She’d rang her neighbours to confirm her arrival date and ask if they could plug in her fridge the day before. During the conversation she had been invited to dinner. Christalle’s invitation was more of an insistence and Frankie was looking forward to eating a home-cooked French meal especially when lunch was going to be a baguette she’d bought on the boat.
Christalle was an amazing cook and her food always tasted that bit extra special because more or less everything on the plate was home grown, or reared, something that Frankie knew she would have to get used to. She had entertained the idea of keeping chickens but no way could she eat one of them, and if a fox got them she’d be devastated, so seeing as Luc had plenty of eggs to give away, there seemed no point.
Frankie smiled, remembering how grateful she was for her online French course and that Christalle remembered some English from her school days when they spoke on the phone. It seemed like another world, moving from one where she’d more or less lived in self-imposed isolation to having to bat off invitations and offers of help from her new friends.
‘And you will come for dinner, I insist. You will be tired from the journey and we can celebrate together.’
Frankie had her online dictionary open so she could type in any words she didn’t understand but so far she was keeping up. ‘I would love that, thank you. It will be the perfect way to start my new life.’
Christalle then offered to stock up Frankie’s freezer. ‘We have everything you need in the chicken shed freezer. Too much pork from our pigs. Do you like the feet? No, perhaps not. Oh and the beef from the farm of my brother, and chicken too, plenty of that.’
Frankie was trying not to be squeamish, reminding herself it was their way, using up all of their produce each season, which included livestock, not just what grew in the garden. She distracted herself with an offer of something from England. ‘Would you like me to bring anything from here, for the children perhaps?’ The list, when Christalle set her mind to it, made Frankie giggle.
‘Can you bring me the mixture that goes up the chicken? I had it when I stayed in London.’
‘Paxo? It’s called stuffing and yes, I’ll bring some.’
‘And the jus, how do you say it?’
‘Gravy, yes I can get some.’
‘And those yellow things that look like mushrooms. You say they are puddings but they are not.’
‘Yorkshire puddings. I’ll show you how to make the batter: it’s really easy.’ Then realising that Christalle must have had Sunday lunch somewhere, Frankie had an idea. ‘When my kitchen is fitted why don’t I make you a Sunday lunch – my treat to thank you for looking after me and the house while I’ve been gone.’
‘Oh I would like that very much, Frankie… and can we have the sauce made from the bread? I enjoyed that too, and fish and chips with the sloppy peas.’
Frankie promised that once she was organised she would make Christalle whatever it was she’d eaten in London, including mushy peas.
Glancing through her rear mirror at the bin liners piled on the back seat, she thought of the rest of her stuff somewhere ahead, on the back of a truck. It wasn’t much to show, her whole life stored in eight cardboard boxes, three suitcases of clothes and shoes and some framed prints that had zero memories attached: they were simply cheerful and bright and had caught her eye in a local gift shop. That was the way forward. Frankie didn’t want baggage of the emotional kind even in the form of mementos, preferring the past to stay right where it was.
She was pulled out of her thoughts by something she still regarded as special, like the hand of fate pointing the way, the road sign for Saint Suplice, her village. Frankie stifled a giggle, imagining herself saying to people when they asked where she lived: ‘j’habite au Saint Suplice’. Fancy that!
The route to her house took her through the village and whilst it wasn’t picturesque in the traditional chocolate-box sense, it was quintessentially French, a mixture of ancient, old and new, terraced houses with bowed walls, pockets of modern boxy dwellings, quaint cottages with well-tended gardens. Most of the homes and buildings were painted in pale natural shades, some greying and worn, others pristine white with trendy charcoal doors and window frames.
Along with the neo-Gothic church built from grey stone, its grand arched frontage reminding Frankie of a papal mitre, ornate stained-glass windows looking down from their vantage point at the entrance to the village, Saint Suplice had everything a small community needed starting with the bar, a must.
The Blue Marin Bar et Tabac sold newspapers, tobacco and lottery tickets and in the back was a small and simply furnished bar, frequented mostly by men and popular on match nights. The owner was an excellent multi-tasker, operating his lotto machine and cash register in between serving beer and cheering on Nantes FC or Les Bleus.
Next door was theboulangeriewith its pink and black candy-striped canopy and heavenly aromas once you stepped underneath and through its door. Then there was thepharmacie, possibly the most modern shop in the village with its sterile flashing green cross, like a beacon of health, and thecharcuteriethat sold all the things Frankie loved on a plate of tapas. She expected it would become her favourite store. She’d often gazed at the array of cooked meats of every description, colourful mixed salads, olives, savoury pastries, the thought of which made her tummy rumble. She glanced at the baguette she’d bought on the boat. It was now looking the worse for wear in the heat.
Opposite the row of shops was the market square, used as a car park except on Tuesdays when it was transformed by stalls full of local produce, along with clothing and household goods, and thecrêpevan, praise be – it was a village favourite. At the end of the row on the corner was Sitis, the French equivalent to a Spar, red window framed and glass-fronted with a couple of shopping trolleys by the door. It was small but well stocked and perfect for those last-minute emergencies.
Turning right out of the village, Frankie passed themairie, the town hall, and then the hairdresser Madame Coco, and the last but not leastLa Postewith its yellow sign and matching delivery van parked outside. Soon all these places would become part of her regular life, not shops that she would pass by during a holiday, gazing shyly through their windows, too unsure to venture inside. She would be a regular customer, a part of the community and hopefully – eventually – classed as one of them, not just another tourist.
At the mini roundabout Frankie craned her neck to see through the window of the hotel where she always stayed, hoping to spot Maxence the owner. She would have liked to stop and say hello but he would most likely be preparing the bistro for lunch and not only that, he’d insist she stayed for a drink, and then to eat, and she would never get away. Curly baguette it was.
It also tugged at her heart knowing that inside the hotel were her two French bulldog puppies waiting for their new mum to arrive. She would be back the next day to collect them once she’d got her act together at the house, then she would bring them home, another reason for her excitement.
Heading away from the village, Frankie’s heart rate quickened and she had to stifle a squeal, sheer giddiness bubbling from within. Upwards she drove, over the brow of the hill, either side lined with fields, not a soul in sight, then into the dip where the road straightened out. Apart from a few cars passing in the opposite direction and the lorry up ahead, the road was quiet, no rush, one gear away from sedate.
The gradient increased slightly and Frankie slowed her car, preparing to turn left and onto a side road, an immense sense of… happiness, accomplishment, destiny, it’s shit or bust time, washing over her.At last,enfin,Frankie said to herself when she saw the thin white signpost, the black letters transcribing themselves as home, La Tournelle.
Indicating, Frankie then turned onto the lane, wide enough for just one car, edged by trees and bushes, the central track grassed and neatly mown she suspected by Luc, although she’d already offered to take her turn once she moved in. Frankie couldn’t wait to have neighbours again, nice ones, people who popped in for coffee; who you could rely on and return the favour. She’d missed all that, having friends.
When her house came into view, even though she’d seen it plenty of times before, the first time in a terrible state, then during her last visit when it was semi-liveable and since, in photos sent by Henri, her eyes pricked with tears. Frankie was completely and unexpectedly overwhelmed by the enormity of what was happening despite her plans and preparations. This was it, the start of a new life, day one of the beginning and out of nowhere Frankie suddenly felt very alone. It came as a sucker punch to the gut, out of the blue, and it knocked her off balance for a second or two until she got a grip.
No, do not go there! Do not let it bother you. This is the deal, what you wanted. Stop being mard, Frankie Clarke, right now!
