A Winter’s Tale

Suzie and Mark weren’t the first middle-aged couple to escape a gruelling lifestyle in London and seek tranquillity in rural France. They’d always dreamt of transforming a derelict property into a perfect home and achieved their ambitious goal in six years. Now, with time to relax in a little piece of heaven, their deepest concerns resurfaced to hold them hostage.

* * *

Suzie’s spine stiffened the moment we heard the purposeful, Rat-a-Tat-Tat! on the kitchen door. 

   “It’s the Woodentops,” she said, through clenched teeth. “Why won’t they leave us alone?”

   “Hello!” said a woman’s voice. “Anybody home?”

   Yap! Yap! Yap-yap-yap!

Mark clutched his wife’s forearm at the sound of the neighbours’ excitable hound, and turning to us, raised a finger to his lips.

   “Try again, love,” said a man’s voice. 

I furrowed my brow and Cathy stifled a giggle as the unseen assailants disturbed our breakfast with another fierce barrage.

   Rat-a-Tat-Tat! Tat! Tat!

   “Surely they’re up by now?”

   Yap-yap-yap! Yap-yap-yap!

Suzie closed her eyes and counted to ten while we stared at the open hearth’s crackling flames, like the figures in a Victorian oil painting. We remained in silence as the smell of fresh roasted coffee infused the room with its nutty aroma and the neighbours discussed their tactics. At last, Suzie’s murmured incantation took effect and Mark released a long sigh as we heard the crunch of retreating footsteps.

   “It’s every morning.” Suzie shook her head. “They’re like clockwork.” 

   “They moved into that old wreck down the road six months ago---”

   “And they’re round here all the time, requesting advice.”

   “I wouldn’t mind, but we managed without any help.”

   “It was so peaceful before they moved here.”

* * *

Suzie and Mark had invited us to France for the festive period on numerous occasions after departing London. It sounded like fun, but we’d declined their offer because child care for our two youngsters had been difficult. However, now they were house-trained we seized the opportunity for respite and a long weekend abroad between Christmas Day and New Year’s Eve. It’s always a slow few days at that time and I booked last-minute air-tickets to Tours Airport without any difficulty. Cathy cajoled my mother-in-law to babysit for us. She didn’t have to twist her arm too much. She saw it as a fabulous excuse to spoil her grandchildren. Our two kids love their granny to bits and adore the chaos and mischief she brings to our home. 

* * *

Winter in the Loire Valley has its charms, but it can be grim too. It was lucky we’d dressed for the occasion because torrential rain greeted us that Friday evening at Tours tiny airport. An icy breeze swept across the runway as we descended the steps and buffeted us as we scampered across the tarmac. It was a blessed relief to reach the terminal and pass through customs without any problems. However, our hearts sank when our two bags failed to materialise on the carousel. Monsieur Bertillon, the duty manager, was terribly apologetic, but there was nothing he could do but file a report. He trusted our loss wouldn’t spoil our visit, assured us the weather would improve over the weekend and hoped we’d relax and enjoy ourselves. What else could he do? 

We presumed we’d lost our luggage for good.

* * *

The last time we visited Suzie and Mark was five years ago; a year after they’d purchased their property in the Loire Valley. It was Mark’s fiftieth birthday and Suzie had organised a surprise fancy dress party for one hundred guests. It was a balmy night in late July when we all assembled at a local chateau, wearing rock ‘n’ roll themed costumes. Suzie had persuaded Mark to wear a blindfold for his birthday surprise. When their taxi arrived, she escorted him to the banquet hall, where we all waited in silence. She whipped off the eye-cover to resounding cheers. Mark’s jaw hit the ground with a clunk. All his friends and relatives greeted him in Elvis-style rhinestone suits, Gene Vincent bike leathers and slicked-back rockabilly quiffs. Mark maintained a look of utter bewilderment for the entire evening. He still couldn’t believe his eyes when the party wound down at four o’clock in the morning. 

* * *

We all stayed at the chateau, partly because of the numbers involved and also because the couple’s new dwelling only had one usable bedroom. Mark invited everybody for drinks and snacks the next day and Suzie gave us a tour of their new home. I don’t know who was more surprised at that point, Mark or his friends. The house was a shambles. They’d lived there for a year and it still looked like a bomb site. I recall expressing my doubts to Cathy. I couldn’t imagine how they’d restore it to a liveable condition. However, Suzie had big plans and Mark was certain they do it. 

* * *

Suzie had a fine eye for detail and furnished their home in keeping with the original eighteenth-century Rococo style, restoring the derelict shell to a grandeur not seen in over two centuries. She’d scoured the local reclaim centres for architectural additions and amassed a collection of decorative fixtures and as well as idiosyncratic fittings. The dusty old premises had taken on a stately ambiance and now boasted six fully-furnished double rooms. Mark had successfully completed half of the renovation work himself and hired specialists for major plastering and electrical tasks. They’d mentioned endless details during the renovation, however the end result was much more impressive than we’d envisioned.

There was no doubt, they’d worked hard to convert their bold purchase from an undesirable dump into an attractive home. The transformation was most impressive and our friends’ sense of achievement imbued them with an air of confidence that was lacking when they were tearing their hair out back in the metropolis. However, there was tense atmosphere which we couldn’t fathom.

Maybe, it was the foul weather during the festive period or the arrival of tiresome neighbours, but something more profound had changed.

Cathy dared suggest there was something missing. She whispered it in bed the first night of our visit. It needs the pad of little feet, she said, gauging my reaction. The gentle tinkle of children’s voices, perhaps? Exactly, she said.

Their home was desolate, despite the abundance of swirling flowers, sinuous vines and decorative ornaments. It needed life and a little laughter to raise the mood and lighten the air.

* * *

It’s mainly pensioners who inhabit the immediate area. Elderly residents who’ve seen their young people leave to find work in Paris and the larger towns. None of them ever return and the population is aging and its numbers are in decline. This became obvious when we visited the local street market on Saturday afternoon. It’s funny that one person’s idea of hell can be another’s notion of paradise.

We passed miles of fallow fields and withered vineyards on our way to the local town and after we parked up, the demographic was obvious to our eyes.

There was a subdued atmosphere that permeated the streets as the locals trudged past us, clutching their bags-for-life and the stall-holders rubbed their hands together to keep warm. The wonderful displays of farm produce didn’t have the same appeal in the rain, although we bought plenty of fresh ingredients for the evening meal. 

Cathy and Suzie suggested we go and grab some ‘moules et frites’ while they hunted down the town’s finest range of patisserie. Mark was always eager to talk about wine and we whiled away a couple of hours at a bar with a bottle of easy to drink plonk. I’ve never had the spare time to familiarise myself with the grape varieties and I’m inexperienced compared to my host. When pushed, I said, There’s prominent fruit flavours; probably a Merlot? Not bad, he said, examining the bouquet before sharing his knowledge. Black cherry layered with herbal notes and undertones of vanilla, apparently. 

* * *

Mark never admitted he was bored, but some people aren’t meant to retire early. If I had a dollar for every time I heard either of our friends say, “I can’t believe it,” then, I’d be a millionaire. They both had niggles and grumbles about many aspects of their new life. The English neighbours were top of the list, followed by the local council and the faltering electricity supply was contentious too; the immediate region suffered from intermittent black-outs that could last all night. 

* * *

“It’s a relief to get childcare this weekend. Charlie’s a handful, but ever so sweet and Sandy’s out of nappies now. Granny spoils them to death, of course and they’ll be a devil to get them to bed when we return. She feeds them fizzy drinks all night, you know? They’ve grown so much since you both saw them…”

Suzie bit her lip and Mark lowered his eyes and exhaled like a tyre with a slow puncture. I appreciate there’s nothing worse than parents talking about their wonderful children.

   “We keep chickens and Kasper’s still with us, of course…”

   I nudged Cathy and she changed the subject. 

   “How do the chickens react to Kasper?”

   “He keeps his distance and lounges inside, most days,” said Mark. “A warm bowl of milk and he’s content, you know?”

   “We’re a happy little family,” Suzie said, stiffening. “Three is quite enough.”

   “Fresh eggs every morning must be nice?”

   “Yes,” said Mark, stroking Suzie’s knee as he looked up. “No day would be complete without fresh eggs.”

* * *

Looking around their home is like peeping into another world. There are photographs from their years together, memories from their high-life around London and professional certificates verifying assorted achievements. Suzie’s displayed all their souvenirs from holidays abroad; metalwork from Morocco, glassware from Murano, oddments from East Asia and knick-knacks from further afield.

* * *

Mark celebrated his fiftieth birthday five years ago, soon after they moved out of London and eschewed all offers of permanent employment. Their plan was to retire on the equity and live a simple life in the Loire Valley; renovate a house and grow their own produce. The French adventure was a huge distraction and now it’s over, they’re back to the same issues they left behind. Thinking back to their departure, I recall they fell out with the neighbours in London and there were other unresolved issues. During the six years in France their troubles disappeared from view, but now they’ve caught up with them. The problems they’d ignored have reemerged like lost luggage or Christmas cards buried in the post that appear one day, without explanation or apology. 

THE END