Page 4 of The French Wife

Emma screwed up her eyes as she drove, experiencing once again the shock and pain of seeing her little girl lying there on the hospital bed, covered in tubes, surrounded by monitors, her skin flaccid and white. She remembered holding her limp hand as she slipped away.

Afterwards, Emma had crashed. She’d been unable to function, hiding away at home while Jack buried himself in his work, flying here, there and everywhere. He seemed unable to comfort Emma, unable to comfort himself. And instead of giving each other love and companionship when Jack came home, they’d always ended up arguing, neither coping well with their grief.

‘You need to get out of bed, Emma. It’s not good for you mouldering in there. You need to get on with your life.’

She’d stared at him. He didn’t look well either; his thick, dark hair unkempt, five o’clock shadow on his face, usually so clean-cut and well groomed.

‘So that’s what you’re doing, is it? Getting on with your life? Is that why you’re never here? Never around?’ she asked. ‘I’m lonely, Jack. I need you here with me.’

He’d turned away. ‘You know I have to work. It’s what I’ve always done. I can’t just drop everything now, the business depends on me.’

The only bright spot during those dark days was the memory of that road trip they'd done the previous summer with Eliza, and the beauty and peace of the French countryside. Emma had pleaded with Jack to go back there with her, so they could relive those precious moments. Together they’d be able to remember everything about the time they’d spent there with their precious daughter.

But Jack had wanted to forget the past and move on. It led to more arguments and recriminations. They’d both said hurtful things. Things that once said, couldn’t be taken back. After a few months of turmoil, Emma couldn’t take any more and neither could Jack. They agreed to go their separate ways. After a few more months of wrangling, Jack agreed to buy Emma’s share of the house, and she’d ended up with a settlement that gave her the freedom to live anywhere she chose.

It was then that she’d set out on her personal road trip, hoping to find peace. She’d taken her car to France and had driven further and further south, ending up in the Languedoc, where she’d never been before. By chance she’d stumbled across the old farm and had been enchanted by its silent beauty and the untamed countryside surrounding it.

She’d been so lost in thought, she’d barely noticed the surroundings as she drove in to St Marie-des-Champs, but she’d almost reached the town. She made a promise to herself to try not to think about Jack any more. This was a new start for her and she was determined to make the most of it; not dwell on the past. No good would come of it. She’d suspected for a couple of months that Jack was already seeing someone else and, to her surprise, it didn’t matter to her. In fact, she felt supremely indifferent about it.

She drove down the long main street under the shade of the plane trees. They lined the road which was flanked by wide pavements filled with café tables. It was lunchtime and the cafés were full. Emma found a parking space at the end of the street, locked the car and walked back down the road, drinking in the relaxed atmosphere of the place, the quiet chatter of people lunching at the café tables, dappled by the sunlight filtering through the leaves, others strolling down the street or reading newspapers on benches in the shade. A group of elderly men were playing pétanque on the sandy course on the other side of the road, clapping each other and egging each other on with friendly banter.

The office of Olivier Martin, the estate agent, was off the main drag, down a cobbled side street filled with shops and narrow, terraced cottages. He was just closing for lunch as Emma arrived, but she tapped on the glass door and he let her in. He was a large man with a ruddy face and a slightly dishevelled appearance. His office was always a little shambolic too.

‘What can I do for you, Madame Hudson?’ he asked, with a slight frown, holding back the door for her to step inside. ‘Is everything alright at the house?’

‘Yes, perfect, thank you,’ she said. ‘Thank you for leaving the key. I arrived yesterday evening.’

‘And your furniture?’

‘That came this morning. All fine, thank you. I was just wondering if you might be able to recommend a firm of builders for me? I want to start renovating straight away. I should have asked sooner, I suppose. It’s just that it’s easier to organise things now I’m here.’

‘Of course, of course! I can give you the names of three local firms.’ Olivier went to his desk, opened a notebook and began to scribble some names and numbers inside. ‘Two are quite established, large companies, the other is a one-man band. He tends to work with local craftsmen, but he’s very good. He’s much in demand though, so you might be unlucky.’ He handed Emma the piece of paper. ‘Let me know if you need anything else, won’t you?’

‘There is something else actually,’ she said, acutely aware that he wanted to get off to his lunch but was too polite to say so. ‘I was wondering if you knew who the last owners of the property were? Do you happen to know anything about them?’

Olivier frowned. ‘I don’t recall their names, I’m afraid. As you know, the farm was left abandoned for many years.’

‘Yes, you told me that.’

‘I don’t know much more about it. I can tell you that the couple who owned it didn’t have any heirs. As you are aware, in cases like that, property reverts to the state but it took a very long time for the paperwork to be completed.’

‘Do you know how long it had been empty when the state took it over?’

Olivier huffed and glanced at his watch. She could imagine he didn’t want anything to come between him and his lunch.

‘I’m not sure exactly. Some decades, I believe. If I recall correctly, it was taken back by the state at some point during the 1960s.’

‘The 1960s? So it’s been empty since then?’

‘I’m not sure. It could have been longer than that. As I say, the paperwork in these cases often takes many years, and I don’t know when the process might have begun.’

‘Is there any way of finding out?’ Emma had the feeling he was stalling, that he knew something about the farm he wasn’t telling her.

He cleared his throat. ‘You might want to make enquiries at the town hall. They may have some information about it. Now, if you don’t mind, madame, I’m afraid I must leave now. I am meeting a client for lunch.’

‘Of course,’ she said. ‘I’m sorry to have delayed you. I’ll ask at the town hall, but in the meantime, if you do happen to find out the names of the people who owned it, I’d be really interested to know.’

He inclined his head slightly and held the door open for her to go out. She walked back to the main street while he was locking up.