A Year at the French Farmhouse(33)

Suddenly, some movement in the long grass caught her eye, perhaps a cat was stalking through the garden, or a large bird was flapping its wings amongst the stray branches? She put down her bowl and stood on tiptoe at the window, looking out, but could see nothing except the endless green overgrowth stretching away.

When the back door creaked, she let out an involuntary cry. Had she left it off the catch last night? She watched, frozen to the spot, as it continued to groan, praying it was a stray cat rather than a feral Frenchman intent on robbery. Not that there was anything to rob, she thought, desperately. Unless he had a particular penchant for cornflakes.

To her relief, in what seemed like minutes but was probably only seconds, the door opened enough for her to see the reason for the creaking. A small woman was standing there, holding what appeared to be a plastic bag.

‘Bonjour!’ said the woman, stepping past her as if walking into a stranger’s kitchen was completely normal.

‘Bonjour,’ Lily replied, desperately trying to find the words, Who the feck are you and what are you doing in my house? in French, but finding she was unable to locate them in her brain. Instead she went for an unsatisfying: ‘Comment vous appelez-vous?’ What are you called?

‘Bonjour,’ the woman said again, ‘je suis votre voisin, ’ermione.’

Her neighbour. Lily knew there was a woman living next door, but hadn’t glimpsed her so far. She tried desperately to think of something to say. ‘Ah! Une belle nom. Comme Harry Potter!’ she said, at last.

The woman looked confused. ‘C’est ’er-mion-e,’ she said slowly.

‘Oui, Hermione, you know – like from le Harry Potter?’ Lily said. ‘Oh, for heaven’s sake!’ she continued, doing her best Hermione impression. ‘Um… expellimarus! Um… J.K. Rowling…’ She trailed off.

The woman regarded her with a confused stare. ‘Je ne comprends pas, Madame,’ she said, sadly. Her hair was short and tousled and a big, army-green wax jacket enveloped a body that could have been any size under its enormous folds.

‘Désolé,’ said Lily, feeling like a complete idiot. ‘Je m’appelle Lily.’

The woman nodded; her face serious.

‘Je suis anglaise,’ Lily felt the need to add, with an apologetic grimace. I am English; sorry about that.

‘Oui, oui,’ the woman replied without smiling, stepping unceremoniously across her kitchen in wellies that were almost certainly covered with chicken poo. ‘J’ai un petit cadeau pour vous!’ She finally smiled, revealing a set of coffee-stained teeth. She held the plastic bag, bulging with something, up as proof.

‘A present?’ Lily said. ‘Oh, thank you!’

She watched as the woman rummaged in the bag, finally pulling out what appeared to be a glass bottle filled with cloudy urine. ‘Jus de pomme,’ the woman said, grinning and nodding enthusiastically.

‘Oh, lovely. Did you… is that yours?’ Lily said, holding up the too-brown liquid.

The woman looked at her in confusion and Lily felt embarrassed to have fallen into the all-too-British trap of assuming that everyone could understand your language if you spoke loudly and slowly enough. ‘Vous l’avez fait?’ she said. You made this?

The woman nodded, then returned to the plastic bag, this time producing something that looked at first glance like an old white rag, but actually – to Lily’s horror – turned out to be a chicken, fully feathered, muddy footed and completely and utterly lifeless. Its head hung limply to one side, eye open, regarding Lily with a fixed stare.

‘Pour le pot!’ Hermione said, brandishing it towards Lily’s face. The chicken dangled, silently, just inches from Lily’s nose. Hermione mimed putting it into a saucepan, then did a chef’s kiss on her fingers. ‘C’est délicieux.’

‘Oh, thank you… but I’m not sure…’ said Lily, resisting the urge to back away. ‘I mean, merci beaucoup, mais…’ She paused. What was she going to say? That she didn’t eat meat? Because that was absolutely not true. She could chow down a Sunday roast with the best of them, and never said no to a chicken korma.

What she objected to, it seemed, was having a dead, unplucked bird wobbling in her face. But why? Because it made her feel squeamish? Because she couldn’t bear to eat it because it actually looked like a living creature? She was so divorced from what she ate, all packed neatly into supermarket plastic, that when confronted with reality she felt complete revulsion. This chicken, God rest its tiny soul, had probably had a better life than half the shrink-wrapped organic chicken breasts she picked up from the chilled aisle. She looked deep into its eye, and couldn’t help but feel judged.

With few neighbours nearby, it was important to get off to a good start with this one. Her heart thundering, she gingerly took hold of the chicken’s soft, feathered neck. Hermione released her grip and the full weight of the bird swung in Lily’s hold. Trying not to gag, Lily laid it quickly on the kitchen counter. Almost unbearably it was still warm – her neighbour must have snapped its neck on the way over. ‘Merci, Madame.’ She smiled. ‘Vous êtes tres gentille.’ You’re very kind.

‘C’est vraiment frais!’ the woman said.

‘You can say that again.’

The woman stood and smiled at her for a moment.