The French for Christmas (4 page)

And even though I haven’t once turned a page,
Mamie
Lucie’s notebook still sits there on the table in front of me, waiting expectantly. It’s strange that a simple, inanimate object can have such a powerful effect, constantly reminding me of that side of my life which I now seem to be incapable of resuming. I sigh.
I’m getting there, Mamie, I promise.

Rousing myself for action instead of wallowing in my thoughts, I go back upstairs to fetch my bag and the car keys. I think I hear the faint crunch of footsteps on the gravel: that darned pig again, no doubt. I throw open the front door, ready to confront the beast and shoo it away, but there’s nothing there.

With a strangely disconcerting swirl, as though some presence has just disturbed it, the fog shifts, seeming about to clear, but then closing in again. It makes me feel a little giddy and I put a hand out to steady myself against the door frame. As I do so, I glance down, my peripheral vision caught by a flash of red. And there on the doorstep sits a little basket tied with a jaunty red bow. I gasp, remembering the Saint Nicolas gifts from my childhood. Thinking hard, I try to recall what today’s date must be. It’s Saturday, the first one in December. So it must be the sixth! Stooping to pick up the basket, I see there’s a slip of paper tucked in beneath the wrappings. ‘
Bienvenue
’ it reads. Nothing more. I peel back a sheet of baking parchment and there, nestling beneath it, discover a little cache of star-shaped cookies, iced with white frosting. I bend my head and breathe in deeply, inhaling the familiar scent of butter and spice.

‘
Merci
, Saint Nicolas,’ I say, my words hanging in the air until the fog, shifting and swirling once again, swallows them up.

I set the basket on the table in the kitchen, next to
Mamie
Lucie’s recipe book. Still clasping my car keys, I stand for a moment with my hands on my hips again, taking in the festive red bow, the sweet-smelling cookies and the notebook beside them. And suddenly I don’t feel at all alone after all.

‘Okay,
Mamie
, I get the message. Let’s go see what the market has to offer.’

I creep down the steep hill in the car, headlights on, hugging the right-hand verge. The fog grows even thicker as I find a parking place next to the river in the little town of Sainte-Foy. On the passenger seat next to me, my phone suddenly pings, picking up a signal, incoming text messages lighting up the screen.

There’s a cheerful one from my mother—‘hope u got there ok. Do u have email? If not txt back. All fine here xx’—and then several increasingly anxious ones from Rose. I punch in her number, smiling at her gleeful screech as she picks up. ‘
There
you are! I’ve been worried about you with this radio silence. Is everything okay? I ended up phoning Eliane to make sure you’d actually got there.’

‘I’m fine, it’s all fine, Rose. So lovely to hear your voice! The house is great. But I can’t get a signal on my phone there and the Internet seems to be down.’ I describe the sorry state of the Wi-Fi router to her.

‘Oh God, what a pain. Sorry, Evie, it sounds like it’s been fried in a winter storm. The same thing happened once before. I’m not sure what to suggest. It’s probably going to mean a trip to Bordeaux or Bergerac to buy a whole new router. And then you’d need to install it of course...’

‘Don’t worry; I’m happy to make do without it. And now that I know I can get a signal down here, I can check emails and make calls when I come to do my shopping. It’s taken me a few days to get settled in, is all. This is my first time venturing forth!’

‘Okay, well, if you’re sure. Sorry—I can’t think of anyone else there we could ask to help you. Your neighbours are all of the pre-Internet generation, I’m afraid. Oh, and you’ll probably also get a signal if you go up the road above the house up to the top of the hill. Just follow the cockleshell markers for the pilgrim way—they’ll take you in the right direction.’

‘Great. I’ll try that too. I’m going to get into a routine of daily walks now. As soon as the weather picks up a bit, that is. Don’t worry; I promise I’ll stay in touch from here on in.’

I sit in the car a while longer, checking emails and composing a reassuringly cheery reply to my mom. The fog alternately retreats teasingly out across the broad, brown river and then closes back in again. There’s nothing from Will. I thought there might be a reply to the brief, business-like message I’d sent him before I left England to let him know I’d be away until early January, telling him where I am. Just in case... I even managed to wish him luck with his TV launch. But he’s clearly far too busy and far too important these days. Or too distracted by mystery girl Stephanie Whatsername perhaps.

I gather up my purse and a large straw basket that I’ve borrowed from the house and step out into the mist, following the flow of people heading for the marketplace in the middle of town. The narrow streets open out suddenly into a space that is filled with a bustling throng. Colourful market stalls are clustered around the imposing
Mairie
that dominates the square. I stand still for a moment, people pushing busily past me, and I feel a little overwhelmed by so much sensory overload after the past few days of self-imposed solitary confinement.

The noise is the first thing I notice. Voices jabber and call, and I’m assailed on all sides by quick-fire French, spoken with an accent very different to that of the Parisians. Progress into the
place
is slow, as people greet one another and then linger in clusters, catching up with the latest gossip, the storm of chatter interspersed with frequent gusts of laughter.

Then my eyes open wide as I take in the produce on offer. If there’s a heaven where my grandmother has gone, then I imagine it must look a lot like this. Fruit and vegetables are displayed in neat pyramids, bright orange and yellow citrus fruits contrasting with the more sombre, leathery green leaves of cabbages and something called
blette
, which I realise is Swiss chard. Sunny orange carrots are eclipsed by a staggering array of squashes in all shapes and sizes, mottled yellow turban squash, gnarled grey-green Hubbards and flame-coloured pumpkins. In contrast, the neighbouring fish stall is a study in understated elegance, muted shades of silver and black scales reclining on a sumptuous bed of crushed ice; midnight blue mussels nestle among tendrils of glossy brown seaweed, with a shoal of coral-pink prawns adding a dash of colour. Noticing a heap of the little clams we call steamers back home, I pause, contemplating; I could buy some to make a proper New England chowder, the perfect creamy comfort food for this winter weather, or perhaps cook them the French way with some white wine and shallots, using
Mamie
Lucie’s recipe which must be in her notebook somewhere… Food for thought, quite literally.

Next, I stand stock still outside a
pâtisserie
, whose fuchsia-pink shopfront frames a feast of jewel-like confections, a neatly arranged, close-packed patchwork of
gâteaux
and
tartelettes,
glowing with golden pastry, ruby fruit and dark velvety chocolate, alongside a towering pyramid of pretty pastel-coloured macaroons.

I made a conical tower of macaroons like that for our wedding cake, colouring some palest gold to contrast with the pure white of the others. I decorated the cake stand with a swathe of star-flowered jasmine and tied a wide gold ribbon in a bow around the base.

I remember Will patiently helping break dozens of eggs and separating the whites into a mixing bowl for me, then conjuring up a big batch of home-made mayonnaise with the left-over yolks, trickling golden-green olive oil from a height like a magician as he whisked the emulsion with the other hand.

He could always make me smile, once upon a time.

And I’m smiling now, I realise, as I catch a glimpse of my face reflected in the window of the
pâtisserie
, happy in my memories of the way we used to express our love through creating and sharing good food together.

I tear myself away, turning back to the marketplace behind me. And now my sense of smell goes into overdrive: I pause here and there to inhale the delicious, faintly mould-tinged scent from the cheese stall, where soft white goats’ cheeses jostle for position between wheels of hard yellow
brébis
and a vast, generously gooey
Brie de Meaux
; the bitter-salt smell of olives in their brine; garlicky dried sausage and—most heavenly of all—sizzling chickens turning slowly on a rotisserie, dripping their golden juices onto a layer of diced potatoes below, portions of which will be scooped into waxed paper bags and taken home for Saturday lunch as the market draws to a close.

I breathe in the scent of hot fat, but hurry on past as a faint tinge of nausea makes my stomach growl. It’s been several days since I ate a proper meal, so I guess it might be best to ease myself back in gently. I head back to the fish stall and buy a sea-bass fillet, planning to sear it so that the skin turns a crisp silver-black on top of the firm white flesh. I’ll serve it with some creamed potatoes and steamed
blette
, with a little butter melting over the dark green leaves. Totally simple and totally delicious.

Next door there’s a whole stall dedicated to oysters; rows of baskets are filled to the brim with the slate-black shellfish, and there’s a quite bewildering range of choice, as each crate is individually labelled by size and origin. Would one choose the size 3 from the Ile d’Oléron or would the larger size 2 from the Bassin d’Arcachon be better? I’m not sure I feel like being that adventurous today, but perhaps I could plan to start off with half a dozen for my Christmas lunch. Not that I’m going to be celebrating Christmas, of course, but it could be a good excuse to devise a French-style menu for myself at a time when the very best produce is on offer. I decide I’ll make a few notes and maybe browse through
Mamie
Lucie’s notebook when I get home, seeking further inspiration.

I linger and loiter, enjoying standing in line as it gives me time to take in the bewildering range of produce and plan possible recipes. I haven’t felt inspired like this in the longest time.
Mamie
would be proud of me, asking about unfamiliar ingredients, my French beginning to come back to me with growing confidence. You only have to ask a French stallholder for advice about how to cook his wares and you’ll find yourself engaged in a lengthy and detailed explanation, with frequent interruptions, interjections and contradictions from everyone else in the line around you. Note that I say ‘around you’ rather than ‘behind you’. Because there’s nothing line-like about the way the French stand in line; it’s more of a loose cluster. But the stallholders seem to have a way of knowing exactly who got there first, and if they lose track then there’ll be a general debate to ascertain whose turn it is to be served next.

My purchases safely stowed into my basket, I meander slowly back through the crowded streets towards the river. I feel drained suddenly, my legs like lead weights.
That’ll teach you to laze around doing nothing all day,
I chide myself. It’s high time I started making more of an effort. Proper food and more exercise from here on in, I resolve.

As I pass the church that dominates one corner of the square, its steeple disappearing upwards into the fog, the door opens and a man hurries out leaving it ajar, allowing the sound of music to escape behind him. I climb the stone steps, thinking at first that I’ll just pull the door closed from a sense of civic duty, but as I reach it a woman appears and opens it a little wider, ushering me in. The air inside is still and dry in comparison with the swirling mist outside, and a faintly spicy scent of incense hangs there like an invisible veil. I sink down thankfully onto a wooden pew at the very back of the church and set down the heavy basket; I’ll just rest my tired legs for a few minutes and then I’ll slip away. The woman reappears at my side, smiles and silently hands me a printed service sheet. She gestures to show me that it’s translated into English on the other side, and I smile back a little ruefully: why is it that the French
always
know that you’re a foreigner, even without a word being said? Though I guess, in my case, the mane of unruly russet curls and the pale East Coast complexion give it away every time.

A young priest is conducting a choir of children at the front of the church, accompanied by an organist. I close my eyes for a moment, resting and letting the music wash over me. Then the priest gestures for the choir to sit, and he begins to speak.

I open my eyes when I hear the words ‘
Saint Nicolas
’... Of course! This must be a special service for the Saint’s feast day. I hope all of these children have woken this morning to find their shoes filled with cookies, candy and coins. I smile as I remember the basket of baking that awaits me back at the house. Rose said she’d called and spoken to Eliane, so I guess
she
must be the Secret Santa. Or, rather, Secret Saint Nicolas, which amounts to the same thing. I’ll go try her door again this afternoon to thank her.

His sermon over, the priest gestures for the children to stand again and the first notes of the final song ring out on the organ. It’s a beautiful, plaintive melody and I turn over the service sheet so that I can follow the words.

‘
Ils étaient trois petits enfants…’
the children sing.
‘There were three little children...’
It’s the story of the Bad Butcher! I follow the verses, flipping the page over for the translation every now and then. And then it comes to the final verse, when the Saint brings the three children back to life.

And my eyes suddenly fill with tears.

‘
Saint Nicolas placed three fingers on the rim of the brine tub.

The first child said, “I slept so well!”

The second said, “And so did I!”

The littlest one added, “I thought I was in paradise!”’

The children’s pure voices cease and the organ sighs its last notes into the incense-scented air of the church.

I sit there, as the congregation files out into the bustle of the market square, going home to their Saturday lunches of roast chicken and Saint Nicolas Day
brioche
, and I bend my head and cry and cry. At long last, after so many months of dry-eyed silence, the floodgates open, here in this little church so far from anything and anyone I know, unlocked by the Saint Nicolas Day song and the memories of my
Mamie
Lucie’s love that suddenly seem clearer than they ever have before.