L'amour Actually (33 page)

  Merel had taken me down to the kitten section, 'just for a look'. I knew I should have resisted more but she had me firmly in her sights. My heart sank a little bit more with each step as we went down into the basement. Opening the door, she led me in to where another couple were cooing over a pen of tiny black kittens. Merel's basement had been kitted out with five state-of-the-art heated pens in which various litters of kittens slept, played or just miaowed piteously at anyone who stopped to look at them. 'Gosh, this is all very grand isn't it?' I exclaimed.

  'Yes, we were very lucky to get a grant from a French charity.' She mentioned the name of a charity that I vaguely recognised as being run by some former French film star or such like. 'It has made it much easier for us to take in more kittens and deal with the sick ones. All the surfaces are washable…' I zoned out as she droned on about the facilities. I was, after all, only being polite.

  'So, in this pen we have…' She rolled off six names, one for each kitten and all beginning with C. The alliteration confused me.

  'Why do all their names start with the same letter?'

  'Because it is the year of the Cs.'

  'The Cs?' I was none the wiser.

  'Every year in France, pet names begin with a different letter of the alphabet. This year it's C, next year will be D, the year after E and so on. The year of Z is always a challenge but by then I will have retired so it will be someone else's problem.'

  'Right,' I said marvelling at how the French could continually manage to surprise me, 'and if I chose a name that didn't begin with a C?'

  'Well, that would be very bad.'

  I bent down and stuck my finger through the grille to rub the multitude of little pink noses that were pressed against it. They really were incredibly cute but I was window shopping, nothing else. As I stroked their noses, one kitten decided that the only way to be noticed was to stand out from the crowd and set about climbing up the grille mewling at me in a 'look at me, look at me' sort of way. I smiled and tickled his tummy. 'This one is really cute.'

  The words were barely out of my mouth before Merel had opened the pen door and swooped on the kitten, prising it quickly off the grille and placing it gently in my arms. The kitten miaowed hopefully at me. He was a little ball of grey and cream fluff with rather alarmingly crossed eyes. 'What's the matter with his eyes?'

  'This is Cédric. He's part Siamese. They are often cross-eyed.'

  I looked suspiciously at the other kittens, all of which seemed to have eyes resolutely pointing in the same direction. I held the little kitten up in front of me and looked him straight in the eyes. Cédric? Poor little bugger. He stared back at me, his head moving slightly from side to side as he tried to decide which me was the real one.

  From that moment on I knew I was doomed. Doomed to cat-ownership despite my best intentions. The rather unfortunately named Cédric was coming home with me.

'Take this bloody cat would you,
chérie
?' Julien walked in with the now re-named Basil attached firmly to his thigh. I had held my breath and waited for fire and brimstone to rain down on my head when I went ahead and gave him a name that went against French custom, but so far there had been no repercussions.

  'Come here, you naughty kitty,' I scolded as I prised his needle-sharp claws out of Julien's leg.

  
'Putain de merde,'
he swore. 'Be careful!'

  'Oh don't be such a baby. He's only a little kitten.' I gave Basil a quick kiss and put him down on the floor of the kitchen in front of his food bowl.

  'Would you like me to rub it better for you?' I said archly, giving Julien an exaggerated pout.

  'Later
chérie
. We have to go.'

  Julien was taking me to a lunch in the village which was hosted by
la chasse
. I had gradually got used to the sound of gunfire each weekend and the almost weekly visit from a hunter looking for his lost dog.

  As we pulled out of the drive, I noticed some movement next door. For a moment my heart skipped a beat. Maybe Tracey was back already, although I doubted that she could write and record a new album in less than a month. There was a lump in my throat when I saw it was strangers unpacking boxes. It looked like Tracey had moved on permanently. I felt Julien's hand on my cheek as I fought back tears and put my head to one side, pressing his hand against my face as a single tear broke ranks and ran down my face.

  'You miss her, don't you?'

  'More than I thought I would. I hadn't realised how much I relied on her.'

  'You still have me.'

  'I know,' I laid my head on his shoulder, 'but you're often so busy with the farm.'

  'But what about all the other English?'

  'They are all so much older than me.'

  Julien smiled. 'What is that expression you used about the Club in Bussières? "God's Waiting Room".'

  The
salle des fêtes
was like a warm embrace when I walked in from the damp cold of the day. Inside, everyone was decked out in their finest clothes, which for the most part meant a clean housecoat and wellies for the women and a shirt and trousers instead of the more usual camouflage clothes for the men. Wine was being served in plastic cups and bowls of crisps dotted the room. I had long since realised that the idea of the stylish Frenchwoman and gourmet food existed more in the minds of British fashionistas and food writers than in real life.
Haute couture
had barely managed to totter across the River Loire in its spike heels before it got swallowed up in a pair of sensible shoes and the sort of clothes that had been fashionable in England in the 1980s. It was a strange conundrum.

  The
maire
greeted me brusquely. My liaison with one of his compatriots had seemingly done nothing to make me any more acceptable in his eyes. He was still a committed Anglophobe who tolerated the invasion of
Les Rosbifs
, or in fact anyone who wasn't French, as a necessary evil in his
commune
. I took it in my stride. Some of them did little to endear themselves to their new neighbours and I knew they fuelled a large and very unwelcome Black Economy.

  I waved to Martine and Laure, who were at the other side of the room chatting with Monsieur Lenoël from the newsagent in Bussières. He was one of the
pompiers
who had taken me to hospital that fateful time and although he was nothing other than professional when we met, it still made me uneasy to think that he'd seen me half naked.

  The room was set up with rows of long tables dressed in white paper tablecloths with sprigs of winter foliage in little white vases dotted along each one. Bottles of wine were grouped along each table, only red and
rosé
as usual, white wine was only for heathens in these parts. There was also the habitual single set of cutlery, the custom being to eat each course with the same knife and fork. When I had first arrived I was constantly having to retrieve my cutlery which I left on my plate as I had done since I was small. Julien thought this was a ridiculous waste; but I still preferred to eat each course with a clean set. Giving me a cup of passable wine and with his hand on the small of my back, he led me to where Louis was holding court with a group of younger people from the village. It suddenly struck me how little I went out now Julien and I were in that place in a relationship where we were totally happy with just each other's company. We spent most nights together at Les Tuileries and during the day, while he was working on the farm, I busied myself looking for a job and preparing something delicious for our supper.

  As we approached the group, the conversation dropped off. I fixed a smile on my face and Julien, if he had noticed, feigned indifference. I had met most of them before at the Bastille Day
fête
and found them as warm as a box of frozen kippers. I had put a lot of it down to the fact that I didn't really speak French then, and it was never easy fitting in with a group who had known each other practically since the delivery room. Today was going to be different. I could speak passable French for starters.

  I tried to follow the conversation and was pleased to see that I understood more, but they spoke so fast that by the time I had formulated a comment they had moved on to something different. So I stood silently and listened, trying to show I at least understood what was being said. It was fairly depressing though and I could have kicked Julien for not bringing me into the conversation more.

  When he told me that, as one of the organising
comité
he would have to sit on a separate table, I very nearly did kick him.

  'The others will look after you,' he told me. I somehow doubted that. When the time came to sit down, I found myself virtually ignored and pushed to the end of their group next to a heavily made-up woman. She introduced herself as Pia and I opened the conversation by asking politely if she was from the area. The woman quickly pointed out she was Belgian not French in a way that left me in no doubt that I had made a
faux pas.
It was going to be a long lunch. On the positive side though, she spoke slow, clear French, rather than the relatively impenetrable local version and I breathed a quick sigh of relief that I would at least have someone to talk to who I had a fighting chance of understanding.

  The first course arrived,
soupe de Gaston
, which was served in a huge, steaming tureen with a ladle so we could all help ourselves. It was made of white beans, wine and a bucketful of garlic, with thick slices of baguette floating in it. The heat and the copious amounts of garlic made my eyes smart. After three mouthfuls, Pia pulled a face.
'Pipi de chat!'
she announced, pouring the remainder back in the soup tureen. I had no trouble guessing what that meant. I looked around nervously to see if anyone else had heard while Pia poured herself more wine. 'So why did you move to France?' she asked

  'Oh, you know. I just wanted a change of pace, to connect a bit more with nature.'

  Oh God, I sound like one of those stupid programmes I used to watch, I thought. 'How about you?' It was a question I would regret asking.

  'I moved here for my health. I have bad asthma,' she told me. 'Hate the bloody French though.'

  I nearly spat out my soup. Our neighbours, thankfully, were all deep in conversation so it looked as if no one had heard.

  By the time the second course, a salad of endive and walnuts, was placed in front of us, Pia was in full flow, alternately throwing more wine down her throat and continuing her diatribe against France. It seemed there was nothing about it she liked, except the climate in the summer. I couldn't quite understand how this wet, cold weather could be any good for her chest and clearly living in France was no good for her humour.

  Next we ploughed through
pâté de sanglier
, followed by
pâté
de chevreuil
. I didn't mind eating boar, it was just a type of pork after all, but I always felt uncomfortable eating deer. Images of Bambi kept appearing in my mind. Pia continued to moan.

  'Look, they even make us eat off the same plate. They are so common here. Not like Belgium and England. We are so much more refined.'

  I had kept quiet in the hope that it might discourage her from further comment, but by now, she was well into her second bottle of wine and it had well and truly oiled her vocal cords. So far, this was turning out to be the meal from hell. I looked hopefully across at Julien but he was engrossed in conversation with the
maire
and I couldn't quite get his attention.

  The next course,
daube de sanglier,
wild boar in a rich red wine sauce, was placed in front of us. I could feel myself flagging. Not so Pia, who despite developing a serious list to one side, was still droning on. From the tenseness I noticed in our neighbours, I suspected that Pia's xenophobic rant had reached their ears. Feeling a tap on my shoulder, I turned round to see the welcome face of Martine.

  'Would you like to take a little stroll to let our food settle?' she asked.

  I would happily have agreed to a triathlon if it got me away from the mad Belgian.

  'Come on, bring your coat. It's cold outside.'

  'I'll just let Julien know.'

  'Oh, don't worry about him. We'll be back before he even notices we are gone.'

  Outside, the cold air was bracing and just what I needed to revive my flagging energy and spirits.

  'Who
is
that woman?' I asked Martine as soon as we were outside.

  'She's just
une dingue.
What is it you say? "Mad as a box of frogs". Her husband left her not long after she moved here and she blames France and the French rather than her own objectionable character for it.'