A Year at the French Farmhouse(83)

‘Wow,’ said Ty.

‘What?’

‘I didn’t know you spoke French well. I mean, I knew you’d gone to classes or whatever.’

‘Oh, Ty, I was only ordering a couple of pancakes,’ she said with a shrug.

‘Still…’ he said. ‘You kind of sounded French. You know?’

She decided to let him be impressed – after all it was a rare occurrence. ‘Well, I’ve been practising,’ she said modestly. ‘J’essaie.’

‘Which means…?’

‘I’m trying…’

He nodded, his mouth turned down at the corners – impressed with her for probably the first time since birth. She resolved not to speak too much more French today if only to leave him with the illusion that if she wanted to, she could.

They were sitting in Le Potron-Minet, a restaurant and crêperie she’d discovered close to the church in Eymoutiers and had earmarked as the kind of place to bring any visitors who might come her way. It served an array of crêpes and waffles, as well as larger meals such as boeuf bourguignon and coq au vin, all of which looked delicious. But the main draw for her was the beautiful building the tiny restaurant nestled in, the atmosphere and – if she was honest – the fact that the place, to her at least, seemed authentic and French and like somewhere only a local would visit.

The door into the building was small, but the restaurant inside opened up into a modest eating area, with exposed stone walls and a small wooden bar to one side. If you continued through the door at the back of the room, you’d find yourself in a tiny walled terrace which, unless you ventured into the eatery, you’d never know existed. The tables were small, mismatched and wooden, the floor tiled, and when the restaurant area was full, the rumble of voices made her feel somehow as if she was in the heart of things.

And it was always full – something that never failed to astound her. They’d had four or five restaurants within easy walking range in Basildon, but they’d rarely been full on a weekday night, much less at lunchtime. She’d mentioned it to Chloé during her second visit at the B. & B. ‘Everyone seems to have so much time to eat!’ she’d said. ‘And the lunches – surely people can’t afford to eat out every day?’

‘Ah, but it is their boss, he ’ave to pay for their lunch if they work for ’im,’ Chloé had explained. She explained how workers were given vouchers with which to buy lunch, a scheme that kept workers happy and restaurants thriving.

‘I’m surprised you aren’t all overweight,’ Lily had joked. ‘I don’t think I could eat a three-course meal for lunch without ballooning.’

‘Yes, but you English, you don’t respect your food.’ Chloé had laughed. ‘We take time, yes? We enjoy. We know when we are full. And we are satisfied. We – ’ow you say – we are in time with our bodies.’

‘In tune?’

‘Yes, that is it. We don’t just sit and work and eat. Eating is important. You do it right,’ Chloé had said.

Since then, Lily had been taking a trip into town fairly regularly to fill up at midday. She thought back now to her hurried sandwiches over a work keyboard in the UK – stuffing down food without thought – and tried to take her time over her meals. Even now, she’d still finish way before the other punters, but it was fun practising and gave her the chance to nod and smile at familiar faces.

When she’d suggested to Ty they eat lunch in town, she’d wondered at first whether she’d made a mistake. The chance of bumping into Frédérique was high – and Le Potron-Minet was literally a stone’s throw from his offices. In the end, she’d decided to avoid potential disasters by sending him a text.

Ty and I are coming into town today for lunch. I’m so sorry, but I’m not going to come and introduce you – just because I think it’s too soon. It will be hard for him.





He’d replied:

But of course!





She’d been glad he hadn’t pushed for an introduction and replied:

Thank you.





Her body flooded with relief and Frédérique was awarded another gold star in her mind.

She hadn’t added that she was also unsure whether they should have another date just yet; whether it was too soon for her to get properly involved. That was more of an in-person conversation, and one she’d have when she’d thought about it all properly.

In what seemed like seconds, the waiter returned brandishing two plates with enormous crêpes, chunky fries and a tiny lettuce leaf nestling in the corner. ‘Bon appétit!’ he said.

‘Thanks, mate,’ her son said.

‘Merci,’ she added, her stomach rumbling as she took in the gorgeous meal in front of her. Ty, she noticed, had already manoeuvred a forkful into his mouth.

‘Good?’ she asked.

‘Mm humm,’ he said.

Last night, when he’d asked her how the phone call with his father had gone, she’d felt his disappointment. ‘OK,’ she’d said. ‘You know, I think he’ll be all right, Ty.’

‘You’re not…?’

‘No, I’m sorry, love. But I’m going to speak to him. We’re going to… well, be more adult about the whole separation thing. We’re still friends, and more importantly we’re still parents.’