Four hours later, Evie was feeling relaxed and happy. She had eaten a plate of rich stew, some melt-in-the-mouth apple pie and had drunk four more halves of stout and two cognacs. She struck up a conversation with the two little men, although none of them really understood each other, but the men pointed at the array of bottles and Evie said, ‘Non … Non … Non …’ until they reached the huge decanter of cognac. She then said, ‘Oui, s’il vous plaît,’ and the men each bought her a brandy. Her knees had stopped aching. She noticed the tall man, the septuagenarian with the dark eyes and little ponytail, glowering at her from behind his glass. Evie wondered what he was staring at, stuck out her tongue at him and looked away. His gaze was unflinching: when she looked back, he was still watching her. She offered to buy the two men a drink, pointing at the optics, and they laughed and asked Ray for a beer each. Evie glanced again at the disgruntled man, on his own at the bar, emptying the dregs in one gulp.
‘Can I buy you a drink, Mr Grumpy?’ she offered, and laughed. She saw a look of disapproval on Ray’s face. The bad-tempered drinker shook his head and said something in French to Ray, who refilled his glass.
Ray came over to her. ‘Jean-Luc prefers his own company. Don’t pay any attention to him, let him be.’
Evie shrugged and started to ask Ray about his family and if he missed Manchester. She was holding forth about Dublin and how lovely it was this time of year. ‘It is grand when the flowers are all out and the birds singing. And the people are so friendly, Ray.’
Ray was agreeing with her when an echoing bang came from the bar to her left. Mr Grumpy had slammed down his glass. Ray asked him if he wanted another and brought over the bottle for him. The tall man with the little ponytail was in a bad mood, and he swallowed his refill in one gulp. Evie noticed the two drinkers moved away from him a little and then the couple at the table picked up their bags and left.
Evie wrinkled her nose and looked at him again through the corners of her eyes. ‘He’s a bad-tempered one, isn’t he?’
Ray gave her his warning look once more but Evie didn’t care. She was bathed in the glow of beer and cognac, good food and a friendly Irish bar. ‘I mean, you come out for a drink to relax and to have fun, don’t you, and not to bring a miserable face to show to everyone.’
The irritable man emptied the bottle into his glass and put it down firmly. He delved into his pockets and found several euro notes, unfolding them and laying them flat on the polished wooden surface. He turned his gaze on Evie and the dark eyes were flecked with fury. He spoke in English, perfectly clear, his French accent tinged with American, his voice gravelly and heavy with contempt.
‘Some of us come here to be alone with our bad temper, Madame. If I have offended you, quite honestly, I could not care less.’ He turned his head away and spoke to no-one in particular. ‘I will say good night.’ He said something in French again to Ray, turned and walked out of the bar without a glance back. It was silent for a moment, and then the two little men ordered more drinks for themselves and one for Evie.
Evie refused; she’d drunk enough, merci, and she turned to Ray and apologised for offending his customer. ‘I hope I haven’t spoilt your night, Ray. I’ve had such a lovely time.’
One of the two little men drinking, the one with the beret, turned to Evie and said something, called her ‘Madame’, and waved his hands earnestly.
‘Maurice is right,’ Ray told her. ‘We are delighted to share your company. Don’t pay any attention to Jean-Luc; he is miserable most of the time. He spends what he has in here on drink and he seems happy enough as long as no-one speaks to him. He has his own troubles, but he never shares them.’
Evie tried to forget about the man Jean-Luc and his bad temper, but the image of him stooped over the bar, his shoulders tight, a glass in his fist, stayed with her. She thought about his dark brooding eyes. He could have been a character in Wuthering Heights.
‘I’ll have that drink after all,’ she said. ‘Oh and Ray, I’d like to stay around here for a day or two before I go on to Carcassonne. Can you recommend somewhere?’
Ray chortled. ‘I can do you a good bed and breakfast here; full Irish, with soda bread thrown in and the best coffee in town. Evening meal too, if you want it, love.’
‘It’s a deal,’ Evie told him, her eyes shining. ‘And I would like one of the best coffees in town now, with my cognac, if I may, please, barman.’
‘Coming up.’ Ray busied himself with the coffee machine, and a cup and saucer. ‘Are you parked nearby? I’ll give you a hand in with your things and then you can meet my wife, Paulette.’
The next day, Evie found herself in the market at the nearby town, Saint-Girons. It was a forty-minute drive; she took another half an hour to find somewhere to park and it was a ten-minute walk downhill to the market. Ray told her over breakfast that Carcassonne was under an hour away, so she decided to stay where she was for a few days, until the lump on her head was flat again and her knees and muscles less painful.
Saint-Girons was lovely, a town full of hippies and interesting-looking people, and the market was colourful and lively. Music throbbed on the air – African drumming and a man in a long kaftan who had a type of harp that he played with the neck sticking out in front of him, and a little band of three French men in berets who had an accordion and a guitar and put their hearts into singing traditional songs.
Rich smells of cooking followed Evie around: scented couscous, roasting chicken, spicy bhajis, and tangy cheeses. People smiled and chatted to her, many in English. There were stalls of clothes hanging, brightly coloured as flags. An English lady, tall and slender, probably in her fifties with wavy auburn hair and a long fringe, was selling pots of jam and chutney and Evie bought some yellow bean chutney and stopped for a chat with her about her life in France. She was called Caroline. She wore a long print dress and leather sandals. She lived with her partner, Nigel, out of town, halfway up a hill. They’d done up a guest house and the jams were just a sideline. Caroline told her it was a great place to live; summers were glorious and winters often snow-bound, which made the area exciting and cosy. Caroline gave Evie her business card with her mobile number on it, and invited her for coffee whenever she liked. Evie promised to give her a call. She drew some money out of an ATM and bought some crazy jewellery: two leather-and-bead bracelets, a brooch shaped like an owl, a chakra necklace, and two toe-rings. Evie felt her mood soar as she moved past stalls of home-made honey and leather belts, piles of fresh strawberries, sandals and shoes and hats. She bought herself some blue leather sandals to show off the toe-rings, as well as an African print dress and a bright scarf, and some curried okra and organic rice to eat for lunch.
There was a stall selling bright rolls of plastic fabric. Evie ran her fingers over the soft squishiness and stood back. There was a pattern of a Paris café, an Eiffel tower and an elegant woman with a little dog on a lead. There were brightly coloured balloons, a sunshine-yellow fabric with blue cornflowers. She smoothed her fingers over a design with repeated lemons in green leafy squares; another fabric displayed bunches of grapes but the most attractive was a repeated pattern of colourful macaroon cakes like the ones in the shop in Brittany. Evie asked the woman at the stall about the fabric and she worked out that these were tablecloths which were sold by the metre. The designs were cheerful and she thought she would buy some to take home. She stopped for a moment. Home was not Sheldon Lodge, not any more. It could be somewhere else. Dublin? Her home could be wherever she liked. The thought felt good, and she breathed in the atmosphere of the bustling market and smiled.
She arrived at a stall that sold wine: bottles of white caught the sunlight and shook out a golden shard of brightness; deep burgundy reds in dark glass; unusual spirits in ornate bottles; all bearing the label ‘Cave Bonheur’ and the logo of a smiling farmer holding up a clutch of purple grapes. Evie spoke to a young man, about eighteen or twenty years old she guessed, his face fixed in a wide grin. He had an exclamation mark of wheat-coloured hair and his thin arms and legs were sticking out from a T-shirt and baggy shorts. Evie greeted him in plodding French, asking if he spoke English.
He nodded, looked nervously over her shoulder and rubbed a flat hand across his brow. ‘A little, Madame. I can try. How can I help you?’
‘I want a nice bottle of red wine, something really special. It’s a present for the lady where I am staying. Paulette. To drink with dinner. What can you recommend?’
The yellow-haired boy looked around him, choosing. He spoke to himself in French, presumably saying the names of the wines aloud. Then he offered a bottle to her. ‘You like the nice Bordeaux?’
Evie pointed to another bottle. It was litre-sized, and had a plain label. ‘What is this one?’
He looked anxious, put the Bordeaux back and offered her the larger bottle. His brow was soft with sweat. ‘Languedoc-Roussillon. Product of the pays.’
Evie frowned. ‘Product of the peace?’
The boy shook his head. ‘Pays, Madame. Pays. Pays.’
Evie didn’t understand. ‘Pee? Did you say it was pee?’ She started to laugh.
The boy’s face was serious; his brow was knotted with worry and he began to wave a hand in front of his face and rubbed the back of his neck with his fingers. ‘Produced in the pays. In the région. Here, in our vines, at Cave Bonheur.’
She gave him her best smile. ‘Oh. Is it good wine, then, this one?’
He nodded, his chin bobbing up and down. ‘Very special. Six euros, Madame. If you buy ten bottles, I can sell you four euros fifty each bottle.’
Evie delved into her bag. ‘I’ll have two bottles of the Long Dog, please. If I like it I can come back and buy more. It’s difficult to carry lots of bottles away by myself and it’s uphill all the way back to the bloody van.’
The boy grinned and he seemed to relax. His smile pushed out his cheeks. ‘No problem, Madame. Here is the card of our business. You can visit and we do the free dégustation.’
Evie pulled an alarmed face. She was not sure what he meant – it sounded like free disgusting, which couldn’t be right, could it? – but it didn’t sound good. She wondered if it was drinking the last of the wine dregs and paying nothing for the privilege.
The boy rubbed his neck with his fist and tried again. ‘You taste the wine before you buy. Free to taste, so if you like, you can buy.’
‘Free wine?’ Evie chortled at the thought. ‘Sounds grand. Is your place far from here?’
‘Two kilometres outside Saint-Girons on the road to Foix. The direction and telephone are on the card. You can come and visit.’
‘I would love to.’ Evie paid for her wine, shoving the large bottles into her handbag so only the necks stuck out. ‘Nice to meet you.’
The boy shouted after her as she walked away, waving his arms and leaping in the air. He was clearly excited. ‘My name is Benji. Remember me. I have the wine ready when you come.’
Evie hauled her handbag onto her shoulder, gripped her other purchases in her hand and headed for the winding street which would take her back to the campervan. She’d enjoyed Saint-Girons market and was looking forward to a nap and then another evening in O’Driscoll’s.