to hum to itself, I try to slice a little of the bread—now hard and stale—from the market on Saturday. It was only the day before yesterday, but it seems an age ago that I was sitting in the church listening to the children sing the song of Saint Nicolas.

The
baguette
looks too unappetising even for toast. Gingerly, in case it proves too much for my still-delicate constitution, I unwrap the basket of cookies and nibble on the corner of one of the frosted stars. In fact the sweet gingerbread seems, if anything, to settle my stomach—and it’s certainly a lot more appetising than the electrolyte sachets that Didier’s left me—so I retire to the sofa and lie in front of the cheerfully blazing fire with a mug of weak tea and another of the cookies. How wonderful it is to feel well again, or at least so much better.

I wonder whether Didier will call in today. Of course he’ll be working as it’s a weekday. But it would be nice to thank him properly for his help and his kindness. And, if I’m honest, to have a chance to get to know him better. Now that my head is no longer a confusion of fever-induced dreams, certain questions come to mind. Such as, is he (a) married or (b) gay? Those seem to be the two most likely options for a guy that good-looking.

And, as I sip my tea and savour the softly spiced cookie, which is almost as therapeutic as a hug from my
Mamie
Lucie, I realise that I may just be getting better in more ways than one.

So, I muse, the recipe for curing grief turns out to be as follows: take equal measures of sadness and pain; mix together with some words of comfort, the kindness of strangers and some memories of happier times; bake at a high temperature for some length of time; then allow to rest, until well-risen and lighter than before.

‘
Coucou!
’ My train of thought is interrupted by the arrival of a visitor, but it’s not Doctor Didier.

‘
Entrez!’
I call, and in walks a tall, elderly lady whose pure white hair is tied back in an elegant chignon. She wears work clothes, corduroy pants and a thick sweater, and her hands, which are holding a heavy-looking cast-iron casserole, are work-roughened, the bare nails cut short.

‘
Oh, pardonnez-moi, Madame
, I wasn’t sure whether you’d be out of bed. Didier said the door was unlocked. He asked me to check on you this morning. I’ll just put this in the kitchen, if I may?’

I scramble to my feet and come to show her the way, even though it’s clear she knows the layout of the house well. She sets the casserole down and then proffers a hand. ‘Eliane Dubosq. Pleased to meet you at last,
Madame
Brooke.’

‘Please, call me Evie. I’m so delighted you’ve come. And I’m sorry I haven’t thanked you for your lovely Saint Nicolas Day gift—I assume it was from you—but events rather overtook me.’

‘I know,’ she smiles and nods. ‘Didier told me. No need to apologise. And it’s good that you are back on your feet again now. I’ve brought you some soup, made with vegetables from my garden. You will need to regain your strength.’

‘Please, will you have a cup of tea? And I can offer you one of these delicious cookies, which were clearly baked by an expert!’

We settle down in the sitting room and she gazes about her. ‘It’s nice to have the house lived in at this time of year for a change. Usually it’s sad and cold here in the winter. I like looking out of my window and seeing the smoke from the chimneys of both the houses over on this side of the road, seeing signs of life. When I heard Anne and Gilles Lebrun were off to La Réunion, I thought Mathieu and I were going to have a very lonely winter indeed at Les Pélérins—the last ones left! Having you two young people here is a sign that there’s still hope for the countryside. Most people want to live in cities nowadays.’

She shakes her head sorrowfully. ‘The rural way of life seems to be dying out, just at a time when the world needs it more than ever.’

I nod. ‘My grandmother always used to say we should live our lives with the seasons. I guess in the city, people are less tuned in to that rhythm. It’s easy to become disconnected from it.’

‘Precisely. When we begin to take Mother Nature for granted, it’s no wonder she gets angry and takes her revenge on us with all this strange weather. She is a woman, after all, and we women don’t take kindly to being ignored!’

It’s another beautiful day today, so it’s easy to forget the leaden skies and the dense fog of a day or two ago but, now she comes to mention it, the weather has been pretty changeable.

‘Is this more typical?’ I ask her. ‘This lovely sunshine?’

‘
Oui
, but don’t take it for granted. There are thirteen moons this year, so we can expect things to be pretty turbulent.’

‘Thirteen moons? What does that mean?’

‘Every now and then we get a year that has thirteen full moons. Check your diary, if it shows the phases, and you’ll see. And folklore tells us that, in years which have thirteen moons, we can expect storms. In all ways. It’s not just confined to the weather. Our individual lives, world events, war, flood, famine; thirteen moons mean trouble. Of course,’ she smiles, ‘it’s only folklore. But if we pause in our busy lives for a moment and ponder where that folklore comes from, we find it’s usually based on some foundation of truth. Those of us who live in the countryside like to mix our science with a good pinch of superstition too, you see.’

She pauses to take a sip of her tea.

‘Now, tell me, Evie, how are you settling in? Rose told us that you were in need of a refuge and that you were seeking peace and quiet. That’s why I didn’t come straight round when you arrived; I wanted to give you some space. Are you all right here? Not too lonely?’ Her direct French way of asking is refreshing after so many months of politely tactful British skirting around the issue.

‘I’m fine. Although I was just starting to miss conversation and human company when I got sick. It’s a great way to meet the neighbours, I’ve discovered! Although I’m not sure I made the best impression on poor Didier. I really wasn’t very nice to know when we met.’

‘Don’t you worry; he’s used to it in his line of work.’ Eliane pats my hand reassuringly.

‘How long has he been here?’ I ask, hopefully nonchalantly enough to disguise any whiff of a vested interest.

She shoots me a keen glance though and I know I’m not pulling any wool over those clear grey eyes that seem able to read my innermost thoughts.

‘He took over from Doctor Lebrun when he retired in September. Didier came to us from Paris—another escapee to the country. So the easiest thing was for him to move into Anne and Gilles’ house while things are in a state of flux. We all wish he’d stay, but he says it’s just temporary until the commune can find a permanent replacement. It’s not so easy these days though, finding people who want to come and live the rural life.’

She shoots me another appraising glance. ‘Rose tells me you are a cook. And a very talented one, at that.’

‘Rose is a very dear friend and therefore totally biased. But yes, I love cooking. Or did love it. I’ve kind of lost my way of late...’ I trail off, unsure of how much Rose has said to Eliane. She nods encouragingly, those wise, grey eyes warm with compassion.

‘But, you know,’ I continue, ‘when I went to the market on Saturday I felt inspired again. All that wonderful produce, so fresh, and so many delicious ingredients. I’m tempted to start again, just as soon as I’ve got my strength back.’

‘Good,’ she nods approvingly. ‘Such a talent should not go to waste. When you feel strong enough, come and visit me. I’ll show you my garden and give you some of the freshest vegetables this rich earth can produce. And in the meantime,’ she stands up, getting ready to take her leave, ‘get some rest and then eat some of that good soup for lunch. You’ll soon be back on your feet.’

After saying goodbye, I wander back into the kitchen and lift the lid of the casserole. The soup smells tempting, even to my still somewhat jaded palate: a clear chicken broth chock-f of carrots, leeks and potatoes. Just the kind my grandmother used to make, I think. And that thought prompts another. Losing Lucie made me lose my appetite. Not only my physical appetite for food, but my appetite for cooking, which used to be my consuming passion. Without Will, without the bistro, my channel for expressing my love of life—nourishing my own body and soul by nourishing others—had gone. And ever since then I’ve been starving. This simple pot of soup represents more than just the thoughtful gesture of a kind neighbour: it’s a sign, pointing the way out of the dark tunnel I’ve been lost in for so long. Soul food.

Mamie
Lucie’s notebook catches my eye. The pages are dog-eared with use and the card feels soft beneath my fingers as I open the cover. Written inside, in her neat, cursive script, is my grandmother’s name. And beneath it, the handwriting a little shakier by then, she’d written my name. I’d forgotten that, even though I used to use the notebook almost every day. Did it help her to know, when her own days were drawing to an end, that she would live on through her recipes, trusting me to keep her love alive even after she’d gone? I feel ashamed suddenly, as if I’ve let her down. I glance again at Eliane’s casserole of
potage.
Like the St Nicolas Day cookies, the food seems to be a message, a gentle nudge of encouragement from
Mamie
. Inspired, I pick up the notebook and retreat with it to curl up before the fire and trawl for recipes that make use of the best winter produce.

An hour later, I’ve picked out several recipes that I’m going to try, searching out the ingredients in the local stores and markets, maybe adapting and improving the dishes as I go along, giving them an updated twist. And I’ve even gone so far as to draft a Christmas lunch menu (even though, obviously, there isn’t going to be a Christmas lunch this year), as follows:

G
lass of champagne
with gruyere gougères

S
ix oysters (Marennes number 3
?)

F
illet of sea
bream with a winter salad of chicory, lamb’s lettuce and walnuts

D
uck breast
with a red wine jus, dauphinoise potatoes, roasted root vegetables with rosemary and thyme

C
heeseboard

C
aramelised
clementines with sabayon

I
look
at my handiwork and sigh. It’s not really the same, cooking a meal like that when you have no one to share it with. For a moment I imagine inviting Didier to come over and enjoy a Christmas feast with me. Perhaps we’d end up in front of the fire with another glass of the champagne...

I sigh again, chiding myself. He’ll obviously have some place to be on Christmas Day, a guy like that. Family; a wife; a girlfriend at the very least. Setting my notes and
Mamie
Lucie’s recipe book aside, I go and heat up a bowl of Eliane’s soup and settle down to a solitary lunch. Perhaps, more realistically, my Christmas menu should read:

A
fter all
, it is just going to be a day like any other.

Outside my window, the robin flutters to the very top of the apple tree and flaunts its bright breast, catching my eye. My Not-Christmas tree really does look very pretty in the dazzle of the low-lying December sun. I remember Eliane’s warning about the thirteen moons. There’s not a cloud in the sky, not a breath of wind.