It was silent in the house except for the sound of the men eating; some scraped the remains of the stew from the sides of the casserole, filled their plates again, wiped their bread in the gravy and drank water. They pushed their empty dishes away, one by one, and sat back in their seats.
‘Merci, Evie. Un bon repas!’
Evie smiled and began to collect plates into tall piles as the men stood up and put on their dusty jackets. Benji was about to lead the way, then he stopped and rushed over to Evie, hugging her, before turning to go. She called after him: ‘Benji, I have a cake for your mother. Don’t forget to take it with you.’ She thought again. ‘N’oublie pas. J’ai un gâteau pour ta mère.’ He hurried outside; one or two of the older men followed him, on their way back to work.
‘Gaston. Un moment, s’il te plaît,’ Evie called and the short man with the little moustache in the black cap turned back to her. She thought for a moment, and selected her words. ‘Inès arrive plus tard, avec les poules?’
Gaston grinned. His wife kept lots of chickens which laid lots of eggs, and she had promised to show Evie how to start with her own coop.
‘Elle arrivera envers seize heures.’
Evie counted on her fingers. Sixteen hours on the twenty-four-hour clock. She’d be here at four.
Gaston opened the door wide, zipping his jacket against the breeze and his eyes twinkled. He turned back. ‘La langue s’améliore, Evie,’ and he disappeared, back to work.
She was puzzled. ‘What does he mean, the tongue is getting better? What’s wrong with his tongue?’ She went over to the mirror and stuck out a little pink tongue. ‘Perhaps he means mine?’ She realised he was telling her that her language skills were improving. She closed her eyes. Things still took a while to sink in.
She began to clear the table, wash dishes, and wipe down surfaces. She hummed a little tune, remembering the song she sang with Jean-Luc in the barn when she was helping him. She paused over the words: ‘Ne me quitte pas’ and her lips curved in a smile. The words meant ‘Don’t leave me’. Of course. It wasn’t a quick job and, when everything was put away, she sat in her armchair with a cup of tea and picked up one of the books Brendan had sent her: The Idiot by Dostoyevsky. She flicked through the pages.
It was her favourite place, sitting in the armchair by the fire. She glanced at the photo in the silver frame over the fireplace. Her new friend Marie-Thérèse – Marie-Thé – from yoga had helped her select the image from her phone and they had taken it to the best place in Foix to have it framed. She saw her face smiling back at her, happy behind the glass. Jean-Luc’s arm was around her, the mountains crowding behind them, the sky was the deepest blue. Evie thought about her expression, the innocence and unwavering belief in their future and, as she looked again at Jean-Luc, she thought she could see in his eyes some kind of resignation, a certainty that now was all he had. She was looking too hard.
She put another log on the fire from the stack that rose on either side of the hearth. Her friends had been sympathetic. She rubbed her forehead hard, wondering how she would have managed without them. Caroline and Nige had introduced her to their contact who felled trees and now she had wood enough for the coldest winter. It made a wall on one side of the barn outside, next to the tractor. Caroline and her partner were kind to Evie; Ray and Paulette texted her each day and invited her over to O’Driscoll’s at least once a week. There were so many people she had begun to love.
She closed the book and thought of Brendan and Maura. It was only a fortnight since Maura had returned to Dublin, and though she had been idle all the time she had been with Evie, either asleep or with her feet up, Evie had grown to like her. She felt sorry as she’d driven them both to Toulouse Airport; Maura was quiet and fretful, huddled down with her cases in the sports car.
She thought of the phone conversations she’d had with Brendan over the last ten days. She recalled the new enthusiasm in his voice, and how what he had said to her made the tears stream down her face. New beginnings. She glanced around the house, at the tired paintwork, the heavy furniture. An idea came to her. She put the book on the floor and went upstairs. Her tread was light. She passed the main bedroom, her room, and she went back to look in again, her mind full of ideas. The curtains were closed, so she opened them, cracking the top window ajar and a little breeze came in and lifted the seams. There was dust on the dressing table and she smoothed it off with her fingers. There was more dust, lying light as a whisper on his photos, and she picked them up one by one, and examined the faces that had once posed for a camera. There was a new photograph, another of herself and Jean-Luc in the mountains, and she lifted it and touched his face with her fingers. She gave a little laugh: she was becoming as sentimental as him. She wondered if the old bed ought to go. Maybe a four-poster, with purple velvet drapes, or a strong wooden bed with drawers.
‘Hmmm.’
On the landing she paused at the room Brendan and Maura had stayed in. That would need repainting, maybe a deep crimson, they might like that. A bit of colour might help them rekindle the passion in their lives. As if they needed much help; Brendan sounded so much happier on the phone since he had given his notice. And he and Maura had a new energy about them, when they’d spoken to her about their plans to move. Evie decided they’d need a new wardrobe. One each. And the spare room would take a lick of paint, ready for any other guests. She arrived at the smallest room, at the end. It was full of boxes of junk: most of it would have to go. The window frame was a dull white and the wood was dry and the edges were jagged. The old checked curtains were dirty at the seams and so thin they quivered in the gusts of wind. The view from the window was framed like a picture, a square of vines in long rows, hills, and in the distance there was the thick mist and then the shadowy bulk of the mountains.
There was a damp patch on the ceiling and the single bulb hanging from a dirty cable; the wallpaper was a dull orange colour with a wavy cream design that might have been fashionable in the 1970s, and it would all need stripping off. A pastel blue or a sumptuous pink paint might be in order or perhaps some sunshine yellow, or wallpaper with rabbits or hedgehogs or adorable bears. She closed her eyes and transformed the room in her imagination. She saw toys and fluffy clothes and a little bed and she imagined voices and laughter. It would be so lovely to have them here, the three of them. Not just for the help with the business, but for the company. For the craic. After all, they were family. More than family – they would all be close. She wondered if they would know the sex of the baby before it was born. It didn’t matter: a baby’s room could be done out in rainbow colours. She thought, wistfully, that Jean-Luc would now never teach this child to play the guitar, but perhaps one day the child would discover it and the house would once again be filled with its beautiful sound. Jean-Luc would have loved that. And she could watch the baby grow and run about in the vineyard, climb on the tractor, call her Grand-mère or just Evie. There were endless possibilities and they were all in her thoughts, in motion, taking shape.
She was downstairs again, washing her cup, looking at the clock. It was gone three and Inès would be here shortly. She pulled on an old cardigan, one of Jean-Luc’s, tugged on knitted gloves, and went outside, closing the door tightly to keep the house warm.
The sky was smeared, blotchy and grey, like wet paint; little clouds shifted quickly overhead and the breeze held a chill. She saw the sign for Cave Bonheur and she felt at ease: it was the welcome she had wanted for the place and he would have been pleased. She walked towards the fields where the grapes were being harvested. How difficult it was after she found him lying on the ground, until quite recently, to even say his name. Now it was easier to say it aloud, easier to remember him when talking to others, even though sometimes a pang of regret clutched at her and caught her unawares. This house would always be his place, his home, his business, but now it was hers too and she would be certain to make it work.
The men were busy in the wine-making barn. She’d seen most of them many times before helping Benji, but there were new faces too; so many people willing to help. She could hear their voices as she passed. She would not go in – she wanted this time to herself and, besides, they were so involved in what they were doing, she doubted that they would notice her presence. She walked a little further and arrived at the vines, now stripped, cut down and bleak. They were just sticks, thin withered fingers, twisted stumps. A few dark, gnarled grapes were dried and suspended in clusters here and there, hanging down from shrivelled stalks. The wooden supporting posts remained sturdy, solid and vertical while the vines wasted around them. Snaggles of weeds were pushing through, but the ground was mostly brown soil and little sharp stones. Evie took off a glove and grasped the stem of a vine. It was woody and knotted like rope, surprisingly strong and deeply rooted. Next year the grapes would come again. There would be another abundance of wine.
Vine after vine, in straight rows, sparse little bushes stretched out and upwards to the rising hills. A blast of ice in the wind gripped her bones through the woolly cardigan, and she hugged herself and gazed into the distance. A gust blew her hair back, exposing her forehead, and her eyes watered a little. She breathed in the clean air; perhaps it came down from the mountains; perhaps it would soon bring snow. Winter would be a cold time, but there would be family and friends and the fireside. Then eventually spring would come, and a new baby would arrive; the grapes would begin as buds. That might be the time, this might be the place, to scatter his ashes and to say goodbye. She could not let him go yet, but there would be a new year, and life would begin again.
Evie turned and the wind was at her back as she walked towards the house. A car slowed down and stopped by the new sign and she waved to the woman who was closing the driver’s door, watching her opening the boot and pulling out a cage with two chickens in it. The woman called out and Evie called back and smiled. She walked towards her new friend, quickening her pace. There was a lot to do, much to organise and plenty of everything to go round. She began to hum a familiar tune to herself and a smile flickered across her lips. Ne me quitte pas. Don’t leave me. She’d always have memories; he’d never leave her. She hugged Jean-Luc’s big old cardigan close to her, snuggling inside the safe warmth of the wool. The air was bitterly cold and it would not be long before the sky became dark.
As she walked, she counted the months in her head, until Christmas, until the baby was born, looking for the number four. But there were no lucky numbers, only life as it is now, the present, and chances and changes. She would make a new present for herself in her home: a good life for herself and for the others she loved and she would focus on everybody’s happiness. She did not need luck now: she had found her own way to be blessed. The present truly was a present, a gift. It was all about finding happiness within herself. No, not happiness. She would call it ‘Bonheur’ from now on.