a very special French lady

I met the elderly gentleman at a brocante fair, he was selling hand made fishing flies.  Works of beauty, exquisite knots of thread and feather and beads, designed to lure and to deceive.  But it wasn't the boxes of flies that drew me in, it was the old piece of fabric thrown across a trestle table and used to create his stall.  A length of pale grey ticking, a most unusual colour, beautiful.

I so wanted that fabric.  My eyes swept along the table, piled high with dozens of boxes, and also crockery and glass ware, the sort of strange mix you only see at these country brocante fairs.

He came up to me, wanting to know what had caught my eye.  " Bonjour mademoiselle".   I smiled.  We chatted about fly fishing, about his dying craft, about how cold it was for selling outdoors, until finally I broke it to him: "Actually, it's your old piece of fabric I'd like to buy".  A raised eyebrow, discreet cough, shrug of Gallic shoulders and a quick pursing of moustached lips as he tried to put a price to the unexpected trophy.

He bought himself some time:  "I have to ask ma femme", and wandered a few steps away, talking into his mobile phone.  He came back looking concerned.  "I'm so sorry...., but my wife doesn't really want to sell that .... it's very useful to her.... she has more at home ... they aren't in very good condition ....  come back this evening when I pack up .... or you could call ... here's my telephone number ... then that's settled, we'll see you tomorrow...."  !!

I left the fair pleased with a few other purchases, but in a total muddle about the fabric.  Did they want to sell at all?    The next day we spoke on the phone and after a few very searching questions, the rather intimidating lady gave me her address and I jumped in the car and headed off across the valley.

As I drove to their small village, I had no idea whether the trip would be worthwhile.  She had insisted on the phone that she didn't want to sell, but at the same time, for a non-seller, she gave me a load of appetite- whetting information.

I finally found their tiny house, very modest, with a happy dog in the small scruffy but flower filled garden.  A lady came out to greet me.  Beautiful.   Walking tall, her elegance strangely out of place in such a modest setting.

She must have been about 75 years old.  Smooth pale skin, well cut grey hair and clear blue eyes that looked right through me.

The piece of grey ticking I had seen at the fair was draped over a garden chair - even better than I had remembered it -  on the table was another piece of red and beige striped ticking, my heart missed a beat.

When you handle old textiles as much as I do, you can recognise a special find just by it's fold.  Linen folds in a soft, supple, heavy manner, like no other fabric.  Pure linen ticking is very unusual today, it hasn't been made since the late 1800's.

But we weren't going to talk about the ticking straight away.  First there were questions.  She wanted to test my credentials:  did I know anything about fabrics?  did I know how to care for old textiles?  how did I iron my sheets (I kid you not!) ? where was I from?  "Ah England .... (she broke into perfect English)... I used to have some very good friends in Kent" she said.

After the  ten minute interrogation I was finally allowed to touch the ticking. "So, as I told you, I can't possibly sell these, they are so useful to me, and they are part of my past life, before I came here ....( her arm lifted and swept around to show the little house and garden)  and they aren't even in good condition any more,  look ..."  She showed me the tiny holes at one end of the grey ticking and several tears in the other piece.

Yet, despite, all her words about wanting to keep them, I was sure she wanted to sell.  For the first time she let me talk:  I smiled,  "Your fabrics are stunning, I have quite a collection at home, but I haven't often seen any this beautiful"

She looked me in the eye and named her price.  I agreed without hesitation and she suggested I step inside to see 'the rest'.

The tiny house was more than cramped.  It looked as if the contents of a large château had been fitted into a garden shed.    "Excusez-moi" she fussed, I know I have kept too much, but when I had to leave my last home for unfortunate reasons, I couldn't leave it all behind.

And then it really started.  From cupboards and from behind doors came a steady flow of monogrammed  porcelain, of crystal, of fine linen and shining silver.   In between each new box that was opened she told me more about her family, her former splendour and her misfortune.

I didn't take any photos while I was there and I can't tell you everything she shared with me; that would be disrespectful to the confidence she showed me.  But I can say that I was fortunate to meet this woman.  She grew up in the lap of luxury, she married well, she was widowed, and through a tragic turn of events she lost everything.

 Today she has created a new life with a charming gentleman who makes fishing flies.  They live simply but they are happy, and she still insists on only using linen bedsheets and silver cutlery.  Now and again she meets someone like myself, and takes pleasure in getting out the treasures she has kept, in remembering easier times, and in a quality and handwork that has now disappeared for ever.

"And the ticking?" I hear you say.  Well yes, I did come away with both pieces of ticking and also with a couple of paintings she didn't have the space for.  I am thrilled to bits with my afternoon and with the treasure.  I hope you have liked hearing about it all.

photos: 1- print from a painting by Fabrice Alberti, available here
2-4 thanks to Google images, photo 5 & 6 me

spring renewal - a short story

The following short story - 100% fiction - is my contribution to this months party at Splenderosa.  Marsha's  theme this month is spring in the garden, I have attempted to weave a tale around the theme.  I beg your indulgence.

Louise poured some more coffee into her favourite mug, slipped on a pair of old shoes, walked out the kitchen door and onto the lawn.  It was  still wet with the morning dew.

She had spent the week in the garden. Taking stock to begin with:  remembering what used to be, dreaming of what could be again, and making resolutions.  Then she had picked up garden tools and started work.

Tom was away for several weeks.  He didn't often travel that long and she didn't know why this trip required so much time.  She had meant to ask, but somehow the question was never posed.

The children telephoned now and again: "Hi Mum, what are you up to today?".  They never left her time to  answer, content to babble on about their busy lives, and she content to listen, and painfully aware that in any case she'd have nothing much to say in answer to their question.

She was long past that extremely-busy stage in her life.  There were no longer hungry mouths to feed at home, no homework to oversee, no school activities to run (thank goodness),  less entertaining of friends.  She had to admit that the less she had to do, the less she did.  Instead of making full use of this new found freedom, she had let herself slip into a rut, maybe even a deep trough.

So this morning, over breakfast she had moved from taking stock of her garden to taking stock of her life and, most importantly, her marriage. In fact it seemed that her garden and her marriage were similar in far too many ways.

As a bright young couple she and Tom were unstoppable.  Endlessly busy, and productive and floating high on a cloud of achievement.  They had known an exciting planting season when seeds of hope had been liberally strewn and  tender shoots admired.   Their garden was cherished and grew well to form a strong and admirable surround to their beautiful home; interesting jobs; lively circle of friends and inevitably glittering social life.

With the groundwork well established they  became more ambitious,  more confident and two young trees entered the garden.  As the years passed the young trees grew strong, did well  and gave Louise and Tom much joy and satisfaction.

Then had come the drought years.  They seemed endless.  The former excitement and innovation gave way to an exhausting routine.  There was never enough water, the garden was untidy and even the young trees showed signs of strain.

The grass faded from lush green to beige.  The garden became dull, their busy lives carefully moving around the edges without ever taking the time to stop and take a good look at what was happening.

Tom started travelling more frequently, the children flew the nest to start their studies and then to commence their own lives, and quite suddenly, in what seemed like a blink of the eye, Louise found herself very often alone.

How had this happened, why hadn't she seen it coming?  She toyed with the idea of talking about it to Tom, but although they got on well enough together,  they communicated only superficially about practical details of everyday life, never in depth ....... She knew that the garden needed attention, she knew exactly what had to be done, it was simply a question of deciding if she had the will to take on the task.

At the start of the week she had toyed with the idea of calling in a landscape gardener: hoping for a magic wand that could bring the garden back to life.   She saw a small ad and dialled the number ... trying to sound bright and nonchalant on the phone:

"Oh you know, it's a mature garden now...runs itself really.. I'm not even sure you'd find that much to do..."

There was a pause, the gardener's question came, as incisive as a scalpel... "Are you happy with the way it is now?"

She was taken aback  "Oh well, it's OK I suppose ... a bit boring .. but nobody seems very interested these days, not like when we were younger.  It was gorgeous then you know, wonderful, all our friends loved being here..."

"Well if it used to be that good then you must have given it a lot of love and attention"

She said nothing so  he continued  "If you want your garden to be interesting again, I can give you some ideas, but it'll be all the stuff you know already.  My ideas won't have any effect unless you're prepared to put in the hard work...do you think you're ready to dig and prune and weed and feed again?"

They talked a little longer and before Louise put the phone down she muttered "Thank you, I'll think about it" .. and so she had. Non-stop ever since.

She took paper and pen and wrote down what she wanted: - surprisingly difficult to define.   And even more difficult to contain to just the garden.  Her wish list for the green areas began to grow and spread to other parts of her life.  A wish list for herself, her family and then her marriage.

She longed for shoots of hope; for signs of new life.  And curiously the more she thought about all she longed for,  the more she realised how much she already had.  The structure of that beautiful garden was still there, nothing major had changed, with the right attention she could revive it.

By midweek her back ached, she had blisters on her hands and her shoulders had turned pink in the bright spring sunshine,  but the garden was already looking better.

By the end of the week she found the telephone number for Tom's hotel.  "Everything all right old girl?", his voice was surprised and concerned "you don't normally call me like this"

"Oh yes Tom, everything's fine, I was just thinking about you, wondered how you were and when... when are you coming home"

"I'll be back next week, but you know that ... are you sure there's nothing wrong?"

"Tom, I've been doing a lot of thinking this week, and working in the garden too.  You'll see a big difference.  It's lovely to feel that spring is on its way.  I have great plans for the garden, I was hoping you'd be pleased, that ... that we could maybe work on it together.  Remember?  Like we used to"

Tom said nothing for a while, then  in a quieter voice simply said "I'd like that, I'd like it a great deal"

"Thank you Tom darling", she replied " I was so hoping you'd say that....  Hurry home, there is so much to do.  You'll see, this spring,  it will be good again"

Thank you to Marsha for organising her By Invitation Only party each month.  If you would like to see what other bloggers have written on the theme of spring in the garden then pop on over and check the list.

attention to detail - splenderosa's party

The notice was put up outside the château on Friday afternoon.  Marie saw it as she cycled home .  She needed the job.  There was no other way around it, it was difficult making ends meet  and anyway,  she could cook! 

Her only worry was the competition.  So she cheated.  For probably the first time in her life she didn't play fair.  After a quick look around her, she deftly tore the notice from the iron gate, pushed it deep into her basket and hurried home.

Monday afternoon found Marie alone outside the château gate at ten to three.  She waited politely until three then rung the bell.  A young boy emerged from the side of the château, pulled open the heavy iron gate and muttered "it's this way", before running off without her.

Just when she thought she'd be going in alone, a car drew up and a young woman jumped out, shouted "merci!" to the driver of the car then slipped inside the gate.  This new player looked dangerous.  She was prettier than Marie, and she knew it.  She walked tall, the little hat perched on the top of her head bobbing as she caught up with Marie.  "bonjour, are you coming for the cook job too,  I though I'd be too late, but that nice young man stopped to offer me a lift.  Oh, and my name's Héloise"  she laughed and Marie didn't know what to answer.

As the two young women approached the side entrance to the château, a matronly figure came out to meet them, she looked efficient but not friendly.  "Ah bonjour, only two of you, hmm." she looked up towards the gate,   "We were hoping for more.  Well come in, come in, I have to show you around before you start in the kitchen."

She ushered them into the huge kitchen, bright copper pots gleaming on the walls, and a monster of an oven presiding over the centre of the room.  "Bon, ici c'est la cuisine, I'll show the rest of the house to whoever gets the job."

The girls were looking around the kitchen when a door opened and a tall man walked in.  The matron immediately dropped a curtsey, "ah bonjour monsieur le Comte.  These are the girls for the cook's job"

The man lifted a pair of glasses to his eyes.  Marie glanced at him then kept her eyes on the ground, Héloise had no such qualms.  She looked boldly at the Comte and smiled.  It worked, but then it always did.  Héloise attracted men like bees to honey.  "Eh bien, très jolie", muttered the Comte, " but can you cook?"  His question was directed at Héloise.  Already Marie had been taken out of the equation.    As if the only requisites to being a good cook was having a pretty smile and the legs to match.

"Bien sûr Monsieur, j'adore la cuisine"  Héloise giggled, Marie rolled her eyes to the ceiling.

The Comte talked for a while about life in the château, his love of food and why baking fine pastry was a good test of a cook's prowess.    Héloise, smiled and agreed with everything he said. As he left them, Marie heard her say, "c'est bon, no matter what my pastry tastes like, he wants me for the job".

They could use whichever utensils and ingredients they felt necessary to make a pastry dish.  Each had a work table, Héloise was given an apron, Marie had brought her own, perfectly pressed.   Monsieur would be back at the end of the afternoon to judge!

Héloise was noisy, far too noisy, she hummed, she clattered, she cussed as she spilt flour on the floor, she bothered the matronly intendant every two minutes for apples, for sugar, for some of this or more of that.  But she was happy, sure of her tarte aux pommes, sure of the job, sure of her unbeatable powers of seduction.

Marie was slower but more discreet. The  list of ingredients she required was  precise.  'Matron' raised her eyebrows as Marie asked for "flour, milk,  eggs, butter, cheese, cream, sugar, chocolate and ... a piping bag",  then she looked at Marie and smiled - she had guessed!

Just over an hour after the Comte had left the kitchen, Héloise removed a  burnt, off centre apple tart from the oven.  She put the tart, piping hot,  on a board and sat back, indifferent to her messy work space.

Marie was still busy. The saucepan in which she heated the  milk, water, sugar, salt and butter, was off the heat now.  She had added her carefully measured flour in one go and stirred energetically until the dough came away from the side of the pan.  She let it to cool then added the eggs, stirring well.  Half the dough was transferred into the piping bag, the other half left in the saucepan, where grated cheese was added.

She worked meticulously, deftly, she knew exactly what she was doing and what she was aiming for.  She beat cream; melted chocolate; washed saucepans; removed baking trays from the oven.  Quiet, sure movements.

By the time the Comte returned to the kitchen the sun was going down.  He entered smiling  and headed straight for Héloise and her apple tart: a shadow of disappointment passed over his face as he saw the burnt crust, the uneven texture, the irregular layer of apple slices.  He cut a small piece and tasted, the warmth left his smile to be replaced by a polite rictus.  "Merci mademoiselle", was all he said.

Sighing,  he turned towards Marie, "and you, what have you prepared?"  Marie stepped aside to reveal two beautiful trays of perfectly regular, impeccably presented choux pastry.  The first flavoured with tangy cheese "des gougères Monsieur, j'espère que vous aimez",   then  "and these are chocolate éclairs.  I hoped that Monsieur may like the use of the same choux pastry base to prepare a sweet and a savoury dish"

The Count's jaw dropped, he tasted a cheese gougère  "so light... délicieux",   he whispered, then reached for a tiny chocolate éclair, his eyes seemed slightly damp

The pretty smile of Héloise was already forgotten, Marie had his full attention now. "I don't believe I have ever eaten choux pastry of this finesse!  How do you do this?!"

Marie smiled, relieved and confident, "my mother always taught me that le bon dieu est dans le détail, Monsieur, I love to pay attention to detail".

 ~o~O~o~

I am honoured today to have been invited to join in with the blogging party going on at Splenderosa.  The theme was the quote attributed to Flaubert,  "le bon dieu est dans le détail".

I chose my favourite painting at home to inspire the characters of Héloise and Marie. Pop on over to see what the other girls have come up with:  some really fun ideas from many of my favourite blogs.

Thank you Marsha!