Читать книгу A French Pirouette - Jennifer Bohnet - Страница 10

Chapter Three

Brigitte

Standing in the sitting room of the old mas in the centre of the village, Brigitte determinedly rubbed her eyes in an effort to keep the tears she could feel threatening from running down her cheeks.

Bruno might be full of enthusiasm about moving back into the house where he was born but it was the auberge that had meant everything to her. Living in the maison de maître in the village would simply not be the same. Of course she realised things changed and nothing stayed the same for ever. She also knew the auberge had been getting, not too much for her as Bruno insisted, but more old-fashioned and in need of updating. Something she’d hoped Bruno would help her do when he retired but instead after his broken arm he’d said he wanted more time for them to do things together and insisted on putting the auberge up for sale.

“We haven’t had a proper vacance in twenty years,” he’d said.

“We’ve been to Paris and Venice, several times,” Brigitte had protested. “And London, Barcelona. We even got to Amsterdam.”

“They were just long weekends—and mainly out of season.” Bruno had dismissed them almost as non-events. “I want a proper holiday, not something snatched between bookings.” He glanced at her before adding, “I’m sure you’d like to spend time with Isabelle too down on the Riviera.”

She hadn’t been able to argue with that. She’d missed Isabelle when she’d married and gone to live down south, with infrequent visits back home because of a busy work schedule. So she’d half-heartedly agreed that they’d sell the auberge, secretly planning to delay it as long as possible. Libby ringing up and saying she wanted to buy the place was something she’d not anticipated.

She’d genuinely tried to point out to Libby how hard she’d find it on her own but Libby had been adamant. Saying she was doing it for Dan. And that it would do her good to have something to focus on. In the end Brigitte had given up and accepted the inevitable changes to her own life she seemed powerless to stop.

Crossing over to the window Brigitte looked out over the village street. After just two days she missed the view and the noise of the canal water whooshing over the weir. Listening to people going about their daily business and the traffic trundling through the village did not have the same appeal.

To give Bruno his due though, he had spent a lot of time down here sorting things out while she’d packed up their personal belongings and prepared the auberge for handing over to Libby. The mas had not been lived in since Bruno’s mother died two years ago and Brigitte had made him promise to clean it thoroughly before she moved in. But it still needed a lot done to it.

“We can decorate and get it to our taste slowly,” she’d told him. “But we need a proper bathroom and I want a new kitchen.” For years she’d dreamt about having a kitchen designed just for her. Whatever Bruno said, it had to be the first thing—together with a new salle de bain—to be done in their new home. Her reward for leaving the auberge and her life there.

He’d been as good as his word and in the eight weeks it took for all the legal paperwork to go through, a new kitchen and a new bathroom had been installed. If only she felt like using the new kitchen but somehow cooking was the last thing she felt like doing these days.

Brigitte moved across to the boxes in the centre of the room. Better get on with it and at least try to make the place look a bit more like home.

An hour later she was putting the last of the books on the shelves when Bruno returned.

“Everything good at the au…Libby’s?” She knew that was where he’d been. Something about collecting some tools he’d left in the garden shed, showing Libby the secret places where the hens sometimes laid their eggs. He’d suggested Brigitte went with him, had a coffee with Libby, but she’d declined.

Initially she thought she’d spend a lot of time up at the auberge helping Libby settle in but she’d realised it wasn’t a good idea for her to hang around up there too much. She knew Libby would always ask if she needed help or advice.

“You’ve been busy up here,” Bruno said looking at the empty boxes waiting to be thrown away, their contents now displayed around the room.

“I need to hang the curtains next. Maybe then it will start to feel cosy.”

Bruno sighed hearing the downbeat tone to her voice, before putting his arm around her and drawing her close. “Chérie, this has to be for the best. The auberge is too much for you—us—now. Life changes and we have to accept that.”

“It is not such a big wrench for you,” Brigitte said quietly. “I know you’re looking forward to living in your boyhood home again. But aren’t you a teeny bit sad about leaving the auberge? Our home since the day we married?” Her new home had been such a change from the old farm she’d grown up on down near Redon. She’d loved the challenge of turning the house first into a family home and then later into the Auberge du Canal. Slowly over the years, feeding and looking after the auberge guests had become her raison d’être especially when Isabelle had left home. And now it had been taken away from her.

Bruno nodded. “Mais oui. It’s hard for you to leave I realise ma chérie, but it was time we retired. Took things easier.”

“I know, but we lived there for over forty years. All our memories are there. Already I miss it so much after just two days.” Brigitte wiped a tear away with the back of her hand. “I can’t help but be sad about leaving. The only good thing is, that it is Libby who buys. I am very happy about that. It will be good having her living here in France.”

“We bring the memories with us,” Bruno said. “Then make more here together. Life will be better for us in the village, you’ll see. Less work—more fun. We’ll be able to travel a bit. See more of Isabelle. Enjoy the freedom—and the rest of our lives.”

At the mention of their daughter, Brigitte remembered Bruno’s earlier suggestion of spending time down on the Riviera. “Visit her in Antibes? I would enjoy that. Shall we go soon?” She hugged Bruno back. Maybe there would be some compensation to leaving her beloved auberge after all.

“Bon. It is agreed; we go soon,” Bruno said.

Brigitte glanced at her watch. “I’d better go and start lunch.”

“I have an idea, ma chérie,” Bruno said. “Why don’t we have lunch in the village café? Less work and peut-être it will cheer you.”

Two hours later and back from lunch, Brigitte thrust the fork into the weed-infested soil and leaned on the handle, catching her breath. Getting to grips with this overgrown jungle of a garden was proving harder than she’d anticipated.

Gardening at the auberge had consisted mainly of looking after geranium-filled pots, a couple of flower borders and the occasional pruning of the back hedge. Bruno had grown their vegetables in a plot securely fenced off from the ducks and the chickens while the rest of the grounds had been used for guest parking.

Here at the village mas she had both the land and the free time to indulge herself in what she was beginning to suspect could easily become an obsession.

There was a lot of work to be done. Bruno had cut the lawn before they moved in but nothing else had been touched for years. Looking around her now she could see primroses, daffodils and miniature cyclamen all at various stages of growth in the old flower beds. The rambling roses over the old arched pergola were already budding up. Closing her eyes she imagined sitting out under its perfumed shade of a summer’s afternoon, enjoying the tranquility.

The patch of ground she was currently clearing was the sunniest and warmest spot in the garden. A buddleia had spread its branches out along the back wall but there was plenty of space for more trees and shrubs when she’d decided what she wanted. She had to admit to quite fancying an olive tree.

Bruno had promised he’d clean out the old pond and restock it with some fish. Maybe they’d even get some visiting frogs. Many a summer night Brigitte had gone to sleep listening to the croaking of the canal frogs.

Outside the kitchen door the old granite trough was filled with compost waiting for her to plant it up with the herbs she wanted. Basil, parsley, chives, sage and thyme were all on order down at the garden centre.

“Brigitte. Ready to go to the pépinière in five minutes?” As if reading her thoughts, Bruno’s voice startled her out of her daydreaming. She’d forgotten the herbs were ready for collecting today.

“Better make it ten,” she said, hurrying indoors to wash her hands and change her shoes.

The garden centre was buzzing as they drove in. Springlike weather over the past few days had infused people with the enthusiasm for sorting out their winter-ravaged gardens.

While Bruno went to pay for the herbs and put them in the car, Brigitte wandered down through the pépinière to where the large shrubs and trees were. She was standing looking at a willow tree when Bruno found her.

“D’you think we could plant a willow? It would look wonderful by the pond,” she said. “It would be a real statement in that part of the garden. They’re such an elegant trees. I love the way everything moves in a gentle breeze—like they’re dancing.”

“Let’s go and find Pascal and see whether he thinks we have the right conditions.”

“He’s here today?” Brigitte said surprised. Only last week they’d attended the funeral of Gilles de Guesclin, Pascal’s father and Bruno’s childhood friend, and one of the biggest landowners in the area. As his only son Pascal had inherited the estate, which included a small chateau, a couple of farms and the garden centre, which had always been Pascal’s responsibility. “I’d have thought he’d be too busy sorting everything else out.”

Bruno nodded. “You know how much he’s always loved this place. Was saying just now how being down here with the plants helps him to think straight. It’s his sanctuary from the world—and his mother I think!”

“Where is he now? Still in the office?” Brigitte said.

Bruno nodded and they began to make their way up through an enormous polytunnel to the office area where they found Pascal busy checking off a delivery of plants with an assistant, his small dog Lola watching him from her basket under the desk.

“Brigitte,” Pascal kissed her cheek. “How are you?”

“Ça va,” Brigitte said. “You? How are you coping?” she asked gently. “Your mother too?”

“She’s not good but she copes. Now what can I do for you?”

When he heard what they were interested in buying he left his assistant to finish with the delivery and walked down to help them decide which willow tree would be the best for their garden.

When they’d settled on a well-established one at about six feet tall Brigitte said, “I have a fancy for an olive tree too. I know it’s a Mediterranean tree but there is a very sheltered part of the garden that gets lots of sun—an olive tree would just be perfect there.”

“I’m sorry Brigitte but I don’t have an olive tree in stock. I can get you one and there is no reason why it wouldn’t prosper in the spot you describe. You’d have to protect its roots in winter from frost of course but they can survive temperatures of minus seven degrees Celsius.”

“How long to wait for one?” Brigitte asked.

Pascal shrugged. “Two, maybe three weeks. Leave the willow tree here and I deliver them both together, yes?”

“Perfect,” Brigitte said. “Thank you.”

Leaving Pascal to return to work, Brigitte and Bruno made their way back to the car.

“Such a shame Pascal has never married,” Brigitte said. “He should really have a wife and family by now. He has to think about his own inheritance too. Perhaps his father dying will finally encourage him to find someone. I would like to see him happy.”

“You’re forgetting about his mother,” Bruno said. “It will take someone special to cope with her. Someone who is strong enough to stand up for herself.

Brigitte glanced at Bruno. Sometimes he still surprised her with his insight. “Ah yes, I’d forgotten how she likes to control the lives of the men in her family. Poor Pascal will now be the sole receiver of her attention!”