A Year at the French Farmhouse(89)

‘Uh-oh,’ said Lily. ‘Shall we go out there?’

‘Oh, in a minute,’ her friend replied. ‘It won’t hurt him to get a taste of his own medicine for once.’

‘You’re the boss,’ Lily replied, watching Derek brushing earth out of his hair and turning to chase his sister for revenge. He raced off, laughing, towards the bushes.

‘Can I ask,’ Lily said, ‘why Derek and Claudine? They seem such…’

‘Different names?’

‘Well, yes.’

Sam laughed. ‘Very British and very French – we basically took turns to name the kids and it turned out this way. Still, even “Derek” sounds very continental when Gabriel says it. Sort of “Derique”.’

Lily laughed.

‘So, you think Frédérique took it OK?’ Sam asked, seemingly unaware or unperturbed by the escalating fight happening between her offspring.

Lily shrugged. ‘He seemed to,’ she said. ‘I mean, actually he seemed to take it really, really well.’

‘Well, that’s good, I guess?’

‘Maybe.’ Lily shrugged.

‘Oh?’

‘Well, he was so OK about it that I began to wonder whether he’d misunderstood me – my French is still terrible, so we rely on his English most of the time and it’s hard to know whether I’ve been clear enough sometimes.’

‘Ah, bit awkward then?’

‘Yes, and then I began to wonder whether, if he did understand what I’d said, I should feel insulted that he didn’t seem a little more bothered.’

‘Careful what you wish for?’

‘Exactly.’

Yesterday at the restaurant she’d told Frédérique that she needed to take things slow. That she wanted to keep seeing him, but that she wasn’t sure how she felt about anything right now.

‘So I will see you tomorrow after work, oui?’ he’d asked when he’d dropped her off.

At first she’d wondered if he was joking, but looking at his face had realised he was deadly serious.

‘Oh, no,’ she’d said. Then ‘I’m busy,’ she’d added, to spare his feelings.

‘Oh yes? What is it you are doing?’ he’d asked, interested rather than interrogative.

‘I’m… well, I thought I’d…’ She’d racked her brain desperately. ‘I think there’s some sort of music concert on the beach,’ she’d said, remembering a poster she’d seen. ‘A band of some sort.’

‘Ah, but that sounds lovely. So per’aps the next night?’

‘Yes, perhaps.’

This morning, she’d made herself feel better about the lie by ringing Sam and seeing if she wanted to come along. ‘It’s just a folk band of some sort,’ she’d said, ‘but I think it might be fun.’

‘I’ll have to bring the kids – Gabriel’s got some sort of cards evening at the local bar.’

‘That’s fine. The more the merrier!’ she’d said.

‘So, tell me about this party,’ Sam said now. ‘Assuming I’m invited.’

‘Of course!’

‘Glad to hear it. Obviously, I’d have crashed it otherwise.’

Lily laughed. ‘I just thought that it might be a nice way to, well, celebrate signing for the house and mark the fact that I’ve sort of made it habitable… just,’ she said.

‘Don’t forget surviving the loirs infestation?’

‘Oh yes. And surviving the loirs.’ She grinned. ‘But you know, more importantly to thank everyone who’s helped. You know, Dawn and Clive, Chloé, you, Claude. And my friend, Emily, might come from England.’

‘Sounds cool.’

‘Yeah, I think you and Em will really get on,’ Lily said. ‘You’re very similar.’

‘Which is a compliment?’

‘Which is definitely a compliment.’ She smiled. ‘Anyway, I just thought I could get a few people round – nothing fancy. Children too. Bit of a buffet. Some wine, of course.’

‘Well, that’ll guarantee the flat-earthers’ society turn up at least.’

‘Ha. Well, good. Like you say, it’s nice to have connections over here.’

‘Even if they are borderline insane?’

‘Even then.’





Two hours later, they set off to the beach, packing themselves into Sam’s car, which was full of buckets and spades and sweet wrappers, and smelled of ancient chip fat. ‘Sorry about the state,’ Sam said, as she brushed a couple of magazines off the passenger seat. ‘Keep meaning to clean it, but you know how it is.’

‘Don’t worry, you should have seen mine back in the day. Kids know exactly where to put their sticky fingers, don’t they?’

A few minutes later, they were parked and made their way to the lakeside, settling on plastic chairs in front of the ramshackle kiosk and watching the band set up on a stage that seemed to be made from old, nailed together pallets, painted black for the occasion.

It wasn’t quite as she’d pictured it. She’d assumed, French folk music. Maybe a harmonica player. Definitely a beret or two. An accordion. A moustache. Instead, the band, who called themselves Mr Musique, sloped onto the stage looking like three random blokes who’d happened to bump into each other on the way here. They didn’t seem to have assembled any kind of ‘look’ between them. One of them had curly hair and glasses and wore a scraggy red jumper, another was dressed in jeans and an ancient, badge-covered leather jacket. The drummer clearly hadn’t changed since work and was wearing a pair of blue overalls, unbuttoned at the front to reveal more chest than seemed suitable for a family show.