Little Kiosk By The Sea (29 page)

‘Now for my apartment,’ Libby said as they climbed the final flight of stairs to the top floor and opened the apartment door with its private ‘interdit’ sign. ‘It’s going to feel funny living up here on my own,’ she said glancing at Chloe. ‘Do you realise I’ve never lived on my own before?’

‘Mum, stop worrying. It’s going to be fine,’ Chloe reassured her.

The couple of occasions in the past when Brigitte had invited them upstairs, Libby remembered the sitting room being small and full of large old-fashioned furniture. Now with her own modern furniture left higgledy-piggledy by the removal men, waiting for her to decide where to place it all, the room seemed bigger. Full of possibilities. There was even a little balcony with room for one of those snazzy wrought-iron round tables and a chair. A perfect place to unwind in the evening, overlooking the canal and the woods on the opposite side.

Her bedroom too was a good size – big enough for the king-sized bed and the various other pieces she’d brought with her. She smiled ruefully looking at the unmade bed with boxes of clothes dumped on it. Really she should have left it behind in the UK and bought a new, smaller one in France. But it was so comfortable and she’d gotten used to having the luxury of so much space.

‘Right, you ready to hit the shops?’ Chloe asked, looking at the list in Libby’s hand.

‘I was going to check out the gîte as well,’ Libby said. ‘See what’s needed in there but that can wait for another day. Let’s go.’

Three hours later, Libby called a halt to the shopping, feeling that her bank account had been hit hard enough for one day.

‘Think that’s it for today. Don’t think the car will hold another thing,’ she said. ‘Time to go home and get to work.’

Turning off the main road onto the narrow canal path with the car filled to the roof with boxes and bags, Libby slowed down to a crawl to avoid the potholes. The last thing she needed was to damage her car.

‘At least we’re not likely to meet anything, thank goodness. There’s so much stuff in the car I couldn’t possibly see to reverse,’ she said.

‘Umm, think you’ve spoken too soon,’ Chloe said, indicating a dirty blue estate car in the distance moving at a fair speed towards them.

‘Damn,’ Libby muttered. ‘Do you think they know I’ve just passed a lay-by? I’m going to keep going – I can’t see to reverse properly. I’m sure there’s another passing place further down– hopefully they won’t mind reversing.’

As she continued to edge slowly towards the other car, Libby was relieved to see it finally stop and then begin to go backwards quickly. The sun shining on the windscreen of the other car made it impossible to see who was driving other than it appeared to be a man.

Thirty seconds later, as she drew alongside to pass, Libby raised her hand in acknowledgement and Chloe wound the window down to say, ‘Thanks.’

‘If you’re going to live here, you need to learn to reverse,’ the man said, wagging a finger at them. ‘See you soon.’ With that he was gone, churning up the road dust in his wake and leaving Libby and Chloe looking at each other.

‘Bit rude,’ Libby said. ‘I’m quite capable of reversing normally.’

‘Wonder who he is?’ Chloe said. ‘He was quite dishy in a laid-back, scruffy French way. Wonder what he meant by see you soon?’

Libby shrugged as she pulled into the parking space outside the auberge. ‘No idea. Can you take this box inside please – it needs to go in the sitting room. I’ll bring the first of the duvets and then I’m going to put the kettle on. I need tea after all that shopping.’

They were sitting in the kitchen drinking tea and making plans to start on the unpacking and sorting things out when Brigitte arrived.

‘I thought I’d pop in to see how you were after the flood,’ Brigitte said. ‘And to offer to give you a hand on Saturday.’

‘Saturday?’ Libby asked, pouring a cup of tea and handing it to Brigitte.

‘The rally tea.’

Puzzled, Libby looked at her.

‘The local vintage car club. Bruno’s a member and we’ve always had the season’s opening rally start and finish from here. It is in the reservations book,’ Brigitte said.

‘I haven’t opened that book,’ Libby said. ‘In fact I’m not even sure where it is. I’d assumed the booking for three people at the end of the month you’d mentioned was the first date I had to worry about.’ She looked at Brigitte. ‘How many people come on this rally? What kind of food do they want?’ She shook her head. ‘I’m not sure …’

‘It’s just sandwiches, cakes and tea. If it’s cold, a bowl of soup is welcome,’ Brigitte said. ‘I think last year there were thirty people.’

‘Thirty! No, I can’t possibly. Who’s the organiser? I’ll ring tonight and cancel. I’m sure they can find somewhere else when I explain I’ve only just moved in.’

‘Mais,
Libby, it’s not a problem with me to help this year,’ Brigitte protested. She hesitated. ‘I have told Lucas earlier that it will be OK.’

‘Lucas?’

‘Lucas Berrien. He is the organiser. When he called to see me earlier I promised him there was no problem with you because I would help. He said he’d driven down here to see you but then he got an emergency call so he had to leave.’

‘Emergency? Who is he?’

‘He’s the local
vétérinaire,’
Brigitte replied.

‘What kind of car does he have?’ Chloe asked.

‘He has a vintage Delage that is the envy of all but for his work he drives …’

‘A muddy blue estate,’ Libby finished the sentence for her.

‘Oui
. You’ve met him?’

‘Only in passing,’ Libby said.

‘So that’s why he said see you soon,’ Chloe laughed. ‘Go on, Mum. You can do it. Think of catering for the rally as your first challenge in France.’

‘The rally will have to be stopped if you cancel the tea. It would be impossible to find somewhere else local at such short notice,’ Brigitte said. ‘Please, Libby. I promise you it is not difficult.’

Libby sighed. ‘I don’t suppose I have much choice really.’ She looked at Brigitte. ‘Okay. You’d better fill me in with all the detail – times, quantity of food, et cetera and we’ll work out a plan of action.’ Talk about being thrown in at the deep end, but at least she’d have Brigitte and Chloe to help.

Chapter Three

Brigitte

Standing in the sitting room of the old
mas
in the centre of the village, Brigitte determinedly rubbed her eyes in an effort to keep the tears she could feel threatening from running down her cheeks.

Bruno might be full of enthusiasm about moving back into the house where he was born but it was the auberge that had meant everything to her. Living in the
maison de maître
in the village would simply not be the same. Of course she realised things changed and nothing stayed the same for ever. She also knew the auberge had been getting, not too much for her as Bruno insisted, but more old fashioned and in need of updating. Something she’d hoped Bruno would help her do when he retired but instead, after his broken arm, he’d said he wanted more time for them to do things together and insisted on putting the auberge up for sale.

‘We haven’t had a proper
vacances
in twenty years,’ he’d said.

‘We’ve been to Paris and Venice, several times,’ Brigitte had protested. ‘And London, Barcelona. We even got to Amsterdam.’

‘They were just long weekends – and mainly out of season.’ Bruno had dismissed them almost as non-events. ‘I want a proper holiday, not something snatched between bookings.’ He glanced at her before adding, ‘I’m sure you’d like to spend time with Isabelle too down on the Riviera.’

She hadn’t been able to argue with that. She’d missed Isabelle when she’d married and gone to live down south, with infrequent visits back home because of a busy work schedule. So she’d half-heartedly agreed that they’d sell the auberge, secretly planning to delay it as long as possible. Libby ringing up and saying she wanted to buy the place was something she’d not anticipated.

She’d genuinely tried to point out to Libby how hard she’d find it on her own but Libby had been adamant. Saying she was doing it for Dan. And that it would do her good to have something to focus on. In the end Brigitte had given up and accepted the inevitable changes to her own life she seemed powerless to stop.

Crossing over to the window, Brigitte looked out over the village street. After just two days, she missed the view and the noise of the canal water whooshing over the weir. Listening to people going about their daily business and the traffic trundling through the village did not have the same appeal.

To give Bruno his due though, he had spent a lot of time down here sorting things out while she’d packed up their personal belongings and prepared the auberge for handing over to Libby. The
mas
had not been lived in since Bruno’s mother died two years ago and Brigitte had made him promise to clean it thoroughly before she moved in. But it still needed a lot done to it.

‘We can decorate and get it to our taste slowly,’ she’d told him. ‘But we need a proper bathroom and I want a new kitchen.’ For years she’d dreamt about having a kitchen designed just for her. Whatever Bruno said, it had to be the first thing – together with a new
salle de bains
– to be done in their new home. Her reward for leaving the auberge and her life there.

He’d been as good as his word and in the eight weeks it took for all the legal paperwork to go through, a new kitchen and a new bathroom had been installed. If only she felt like using the new kitchen, but somehow cooking was the last thing she felt like doing these days.

Brigitte moved across to the boxes in the centre of the room. Better get on with it and at least try to make the place look a bit more like home.

An hour later, she was putting the last of the books on the shelves when Bruno returned.

‘Everything good at the au … Libby’s?’ She knew that was where he’d been. Something about collecting some tools he’d left in the garden shed, showing Libby the secret places where the hens sometimes laid their eggs. He’d suggested Brigitte went with him, had a coffee with Libby, but she’d declined.

Initially she thought she’d spend a lot of time up at the auberge helping Libby settle in, but she’d realised it wasn’t a good idea for her to hang around up there too much. She knew Libby would always ask if she needed help or advice.

‘You’ve been busy up here,’ Bruno said looking at the empty boxes waiting to be thrown away, their contents now displayed around the room.

‘I need to hang the curtains next. Maybe then it will start to feel cosy.’

Bruno sighed hearing the downbeat tone to her voice, before putting his arm around her and drawing her close. ‘
Ma chérie
, this has to be for the best. The auberge is too much for you – us – now. Life changes and we have to accept that.’

‘It is not such a big wrench for you,’ Brigitte said quietly. ‘I know you’re looking forward to living in your boyhood home again. But aren’t you a teeny bit sad about leaving the auberge? Our home since the day we married?’ Her new home had been such a change from the old farm she’d grown up on down near Redon. She’d loved the challenge of turning the house first into a family home and then later into the Auberge du Canal. Slowly, over the years, feeding and looking after the auberge guests had become her raison d’être, especially when Isabelle had left home. And now it had been taken away from her.

Bruno nodded. ‘
Mais oui
. It’s hard for you to leave, I realise,
ma chérie
, but it was time we retired. Took things easier.’

‘I know, but we lived there for over forty years. All our memories are there. Already I miss it so much after just two days.’ Brigitte wiped a tear away with the back of her hand. ‘I can’t help but be sad about leaving. The only good thing is, that it is Libby who buys. I am very happy about that. It will be good having her living here in France.’

‘We bring the memories with us,’ Bruno said. ‘Then make more here together. Life will be better for us in the village, you’ll see. Less work – more fun. We’ll be able to travel a bit. See more of Isabelle. Enjoy the freedom – and the rest of our lives.’

At the mention of their daughter, Brigitte remembered Bruno’s earlier suggestion of spending time down on the Riviera. ‘Visit her in Antibes? I would enjoy that. Shall we go soon?’ She hugged Bruno back. Maybe there would be some compensation to leaving her beloved auberge after all.

‘Bon
. It is agreed; we go soon,’ Bruno said.

Brigitte glanced at her watch. ‘I’d better go and start lunch.’

‘I have an idea,
ma chérie,’
Bruno said. ‘Why don’t we have lunch in the village cafe? Less work and
peut-être
it will cheer you up.’

Two hours later and back from lunch, Brigitte thrust the fork into the weed-infested soil and leaned on the handle, catching her breath. Getting to grips with this overgrown jungle of a garden was proving harder than she’d anticipated.

Gardening at the auberge had consisted mainly of looking after geranium-filled pots, a couple of flower borders and the occasional pruning of the back hedge. Bruno had grown their vegetables in a plot securely fenced off from the ducks and the chickens while the rest of the grounds had been used for guest parking.

Here at the village
mas
she had both the land and the free time to indulge herself in what she was beginning to suspect could easily become an obsession.

There was a lot of work to be done. Bruno had cut the lawn before they moved in but nothing else had been touched for years. Looking around her now she could see primroses, daffodils and miniature cyclamen all at various stages of growth in the old flower beds. The rambling roses over the old arched pergola were already budding. Closing her eyes she imagined sitting out under its perfumed shade of a summer’s afternoon, enjoying the tranquillity.

The patch of ground she was currently clearing was the sunniest and warmest spot in the garden. A buddleia had spread its branches out along the back wall but there was plenty of space for more trees and shrubs when she’d decided what she wanted. She had to admit to quite fancying an olive tree.