English who’ve come without the television people. How are you finding it? The weather’s terrible, isn’t it? Did you bring this rain from England?’
I looked at her. She was, I guessed, in her late fifties. She was expertly made up, and elegantly dressed in black and white, with a pair of black stilettos. I was acutely aware of my crumpled shirt, my muddy jeans and my scuffed boots. I hadn’t had a shower for four days, and my hair was pulled into a tight ponytail to try to hide its lank and greasy state. I was wearing no make-up and I was certain that my face was red and shiny, and that the bags under my eyes were as black as bruises. I vowed to buy some cosmetics, to wash my hair in cold water that evening, maybe even to purchase some new clothes. I recalled Paula asking about my due date in Clifton Street, and pulled my stomach in.
I was overcome with embarrassment, to the point where I could barely say another word. The woman looked at me kindly. I felt compelled to explain.
‘I am sorry,’ I told her, haltingly. ‘You are very chic. We are waiting for our things to arrive on the lorry.’ For some reason, I found myself miming a steering wheel. ‘From England. We have no . . .’ I tailed away, unsure of the word. ‘No hot. No hot water. We are not chic.’ I tugged my lifeless ponytail to emphasise my point.
She laughed. ‘You are both so pretty. You have no hot water? No heating? That is terrible. Have you spoken to the company?’
I shook my head and reached into the handbag to show her the letter with the address and phone number on it. The woman instantly took out her mobile phone and dialled. She looked at it and tutted. No reception. ‘One moment,’ she told me, and went outside. I saw her talking animatedly, indignantly, gesturing with her free hand.
‘OK,’ she announced, when she came back in. ‘It’s done. They’re coming to refill your tank this afternoon, about three o’clock.’
I gaped at her. ‘You’re very kind.’
‘It’s nothing. Welcome to the region.’
I smiled. A genuine smile felt novel and pleasant. By the time I had composed a suitably grateful sentence in my head, the woman had gone. I watched her talking to her companion, and saw him turning to look at us. He smiled and gave a little wave. I waved back. My breath escaped in a big rush. I remembered her mentioning television people and tried to catch her eye to ask what she had meant, but she was looking the other way.
Buoyed by the kindness of the woman, I paid our bill, buttoned Alice into her raincoat, pulled her hat down almost over her eyes, and took her out into the gloom. The tourist office, our first official stop of the day, was in the main square.
I knew, theoretically, that St Paul was a lovely town. I knew because we had sat outside one of the other cafés in the autumn, and shared a beer and looked at the long shadows the late-afternoon sunlight cast on the stone buildings. The church here dated from the tenth century. The buildings around it were tall, and stone, with wrought-iron grilles and balconies. There were bakeries, a fishmonger, a little cinema and a couple of grocers. It was a classic small French town and I had almost been able to imagine us settling here happily, back in October. I had imagined Matt and Alice and me, with an entourage of happy, envious house guests, sitting outside cafés laughing and whiling away summer afternoons.
Today, the black clouds were piled above us. It had stopped raining but the clouds clearly had no intention of moving. I stepped into a puddle and felt the water seeping into my trainers. Sometimes I thought I saw a chink of clear sky, but it never was. It was just a grey cloud, standing out amongst its black colleagues. The square looked bleak and dull. The tourist office was on the corner near the car park, and we tumbled in, out of breath and dishevelled.
‘ Oui? ’ asked a bored-looking woman with blonde hair in an immaculate chignon. She barely
I looked at her. She was, I guessed, in her late fifties. She was expertly made up, and elegantly dressed in black and white, with a pair of black stilettos. I was acutely aware of my crumpled shirt, my muddy jeans and my scuffed boots. I hadn’t had a shower for four days, and my hair was pulled into a tight ponytail to try to hide its lank and greasy state. I was wearing no make-up and I was certain that my face was red and shiny, and that the bags under my eyes were as black as bruises. I vowed to buy some cosmetics, to wash my hair in cold water that evening, maybe even to purchase some new clothes. I recalled Paula asking about my due date in Clifton Street, and pulled my stomach in.
I was overcome with embarrassment, to the point where I could barely say another word. The woman looked at me kindly. I felt compelled to explain.
‘I am sorry,’ I told her, haltingly. ‘You are very chic. We are waiting for our things to arrive on the lorry.’ For some reason, I found myself miming a steering wheel. ‘From England. We have no . . .’ I tailed away, unsure of the word. ‘No hot. No hot water. We are not chic.’ I tugged my lifeless ponytail to emphasise my point.
She laughed. ‘You are both so pretty. You have no hot water? No heating? That is terrible. Have you spoken to the company?’
I shook my head and reached into the handbag to show her the letter with the address and phone number on it. The woman instantly took out her mobile phone and dialled. She looked at it and tutted. No reception. ‘One moment,’ she told me, and went outside. I saw her talking animatedly, indignantly, gesturing with her free hand.
‘OK,’ she announced, when she came back in. ‘It’s done. They’re coming to refill your tank this afternoon, about three o’clock.’
I gaped at her. ‘You’re very kind.’
‘It’s nothing. Welcome to the region.’
I smiled. A genuine smile felt novel and pleasant. By the time I had composed a suitably grateful sentence in my head, the woman had gone. I watched her talking to her companion, and saw him turning to look at us. He smiled and gave a little wave. I waved back. My breath escaped in a big rush. I remembered her mentioning television people and tried to catch her eye to ask what she had meant, but she was looking the other way.
Buoyed by the kindness of the woman, I paid our bill, buttoned Alice into her raincoat, pulled her hat down almost over her eyes, and took her out into the gloom. The tourist office, our first official stop of the day, was in the main square.
I knew, theoretically, that St Paul was a lovely town. I knew because we had sat outside one of the other cafés in the autumn, and shared a beer and looked at the long shadows the late-afternoon sunlight cast on the stone buildings. The church here dated from the tenth century. The buildings around it were tall, and stone, with wrought-iron grilles and balconies. There were bakeries, a fishmonger, a little cinema and a couple of grocers. It was a classic small French town and I had almost been able to imagine us settling here happily, back in October. I had imagined Matt and Alice and me, with an entourage of happy, envious house guests, sitting outside cafés laughing and whiling away summer afternoons.
Today, the black clouds were piled above us. It had stopped raining but the clouds clearly had no intention of moving. I stepped into a puddle and felt the water seeping into my trainers. Sometimes I thought I saw a chink of clear sky, but it never was. It was just a grey cloud, standing out amongst its black colleagues. The square looked bleak and dull. The tourist office was on the corner near the car park, and we tumbled in, out of breath and dishevelled.
‘ Oui? ’ asked a bored-looking woman with blonde hair in an immaculate chignon. She barely
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