A Year at the French Farmhouse(19)

There was one customer ahead of her in the queue who already had his keys and papers, but seemed deep in conversation with the assistant. They gabbled together in such fast French that it was impossible for her to eavesdrop. She caught the words, soleil (sun), plage (beach) and what may or may not have been haricots verts.

Come on! she wanted to say. Allez, for god’s sake. She wanted to get in the car, whizz to her B. & B., get the kettle on and make herself the mother of all cups of tea. She tapped her foot and glanced behind her at the three people now waiting in line.

But instead of looking at watches or sighing loudly, they all appeared to be waiting patiently, seemingly not in a hurry at all.

Finally, the man finished his tale of beans on the beach or whatever he’d been gassing on about and it was Lily’s turn. The woman at the desk shuffled some paperwork, looked up and smiled. ‘Bonjour, Madame,’ she said.

‘Bonjour,’ Lily replied. Then, glancing at the back of her hand where she’d written the word ‘voiture’ (car) just in case, added. ‘Je voudrais louer un voiture.’

‘Pardon?’

She’d double-checked the French beforehand to make sure she’d got it right, so tried again, ‘Je voudrais louer un voiture, s’il vous pla?t.’

The woman looked confused. ‘You are English, yes?’ she said. ‘You can speak English if you like.’

‘Thank you,’ said Lily, deflated. ‘I want to hire a car.’

‘Ah, une voiture,’ the woman pronounced carefully. To Lily’s ears, it sounded exactly the same as when she’d said it seconds ago.

‘Un voiture,’ Lily repeated, trying to perfect her pronunciation.

‘Yes, but une,’ replied the woman. ‘It’s feminine.’

Lily had never completely understood the French language’s propensity to give everything from toasters to toilets a sex. ‘Why does it matter what sex my car is?’ she wanted to say. ‘I just want to drive it, –not shag it.’ Instead, she nodded. ‘Une voiture,’ she said, pronouncing it correctly.

‘Oui, that’s it!’ The woman nodded. ‘May I ’ave your name?’

‘Lily Butterworth.’

Finally, after about half an hour spent spelling out her name, signing something and paying some sort of deposit that hadn’t been mentioned on the website, Lily slipped into a small Nissan Micra – left-hand-drive – and pressed the ‘start’ button. And she was away, following the satnav instructions, feeling completely out of her depth in a left-hand drive car on the right-hand side of the road, and heading towards the tiny village of Faux la Montagne.

‘This is it, car,’ she told the Nissan. ‘I’ve really done it now.’





7





Lily looked up as the cute guy sank into the seat next to her. ‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘Crowded today.’

‘It’s OK,’ she replied, although in reality there were a few other spare chairs, none of which had anyone’s bag on it. She propped her bag against her knees and drew out her notepad.

‘Not sure what else they can have to say about Hamlet,’ he whispered as their lecturer walked into the hall.

‘I know,’ she said, although she’d actually been enjoying the series of lectures; peeling back the layers of an age-old story, revealing truths that still applied to their lives today. She looked at him properly for the first time. Light tan skin, neat brown hair, spiked with gel. Blue or green eyes – hard to tell in this light. He smelled good too – like pencil sharpenings and fresh air and shampoo.

He glanced back, catching her off-guard and she quickly looked down at her notebook. ‘I’m Ben, by the way,’ he said.

On the stage, the lecturer cleared his throat and began to speak. Everything was the same as usual.

Everything was different.





Snapping back to the moment, Lily wound down the window. It was 2 p.m. and the afternoon sun had kicked into overdrive. The air conditioning in the car appeared to be faulty – something she hadn’t thought to check before leaving the car park – and she could feel her armpits, elbows, knee crevices, back and arse begin to develop an uncomfortable sweat.

She’d been driving now for an hour and twenty minutes – something that had seemed easily doable when she’d planned the trip from the comfort of her PC, but that in practice was testing her driving skills more than she could ever have imagined. Driving on the right was OK, but what about roundabouts? One-way roads? Dual carriageways that moulded into a single lane at a moment’s notice? She’d been beeped, given the finger – one man had even wound down the window to yell something at her in French when she’d cut him up at a crossing. ‘Je suis désolé!’ she’d said, close to tears. ‘I can’t help it!’

Finally, she’d escaped the city and begun to drive down the D940 – a long, wide road that had none of the complications of speed bumps, roundabouts or traffic lights – and felt herself relax. That was until a tractor, loaded with so many hay bales it seemed to defy the laws of physics, pulled out in front of her and trundled along at a steady 20 km per hour.

Suddenly, as she slowed, the road behind, which had been reassuringly empty, began to fill with impatient cars, the drivers beeping and gesticulating as she glanced in the rear-view mirror, eager for her to overtake. But with little visibility around the countless corners, over hills or past unknown crossroads she wasn’t able to work up the nerve. Gradually, drivers began to zoom around her, glancing at her as they passed; taking risks, which meant they were either completely reckless, drunk or incredibly important and late.