And Then Came Paulette

by Barbara Constantine, Justin Phipps

Genres: Family Life; Humor & Satire; Small Town & Rural; Women's Fiction; Clean & Wholesome Romance

Synopsis

A charming tale of family, friendship, love and loneliness, a feel-good bestseller that put the smiles back on French faces. When his son's family move away (with one last argument on their lips), widower Ferdinand is left with only a sadistic kitten for company on a farm that was built for a family. Just as loneliness starts to bite, he discovers his neighbour Marceline has long been shivering beneath a leaky roof. He welcomes her to his farm, temporarily of course, and also provides a home for her dog, and for Cornelius, her gluttonous donkey. As each begrudgingly adjusts to the other's quirks, yet more new arrivals appear. It seems that Ferdinand isn't the only one who was all alone, and the dusty farm becomes a haven for lost souls of every age to share their sorrows and set about rediscovering their joie de vivre. But amidst the newfound hustle and bustle, one final uninvited guest threatens to upset the apple cart once and for all...

Release date: March 6, 2014

Publisher: MacLehose Press

Print pages: 198

Sample

Ferdinand was concentrating on his driving; nose pressed to the windscreen and stomach propped against the steering wheel. The needle didn’t budge: fifty was the perfect speed. Not only was he saving on petrol, he also had time to admire the view, watch the landscape unfold. Above all, no risk of an accident should he have to stop for any reason.

And there and then, right in front of him, a dog, running. Instinctively he braked. His tyres screeched. Gravel flew. The shock absorbers squealed. The car pitched forward and ended up stationary in the middle of the road.

Ferdinand leaned out of the car window.

“Where are you off to then, boy? Looking for a bit of skirt, I’ll bet.”

The dog leaped aside, raced past, then stopped in the ditch a little further up and crouched in the grass. Ferdinand pulled himself out of the car.

“Hold on, aren’t you the neighbour’s dog? What are you doing here all on your own?”

He approached, gently holding out his hand, and patted its head. The dog trembled.

After a while, finally won over, it agreed to follow him.

Ferdinand made it jump into the back of the car and then drove off again.

When he reached the turning to a dirt road he opened the car door. The dog got out, but – whimpering – came over and stood right by his legs, apparently frightened. Ferdinand pushed open the little wooden gate.

“Go on, in you go!”

Still whining, the dog crept along, sticking close to him. He went up the path between two scrubby hedges and arrived at a little house. The door was ajar.

“Hello!” he shouted. “Anyone there?”

No reply.

He looked round. Nobody. He pushed open the door. At the back of the room, in the half-light, he could make out a figure lying stretched out on the bed. He called. No movement. He sniffed the air. It stank in there. Sniffed again. Uh-oh! Gas. He ran over to the cooker, screwed the knob back on the cylinder and went up to the bed.

“Madame, Madame!”

He started to pat the lady’s cheeks. Gently at first, then, as she didn’t respond, more forcefully. The dog yapped, jumping up and down round the bed. Ferdinand was panicking too. He slapped her hard, shouting at her to wake up. A frenzy of barking and shouting.

“Madame Marceline!”

Woof!

“Open your eyes!”

Woof, woof!

“Wake up!”

Finally she gave a little moan.

Ferdinand and the dog both sighed with relief.

Marceline had got her colour back and was insisting on offering him something. It wasn’t every day she had visitors. Although they were neighbours, it was the first time he had set foot in her house. A cause for celebration? Ferdinand kept saying he wasn’t thirsty, he had just popped in to return her dog, but she got up all the same, staggered over to the dresser, took out a bottle of plum wine and said she’d like him to try some. It was the first time she’d made it. Would he tell her what he thought? He nodded. She started to pour him a glass, then stopped and asked anxiously if he had to drive. He replied that he was on his way home; it was only five hundred metres away; he could do it in his sleep. Reassured, she finished pouring the drink. He had barely wet his lips when suddenly she had a dizzy spell. She slumped into a chair, clutching her head in her hands. Ferdinand, embarrassed, fixed his eyes on the oilcloth, sliding his glass along the lines and squares. He didn’t dare drink or speak. After a long silence he asked her, almost in a whisper, if she wanted him to drive her to the hospital.

“Why?”

“To get you looked at.”

“But it’s only a headache.”

“Yes, but there’s the gas…”

“Yes.”

“That’s not good.”

“No.”

“There can be side effects.”

“Such as?”

“Vomiting, I believe.”

“Oh right. I didn’t know.”

Another long silence. She kept her eyes closed. He took the opportunity to have a look around. The room was small, dark and unbelievably cluttered. It made him realise his own house was exactly the opposite: the place was so empty, it practically echoed. The thought depressed him; he went back to staring at the oilcloth on the table. Eventually he said:

“I don’t like poking my nose in other people’s business, Madame Marceline, you know that. But is it because things are difficult at the minute, that you left …”

“Left what?”

“The gas …”

“What about it?”

“Well …”

Not easy for Ferdinand, intimate subjects were not his cup of tea. But he felt he had to say something. At first he stalled, hinting at what he meant, talking without really saying anything. (He was a fan of the phrase ‘reading between the lines’.) He was so convinced that words betray thoughts, he preferred to leave it to intuition. Though of course, that had often let him down. One thing led to another. He had a fear of unleashing a gush of emotion, floods of tears or secrets he didn’t want to know. He didn’t like that. Life would be so simple if everyone just tried to work things out for themselves.

With his wife he had a trick to avoid getting trapped in over-intimate discussions: as soon as he saw her going down that road he would mention the past. A single, innocent word was enough. And hey presto, he hardly needed to listen at all. His poor wife, she loved to chat. About anything and nothing. She went on and on. But what she liked most was to talk about the past. Her youth. How in the old days things were so much better and more beautiful. Especially before they got to know each other. She always ended up furiously listing the other places where she might have lived: America, Australia, or Canada perhaps. And why not? It could have happened. If only he hadn’t asked her for a dance, hadn’t murmured those sweet nothings, hadn’t held her so tight at that bloody awful dance on the fourteenth of July. If only.

He didn’t mind. He had also had his dreams. And sweet ones they were too. But he soon understood that dreams and love, they weren’t for him this time around. Perhaps he wasn’t cut out for it. Or it would happen some other time. In another life maybe, like cats.

So, back to the present.

He was at his neighbour’s house. She had a problem she didn’t seem to want to talk about, in spite of his gentle prodding. He didn’t know much about her. Just that she was called Marceline and sold fruit and vegetables and honey at the market. She seemed a bit foreign. Russian or Hungarian perhaps? One of those eastern countries anyway. She hadn’t been here long. Some years though. Six, seven? Long enough …

He looked around again and this time noticed there was no water heater above the sink. No fridge, no washing machine, no telly. None of your mod cons. Just like when he was a child. Only the radio to keep up with the news, and cold water in the sink for washing. In winter he had always looked for a way to get out of it. And the chores … helping take the stiff, frozen washing out of the bucket and wringing it out with his chapped fingers. Christ, what a shit time it had been in those days! He wondered whether in reality poor old Madame Marceline had had enough of this life. The hardship, the hassle. She must have lost heart. And so far away from her own country and family too. It was quite possible that was the reason …

He sensed there was no getting round it. He’d have to do it, force himself to talk. About stuff that wasn’t just the weather. There was always her dog. What a clever dog! You’re so lucky to have one like that. The last one I had was stupid but very affectionate. Whereas this one … Oh it’s a bitch, is it? Are you sure? I hadn’t noticed …

He took a deep breath. And went for it. Straight out, just like that, he told her he understood. He had felt like doing the same himself once or twice. In fact, to be totally honest, three or four times. But he’d taken his time, thought about it first. And found good reasons not to go through with it. Such as … well, off the top of his head he couldn’t think of anything. Oh yes, of course, he was such a fool, his grandkids. Grandchildren were wonderful. It was exciting and so different from your own. Yes, they really were. Sweeter, livelier, and much more intelligent. Perhaps it was the way things were now, times had changed. Unless we get more patient as we get older, it’s possible … Oh, you don’t have any grandchildren? No little ones? Ah. That’s a pity. But there are other things. Let me think …

She looked up and stared at the ceiling.

He scratched his head, desperate to come up with something.

“You know, sometimes it’s important to remember there are other people are worse off than you. It keeps you grounded, if you like. Gives you a sense of perspective. Sometimes you need that, don’t you think?”

She seemed to be somewhere else. He tried to make a joke of it.

“As no-one’s ever been over there and come back to tell us if things are any better, maybe it’s not worth getting ahead of ourselves, eh, Madame Marceline? Better to wait and see, don’t you think?”

He chuckled and waited for her reaction. But none came.

There was good reason to be worried. He leaned over. “Can you understand me when I’m talking to you? Maybe there are words you don’t …”

She pointed towards the pipe on the gas cooker and said with a slight tremor in her voice that she’d finally worked it out. Mo-je, her old cat, was to blame. He’d been missing for days. Maybe he was dead – oh no, please, not that; it would break her heart – and in the meantime, it had been chaos here. The mice did as they pleased. Dancing round endlessly. Day and night. In the cupboards, the larder, and under the bed. They never stopped. Nibbling, nibbling away. She thought she was going mad. If it went on like that they’d end up climbing onto the table and eating from her plate. They were so cheeky, those little creatures.

Ferdinand had switched off, he was barely listening. The poor woman was rambling. Must be the gas. Her stories of dead cats and dancing mice made no sense, he couldn’t make head or tail of them. He watched her as she spoke, looking down at her beautiful, damaged hands. That’s what happens when you grow things, he thought. She ought to take better care of them, put on some cream. That would help. But she seemed younger than he’d imagined. Sixtyish?

Suddenly she stood up. Taken aback, he did the same. She told him she found it really annoying talking to herself. Anyway she felt better now. He could go, thanks for everything, she would have a lie down and get some rest. The gas had made her dizzy. Ferdinand looked at the clock: four-thirty. A bit early to be going to bed. He was surprised. She told him she wouldn’t come with him, he could find his way alright on his own. He agreed, suppressing a faint smile. No chance of getting lost in a house with only one room. He patted the dog’s head. Right you are, Madame Marceline, cheerio. Don’t hesitate to give me a ring if you need anything. Thanks, yes, I’ll do that. She shrugged, grumbling to herself: I will once I get the phone connected …

Going back to his car Ferdinand tried to piece together what had just happened: this lady, who had nearly gassed herself, had been living for years in the tiny house next door; he must have passed her hundreds of times – on the road, in the post office, or at the market – but they’d hardly exchanged a word, except to talk about the weather, or how the honey was that year … And now out of the blue he’d met her dog, or rather her bitch … and if he hadn’t stopped on the road to bring it back, then – no doubt about it – Madame Marceline would be dead by now. With no-one there to care.

Shit. Not a nice thought.

He got into his car and pulled away. He told himself he hadn’t really helped her. Too bad, he would try to drop in again tomorrow or some other day. Give her his verdict on the plum wine. Great stuff, Madame Marceline, and your first time too! In the past his late wife, Henriette, used to make it, but it had never been as good as that. No, no, I promise you, I mean it …

*

In her little house Marceline lay down. Her head didn’t hurt quite as much now. She could think.

He was a funny one, that Ferdinand. Never drew breath the whole time! It made her head spin. She hadn’t really understood everything. All that stuff about perspective, for example – why had he started going on about that? He must be very depressed; it seemed like he needed to open up a bit. It was a little embarrassing, but hearing him out was the least she could do. In any case it had been nice of him to bring the dog back. She must remember to thank him next time. A jar of honey perhaps; he might like that. And then, suddenly, the memories came flooding back. She recalled the man’s wife. Oh my, not at all nice. Horrible, in fact. That had been at the beginning when she knew nothing and no-one. The animals were hungry and she was too. She had helped herself to things from the garden. And then of course she had started growing her own vegetables. So she could feed herself and maybe earn a bit of money. While she thought about what to do next. But in spite of all her hard work the first year had been a disaster. Even fully grown her carrots were no bigger than radishes and her onions were tiny. And every week Madame Henriette would turn up, stop by her stall at the market, and look down her nose as she inspected the produce. The following year things had improved: her carrots started to look like carrots; her leeks were no longer like spring onions. And that Henriette had started to buy a few things every now and then. . .