They were the two most beautiful young men I’d ever seen. Both tall, around six feet, and slim they had the olive complexion, brooding eyes and floppy dark hair that characterises so many young French men. I’d learned they were both studying at university, English and Business Studies, they’d told me. In the summer they came back home to the village near Deauville to work as waiters in a local restaurant.
On a whim I’d decided to take a break at a friend’s house on France. Kevin, my ex had negotiated as part of the divorce settlement that he could take Sarah, our fourteen year old daughter, on a three week holiday every other year. I hated being without her but was powerless to resist when he’d said he was taking her to Australia via Singapore and back through Bali. I knew that in some ways it was good for her for. Despite the acrimony of a divorce brought about by his persistent unfaithfulness, we’d tried very hard together to make the trauma as harmless as possible for her and I’d let him have quite generous access..
The thought, however, of three weeks alone in the Docklands apartment with all the memories of Sarah around me was horrible. So I phoned Marcia and asked if I could use her house in Deves, a tiny village twenty or so miles inland form the famous French resor of Deauvillet. I’d been there once before with Kevin visiting Marcia and Bill and had though it to be idyllic, but we’d only stayed one night on our way back from the St Tropez. She readily agreed saying, “stay as long as you like no one will be using it for weeks yet.”
I’d driven down in my new BMW using the train through the channel tunnel from Folkestone to Calais. The roads had been radically improved since the last time I’d been there and I was surprised to find myself driving through Deauville no more than two hours after disembarking from the train. I did some shopping and then set off down the back roads for Deves. The village and the house were every bit as lovely as I’d remembered and I settled in quite quickly. I reacquainted myself with the four bedrooms, the quite extensive gardens and small swimming pool. I explored the house noting how well furnished and appointed it was but wasn’t surprised for both Marcia and Bill had great taste and oodles of money. I felt that I was going to enjoy myself and soon found I was able, albeit a little guiltily, to put Sarah out of mind, most of the time.
I’d gone to the restaurant the first time on the recommendation of the old lady in the local boulangerie. She told me when I bought my bread the next day that it was the best in town, not surprisingly, I later learned, as it was owned by her cousin. It was a small, very typical French country restaurant. More like the front room of someone’s house really. Just eight or so tables it had a limited menu and was very much a locals place to eat.
I saw Luc and Richard the first night I went there. They served me the most delicious meal at the most ridiculously low price. Although we passed some pleasantries, after I found to my relief they spoke perfect English, acquired I subsequently understood from having learned it from the ages of five and from having spent a year in Bournemouth and London as part of the course. We didn’t say much that first night.
Although there were other restaurants in the village there’s was at the end of the main road nearest to the house that was a couple of kilometres outside the town. I didn’t want to drive for I liked to accompany my meal with a bottle of wine and I’d seen quite a few local gendarmerie around, so I walked.
“Hello again,” Luc said brightly as I walked in,, “ table for one is it?”
“Yes please,” I replied feeling pleased he’d remembered me.
“Hi,” I heard from behind me, “welcome back.” It was Richard coming out of the kitchen holding two plates for the only other diners in there.
I sat down and Luc came over and with the rather blunt way of the French he told that I was almost too late for dinner as the restaurant closed at nine and it was nearly eight thirty now.
“I’m sorry,” I said, “I didn’t realise,” as I remembered how quirky restaurant opening hours can be in many of the off the beaten track areas of France.
“No problem but we do run out so you may not have much choice, I’m afraid. We only have a very small menu of choices the chef gets in the market each day,” Richard explained brightly.
“That’s ok, what do you have?”
“Let me check with the chef.”
He went away and returning after a few minutes explained that there was either guinea fowl or fish. I chose the former with goats cheese and rocket salad as a starter and a bottle of the local white wine. As I waited Richard came up a couple of times bringing the bread, some olives and the wine. He was friendly asking whether I was on holiday and I told him I was explaining where I was staying.
“Oh right Bill and Marcia’s house?”
He told me that they often came in here and that he liked them both very much. Just as he was saying that Luc delivered my starter and Richard told him where I was staying.
“That’s Marcia’s house isn’t it? Luc asked, aAdding, “they really are lovely people, they come in here a lot and we’ve got to know them well.”
“Yes I’ve told her that,” Richard said pushing Luc jokingly as he went on, “she knows we think they’re lovely.”
As we were all l laughing the four other people in the restaurant left. Richard poured me the wine to taste and then they left me to get on with the starter. It was absolutely gorgeous as was the guinea fowl and the soft tort dessert. In fact everything was wonderful. One of them brought me coffee and the other offered me the house after dinner drink which was an aniseed tasting liquor. They stood around as I sipped the coffee and the drink and we chatted with them explaining what they did and why they spoke English so well.
They were easy ttalk to and seemed interested in England and me so the time passed quickly. They gave me another drink and had a couple themselves pulling chairs up to my table.
“I’d better be going,” I said after at least an hour had passed after I’d finished dinner, adding, “I thought you closed at nine.”
“We do really but that’s just for food and the locals. For others and especially for pretty women we have no hours,” Luc said smiling broadly.
I liked the flattery of course and I sat chatting to them for another half hour or so before I said I’d have to go. I suppose a little nervous thinking of the couple of kilometres walk down the dark street so I was relieved when they said they’ run me home as it was on their way to the small flat they shared in a large farmhouse set back in the woods behind the town.
It became my regular. I ate there for the next couple of evenings having the most delicious basic French food prepared and cooked to perfection yet in a simple manner that only the French seem able to get away with. I spent my days walking in the hills and woods, taking drives into Deauville and Honfleur and visiting the beaches and war graves of the Normandy landings. I’d brought my PC with me so I did some writing and kept up to speed with my e-mails and with work and I had the pool so I could swim and top up my tan in the solitude of Marcia’s garden. It was tranquil, beautiful, restful, interesting and fucking boring. I had so much time on my hands, I met so few people, I got sick of woods and hills and if I saw another war grave I think I’d have screamed. I was dying for some fun, some adventure and thrills, some excitement, anything to break the bloody boredom of what I was doing.
I began looking forward to my evening meal more than anything else. At least there I got to have some intelligent conversation. And I was getting to know Richard and Luc as well as the chef Henri quite well. They seemed to like having me around so as well as having dinner there most of the first week as that ended I began popping in for a coffee in the mornings. That relieved the bloody boredom a bit.
