Free The French for Christmas by Fiona Valpy Page B

, but don’t take it for granted. There are thirteen moons this year, so we can expect things to be pretty turbulent.’
    ‘Thirteen moons? What does that mean?’
    ‘Every now and then we get a year that has thirteen full moons. Check your diary, if it shows the phases, and you’ll see. And folklore tells us that, in years which have thirteen moons, we can expect storms. In all ways. It’s not just confined to the weather. Our individual lives, world events, war, flood, famine; thirteen moons mean trouble. Of course,’ she smiles, ‘it’s only folklore. But if we pause in our busy lives for a moment and ponder where that folklore comes from, we find it’s usually based on some foundation of truth. Those of us who live in the countryside like to mix our science with a good pinch of superstition too, you see.’
    She pauses to take a sip of her tea.
    ‘Now, tell me, Evie, how are you settling in? Rose told us that you were in need of a refuge and that you were seeking peace and quiet. That’s why I didn’t come straight round when you arrived; I wanted to give you some space. Are you all right here? Not too lonely?’ Her direct French way of asking is refreshing after so many months of politely tactful British skirting around the issue.
    ‘I’m fine. Although I was just starting to miss conversation and human company when I got sick. It’s a great way to meet the neighbours, I’ve discovered! Although I’m not sure I made the best impression on poor Didier. I really wasn’t very nice to know when we met.’
    ‘Don’t you worry; he’s used to it in his line of work.’ Eliane pats my hand reassuringly.
    ‘How long has he been here?’ I ask, hopefully nonchalantly enough to disguise any whiff of a vested interest.
    She shoots me a keen glance though and I know I’m not pulling any wool over those clear grey eyes that seem able to read my innermost thoughts.
    ‘He took over from Doctor Lebrun when he retired in September. Didier came to us from Paris—another escapee to the country. So the easiest thing was for him to move into Anne and Gilles’ house while things are in a state of flux. We all wish he’d stay, but he says it’s just temporary until the commune can find a permanent replacement. It’s not so easy these days though, finding people who want to come and live the rural life.’
    She shoots me another appraising glance. ‘Rose tells me you are a cook. And a very talented one, at that.’
    ‘Rose is a very dear friend and therefore totally biased. But yes, I love cooking. Or did love it. I’ve kind of lost my way of late...’ I trail off, unsure of how much Rose has said to Eliane. She nods encouragingly, those wise, grey eyes warm with compassion.
    ‘But, you know,’ I continue, ‘when I went to the market on Saturday I felt inspired again. All that wonderful produce, so fresh, and so many delicious ingredients. I’m tempted to start again, just as soon as I’ve got my strength back.’
    ‘Good,’ she nods approvingly. ‘Such a talent should not go to waste. When you feel strong enough, come and visit me. I’ll show you my garden and give you some of the freshest vegetables this rich earth can produce. And in the meantime,’ she stands up, getting ready to take her leave, ‘get some rest and then eat some of that good soup for lunch. You’ll soon be back on your feet.’
    After saying goodbye, I wander back into the kitchen and lift the lid of the casserole. The soup smells tempting, even to my still somewhat jaded palate: a clear chicken broth chock-full of carrots, leeks and potatoes. Just the kind my grandmother used to make, I think. And that thought prompts another. Losing Lucie made me lose my appetite. Not only my physical appetite for food, but my appetite for cooking, which used to be my consuming passion. Without Will, without the bistro, my channel for expressing my love of life—nourishing my own body and soul by nourishing others—had gone. And ever since