A Year at the French Farmhouse(36)
‘Sorry, I no understand “suggest”? You want to know what would I do?’ he queried.
‘Yes, what would you do, Claude?’
He grinned. ‘I can come later, if you like. I ’ave a tractor. I am – how you say? – un agriculteur, a… a…’
‘A farmer?’
‘Yes, a farming. I can come wiv my tracteur if you want. Frédérique, ’e tell me you might need some ’elp and ’e waz not wrong, uh?’
She imagined tossing the shears aside and watching as a tractor with a cutting attachment mowed down the stubborn brambles front and back. She thought about how she had been intending to buy a strimmer to hack through the undergrowth. She thought about the ache in her arms just from clearing the tiny path.
‘That,’ she said, ‘would be amazing! Thank you!’
‘De rien, it iz nothing,’ he said, as if literally saving her life, or garden at least, was the most natural thing in the world.
‘And I can pay of course,’ she said. ‘How much?’
He shook his head. ‘We are amis, friends now,’ he said. ‘We do not charge for our friends, I think?’
‘Well, thank you,’ she said.
‘Then as we are friends, you must forgive me for laughing?’ he said, his eyes twinkling.
She nodded.
Moments later, she experienced a sudden jolt after realising she’d been lost in thought, while looking at his eyes that seemed to flicker hazel in a certain light. ‘Well,’ she said abruptly. ‘I’d better get on.’
‘Yes, you ’ave to tackle that terrible plante, oui?’
‘Not any more!’ she said.
‘Well, I will get this little Madame back ’ome, I think,’ he said, rattling the lead slightly and receiving a bark for his trouble. ‘? tout à l’heure – see you later.’
‘? tout à l’heure,’ she replied.
An hour later she was driving the long, field-flanked road to Limoges. She’d finally managed to find a radio station that played recognisable music without too much incomprehensible – to her at least – chatter, and sang along with bits of the hits she recognised. She’d been tempted to link up her mobile and stream one of her playlists – perhaps ‘upbeat’ or ‘summer tracks’ – but seeing as she’d yet to sort out a French mobile contract, she’d decided for once to be sensible and stick to something that wasn’t going to put her into her overdraft.
When she’d visualised moving to France, she’d definitely glossed over the admin side of things. As well as the bureaucratic nightmare that would come with applying to stay here full-time, moving house and countries simultaneously had thrown up a great deal of additional paperwork. Or online form-filling work, if you were being entirely accurate.
For a start, she didn’t yet have the internet. In fact, she wasn’t sure whether she’d be entitled to install internet at the house until she’d actually signed the final completion papers. She’d yet to speak to Frédérique about how she should pay, and who, for the electricity – had he put the account in her name, or was it still in his grandmother’s? And she desperately needed to sort out a new phone, which, in the absence of internet, she’d have to do in person, and eventually a car – this one had been on special offer to hire for four weeks, but she couldn’t afford to rent one forever.
When was she going to have time in between planting out the garden, patching up a leaking roof, getting basic facilities like a proper kitchen sink, signing phone contracts and sorting out the internet to actually sit in the frickin’ sun and drink red wine? That was the problem with moving to a holiday destination, she realised. Part of you expected that living there would be like a holiday, whereas in reality all the messy details of life still accompanied you. Other than with her dinner when staying with Chloé, she hadn’t had a sniff of alcohol at all so far, and although she was far from dependent on the substance, it would be nice if she was able to put her feet up and relax just once in a while.
She also felt a little guilty about this evening. When she’d gratefully accepted Chloé’s offer to cook the murdered chicken, she hadn’t considered that would mean she’d have to cook for Emily too. But Chloé had been fine when she’d called her earlier to check it was OK. ‘How you say? The more the merrier!’ she’d said. ‘Yes, to bring your friend.’ Still, Lily hated the lingering feeling that she was putting her new friend to too much trouble.
The journey passed quickly, and soon she was weaving her way through the city centre, sweating slightly around the one-way system, and then picking up pace as she made her way along the long, straight route to the airport. Parking in the short stay car park, and remembering for once to tuck her ticket into her purse and save herself the panic of trying to find it in a couple of hours’ time, she walked the short distance to the little terminal.
The building was fairly empty; with only one flight due in this afternoon. A few people were milling about with suitcases, or queueing at the flight desk, and there was a rumble of quiet conversation, but she could see the arrivals door clearly, and there was space in the café in which she could sit and read her book.
A member of staff had opened the large glass doors at the back of the seating area, and customers spilled out onto a terrace which overlooked the runway on one side, and the car park on the other. It wasn’t exactly the dream location, but it was a chance to sit and feel the warm sun on her face – even if the air was fragranced with fumes.