A Short Walk from Harrods Read Online Free PDF Page A

Final. Finished. Closed.
    The gates clattered together, the chain and padlock swinging, scoring an arc in the waggon-green paint. There was rust on the tin sign, ‘CHIENS MÉCHANTS! ATTENTION!’ But there were no
chiens méchants
now.
    I got back into the car, slammed the door, we moved down the lane slowly past the three big plastic dustbins brimming with junk. A battered brass lamp that I’d never been able to fix, but always meant to, lay in thistles. No one spoke, not even when we got to the T-junction at the main road and turned left up towards the village. There were some people crossing the road going towards the Mini-Market, but I couldn’t tell who they were.
    Jacques cleared his throat softly. ‘
A Saint-Paul, eh?’
    â€˜Saint-Paul,’ I said.
    That’s how it ended.
    Rather dragging along the lane with two full baskets, I was shoved into the rough grass verge by a rusting Citroën. It stopped with a lurch and groan of brakes, a window was wound down. A grey-haired woman called out in French, ‘Do you want help? They look heavy.’
    â€˜They are. Thank you. Just to the little calvary.’ My French was almost serviceable.
    I got in beside her, shoved the bags in the back. It was a jumble of children’s toys, towels, baskets, a giant bundle of carnations. She was rather small with grey hair, and could just see over the steering-wheel. A cigarette, with a worrying inch of ash, drooped from her mouth. She didn’t remove it during the trip. She was in her early seventies, wore a man’s wrist-watch and a grey flannel suit.
    â€˜My name is de Beauvallon. I live at Clos des Lilacs.’
    We started up, jerked, began to bounce unevenly along.
    â€˜Tiens!
I must have a flat tyre! I thought so in the village. I’ll just make it I think …’
    â€˜It’s not far. I live just up the hill from you. I can see your entrance from my bedroom window.’
    â€˜My two cypress trees? And my columns?’
    â€˜They are very fine, Madame.’
    â€˜You notice that one of the balls on a column is lost? My idiot son-in-law ran into it with his Peugeot. Are you staying with Jean-Claude and Jacqueline?’
    â€˜No. I live there.’
    She turned swiftly to face me, eyes off the road, ash on the cigarette. She squinted through her smoke.
    â€˜Live there! Since when? I’ve been in Paris for three months.
Live
there?’
    â€˜I have bought it from Jean-Claude. He’s moved to Nice. It is my land now.’
    She, thankfully, returned to her driving, rounding a sharp bend, coming out on to the straight. At the far end two enormous cypress trees, fifty feet high, dwarfing two tall stone columns. One minus a stone ball on its top.
    â€˜You are English? American? Do you have a name, M’sieur,
par hasard?’
    â€˜English.’ I told her my proper name. The ‘van’ and the ‘den’.
    â€˜Americans don’t speak French very well. They have a hideous accent. How long have you been
propriétaire?’
    â€˜I bought it in November. But I moved in only two weeks ago.’
    â€˜July. He never breathed a word. Strange man. You have a wife?’
    â€˜No.’
    â€˜You will need assistance on that land. It has not been tended for years, the olives haven’t been
taillé,
pruned, for years. Disaster.’
    We had reached the calvary and the gateway to her house.My track went up the hill to our left. I started to clamber out, grabbed the bags, thanked her. She said, in perfect English, ‘So, we have a new neighbour! I had
no
idea. The families, Jean-Claude’s and my husband’s, own all the land here. So you will be safe from development. But the place is a ruin.’ The ash suddenly fell from her cigarette, spilling down her jacket. She paid no attention, the butt hung on her lip.
    â€˜You speak wonderful English. I wish I could speak French so well.’
    â€˜I was at a convent near