I wanted to enjoy life. To love what I was doing. Life, I’d come to realise, was precious, and short. It wasn’t that my life was awful. It wasn’t. But I wanted more. I wanted to feel alive. Things had changed in me.Ihad changed. I had my appetite back, and not just for food and wine or cakes. I had a dream. Why not go for it? A silly little dream, some might say, but it wasmydream. And now, just like that, it’s been taken from me.
‘And there, after the rain, comes sunshine,’ she says, and points. It’s the kingfishers. They’ve come out from their hiding places and we watch the flashes of blue darting to and from the lake.
‘You know,’ she says, sipping her wine, ‘it’s said seeing a kingfisher brings luck and positivity, like Nature’s way of saying, “Good things are coming!” A sign of peace and prosperity. Seeing a kingfisher means it is time to leap into something new, especially if fear has been holding you back. Or so I read,’ she says, looking straight ahead, holding her glass of wine.
I sip mine. ‘You may be right. I needed to stand in the rain for a while. I think I know what I have to do.’
‘Then that is a good thing,’ she says with a smile.
‘Life had become very routine,’ I find myself saying. She says nothing but I know she’s listening. ‘A series of routines. Contented ones. Only I wasn’t content. But my husband was. And that’s fine. Then, with the treatment,’ and I run my hand over my wavy hair, ‘there were more routines. Doctors, hospitals, nurses, down days. Once I was in remission, he wanted life to go back to how it was before. But I needed something different, something new. I needed to take a risk, go on an adventure. I had to do this for me. After all the treatment, I am in control of my day …’
She nods in understanding and tops up our glasses.
‘Getting the all-clear has lit a fire in me. To do the thing I’ve always dreamt of, and if I fail … I fail. It’s better than the alternative.’
‘It really is,’ she says, and I know she understands, because she has been there too.
I finish the wine and stand up from the camping chair. ‘I have no idea if I can, or if it’ll work, but …’ Suddenly the fire in my stomach is fanned by my humiliation and frustration.
She sees another tug on her line and I pick up the net. She pulls in another fish, I catch it, and we put it into the bucket.
‘You have to be patient sometimes to get what you want. Change your bait. Take them by surprise. Just wait, bide your time. Stand in the rain.’ She smiles at me.
Something inside me rises up and rages. I’m angry with the illness, angry for what a young woman like Annie is going through. And I’m determined not to let it ruin everything. Feeling the heat now, I pull the scarf from around my neck. I’ve promised Annie she’s coming out here and I’m going to make that happen.
Chapter 13
The following morning I don’t wait to ask the receptionist if the mayor is free to see me: his office door is open behind her desk. I walk straight past her as she squeaks, ‘Non, Madame, non, not possible today! This is not how things are done here.Non!’ She jumps up to follow me. ‘Ce n’est pas possible! Vous ne comprenezpas!’
‘Oui!’ I say, over my shoulder, and carry on walking. Old habits die hard here.Oui … C’estpossible!I’m ready to take on anybody who stands in my way today. I’m fired up as I march into the mayor’s office, take a deep breath, put my hands on his desk, lean over and announce, ‘Okay, I’ll do it!’
He looks up at me, then says slowly, in French, as if to remind me of where we are, ‘Bonjour, Madame.’
‘What? Oh, yes,bonjour, sorry,désolée.’ I look down at his proffered hand and shake it.
‘Take a seat,’ he says, again in French, and then, having made his point, switches to English. ‘How are you? How is your work coming on atle moulin?’
I sigh. Clearly we are doing things his way. The slow way. ‘Fine, thank you.’
There’s a pause. And I realise I’m expected to respond. ‘Et comment allezvous?’
‘Très bien, merci.’
Now that the courtesies are out of the way, I continue: ‘So, although work is coming on fine at the mill, my visa was declined. Surprisingly quickly.’
‘Ah, that is a shame.’ He shrugs.
‘Clearly someone didn’t want me to stay to set up my new business there.’
‘As I say, a shame. That place has a lot of history and is important to the community.’
His hands are on the desk, his fingers intertwined, and I’m sure he’s leaning on my file of paperwork.
And then I remember sitting beside the lake with Geneviève, after the rain, and pulling in the huge fish. How we laughed, the triumph and the delicious taste of the meal, simple, with butter, lemon, the bread, oh, the bread. The crisp exterior, breaking it to reveal the soft white inside. And the tomato salad, the slices of pink sweet onion, all drizzled with olive oil, reminding me why I’m here.
‘I can do this. I know I can. I can make a difference here, at the mill. But I can’t set up my own business unless I have my visa.’
The mayor says nothing.
