‘I am Alexandra,’ she said in French, and then went back to English. ‘I’m very hungry. Can you tell me where the kitchen is, please?’
‘Non!’ said Félicité, still defiant.
‘Very well,’ said Alexandra, ‘I will find it for myself. Maybe Milou will help me?’
Milou obliged and together they went through the long passage to the back of the house; possibly Milou was hungry too.
The kitchen was large with a huge black range against one wall and a big, scrubbed table in the middle. Next to the range was a small armchair, with a lot of squashed cushions on it. In the corner was a grandfather clock, which ticked loudly. There was a sink, several large cupboards around the walls that almost reached the ceiling and, in front of the range, a rug on which Milou lay down.
Above the range was a long wooden rack, possibly designed for drying clothes but hanging from it instead was everything that might go in a kitchen apart from furniture. There were copper saucepans, frying pans of every size, ladles, strainers, sieves and what looked like medieval weapons of war, bunches of herbs, tea towels, and a teddy bear who had obviously been washed and hung out to dry.
To Alexandra’s relief, in one corner she saw a fairly modern gas stove next to a large bottle of gas. There was also a large armoire, its door ajar, revealing bowls and casseroles, dishes, plates – everything you might need to eat from or to serve food. But the room was freezing, even though it was only October.
But first things first, Alexandra told herself. It was a long time since she had eaten her picnic on the train.
‘I’m very hungry,’ she said in English and then repeated herself in slow, painstaking French.
Félicité shrugged but Stéphanie, who obviously hadn’t quite taken in the instructions about language said, ‘I’m hungry too!’ in perfect English.
‘Stéphie!’ said Henri, more in sorrow than in anger, ‘we’re only supposed to speak French!’
‘That’s all right,’ said Alexandra. ‘It’s fun to play a prank on someone but it isn’t funny if it goes on too long. What do you want to eat?’
She addressed Stéphie, who shook her head, obviously still embarrassed by her recent faux pas.
‘OK,’ said Alexandra, mostly to herself. ‘Is there a fridge?’
She’d stopped expecting help and so started opening cupboards and doors and eventually found a large larder a short way down a passage. In here she found a pat of butter on a plate, a selection of cheeses and one of the fowls Bruno had referred to. She would think about cooking that another time; now she wanted bread.
Carrying the butter and some cheese she thought was Comté, the nearest thing to Cheddar available in France, she went back to the kitchen. She was pleased to see the children were still there.
‘Where is the bread?’ she said in her loud, slow French. She was trusting that the eldest girl would play the game. Everyone knew the children spoke English, but Alexandra addressing her in French should mean she would have to reply.
Félicité indicated with her head where Alexandra should look. ‘In the pantry,’ she said in English. ‘But it’s probably stale.’
‘When did you all last eat?’ Alexandra was worried. It was six o’clock. Had they eaten at all that day?
‘We had croissants for breakfast,’ said Stéphie. ‘And apples for lunch.’
‘OK,’ said Alexandra. ‘Let’s find some food.’
The pantry was beyond the larder and in it she found a wooden bread bin, in which were a couple of hard baguettes and a pain de campagne.
Hoping she’d find a knife saw-like enough to cut it, she picked up the round brown loaf and took it back to the kitchen. If the housekeeper was going to be away for long, she’d make a few changes; things needed to be a lot handier.
There was a knife on a magnetic rack against the wall. Alexandra sawed through the loaf until she had four decent-sized slices. Then she proceeded to make cheese on toast.
The smell of toasted cheese, and the sight of it bubbling on the bread that Alexandra had put on a round bread board, brought Alexandra’s charges to the table like moths to a flame. When she saw how eagerly they tucked in she cut up the rest of the loaf and used all the cheese to put on top. She hoped them having full stomachs would make them unbend to her a little.
Sitting in a kitchen, albeit a cold French one, reminded Alexandra of her London life, when she and her friends would sit around the kitchen table, eating, laughing, chatting about life. They’d shared the large London house in recent months, making it a very happy place. Could she make this house happy? On her own with three unhappy children? It would be hard. Although Félicité was not really a child any more.
She got up from the table and went to inspect the range. She opened the fire door. ‘Does this work, usually?’
Henri nodded. ‘It needs lots of wood, but yes, usually it works. There’s a wood shed.’
Alexandra smiled at him. If she could get at least one of her charges on her side it would make everything so much easier. ‘Could you find me some wood and some kindling? You know, small sticks to get the fire going. And some newspaper.’
Henri picked up another piece of cheese on toast and set off. Alexandra decided this was not the moment to teach table manners; after all, she had asked him to get the wood. She hadn’t said ‘when you’ve finished eating’.
