Page 7 of A French Country Escape
The next morning, the light streaming in through her uncurtained bedroom window woke Sasha early, and she lay there for several moments enjoying the dawn chorus. Last night she’d stood gazing out of the window, trying in vain to catch a glimpse of the owls she could hear screeching in the nearby woods before giving up and climbing into her bed, where she’d drifted off to sleep within moments. As the dawn chorus died away, Sasha promised herself she’d learn to recognise the calls of the various birds who greeted the beginning of the day.
Once up, she wandered into the old-fashioned bathroom with its pink, faded tiles and the shower over the bath, and lifted the lever before tentatively holding her hand under the water. To her relief, the water came through the showerhead at a good pressure and within seconds, was hot enough to stand under.
Ten minutes later, Sasha was downstairs in the kitchen, sipping a cup of coffee and making a list of the things she needed to do. Top of the list, food shopping. The question was, where? Last night, Ingrid had told them the nearest village, five hundred metres down the narrow lane that ran behind the cottages, had a small supermarket – ‘more of a local cornershop, really’ – a bar cum cafe, a boulangerie, a school, a doctor’s office with an attached pharmacy, and amairiewith aLa Postecounter. The local town, twelve kilometres away, had several big supermarkets, builders’ merchants, garages, a largePoste, vets – everything you’d expect a large town to have.
Perhaps today she’d unpack a few boxes, wander down the lane to the village, pick up a few bits and pieces from the small supermarket and then tomorrow, she and Freddie could drive into town and stock up properly, as well as buy some paint and other stuff to make a start on decorating.
‘Morning, sis,’ Freddie called out as he opened the front door. ‘Any coffee going?’
‘Machine is on and the coffee is next to it,’ Sasha said, pointing to the cups. ‘There’s some cereal and a dribble of milk if you’re hungry. I thought I’d walk into the village via the back lane this morning and get a few things whilst you meet with Peter.’
Ingrid had explained last evening that the back lane was classified as a country ‘C’ road and although drivable most of the time, it was really just a dead-end lane leftover from bygone days. ‘Apparently it started life as a gallop for the racehorses that were bred and trained here back in the nineteenth and twentieth centuries, when the estate was much larger. These days theroute de galoppeters out at a gate on the far end of the estate in one direction, but the other way you can drive or walk into the village, which saves going round by road.’
‘You could take the car,’ Freddie said.
Sasha hesitated. She’d passed her test years ago, but Bradley had persuaded her to sell her car and put the money towards a newer model that they could share. Fine in theory but in practice, a big mistake. Bradley had always insisted on driving them whenever they went out together, unless he decided he wanted a drink; then he insisted she was the designated driverbecause she didn’t mind not drinking. The drive home was always a nerve-wracking affair as he sat alongside her emitting deep sighs and criticising her driving. Whenever she asked to use the car to go and see her mum, it was never convenient for her to have it. And that meant she hadn’t driven any distance for several years while she was with Bradley, and once they split up, he kept it. Her confidence at the time had been at rock bottom and she hadn’t bothered buying another one. Not that she had the money then to do so, even if she’d wanted to.
‘I doubt there’s much traffic between here and the village,’ Freddie said. ‘Quiet roads to start to get your confidence back and learn to drive on the wrong side.’ He grinned at her.
Sasha nodded. She knew it was time to get back in the driving seat – either in Freddie’s car, or by buying one of her own. ‘I will definitely start driving again, but this morning, I’m walking.’
‘Okay, but I shall make sure you do drive again. Living here, it’s going to be necessary,’ Freddie warned her with a look. ‘Right, I’m off to talk to Peter. Fingers crossed I can help him.’
A quarter of an hour later, Sasha locked the door behind her and made her way through the cottage garden, opened the gate and stepped onto theroute de galop. Haphazard hedges, a mixture of overgrown gorse bushes, hawthorn trees, the occasional small oak or beech tree, lined both sides of the track and grass was growing in the muddy centre. Lots of blackberry brambles were everywhere too, raising Sasha’s hopes for lots of fruit later in the year for blackberry and apple crumble. Her mum had made the best blackberry and apple jam, and her recipe was in the old cookbook Sasha had kept.
The verges had the occasional primrose plant flowering, and Sasha glimpsed a few delicate violets still hiding in the undergrowth as she walked towards the village. Briefly she wondered whether there would be bluebells later as spring edged its way into early summer.
Five minutes later, as the lane joined the village road proper at a T-junction, she was on the outskirts of the village. Sasha took a deep breath. The air was so pure and fresh. The church, whose spire she’d seen in the distance as she walked, was now in full sight in front of her, its cemetery spreading out to one side, standing at the head of the village square. On the opposite side of the square, she could see the bar, with a couple of small round tables and chairs on the pavement outside, and next to it, the small supermarket Ingrid had mentioned. She took a couple of appreciative sniffs as the enticing smell of freshly baked bread drifted towards her from the boulangerie farther along. It was all so different to the suburban street she’d lived on in the UK.
Sasha gave an involuntary gasp at the unexpected sound of the church clock booming out the hour and shattering the peace of the village, and she stopped and waited for the deep chimes to stop.
As the vibrations died away, Sasha began to wander farther through the village. Past the primary school where two teachers were organising a crocodile of excited children to walk the short distance to the sports field a few metres away. Past the village’s eighteenth-centurymairie, the French flag flying over the door and the revolutionary motto ‘Liberté, Égalité, Fraternité’chiselled into the stonework above. A double yellow postbox inserted in the wall with separate openings for local post and ‘Étranger’ letters. Several new houses formed a small estate along the road that ran down the hill and out of the village into the countryside.
Sasha turned and made her way back to the village square and pushed open the door of the supermarket. A young woman scanning things through the till for an elderly lady glanced up and called out ‘Bonjour’ before returning her attention to her task.
‘Bonjour,’ Sasha said before quickly picking up a basket and making her way to the refrigerated section for butter, milk, cheese and ham. The shop might be small, but the variety of goods it sold didn’t stop at food. Conscious that she had to carry everything back to the cottage, Sasha decided to avoid the DIY section. Even so, the basket was heavy and full by the time she returned to the counter.
The girl on the till smiled and said something in rapid French. Sasha quickly shook her head before slowly and carefully saying the phrase she had practised and practised, knowing that it was probably going to be her most used phrase over the coming weeks.
‘Je suis désolée, je ne parle qu’un peu français.’
‘Anglaise?’
Sasha smiled and nodded.
The girl – Chloé, according to her name badge – gave her another smile before speaking again, and this time Sasha heard the word she herself had used, ‘désolée’,coupled with ‘anglais’this time, and smiled her understanding – Chloé was sorry but she didn’t speak English.
After a quick detour into the boulangerie for bread and croissants, Sasha turned to make her way home and saw Ingrid in front of the church, opening the door of her parked Land Rover.
‘Morning,’ Ingrid said. ‘Would you like a lift back?’
Sasha hesitated. It wasn’t a long walk, but the small amount of shopping was proving to be heavier and more awkward to carry than she’d anticipated. ‘Thank you.’
‘I’m sorry, I should have mentioned last night that I was coming into the village this morning,’ Ingrid said as she placed Sasha’s shopping in the back of the muddy vehicle alongside a bundle of dog towels, wellingtons and waterproof coats. ‘I could have given you a lift both ways.’
‘I enjoyed my first walk along theroute de galop,’ Sasha smiled. ‘I could almost smell and hear the ghosts of horses from long ago thundering along.’
It was a short drive back to the château and as she passed through the main gates, Ingrid glanced across at Sasha. ‘Time for a coffee? Or are you in a hurry?’
