Hot Basque: A French Summer Novel 2 (14 page)

‘OK, Blondie and the rose, heads together.’

‘My turn,’ said Edward, reaching for the camera. ‘Antoine and Jill, the Emperor and his Empress. Smile!’

‘Wait!’

Antoine reached out and gently turned Jill’s face so she was looking at him.

‘Now,’ he instructed Edward.

Edward clicked.

‘Let me look,’ said Caroline. ‘Oh wow! Rita Hayworth and Clark Gable.’

Antoine’s dark chiselled profile was turned towards Jill. In the shade of the sun awning her hair was a deep auburn, cascading to her shoulders. Both of them were staring into each other’s eyes like Mr and Mrs Seahorse.

A warm breeze blew a lock of Jill’s hair into her eyes. Tenderly, Antoine reached out and tucked it gently behind her ear.

‘You know you have the ear like a seahorse?’ he murmured.

Caroline turned away from Edward and looked resolutely out to sea, trying not to giggle. She heard a snort of laughter escape from her beloved’s nose, hastily turned into a cough.

Fortunately the drinks arrived.

‘To Caroline,’ said Jill as they raised their glasses. ‘Clever Caroline, top of the class!
Splancha
!’

‘Splancha
!’

They laughed, clinked glasses. Antoine put his head on one side, studied Caroline.

‘Ah
la rose
, you know what is going to happen. Your students, they all fall in love with you. You know that
mon ami
? You are cooked.’

‘What I know, Antoine, is that I am taking her to work. And picking her up. Every day,’ said Edward. ‘And meeting her for lunch. Also, I’m having a chip installed in her ankle. With a GPS transmitter. So, what’s your fancy?’

They studied the menus with appreciative murmurs.

‘I’ll have the lot,’ said Jill. ‘Even though I don’t know what any of it means.’

‘I can recommend the wild prawns
à la plancha,’
said Edward. ‘Or possibly
à la slàinte
heh heh.
Delicious, with ginger dressing, not that you two need any encouragement. That’s what I’m having.’

‘Me also,’ said Antoine.

‘Look at these salads,’ said Jill, ‘they sound amazing.’

‘Jill. I can make an amazing salad, at the Villa Julia. Well, perhaps not as amazing as they do here. But why don’t you go for something more adventurous. Not tempted by a wild prawn?’

Finally there were three wild prawns, plus Caroline’s choice of fresh garden peas in a creamy herb sauce.

For the main course Caroline chose fish, while Edward went for veal medallions with basil and ricotta ravioli.

‘Filet de boeuf angus cuit à la plancha, sauce béarnaise, et grosses frites.’

Antoine snapped his menu shut.

‘What? Steak and chips? You’re joking Antoine.’

‘
Ma chère rose
,’ said Antoine gravely. ‘It is Angus steak. The Angus is a famous cow. With no ‘orns. And béarnaise sauce. And big chips. I am a man, I need my meat.’

He slipped an arm round Jill’s waist.

‘So Irish, you take some beef like me?’

‘Antoine, you forget I live in Scotland,’ said Jill. ‘That’s where they live, too, the Angus. On hooves. No, I’m looking at the St Pierre with olives, sun dried tomatoes and fennel with lemon sorbet. What exactly is a St Pierre, Caro?’

‘Oh I always get this one wrong,’ said Caroline. ‘Is it a John Dory, Eddie?’

‘Yeah, its colour, a sort of golden yellow,
jaune dorée
in French.’

In consultation with the sommelier, Antoine and Edward chose the wine, a Domaine Brana white for the fish and a Domaine Arretxea ‘Haitza’ for the meat.

‘That’s that wine with the funny name isn’t it, Irousomething,’ said Jill. ‘I think I’m developing a discerning palate.’

It was a perfect lunch, a perfect day. Laughter and conversation came from the surrounding tables, the clatter of cutlery, and the pop of champagne corks. The distant sound of children’s laughter rose from the beach below, carried on the breeze.

‘This chef should get a knighthood,’ said Jill, finishing her John Dory. ‘These flavours!’

‘He’s been here for years, I remember him from when I was a kid. We’ve been coming with the family every summer for ages, it’s the twins’ birthday in August–the mothers, that is, not Jean-Paul and Claudie.’

‘So your mother is a twin as well?’

‘Yes, she and Anouk are identical twins.’

‘Do they have the whole telepathic thing going?’

‘From time to time yes, it’s pretty creepy, you know they’ll turn up in the summer and they’ll each be wearing the same sweater. They’re incredibly close, on to the phone to each other every day.’

‘No other children, your maternal grandparents I mean?’

‘No. I think they decided two girls at the same time were enough of a handful.’

‘Ah yes, girls are the hardest.’ Antoine nodded, in between mouthfuls of waffles and ice-cream. ‘My mother is always saying that, about Marielle and Jojo. But it is more easy now that they are older, they have boyfriends so they calm down, not running around in the countryside like wild horses.’

He turned to Jill.

‘You meet them soon, when you come to eat Chez Arantxa.’

‘I’m looking forward to that.’

‘Is not
le Grand Palais
, I warn you.’

Antoine flashed a grin.

‘But is good, very traditional cooking. And tomorrow also we try some traditional dishes, at the inn of my
Tante Marie
, my favourite auntie.’

He looked at his watch, pulled a face.

‘I must to go, I am sorry, my mother want me to prepare for this evening. But tomorrow morning, Irish, I show you my country,
mon pays
. I pick you up, 6 o’clock?’

Jill choked on a strawberry.

‘No worry, I joke,’ said Antoine, leaning down to plant a tender kiss on Jill’s lips.

‘Mmm, wonderful, you are tasting like mango and strawberry. And looking like a peach, a beautiful white peach.’

He bent down and whispered something in Jill’s ear that had flames shooting up to her hairline.

He laughed, stood up and reached inside his jacket for his wallet. Edward stopped him with a gesture.

‘Hey, we agreed, my treat. For my clever girl. Glad you could come. See you later
mon pote.’

They waved goodbye to Antoine. Edward grinned across the table at Jill.

‘How are you enjoying yourself so far, Irish? Or should I call you ‘Seahorse’ from now on?’

Jill her mouth full of dessert, shook her head, waved her arms, clutched her stomach.

‘And you, Cupid? Happy? Give me your seahorse ear.’

He leaned over, nuzzled Caroline’s neck then sat back in his chair and tossed his serviette on the table with a sigh of contentment.

‘
La vie est belle, n’est-ce pas ladies
? Poor Antoine may have had to rush off but that doesn’t mean we can’t linger over a cup of coffee, does it? We are
en vacances
! Everything is perfect!’

Now what does one wear to go out for a day exploring the Basque country? One perhaps wears one’s jeans? And one’s sneakers? And why not a jolly old waxed Barbour while one’s at it?

Jill flung her sneakers back into the wardrobe with a snarl of disgust. She might be going to explore the countryside but there was no way she had to dress up like Princess Anne. Now what about these...she held up her new corsair trousers, bright red and extremely tight round the
derrière
. And for the top, one of her new T-shirts? No, too sporty. She wanted practical but sexy, just enough of a hint to keep Antoine’s eyes firmly fixed on her, when he wasn’t watching the road that is. She didn’t know what sort of a car he had, maybe one of those little low-slung sports jobs? She’d need something to stop her hair flying all over the place, a scarf in case they went really fast, yes, a pale chiffon scarf, to wind round her head, Grace Kelly style. Plus her new Donna Karan sunglasses.

So that left the top. She took out a pretty, demure, embroidered blouse she’d picked up at Monsoon. Very feminine. Ever so slightly transparent. And she could button up or button down, depending on the circumstances. If she tied it at the waist the effect was very enticing. Sort of urban cowgirl. And it also showed a tantalising hint of bare skin when she raised her arms. She raised her arms to check, spotted the beginnings of a spare tyre, lowered them. She was going to eat salad for the rest of her holiday.

She stared down at her feet. Just one more problem to solve. She opened the door and peered over the banister.

‘Caro? You there, mah honey? Footwear crisis alert!’

Ten minutes later she was back in her room, holding a pair of espadrilles. Just the thing, she could storm along the hilltops while still looking cute in her navy and white striped espadrilles tied in a neat bow at the back. Good thing she and Caro had the same size feet, if nothing else. Either petite willowy Degas ballerina Caroline had extra large feet or tall athletic curvaceous Jill had strangely tiny trotters.

Fifteen minutes later Caroline called upstairs to say her escort had arrived. Jill picked up her shoulder bag containing all essential objects for a day in the country and tripped out to meet him, blowing kisses to Caroline who was chopping vegetables in the kitchen.

‘
Bonjour
Irish.’

He was waiting at the bottom of the steps, wearing jeans and a very tight, very white T-shirt, looking exactly like an ad for Budweiser. He pulled her into his arms, planted four kisses on her cheeks, then stood back.

‘Oh, very beautiful! Beautiful to fall to earth! Now, we go, the sun is shining, OK?’

‘
Très
OK.’

Jill beamed and trotted after Bud Man, wondering where he’d parked his truck. Scrub the sexy little Mazda, he’d never squeeze inside, all those bulging muscles, had to be a truck. Trucks were just as sexy as sports cars, maybe even more so. More...alpha. Bonnets you could lean on. Her mind flashed on an image of Antoine pulling her against him as he leaned back on the warm bonnet, eyes gazing into hers...

She came to a sudden halt. On the other side of Edward’s dusty Renault stood a gleaming monster. Black as shining, newly-mined coal. Dazzling chrome. Polished leather. The only problem was it only had two wheels.

‘Is this–you mean we’re...’ she stuttered to a halt.

Antoine was holding out a helmet to her, a look of pride on his face.

‘Nice, no? I call her Brigitte.’

‘Brigitte...?’

‘Yes, you know the song? By Serge? Serge Gainsbourg? No?’

His eyes widened in disbelief as if it was inconceivable that Serge’s French hit had never made it across the channel.

‘Harley Davidson!’

Jill spread her hands.

‘It’s a Harley Davidson motorbike?’

‘Yes! A bike, like in the song of Serge, ‘Harley Davidsonofabitch!’’

‘Son of a...’

Jill’s eyes widened. What was Bud Man going on about?

‘You know? Top twenty hit parade! Serge, he wrote a famous song, Harley Davidsonofabitch, number one hit, with Brigitte Bardot singing the words! Oh Irish, no! How you not know this song? Is famous in the whole world! Even Ireland! You know Brigitte Bardot, right? BB? I find you the clip on the YouTube. Brigitte is singing, and she wears oh so sexy boots, black, in leather, they come right up to...’

He ran a finger across Jill’s legs, mid thigh, causing her to break out in goosebumps all over.

She rubbed her arms, still mesmerised by the black beast with its high handlebars.

‘You have been on a motor bike, no?’

She shook her head, speechless.

‘Never? You ’ave so many brothers and you never been on a bike? Well is no matter! Here I fasten ze ’elmet. You will love Brigitte. Now mount behind me, no, closer come on, put your arms like so, OK you comfortable? You ready for our trip? Say goodbye to Blondie!’

Jill turned to see Edward standing in the doorway, laughing his head off.

‘You’re a dead man, Ed, you hear me? Bastard–’

The words were jerked from her lips as Antoine set off in a spray of gravel that had her clinging on to his waist and closing her eyes in prayer.

***

An hour later they were on the top of the world, the only people on the tiny road that wound through the foothills of the Pyrenees. On either side the land rose and fell, in gentle undulations or steep slopes topped by a ruined chateau or an abandoned bell tower. The hillsides were covered in pines; here and there a silver thread gleamed, tracing the path of a stream. The sky was an immense inverted bowl, a pure translucent blue from horizon to horizon. Overhead a pair of eagles circled lazily, catching the air currents, wings spread wide. On one side the peaks of the Pyrenees rose in the distance, traces of snow still clinging to the summits. On the other stretched the blue of the Atlantic, frilled with icing sugar where the distant rollers broke.

Antoine had slowed and was shouting back to her.

‘Over there, see? The village on the hill? That is where we go.’

‘I see it!’

She had soon got over her initial terror and relaxed into the ride, enjoying the feel of the big machine expertly driven by its master, enjoying the feel of Antoine’s muscles through the T-shirt, pressing her nose into his back inhaling his magic smell. Her pirate. And the scenery...she breathed in the scented air, wishing she could fling off the helmet and let her hair blow loose.

Twenty minutes later they were climbing the winding road that led to the village. Half-timbered houses with steeply pitched roofs clustered on either side, painted green and white or red and white. Occasionally they passed a pedestrian, an old man dressed in blue overalls, wearing a beret, a woman with a shopping basket. There were no pavements; the pedestrians stopped, pulled in close to the wall and watched as they rode by.

At the top of the hill the village opened out into a square. Standing apart from the houses were a couple of bigger, more imposing buildings. Jill read the words ‘
Mairie
’ on one of them. She remembered that
‘Mairie’
was the Town Hall. Steps led up from the square to a church whose steeple was visible beyond white vaults interspersed with dark green yews.

They slowed and Antoine guided the bike to a halt under the shade of a plane tree. As he switched off the engine the sudden quiet came as a shock. Jill pulled off her helmet, shook out her hair. A breeze rustled the leaves of the tree, but otherwise the village was quiet.

‘So, Irish, what do you think? It is beautiful
mon
pays
,
n’est-ce pas
?’

‘Really beautiful Antoine. I’ve never seen anything like it. Serene, majestic, yes, really beautiful.’ She looked around. ‘So where are we now?’

‘This is the village of my grandparents, my father’s family. Come, I show you something.’

They left their helmets with the bike and set off up the steps to the church. A rusty iron gate squeaked as Antoine pushed it open. If the village had seemed quiet, the churchyard was hushed. They made their way down narrow paths, past headstones and crypts, taller, more substantial vaults, most of them decorated with fresh flowers or carefully watered plants. Jill wondered where all the people were who tended the graves. There was no one in the cemetery except the two of them.

Antoine had stopped in front of a large vault with imposing doors. Carved above was the name Arantxa. Below was a list of names, men, women, children, all members of the Arantxa clan.

‘This was my great grandfather, he dies in the war. 1918.’ Antoine pointed at the inscription. ‘And then my grandfather, in the war of ’36. Fighting against Franco.’

’36? The Spanish Civil war?’

Jill read the inscription. Guernica, 1937.

‘He died in Guernica?’

An image of the famous painting by Picasso flashed into her mind.

‘Yes, Guernica, it was the capital of the Basque country, during the war, the war against Franco and the
Fascistas
.’

‘But isn’t the village, I thought it was in Spain?’

‘Spain, France, here we are the Basque country. Three plus four equals one.’

In answer to her puzzled looked he explained that there were four Basque provinces in Spain and three in France, making a total of one nation.

‘Oh.’ Jill looked at the inscription again. ‘Are there still members of your family here, I mean in the village?’

‘Most have gone now.’

Antoine’s face had grown sombre. He bowed his head, made the sign of the cross.

Jill hesitated. Then she reached out and took his hand.

Antoine lifted his head and his face split into a sudden, dazzling smile.

‘There are still some cousins, nearby. On my mother’s side. And my aunt.
Tatie
Marie. Come, we meet them. Life is for the living, no?’

Jill followed Antoine down to the square, wondering about all those people buried in the cemetery on the hill. They got on the bike again and retraced their route. At the bottom of the village, Antoine took a right turn past a signpost saying
Auberge chez Marie
and ten minutes later they were pulling into the courtyard of a large Basque half-timbered house. Through the avenue of dense-leaved mulberry trees Jill could make out a garden, a terrace and tables set with pink cloths. The sound of voices came from behind an open window, along with the clatter of saucepans and the hiss of steam.

Antoine led her through an opening in the box hedge, down a paved path and pushed open the door into a dim interior.

As her eyes accustomed to the change in light, she made out a reception desk and at the same time, a figure coming round from behind, hurrying to meet them.

‘Antoine,
mon petit cheri
!’

A small elegant lady wearing a formal flowered dress and heels had thrown her arms round Antoine. She was a good foot shorter than her nephew and had to stand on tiptoe as he bent to embrace her.

‘Tatie
, meet my friend Jill.’

Antoine’s aunt turned to Jill and greeted her in surprisingly good English.

‘So this is your friend from Ireland. Welcome Jill, I am Marie, the sister of Antoine’s
maman
. We have a lot of visitors from Ireland coming to our hotel. But everyone is out today, walking.’

‘Really? From Ireland?’

‘Yes really, your compatriots.’

She ushered Jill and Antoine outside to a table on the terrace set for two, explaining that the inn was a favourite stopping place for people touring the Basque country on their way to the cathedral of Santiago de Compostela in the north of Spain.

‘In English you call it the way of St James. Many pilgrims, or walkers, start here in the Pyrenees, usually at St-Jean-Pied-de-Port. Some are doing the whole pilgrimage on foot, but others come by coach, and then take a picnic and go out to walk during the day. So it is very quiet until the evening, when they return and then it becomes quite noisy and busy, they are all hungry after their walk. And thirsty–we have some good Irish whiskey in the bar! But I am sorry, I forget you too are hungry and thirsty, and maybe Jill you would like to use the Ladies room, no?’

Marie showed Jill the door to the toilets then went off to fetch drinks.

Well, thought Jill, catching her breath as she stood in front of the mirror. What a day of surprises this was turning out to be. She splashed her face with cold water and pulled a brush out of her bag. Good thing she’d thought to put on some sunscreen, she could already see a faint panda shape where her sunglasses had been. Santiago de Compostela, she’d had an auntie and uncle who’d done the pilgrimage years ago, she hadn’t realised that they were on one of the routes here in the Basque country. And what a lovely stopping place this was, the
auberge.
The toilets were sparkling clean, tiled in pretty blue and white Spanish motifs, the washbasin modern, a vase of wild flowers on the shelf that ran along the wall above.