if it was one that I used to speak well and which was coming back quickly. One by one, I was getting things done. It was a steep learning curve. The school was delightful. It was a welcoming place, built around a central playground. The window frames were painted blue. There were coat pegs with the children’s photos next to them, there was a canteen with its own chef, and there was a row of little toothbrushes for after-lunch brushing. I had been overcome with delight when the teacher said they had a place for Alice. I wanted to go there myself.
Alice was bored out of her mind and was desperate to go. She had already had the skin test for her BCG, and had an appointment for the injection on Friday. She was due at school on Monday. Monday, however, seemed a long way off. I felt that I might as well have been telling her she could start school in twelve years’ time.
‘I want to go now ,’ she kept sobbing.
‘You can go on Monday,’ I told her, yet again.
‘NOT MONDAY,’ she shouted. ‘I tell you already. NOW. I want to play with the fire engine and the kitchen and the scooter and the books!’ She had retained, it seemed, a photographic mental record of every toy in the classroom.
The school was the best thing about our new life, so far. I hoped that Alice was going to like it as much when she got there as she had done on our two visits. It was a long day, from nine fifteen till half past four, and the school provided a three-course lunch and an afternoon nap. I worried about whether she would cope, alone among children who would not understand her. I told myself again and again that children pick up languages quickly, that she was going to be bilingual in no time.
I knew that my own French was fine, but I still felt self-conscious. I hated approaching people, making my foreignness known. If Alice and I walked down the street speaking to each other, heads turned, people clocked us as les anglaises . Every time I made a phone call, or approached anybody for any reason, I had to steel myself. It was an effort for me to push open the door of a shop, any shop. I was constantly overcoming my nerves, my reluctance, my fear of looking stupid.
I had bought my own car. It was a small Peugeot, a silver 206 automatic and I was surprised at how easy it had been to buy it. I did not think the salesman had ripped me off. It had come in just under what we had budgeted and I actively liked driving it. I had never had my own car before, and I had always hated driving in Britain. The roads here were empty and I was still getting used to the novelty of not having to change gears. I had found a radio station called Nostalgi which played French chanson and the Beatles, and if I was on a clear stretch of road and it wasn’t raining, I could get Radio Four on long wave.
On Wednesday morning, Martine popped round, just as I had finished washing up the breakfast dishes. I had vowed that when the builders came round that afternoon, I was going to make sure that the kitchen was a priority. I had had enough of bending double to wash the dishes. A normal-height sink would be good. A dishwasher would be better.
I went outside to meet her. She looked at the house and declined my invitation to come in.
‘Would you like some eggs?’ she asked, smiling broadly. Martine was in charge of Pounchet, I had come to realise. She was small and wiry with her hair in a bun, and, as Charlotte had prophesied, she wore a blue printed overall under her thick coat. Martine monitored all the comings and goings in the hamlet.
‘Matthieu will be back today?’ she asked, as she handed over a plastic bag containing ten eggs, freshly laid by her chickens.
‘He will,’ I agreed. I wanted to sort things out a bit before he arrived. But almost as soon as she had gone, some other neighbours turned up. These ones were a couple, about ten years older than Matt and me. He had a shock of jet-black hair, and she was small and soft and well dressed. They were
Alice was bored out of her mind and was desperate to go. She had already had the skin test for her BCG, and had an appointment for the injection on Friday. She was due at school on Monday. Monday, however, seemed a long way off. I felt that I might as well have been telling her she could start school in twelve years’ time.
‘I want to go now ,’ she kept sobbing.
‘You can go on Monday,’ I told her, yet again.
‘NOT MONDAY,’ she shouted. ‘I tell you already. NOW. I want to play with the fire engine and the kitchen and the scooter and the books!’ She had retained, it seemed, a photographic mental record of every toy in the classroom.
The school was the best thing about our new life, so far. I hoped that Alice was going to like it as much when she got there as she had done on our two visits. It was a long day, from nine fifteen till half past four, and the school provided a three-course lunch and an afternoon nap. I worried about whether she would cope, alone among children who would not understand her. I told myself again and again that children pick up languages quickly, that she was going to be bilingual in no time.
I knew that my own French was fine, but I still felt self-conscious. I hated approaching people, making my foreignness known. If Alice and I walked down the street speaking to each other, heads turned, people clocked us as les anglaises . Every time I made a phone call, or approached anybody for any reason, I had to steel myself. It was an effort for me to push open the door of a shop, any shop. I was constantly overcoming my nerves, my reluctance, my fear of looking stupid.
I had bought my own car. It was a small Peugeot, a silver 206 automatic and I was surprised at how easy it had been to buy it. I did not think the salesman had ripped me off. It had come in just under what we had budgeted and I actively liked driving it. I had never had my own car before, and I had always hated driving in Britain. The roads here were empty and I was still getting used to the novelty of not having to change gears. I had found a radio station called Nostalgi which played French chanson and the Beatles, and if I was on a clear stretch of road and it wasn’t raining, I could get Radio Four on long wave.
On Wednesday morning, Martine popped round, just as I had finished washing up the breakfast dishes. I had vowed that when the builders came round that afternoon, I was going to make sure that the kitchen was a priority. I had had enough of bending double to wash the dishes. A normal-height sink would be good. A dishwasher would be better.
I went outside to meet her. She looked at the house and declined my invitation to come in.
‘Would you like some eggs?’ she asked, smiling broadly. Martine was in charge of Pounchet, I had come to realise. She was small and wiry with her hair in a bun, and, as Charlotte had prophesied, she wore a blue printed overall under her thick coat. Martine monitored all the comings and goings in the hamlet.
‘Matthieu will be back today?’ she asked, as she handed over a plastic bag containing ten eggs, freshly laid by her chickens.
‘He will,’ I agreed. I wanted to sort things out a bit before he arrived. But almost as soon as she had gone, some other neighbours turned up. These ones were a couple, about ten years older than Matt and me. He had a shock of jet-black hair, and she was small and soft and well dressed. They were
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