L'amour Actually (19 page)

  Between me and the farmhouse was a very oozy-looking yard. Next time I'd make sure to visit before milking. Hitching up my dress, I started to make my way towards the house, dodging the cowpats as I went. With my innate ability to trip over a matchstick, I could only hope I would make it safely to the other side. The dogs opened lazy eyes and scratched, but took little notice of me before returning to their slumbers in the heat.

  I knocked on the door. After a few minutes it was opened by a small, round man dressed in shorts and little else.

  '
Bonjour,
er, Julien? Julien d'Aubeville?
Ici
?' With my still-limited French it was the closest I could get to asking if he lived there. I pointed to myself.
'Amie'

  The man beamed at me.

  'Philippe d'Aubeville,' he said and stood back, beckoning at me to come in. He led me into the house and down the hallway, which curiously had a toilet cubicle in the middle of it. In the kitchen, he swiped a fat tabby cat off a chair and motioned me to sit down before disappearing off, I presumed, to find Julien. On the stove, a large pan was bubbling away filling the kitchen with steam that made the windows run with condensation.

  I studied my surroundings. In my mind, I imagined a French farmhouse kitchen to be full of old copper pans and jars of preserved fruits, with definitely a dresser at the very least. This looked like something from the unfashionable part of the 1970s. The cat sat at my feet, staring up at me, clearly annoyed at being so unceremoniously removed from its sleeping place.

  'Hello kitty,' I said, leaning down to stroke it. It hissed and went back to staring at me with unblinking eyes.

  'OK, so we won't be friends then. Well to be fair I don't have a good record with cats so you're probably doing the right thing.'

  I sat back and waited, feeling slightly unnerved, and waited for Julien. Without warning, the cat jumped on my lap, making me jump and for a brief moment I remembered the lifeless body of poor Snoopy lying in the road. It still made me feel ill. 'So now you want to be my friend, eh?' I said, tickling it under the chin.

  It settled down on my lap, curling up into a ball to resume its afternoon siesta and I stroked it absent-mindedly while I waited. Out of the corner of my eye I thought I saw a movement, then another. Looking down at the cat, I saw my lap was speckled with little black dots. Little black moving dots. Fleas! I leapt up, sending the cat flying and yowling onto the floor. 'Jesus Christ,' I muttered shaking out my dress and brushing off my arms and legs.

  
'Bonjour, mademoiselle,'
said a voice behind me. I turned to find Philippe standing in the doorway with a similarly small, round woman with the trademark vivid orange hair, although hers had the added attraction of a sort of tiger-striping effect. It clashed with her fuchsia-pink floral housecoat and the concertina'd stockings set the whole ensemble off beautifully.

  
'Bonjour monsieur, madame,'
I said, standing up to greet them.

  Philippe pointed to his wife, 'Madeleine'. The woman gave me a semi-toothless smile, motioning at me to sit down again. They joined me at the table, Monsieur d'Aubeville next to me, Madame opposite, then sat in silence staring at me, smiles fixed to their faces.

  I wracked my brains for something to say, but I had still barely progressed beyond a running commentary on the weather and a request for the location of the toilet, and I already knew where that was. This place really wasn't what I expected. Julien seemed quite cosmopolitan but this was just on the decent side of feral.

  'Speak little English,' said Philippe, when it became obvious that we couldn't just sit there smiling at each other for much longer.

  'Speak little French,' I laughed.

  'Drink?' he said, pointing to his mouth with his thumb.

  '
Oui,
yes please. My mouth is very dry after my walk.'

  Madame d'Aubeville got up to switch on the kettle but her husband had other ideas. 'No, we have
bière
.'

  'Oh no, really, I don't like to drink in the afternoon,' I said thinking of the liberal amounts of champagne I had already downed.

  But Monsieur d'Aubeville was having none of it. Before you could say
la plume de ma tante
he was prising the caps off two bottles of beer, one of which he placed in front of me.

  
'Santé,'
he said, raising his bottle to me.

  'Cheers.'

  'Cheese? You want cheese?'

  'Oh, no, I said cheers. It's what we say for
santé
in England. Cheers,' I said again, over-enunciating the word.

  'Cheese,' replied Monsieur d'Aubeville, saluting me with his drink. Madame d'Aubeville sat impassively at the table, hands folded in her lap. I wondered what was keeping Julien.

  'You live London?' he asked

  'Yes. Have you been?'

  'No London. Algeria.'

  'Oh, right.' I wasn't sure I entirely got the connection.

  A flea jumped onto the table and, without thinking, my hand flew out to squash it. Monsieur d'Aubeville laughed. 'Everywhere,
les puces
, everywhere.'

  I smiled weakly. 'So, Algeria? What did you do?'

  'War. Civil War.'

  'Ah.' As conversation stoppers went, that was up there with 'I put kittens in wheelie bins for my own amusement', but Monsieur d'Aubeville was not put off.

  'I soldier. Fight. Kill many men.' He mimed shooting a gun with his two fingers.

  'Right, er, good.'

  Madame d'Aubeville continued to sit impassively.

  'So your farm. Animals? Wheat?'

  'Cows, pigs, for food. I kill them.'

  There was a bit of a theme going on here.

  'And…' he cast around for the right word then opted just to make a quacking sound.

  'Ducks?' I offered.

  'Yes, for
foie gras
. My wife, she make
pâté
out of anything.'

  I was a little bit concerned about the 'anything', especially bearing in mind the number of dogs outside in the yard.

  He turned and babbled to his wife who got up and disappeared off, before shortly returning with a large slab of
pâté
. With great ceremony, she cut a large slice then placed it reverently on a plate before rummaging in a drawer for a knife and fork. Honestly, you'd think the French would know how to serve
pâté
. It needed a nice oatcake or a Bath Oliver, but here they just seemed to eat it on its own. To be polite, I tucked in, even though I wasn't terribly hungry. 'Mmm, delicious,' I said, smiling at Madame d'Aubeville.

  
'Museau de porc,'
she said shyly. I had no idea what that was so I shrugged helplessly at her.

  Madame d'Aubeville took my arm and led me over to the saucepan, which was still bubbling furiously on the stove. Lifting the lid she let me look inside. As the steam cleared, half a pig's head appeared, its one eye staring reproachfully at me. I screamed and jumped backwards, nearly overturning the pan.

  Monsieur d'Aubeville laughed a deep, rumbling laugh that was totally out of proportion to his size and slapped his thigh.

  Even the silent Madame d'Aubeville cracked the slightest of smiles.

  '
Désolée
, sorry, sorry,' I laughed. 'It just made me jump.'

  I went back and sat down at the table, comedy-fanning myself. On top of the pig's colon sausage, I now had the pleasure of pig's head
pâté
. Was there no part of an animal the French didn't eat?

  Still chortling, Monsieur d'Aubeville got up and went to a cupboard, returning with a deep scarlet liquid in a wax-topped bottle. It looked dangerous.

  '
Non
, really. No more.' I put my hands up to him. 'Too much.'

  'For the
choc,
' he said, pouring several fingers into a glass that he'd found on the draining board. It looked none too clean but I was sure that whatever was in the bottle could kill salmonella at thirty paces.

  I took a sip and gasped as the heat of the liquid trickled down my throat and into my stomach. It brought to mind the one and only time I'd tried Polish Pure Spirit. That was about 80 per cent proof and this didn't taste that far behind. It made my eyes water.

  '
Bon,
very good,' I croaked.

  
'Eau de vie,'
said Monsieur d'Aubeville, saluting me with the bottle.

  Water of life, I thought. A very romantic name for high-octane paint stripper. It was more likely to kill you.

  
'Santé.'
Monsieur d'Aubeville tipped his head backwards and downed his shot, bringing the glass down with a bang on the table
.

  
'Oh là là, c'est bon ça,'
he said, shaking his head and flapping his cheeks.

  'Very good,' I agreed sipping mine a bit more decorously.

  'No, not like that. You drink like me.'

  The alcohol was already starting its inexorable march to my head but in the interests of
entente cordiale
, I followed suit, downing the rest of my drink in one and banging the glass down on the table.

  I wondered where Julien was. I'd been there a good while and there was no sign of him. Probably busy milking a goat or something.

  Monsieur d'Aubeville was already pouring himself a second glass. Just my luck to be stuck with an elderly French binge-drinker. I looked across at Madame d'Aubeville. Surely she'd say something. It was only early afternoon and he was already power drinking, but she just sat impassively, with an expression that gave nothing away.

  Reaching across he took my glass and refilled it.

  'No, really, no more.'

  'No policemen. We drink.'

  He stood up and started to sing 'La Marseillaise'. What was it about inebriated Frenchmen and their national anthem? He motioned at me to join him. I'd only ever managed to crack the first verse of my own one, never mind this, but Monsieur d'Aubeville was determined to educate me.
'Allons enfants de la Patrie…'
he sang tunelessly.
'Le jour de gloire est arrivé.'

  He translated it as best he could as we went. It was all a bit politically incorrect to my London point of view, all about bloody standards and fields running with the blood of our enemies. Considering all the fuss that was made over 'Land of Hope and Glory' for its colonial overtones, it was surprising that a national anthem should be so triumphalist. Gradually I started to pick up the words and, aided by another glass of Monsieur d'Aubeville's ruby nectar, I was starting to enjoy myself a bit.

  When I managed to get all the way to the part about 'impure blood' all by myself, Monsieur d'Aubeville cheered and even
madame
looked faintly amused.

  'Phew, enough,' I told them, my head starting to reel a bit. I curtseyed to Monsieur d'Aubeville, who bowed back to me with a drunken flourish before sitting down to pour himself another drink.

  I sat down, pulling my glass out of the reach of Monsieur d'Aubeville and his deadly bottle before he could pour me another.

  A meaty hand descended on my thigh. I sat very still as it started to stroke my leg.

  'So, Monsieur,' I said, jumping up from the table and away from his wandering hand, 'Julien is here?'

  'Julien, no,' he said and got up to led me unsteadily to the window. Further down the lane, hidden behind the barn, was another farmhouse. 'There Julien. Next door.'

  'So… so he doesn't live here?'

  'Here?
Non
.' Monsieur d'Aubeville smiled drunkenly.

  'And you are… ?'

  'His
oncle
.'

Madame d'Aubeville opened the door to let me out. Her husband, now very much the worse for wear, was slumped forward with his head on the table, still singing 'La Marseillaise' off-key.

  
'Merci, madame.'
I put my hand out to shake Madame d'Aubeville's. She took it and smiled the tiniest of smiles before turning back into the house and closing the door.

  I looked round the run-down farm, the rusting machinery and the mangy dogs and thought that it couldn't be much of a life for the poor woman. Underneath the careworn, unsmiling face, there showed the remnants of the very pretty girl she had once been. I wondered what dreams she'd had when she was young. Was this how she thought she'd end up? More importantly, if I pursued my feelings for Julien, was this actually how I would end up? Whenever I'd let my imagination run away with me, I'd thought of myself throwing corn to the hens with a couple of rosy-cheeked, cherubic children at my feet. Julien would come back from the fields (always clean, of course) and rush to kiss me and we would walk through our immaculate farm to our equally immaculate house. Was Philippe d'Aubeville's ramshackle farm and downtrodden wife closer to reality?