Dreams are today’s answers to tomorrow’s questions.
Edgar Cayce
Despite being so tired that I keep bumping into unfamiliar walls and furniture, I can’t sleep. I’ve tried unpacking some of the bags from the Mini, but my heart isn’t in it. I also tried making a list of everything that needs doing in the house, outbuildings and grounds, but that drove me very quickly to drink. I also tried painting from the sketches I did earlier in the garden, but I had to give up when my fingers were too tired to hold the paintbrush.
Too tired. Too stiff. Whatever.
I ignore the pain in my hands. It’s because I’ve been gripping the steering wheel for too long and carrying boxes. A few months of what Gran used to call her medicine – the South of France sunshine – and I’ll be fine.
I eventually get to sleep about five a.m. Then, at six a.m., Pickwick, Peanut and Treacle set off such a cacophony of barking and howling that I wake up, my heart thudding painfully in my chest. The noise, combined with a “where the hell am I?” panic about waking up in a new place, seriously weirds me out to the point that I sit still blinking hard for several minutes before my brain can kick my body into action.
If you’ve never heard two Chihuahuas and a miniature Yorkshire terrier howling in unison, then you should probably consider yourself lucky. It’s hilarious the first time because the high-pitched noises are so comical, but on repetition it sounds less like comedy and more like a cat being fed through a shredder.
Eventually my brain gets the signal that the reason for the racket is that someone is knocking at my door at frigging six o’clock in the morning.
Who does that? Seriously?
At first, I’m determined there’s absolutely no way I’m getting out of bed to answer the door to a complete stranger. Partly because I’ve only had one hour’s sleep, my eyes are red-rimmed and I look like crap. I’m wearing an old oversized T-shirt – the only item of clothing I could be bothered to retrieve to wear last night – and suspect I resemble a swollen blimp. On the upside, any burglar would take one look at me, listen to the earsplitting howling for a millisecond and decide to run in the opposite direction.
I didn’t even make the bed properly last night. I just dragged the duvet out of the car, and the four of us piled onto the IKEA bed that had been left behind and still had a bedspread on it. Thankfully a clean one. The dogs burrowed beneath the covers and only stirred when they sensed me crying.
I couldn’t help crying in the end. I’m only human, and stoicism and dancing only get you so far. A rejection is always going to hurt. Peanut is always the first to pick up any shift in my mood and is quick to comfort, crawling up onto my chest to lick away my tears with her tiny pink tongue. Her brown eyes shine with such concern I feel guilty and determined to hold it together. She and Treacle have been abused. Their growing trust in me is a gift, and I don’t want them to ever be afraid again.
Eventually the knocking stops, and I bury back down under the duvet. It’s surprisingly cold at night here in the countryside. I’ll have to get some wood ordered in and get the log burner going in the evenings.
My brief peace is shattered when the knocking starts up again, this time at the back door.
Arghh.
The dogs start howling again, and I only just restrain myself from joining in with them. My conscience gives me a kick though. I’d never answer the door in my old flat at night, even with the safety latch on, but…
It’s potentially a little old lady knocking on the door because her house is on fire and she needs to use my phone, likely not a crime gang ready to storm the house and strip it of all my belongings. Not that I’ve got much for anyone to take. And if it is the little old lady, then I’ll be left with a neighbour who will never forgive me for ignoring her in her hour of need.
Even if that hour is six a.m.
Reluctantly I slip my feet out from under the warm duvet and make my way down to the back door. City habits are too entrenched for me not to check first, so I creep into the kitchen and peer out of the window that gives me a view of the back door.
I have to blink hard several times and then bite my lip to check I’m actually awake before I’m willing to accept the knocking is coming from a dog the size of a wolf. Or possibly a wolf the size of a big dog.
He’s standing on his hind legs and dropping the knocker down with his mouth. In that position he’s as tall as me, and his muzzle alone is bigger than any of my dogs.
By now the littl’uns are going crazy in their determination to defend me from this giant wolf-dog, and I freak out, scooping them all up against their will and legging it back upstairs. They might think they can tackle giants, but I’m equally convinced the wolf-dog wants to eat them all for breakfast and save me for lunch.
Once I’ve shut the bedroom door so they can’t get out, we huddle under the duvet again. I play some music on my phone to block out the noise. The chihuahuas are partial to Katie Melua; her music always soothes them. I play it on a loop wondering how I’ve managed to go stark staring mad in just one night alone in a new house.
Now I can’t get back to sleep. Not a flipping chance. Not with great big wolf dogs waiting to gobble us all up.
I google whether wolves still exist in France. What I find doesn’t reassure me. I read stories about wolves coming over the Spanish border into France, packs roaming as far north as the suburbs of Paris and then about a breeding program in the South West. Maybe they’ve started one near here, determined to set wolves on the English incomers for driving the local house prices up.
I take a deep breath. I should start a to-do list. That would be a positive thing that might drive the crazies away.
Five minutes later, and my list looks like this:
My to-do list:
1) What the fuck do I do now?
2) But seriously, what the fuck do I do now?
To be fair, I’ve been dumped, moved house, only had one hour’s sleep and am under siege by wolves. Okay, that last point has yet to be proven, but all in all I don’t think I’m ready for a productive to-do list.
Thinking is doing my head in. I slip into jeans and a hoodie. The dogs stay under the duvet. I’m tempted to climb back in and snuggle down, but I suspect I’d just slip back into self-pity. Gran wouldn’t approve. She came from the “get up and get on” stock. It’s not that she wasn’t sympathetic. I don’t think I ever met anyone as perceptive as her. She just saw self-pity as a waste of life.
Taking a deep breath, I make my way down to the kitchen and glance at the old stove. I’ll get round to lighting it sometime. Maybe I can ask the Duboises tonight how to go about it. For now, I dig my travel kettle out of a carrier bag and make myself a cup of Earl Grey tea.
I take it outside after checking warily for any sign of giant canines. All I can hear is birds singing up in the trees as the early light streaks the sky with tinges of pink and amber.
I’m on my second cup of tea by the time the dogs decide to vacate the duvet to join me outside. The sun bathes the rolling hills and woodland in a soft golden light, blue sky coming into sharp focus above the snow-capped Pyrenean mountain tops. I feel the urge to paint the scene. I haven’t painted landscapes for years.
I played it safe. Illustration work paid. It was the safe career choice after art college, and I love it, but it’s been a while since I felt the pull to do something completely different. When it comes to doing my own thing, I’ve satisfied myself with my journal sketches and blog. Maybe once I’ve finished my latest commission I can reward myself with some blank canvases and try to capture what it is about this landscape that stirs my soul.
Peanut starts a three-dog chase around the garden, and the others join in joyfully, darting in and out of bushes, changing direction to fool each other and making me laugh.
Watching them stirs another desire in me, the faintest flicker of my own children’s story idea. I’ve always wanted to write and illustrate my own children’s book, not just someone else’s idea. Pete and my parents said I should play it safe and not look a gift fairy in the face, but as much as I love my feisty little fairy, Fenella is someone else’s creation. The possibility of a new idea dances in my mind, stirring, stirring. The sunshine finally reaches my face, a perfect gentle heat for my fair skin. The warmth soothes out the kinks in my bad mood. The dogs sniff around contentedly, conducting a thorough survey of every single blade of grass and every bush of their new garden. Post chase, they’re still in high excitement mode.
I take a deep breath of the fresh country air as the sunshine slowly seeps through my skin into my bones, seeming to warm their very marrow. The birds are singing. The scene is idyllic, sitting in stark contrast to my broken heart and general sense of impending doom.
But that’s hardly the case anymore. I honestly don’t know that I am brokenhearted. I’m hurt, betrayed and scared, but I’m not feeling like I’ve lost the only man I could ever love.
I take another sip of tea and take in every detail of my new world. Spring flowers are blooming in the hedgerows and fields like tiny splashes of colour and joy.
I can’t block the sense that, if everything around me is carrying on okay, then maybe I can too. I don’t think focusing on my problems and how to fix them is the way forward today. Putting them down in black-and-white might send me into a nervous breakdown tailspin. Instead I need to do a different type of list.
Yes, you’ve guessed it, I’m one of those annoying people who is into lists for everything. I don’t know if it’s an anxiety thing or an OCD thing. Maybe it’s just a thing, a part of my personality. My way of imagining I can actually control my life and the world around me.
Gran was always telling me to count my blessings way before positive thinking and the gratitude trend became fashionable. Along with my panic lists and to do-lists, I like to write and illustrate my grateful lists in my journal – all the things I love, the nice things that have happened that day, what I appreciate about the people around me.
Pete called them my Pollyanna lists. I’m pretty sure it wasn’t meant to be a compliment.
I shove down the memory of Pete and open my journal.
Pushing all my worries to the back of my mind, I sketch Pickwick sniffing suspiciously at a butterfly. Then I capture Peanut and Treacle, tiny ears pricked forwards as they lie side-by-side, Sphinx-like, in the sun. I swear, if dogs could smile they’re both grinning like mad. The Chihuahuas always love the sun. Getting them outside in the rain back home was always a problem. Here they’re in their element. I sketch the tiny spring flowers onto the corners of the page, and then I lose myself in sketching the fields surrounding us and the Château in the background, successfully forgetting for a good twenty minutes that my life is totally screwed up.
Peanut’s sharp bark of warning breaks me out of my happy bubble. I look up from my journal to catch a glimpse of the huge wolf dog hurtling along the field from the converted barn the next field over.
I leap up to grab my dogs, cursing the lack of a third hand. Too late; they’ve scooted off quicker than you can say “dinner time” and are trying to scrabble through the hedge. I sprint after them and manage to grab Pickwick and Treacle, but Peanut is through the hedge before I can stop her.
“Stay,” I issue as a stern warning to the two captives, and then I get down on my stomach. I reach through the hole, ignoring the thorns that snag my hands and arms as I desperately try to coax Peanut back.
My heart thuds in my chest as the huge dog bounds up to us, but to my relief he lowers into a play bow and rolls over onto his back while Peanut leaps playfully from one side of his head to another.
“Bonjour.”
A voice above my head makes me jump, incurring yet more scratches on the back of my neck. When I wiggle back and get to my feet, my clothes are covered in dirty marks, and I can’t be sure I haven’t got leaves where leaves shouldn’t be.
It’s him, of course it is – Gilles’s grumpy twin. Though he’s not looking quite so grumpy now. His lips twitch like he really wants to laugh.
So now he chooses to talk to me? When I’m bleeding and muddy? I bet if I’d just had a shower and put on a sun dress, I’d bump into no one except a donkey. Looking like crap seems to guarantee you’ll meet someone you fancy.
Or a wolf-dog.
Or both.
I can’t deceive myself. I’m attracted to him, though I really don’t want to be. He stares at me, eyes dark and inscrutable, eyebrow quirked and lips twitching like they’re holding back laughter. I stare back, resisting the urge to smooth down my hair or check for twigs.
“Er, bonjour.” I peer anxiously over the hedge at Peanut and the giant dog, worried he’ll send her flying with one swipe of a huge paw. “I’m Poppy.”
“I know.” His lips form a half smile, but the dark intensity in his eyes doesn’t dim. The smile doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “I’m Leo.”
I can’t shake the feeling he’s really enjoying this, and a surge of irritation rises up in me, my sleepless night taking its toll, amongst other things. I stare over at Peanut. I want to call her back but suspect she’ll just ignore me, which will make those lips twitch again. I’m still working on her recall skills, and I don’t want this man judging me anymore than he clearly already does. Though God knows what I’ve done to him other than move into the village and sit in my garden.
My neck and hands start to sting with a burning rash from where I’ve come into contact with the hedge and ground. Great, now even my garden hates me. I stare at Peanut, willing her to come back.
Either her telepathic skills aren’t working, or she’s ignoring me. Instead it’s Leo who reads my thoughts, and he stalks over to the dogs and deftly picks up Peanut. I expect her to protest, as she’s not keen on strangers as a rule and is especially suspicious of men.
Sensible dog.
Yet she looks up at him in adoration.
Not her, too!
“Your dog?” He hands her to me.
There’s a supercilious tone to his words that riles me. I press my lips together and nod over to the giant dog.
“Your wolf-dog?” I raise my own eyebrow, mirroring him, anger flaring inside me.
“Maxi won’t eat your dogs, you needn’t worry.” Leo shrugs as though my concerns are unreasonable, but his lips tighten.
That shrug winds me up a little tighter. I’m dimly aware the flare of anger has very little to do with Leo, but regardless I can’t control it.
“He knocked on my doors this morning, really early.” My tone is shrill and far more accusatory than I planned, as though the words gathered up anger on route from my brain to my lips.
I’m aware what I’m saying sounds absurd. Accusing my neighbour’s dog of giving me an unscheduled wake-up call isn’t how I planned to get to know the villagers. I don’t know whether to expect disbelief or derision.
What I don’t expect is for the shutters to come down on Leo’s expression as though I’ve slapped him.
“The house should never have been sold to you,” he says coldly. “It was a mistake.”
“A mistake? What on earth do you mean?” Anger and confusion fight inside me for supremacy.
“A mistake I plan to … reverse,” Leo snaps.
Then he turns abruptly on his heel and stalks off, whistling for Maxi to follow. Of course, Maxi obeys instantly.
My jaw tightens. I am irritated, but I really didn’t plan on being quite so … confrontational. Maybe I should’ve explained that I’ve only had an hour’s sleep and that Maxi had scared me half to death this morning. Somehow, I’m not sure it would’ve made any difference.
I try to stop grinding my teeth as I head inside to set up a makeshift indoor studio in one of the reception rooms, and then I remember. Aperitifs tonight at the chateau. Will Leo be there?
I bite my lip, feeling … odd.
This is so not how I expected my first days in France to go. Monsieur and Madame Dubois have been nice to me, yes. And Sophie. But nothing else is going right.
My skin burns where the rash is spreading. I go of in search of an anti-histamine.
Maybe I’ll ease myself into work with a blogpost.
Daydream Designs – Poppy’s Blog
Update –
Okay, so, it’s time to give you an update about what’s happening with my French adventure. I’m here (yay) along with the muttsters, but so far the only belongings I’ve got with me are what I could fit in the Mini. The garden is beautiful. Not to make you jealous or anything, but I’ve been having breakfast out in the sun and sketching. Just like I always imagined I would. :-)
I suppose I’d better stop enjoying myself and get on with some actual paying work.
I hope you enjoy my journal sketches of the dogs exploring the garden. They’ve been chasing each other around in mad happy circles, so I’m taking that as a good sign we’ve done the right thing.
So, I haven’t said anything about Pete not being here, but … there is still time for him to change his mind, right? How stupid would I look if I said that he’d left and then have to tell people he’s back again? It’s just easier this way. Not to mention much less embarrassing. There’s only so much humiliation I can take in one day.
I can’t shake the question pushing at the back of my mind as to whether I really want Pete to change his mind though. How could I ever trust someone who stitched me up and dumped me by text while I was hundreds of miles away?
I pluck a leaf from my hoodie and sigh, picturing the quirk of Leo’s lips. Honestly, if I’m going to have a rebound crush, why couldn’t my body have chosen someone who actually seems to like me? Someone like Jacques? God no. Thinking about his hand on my bra strap makes my skin crawl.
But why did my body pick someone who really doesn’t seem to want me here? It’s like I’m just asking for more humiliation. I push the confusion to the back of my mind and try to settle down to work. Try being the key word.
The sunshine draws me back outside later. I take my work out into the garden and set up on the wrought iron table. Despite the glorious sunshine and cloudless blue sky, I can’t focus. Normally I have no problem losing myself in my work. To anyone non-creative, I find it hard to explain the feeling of being swept up in a creative flow that brings peace and satisfaction.
But now I’m antsy. And it’s not because of the burning rash or any stray insects crawling beneath my clothes after the hedge-gate incident. The crawly sensation was so strong earlier I actually had a shower and washed my hair. So I can only come to the conclusion that it’s psychological antsy-ness.
I’m still unsettled by my interaction with Leo earlier; disproportionately so. I keep replaying it in my mind. Keep imagining … well, things I shouldn’t.
I’d love to write Leo off as a grumpy sod, not worth bothering with, but it seems I can’t. I so wanted to get on with my new neighbours. I didn’t really have a naïve fantasy that rural life would be picture postcard perfect, but I like to think I’m a reasonably nice person. To have fallen out with someone so quickly, someone I’d really like to get on with, is really gutting.
Some of the discomfort is caused by guilt. Leo is probably worried about his father, and I was pretty grumpy this morning too. After a night of virtually no sleep, Leo bore the full brunt of my misdirected anger.
But the anger compass is well and truly pointing towards Pete right now. Especially since I’ve discovered he seems to have blocked my number. I gave in and tried ringing a number of times, needing to talk it out. The first three times I got voicemail, but now I’m getting nothing at all.
I tear up the sketch in front of me. It’s not quite right. Not good enough. I catch a flash of small dog in my peripheral vision and look up. Peanut and Treacle are engaging in a bout of chihuahua wrestling, one of their favourite occupations if they’re not playing chase with Pickwick.
Sensing my attention on her, Peanut takes Treacle’s leg out of her mouth and comes bounding happily over. Tail wagging, she leaps effortlessly up onto my lap and lands a lick on my nose.
“This is all your fault, little wriggler,” I tell her mock-sternly before kissing the top of her head. “Well, getting me stuck in a hedge was, anyway.”
Treacle nudges gently at my feet, still more timid than Peanut when it comes to claiming my attention but gaining in confidence by the day. When I first got him from the rescue charity, he spent most of his time hiding beneath furniture, terrified of all humans. Peanut gave him confidence though, and slowly, slowly, Treacle is coming to trust me.
I pick him up and set him next to Peanut on my lap. Then Pickwick’s internal cuddle sensor alerts him, and he trots over, demanding in his peculiar high-pitched woof to be picked up, too.
I plonk him up on my chest, having run out of lap space.
That’s when I hear it. An unearthly braying, shrieking noise. I peer over the hedge to see five donkeys being led into the adjacent field. I quickly rush back to the hooks just inside the kitchen door for the dog leads, determined not to end up spread eagled in a hedge for the second time today.
With the donkeys is a smiling brunette I assume must be Angeline. She waves at me as she makes her way around the field perimeter, inspecting fences and hedges. When she gets closer I head over to say hello, my hands clutching tightly to the leads as the dogs pull like a team of miniature huskies towards the funny braying creatures. Pickwick in particular sounds like he’s about to expire from excitement.
“Bonjour.” I smile a welcome, determined to make a better impression for my next neighbour encounter.
“Bonjour.” The woman beams and leans over the hedge to hug and kiss me, taking me by surprise.
It’s only now I realise just how much I needed a hug. Some of the tension drains out of me and I blink back tears.
“So, you’re the English girl?” She declares in faultless English once she’s released me.
“I’m English, yes, my name’s Poppy. Am I famous already?”
“It is village life.” She shrugs. “Not much changes, so when it does, it’s big news.”
“And you are Angeline, the vet?” I ask, still bowled over by the genuine warmth Angeline exudes and not sure how I feel about being “big news.”
“See, you are a villager already.” Angeline touches my arm lightly. “Do not worry. We have Dutch and English living here. I am half Belgian, so I am a foreigner, too in the eyes of the villagers.”
“And these donkeys are yours?” I eye up the donkeys prancing about the field. One has picked up a field bucket and is charging around the field with it, chasing the others who don’t seem too impressed about being butted in the hind quarters with a bucket.
“Yes, all mine.” Angeline beams. At that moment they decide to start up a loud honking braying, possibly answering the dogs back. “I move them around from field to field. They’re in demand for keeping down the grass. And are these little ones yours?”
The dogs are leaping about trying to see Angeline, so I lift them up. She makes a fuss of them. Even Treacle doesn’t shrink away. It seems we’re all enamoured with Angeline. It bodes well, given that our previous vet in England didn’t like chihuahuas and saw their fearful wriggling as bad behaviour, not fear fostered by the abuse of their previous owners.
Our last trip to the vet for booster jabs left all of us traumatised. Peanut hit the ceiling, literally. I sometimes think she must be part baby kangaroo, part flea as she can jump to incredible heights. I ended up with a scratched neck and almost had to get immunised myself. When I went to pay, the receptionist joked that it sounded like someone was being murdered in the consultation room.
Angeline’s eyes fall onto Pickwick. I catch her assessment of his crooked front legs and the too-long tongue that pokes out of his mouth on a semi-permanent basis.
I wait to see if I’ll get the “you’ve got a duffer here” comment both Gran and I have been treated to in the past from self-appointed dog experts. I might have known Angeline wouldn’t say anything of the sort. She gives him a tickle under the chin, and he preens.
To me he’s beautiful. He’s the product of bad breeders, that’s indisputable, but why should he be loved any less for his accident of birth? His differences don’t hold him back, and he bounds along like he’s got springs for paws.
“If you like, you can pop into the surgery one day and get them registered. Then I can give them all a quick once over?” Angeline asks, almost bashfully, as though worried she’ll come across as pushy, touting for business.
“Definitely.” I smile back, extremely glad I have an alternative to seeing Leo. Not that I doubt he’s a good vet, but it would definitely be awkward. The knot in my stomach twists when I think about him. I look down at the dogs, all straining to get in amongst the donkeys. “I’m going to have to do something about the fence at the bottom of the hedge. I’m worried the dogs will get in with the donkeys. It might be donkey-proof, but it’s not tiny dog-proof.”
I bite my lip as I wonder just how much it might cost to chihuahua proof all the boundaries of the property. Maybe I can do something myself with chicken wire and tent pegs. As an idea, it’s rather overwhelming.
Angeline must see something in my expression, because she lays a hand on my arm and squeezes. “It will all be okay Poppy. Do not worry.”
I get the feeling the warmth in her hazelnut brown eyes is trying to reassure me about more than just the hedge. The sun catches the natural highlights in her brunette curls. If I had to guess I’d assume she’s not much older than me, but right now she feels like the only grown up out of the two of us.
“Peanut escaped earlier,” I blurt out, needing to tell someone what’s eating at me. “She was chasing Maxi.”
“Leo’s dog?” She raises an eyebrow.
“Yes. He knocked on my door first thing this morning, front and back. He scared me half to death.”
“Ah.” Angeline nods sagely without a flicker of incredulity creasing her features.
“I mean Maxi did, not Leo,” I clarify, needing external reassurance that I’m not going mad.
“I’m not surprised.” Angeline’s smile is sad now. The emotion doesn’t seem to suit her naturally smiley face.
“Does Maxi, er, do that often?” I ask, putting the wriggling dogs back on the ground, wondering if I’m doomed to be woken at six a.m. every morning and baffled by the brevity of Angeline’s responses.
“It is not my story to tell.” Angeline’s tone is gentle. “It is complicated.”
“I’m worried I was rude to Leo. I’d had a really bad night and had only just got to sleep when Maxi woke me up.” I’m anxious Angeline will think badly of me if Leo talks to her. After all, they are colleagues.
Pete’s betrayal must have really dented my confidence. I’m not usually so concerned that everyone likes me.
“I expect he was rude to you, too.” She shrugs. I love the French shrug. It says so much so eloquently. “Don’t worry, Poppy.”
“Okay,” I reply, not convincing either of us. “He seemed really angry when I accused his dog of being like a wolf.”
“Ah,” Angeline responds, a wealth of eloquence.
“Ah, what?” I stare, confused again.
“It is … not a good thing to accuse someone’s dog of having part wolf … genes. That is the right word, yes?”
“Yes, genes. But why not?”
“Because then the dog would have to be destroyed,” Angeline says quietly. “Do you understand now?”
“Oh God.” I sink my head into my hands. I know how I’d feel if anyone threatened my dogs’ safety in anyway. I really couldn’t have made a better impression.
I’ll have to apologise, explain I didn’t know anything about the law here. But if he thinks he’s getting his hands on my house, he really will have a fight on his hands. I’m meant to be here, and I’m staying.
“Don’t worry, Poppy, it will be okay.” Angeline hugs me, and some of the tension seeps out of my body.
Don’t worry. How many times have people said that to me over the years? If only it were that easy.
“If you like, I will explain that you did not know the law or mean it as a threat?” Angeline offers.
“That would be great, if you don’t mind.” I exhale with relief. “Thank you so much.”
“I’ll see you at the chateau later on?” She asks before she walks away. “I’m on call, but I’ll be there.”
“Oh. Yes. See you later then.” I cross my fingers there won’t be any vet emergencies this evening. Having Angeline there this evening might help.
“Leo will be there too, of course.” Angeline heads off to continue her survey of the field boundaries, but I swear I see a gleam in her eye as she turns.
Hmm.
I get my phone out to Google where I can buy chicken wire.
I want to be Angeline when I grow up.