Page 5 of The French Wife

She had to wait an hour for the grocery store, or épicerie, to open. She’d forgotten that French shopkeepers took very long lunch hours, so she bought coffee and a baguette in one of the less formal cafés in the main street to while away the time. While she was finishing her coffee, she phoned each of the builders Olivier had recommended. The two large firms he’d mentioned had receptionists. The first told her the firm was booked up for several months, and the second made an appointment for their representative to visit the farm the following week. Lastly, she dialled the one-man band Olivier had mentioned, Gaston Marchand. The phone rang several times, and she was about to hang up when a man answered. In the background she could hear hammering and sawing, and rock music playing on a radio.

‘Parlez-vous anglais?’ she asked.

The man told her he only spoke very little English, so Emma took a deep breath and told him in her rusty French that she’d recently bought an old farmhouse and asked if he would come and quote for some building work.

He told her he was very busy, but that he could pop round on his way home from work that evening at five o’clock to take a quick look. At least that’s what she thought he’d said. After she’d hung up, she wasn’t sure about either the time or the day. She was likely to be at home most of the time anyway, so it didn’t matter too much, she decided, not wanting to call him back and admit to not having completely understood what he’d said.

After stocking up on food at the épicerie, she loaded it into the back of the car and then, on a whim, she walked through the narrow, cobbled streets of the old town to the square in the middle where the mairie, or town hall, was. But checking the opening times displayed on a sign beside the door, she saw it didn’t open at all on Wednesdays. With a sigh she turned away. Her curiosity about the former occupants of Le Châtaignier would have to wait until next time she came into town.

Back at the house, she spent the afternoon unpacking yet more boxes. The time flew by and, before she knew it, she heard the sound of an engine in the courtyard and the slam of a car door. Going to the window, she saw a dusty, white pickup truck parked up next to her car and a man striding from it towards the front door. She barely got a glimpse of him before he knocked loudly, and the sound of the cast-iron door knocker echoed through the house.

She rushed to open the door, having to give it a sharp tug as it was warped and stuck on the flagstones. The man was tall, and when she looked up at him, she was a little surprised – he didn’t fit her idea of a typical builder, at least not a British one anyway. He was dressed in dirty, faded jeans and a blue-and-white checked shirt. His well-made face with sandy stubble was deeply tanned, and his unruly, dark-blond curls were tamed with a red bandana tied round his head. His eyes were the same deep blue as the afternoon sky.

He held out his hand. ‘Good afternoon,’ he said in heavily accented English. ‘I am Gaston Marchand. You called me earlier?’

She took his hand and shook it. ‘Hi, I’m Emma Hudson. Thank you for coming. Do come in.’ She felt inexplicably nervous as she pulled back the door to let Gaston into the porch, and led him across the flagstones and into the hallway.

‘Beautiful house,’ he said, in French this time, looking at the beamed ceiling and wide oak staircase appreciatively. ‘I’ve never been in here before. I understand it was empty for many years.’

‘Yes,’ she said. ‘Do you know anything about its history?’

He shrugged. ‘Not really. Just that it was abandoned for decades and eventually the government took it over.’

‘That’s right. That’s all I know too, but I’d like to find out more.’

He smiled, his blue eyes resting on her face for the first time. ‘So, you want some work done,’ he said after a moment. ‘What did you have in mind?’

‘I’ll show you round,’ she said. ‘Let’s look at the kitchen first.’

Gaston stood, looking about him for a moment, then gave a long, low whistle. ‘These cabinets must be very old,’ he said, running an expert hand over the oak surface. ‘They are beautifully made. Did you want to replace them?’

‘No, actually, I want to keep the original, farmhouse feel of this kitchen as far as possible,’ she said. ‘I think it would spoil the look of the place to put in new units. Do you think it might be possible to restore these, and possibly complement them with some new ones, built to match, on the other wall?’

‘Let me take a look.’ He opened a few of the cupboards, took out a tiny torch and peered inside at the joinery. Then he pulled out a drawer and looked inside that too. ‘Do you mind if I take this one right out?’ he asked. ‘Just to see how they are made?’

‘Of course, go ahead,’ she said, pleased he hadn’t poured scorn on her idea of restoring the original kitchen. She’d worked with many craftsmen over the years and she could tell, from the way this man went about looking at the cupboards, that he knew his business.

Carefully he pulled out the drawer and looked inside it. ‘There’s something in here,’ he said, handing her a few pieces of curled-up card, then he put the drawer down on the table and began examining the carpentry.

Emma took the cards from him, realising with a little thrill of surprise that they were old, faded photographs. There were four; all black and white, fading to sepia, and damaged by having been curled up in the back of the drawer.

The first was of a wedding. A couple stood in the doorway of a church, which Emma recognised as the church of St Marie in the village. She couldn’t be sure, but from their clothes it looked to be sometime in the 1930s. The man was tall and solid, dark and unsmiling, with a rather arrogant air about him, and the woman petite and pretty with dark hair. What was strange about them was that they stood a little apart, as if they weren’t familiar with one another. They both looked slightly nervous.

There was also a photo of the house, taken from the courtyard, looking much as it still did. The groom from the wedding photograph stood at the front door in hunting clothes; long boots and breeches and a hat with a feather. Two hunting dogs sat beside him. The third photograph was a portrait of the woman sitting at a desk in a window, and the fourth a picture of the man strolling amongst the vines, directing grape pickers. The woman looked a little older in this other photograph and, looking more closely, Emma could see through the window behind her the church and other familiar buildings in the town square. It must have been taken in the mairie, she realised. The woman looked beautiful and a little mysterious, her dark hair rolled and pinned in the style of the 1940s, but there was something sad behind her eyes. In the vineyard photograph, the man, by contrast, appeared to be in his element. He looked proud and rather imperious, pointing out something with his cane to the workers, who were watching him respectfully.

‘I think I could copy these cupboards without too much trouble,’ Gaston said, breaking into her thoughts. ‘Would you like oak, like the originals?’

‘Yes, if possible,’ Emma said, putting down the photographs.

‘What are they?’ he asked, looking at them.

‘I think they must be the people who lived here before,’ she replied. ‘I have no idea who they were, and Olivier Martin, the agent, doesn’t have any information. I was going to ask in the town hall, but it was closed today.’

‘May I?’ Gaston asked, gesturing to the photographs.

‘Of course.’

He picked them up and peered at them closely, then put them down again. ‘I don’t know these people. They must have left before I was born. I could ask my parents, but they might not know either. They were both born after the war.’