A Year at the French Farmhouse(35)

Emily was not one to hold back an opinion. And Lily couldn’t help but worry that the scathing remarks she’d probably make about the state of the house and garden – humorously, and well meant – would shatter the romantic haze she’d managed to create whenever she looked at anything negative in the place.

She’d spent so long fantasising about what life in France would look like, she could see past the wreck that the property had become through years of neglect and visualise what it could become with a little money and a lot of work. In all honesty, it was this ability to visualise, to dream, that was keeping her sane; that was keeping her from panicking that she’d made a terrible mistake.

With Emily’s flight arriving this afternoon, she had no hope of carrying out the full renovation the house would need before it passed muster with her lovable but opinionated friend. But she’d decided to at least clear the path at the front so that Emily could make it to the door unscathed… and, hopefully, unscathing.

After an hour of being stung, of jumping whenever the loud buzz of an insect got too close to her ear, and swearing at the shears, the weeds and anything else that got in her way, the path was at least visible through the overhanging shrubbery.

The final few brambles close to the gate were thick and, rather than clip them neatly, the shears seemed just to break the surface bark but barely dent their tangled, stringy green interior. Lily tried again, and once again the bramble resisted. ‘Come on,’ she hissed at the unyielding stalk. The shears slid slightly to the side, and closed around the tendril, pinching it between the blades but barely making a mark.

She just wanted to finish. To actually achieve something.

‘Come. On. You. Stubborn. Bastard,’ she hissed, opening and closing the shears against the resistant stem with each coughed out word.

Then, suddenly, she heard laughter.

Slowly turning, she saw a man standing behind the wall, looking down at her as she waged war on the stubborn tendril. She felt her face get hot, and stood up, brushing bits of bark and grass and weed and plant from her jeans.

Why, when anything was going wrong in her life, did she have to endure the additional shame of being laughed at by a random stranger?

For once, at least, it wasn’t Frédérique.

The man was tall, with dark brown eyes and brown hair that sprung from his head in curls. He was casually dressed in khaki trousers and a jumper. As she rose, enough to see over the small wall, she realised he was holding a lead, which led to a small, brown dog that was sniffing the lower half of the wall and depositing little drops of pee while it waited patiently for its owner.

She glared at the man, affronted that this stranger could literally stand and laugh at someone he’d never met, when she was clearly having a terrible time trying to tame this beast of a garden. ‘Qu’est-ce que c’est?’ she asked, haughtily. What is it?

Rather than looking abashed, he grinned widely, clearly finding her French, or her accent, or something else about her, highly amusing. She felt her nostrils flare. ‘Vous riez!’ she said. ‘Pourquoi?’ Why are you laughing?’ She longed, suddenly, to be in England – speaking her native language. Then she’d know how to be cutting, yet non-aggressive, to make it clear that she was angry, without resorting to name-calling or violence. She would be able to send him on his way chastised but not angry or insulted.

Here, she was left with no choice but to ask him why he was laughing.

‘You are Lily, yes?’ he asked. ‘I am Claude, a friend of Frédérique.’

‘Oh,’ she said, feeling less inclined to be angry. ‘Hello.’

‘I am sorry to laugh like thees. But to see you curse at that plant, it – how you say? – tickles me.’

‘Yes, well,’ she said, still not feeling entirely Zen. ‘It’s hard work.’

He laughed again. ‘Yes, it iz le hard work with a pair of ciseaux, er – how you say? – skissers.’

‘Scissors?’

‘Yes.’

‘These are gardening shears.’

‘Yes, they are shears, cisailles de jardinage, I see that. And per’aps in your English gardens, they are the right solution, yes? But ’ere in Limousin, they are no better than ciseaux. Things in Limousin, they grow, oui? They are tough, like the Limousin men.’ He gave her a wink and flexed an admittedly sturdy bicep – she wasn’t sure whether he was making a joke or starting to flirt.

‘Oh,’ she said, looking at the small space she’d hacked into the weeds over the course of an hour. She suddenly felt completely exhausted. ‘It’s just,’ she said, ‘my friend is coming and I want it to look…’ She felt tears prick in her eyes and blinked them away. What was it with all this crying recently? She was tired, that was all.

‘I do not mean to be cruel, eh!’ Claude continued, his brow furrowed with concern. ‘I – how you say – I would like to ’elp you, if you want?’

‘No, it’s OK,’ she said stubbornly. ‘I’ll manage.’

He laughed. ‘Madame,’ he said, ‘you can curse at ces plantes all you wish, but I am afraid they do not speak English!’

She looked at him, aiming for a glare, but found that when their eyes met, she smiled instead – a reluctant smile, the sort a child uses when he’s determined to stay cross, but can’t quite manage it. ‘Well, what would you suggest?’ she said. ‘And it’s Lily,’ she added, a little annoyed that he’d gone straight for the Madame. It made her feel ancient. Then again, playing the Mademoiselle card would have embarrassed them both.