A French Pirouette

Brigitte had always insisted that guests were free to use the kitchen and didn’t need to make drinks in their rooms. Libby had often wished she could make herself a warm drink though when she’d woken at three a.m. and didn’t fancy trekking downstairs to the kitchen. Bedside tables with lights and a tray with tea-making facilities were essentials in her book.

“Love the white bedlinen, Mum, but blankets?” Chloe said, opening the large armoire on the first floor landing where all the bedlinen was stored. “Mmm smell that lavender.”

“Definitely replace with duvets,” Libby said scribbling a note. “Some toile de Jouy covers and pillowcases would be pretty. Need some more white bath towels too.”

Some of the rooms could also do with decorating, she decided. After his accident Bruno had clearly given up on that front. A fresh coat of paint on the walls to freshen things up before the season began would be enough this year. Next winter would be the time to tackle any major decorating. The first guests were booked in for three weeks’ time, so no time to do them all. She’d tackle the three on the first floor first. Large tins of paint went on the list.

“Now for my apartment,” Libby said as they climbed the final flight of stairs to the top floor and opened the apartment door with its private ‘interdit’ sign. “It’s going to feel funny living up here on my own,” she said glancing at Chloe. “D’you realise I’ve never lived on my own before?”

“Mum, stop worrying. It’s going to be fine,” Chloe reassured her.

The couple of occasions in the past when Brigitte had invited them upstairs Libby remembered the sitting room being small and full of large old-fashioned furniture. Now with her own modern furniture left higgledy-piggledy by the removal men, waiting for her to decide where to place it all, the room seemed bigger. Full of possibilities. There was even a little balcony with room for one of those snazzy wrought-iron round tables and a chair. A perfect place to unwind in the evening, overlooking the canal and the woods on the opposite side.

Her bedroom too was a good size—big enough for the king-sized bed and the various other pieces she’d brought with her. She smiled ruefully looking at the unmade bed with boxes of clothes dumped on it. Really she should have left it behind in the UK and bought a new, smaller one, in France. But it was so comfortable and she’d gotten used to having the luxury of so much space.

“Right, you ready to hit the shops?” Chloe asked, looking at the list in Libby’s hand.

“I was going to check out the gîte as well,” Libby said. “See what’s needed in there but that can wait for another day. Let’s go.”

Three hours later Libby called a halt to the shopping, feeling that her bank account had been hit hard enough for one day.

“Think that’s it for today. Don’t think the car will hold another thing,” she said. “Time to go home and get to work.”

Turning off the main road onto the narrow canal path with the car filled to the roof with boxes and bags, Libby slowed down to a crawl to avoid the potholes. The last thing she needed was to damage her car.

“At least we’re not likely to meet anything thank goodness. There’s so much stuff in the car I couldn’t possibly see to reverse,” she said.

“Umm think you’ve spoken too soon,” Chloe said, indicating a dirty blue estate car in the distance moving at a fair speed towards them.

“Damn,” Libby muttered. “D’you think they know I’ve just passed a lay-by? I’m going to keep going—I can’t see to reverse properly. I’m sure there’s another passing place further down—hopefully they won’t mind reversing.”

As she continued to edge slowly towards the other car Libby was relieved to see it finally stop and then begin to go backwards quickly. The sun shining on the windscreen of the other car made it impossible to see who was driving other than it appeared to be a man.

Thirty seconds later as she drew alongside to pass, Libby raised her hand in acknowledgement and Chloe wound the window down to say “Thanks.”

“If you’re going to live here you need to learn to reverse,” the man said wagging a finger at them. “See you soon.” With that he was gone, churning up the road dust in his wake and leaving Libby and Chloe looking at each other.

“Bit rude,” Libby said. “I’m quite capable of reversing normally.”

“Wonder who he is?” Chloe said. “He was quite dishy in a laid-back scruffy French way. Wonder what he meant by see you soon?”

Libby shrugged as she pulled into the parking space outside the auberge. “No idea. Can you take this box inside please—needs to go in the sitting room. I’ll bring the first of the duvets and then I’m going to put the kettle on. I need tea after all that shopping.”

They were sitting in the kitchen drinking tea and making plans to start on the unpacking and sorting things out when Brigitte arrived.

“I thought I’d pop in to see how you were after the flood,” Brigitte said. “And to offer to give you a hand Saturday.”

“Saturday?” Libby asked, pouring a cup of tea and handing it to Brigitte.

“The rally tea.”

Puzzled, Libby looked at her.

“The local vintage car club. Bruno’s a member and we’ve always had the season’s opening rally start and finish from here. It is in the reservations book,” Brigitte said.

“I haven’t opened that book,” Libby said. “In fact I’m not even sure where it is. I’d assumed the booking for three people at the end of the month you’d mentioned was the first date I had to worry about.” She looked at Brigitte. “How many people come on this rally? What kind of food do they want?” She shook her head. “I’m not sure…”

“It’s just sandwiches, cakes and tea. If it’s cold, a bowl of soup is welcome,” Brigitte said. “I think last year there were thirty people.”

“Thirty! No, I can’t possibly. Who’s the organiser? I’ll ring tonight and cancel. I’m sure they can find somewhere else when I explain I’ve only just moved in.”

“Mais, Libby, it’s not a problem with me to help this year,” Brigitte protested. She hesitated. “I have told Lucas earlier that it will be OK.”

“Lucas?”

“Lucas Berrien. He is the organiser. When he called to see me earlier I promised him there was no problem with you because I would help. He said he’d driven down here to see you but then he got an emergency call so he had to leave.”

“Emergency? Who is he?”

“He’s the local vétérinaire,” Brigitte replied.

“What kind of car does he have?” Chloe asked.

“He has a vintage Delage that is the envy of all but for his work he drives…”

“A muddy blue estate,” Libby finished the sentence for her.

“Oui. You’ve met him?”

“Only in passing,” Libby said.

“So that’s why he said see you soon.” Chloe laughed. “Go on, Mum. You can do it. Think of catering for the rally as your first challenge in France.”

“The rally will have to be stopped if you cancel the tea. It would be impossible to find somewhere else local at such short notice,” Brigitte said. “Please, Libby. I promise you it is not difficult.”

Libby sighed. “I don’t suppose I have much choice really.” She looked at Brigitte. “OK. You’d better fill me in with all the details—times, kind of food, et cetera and we’ll work out a plan of action.” Talk about being thrown in at the deep end but at least she’d have Brigitte and Chloe to help.

Chapter Three (#ub3e2a77c-6203-56b2-9a95-81246d365f78)

Brigitte

Standing in the sitting room of the old mas in the centre of the village, Brigitte determinedly rubbed her eyes in an effort to keep the tears she could feel threatening from running down her cheeks.

Bruno might be full of enthusiasm about moving back into the house where he was born but it was the auberge that had meant everything to her. Living in the maison de maître in the village would simply not be the same. Of course she realised things changed and nothing stayed the same for ever. She also knew the auberge had been getting, not too much for her as Bruno insisted, but more old-fashioned and in need of updating. Something she’d hoped Bruno would help her do when he retired but instead after his broken arm he’d said he wanted more time for them to do things together and insisted on putting the auberge up for sale.

“We haven’t had a proper vacance in twenty years,” he’d said.

“We’ve been to Paris and Venice, several times,” Brigitte had protested. “And London, Barcelona. We even got to Amsterdam.”