restaurant bar to be a place of ease and welcome. He passed them the uncapped beers, fore-going glasses for these two farm hands. They wouldn’t want that finesse. He felt in tune with their needs at the end of a long day. They needed to quench a thirst and relax in men’s company. They did not need to listen to the women of their home bickering and shouting at each other, or their father’s TV programme, cacophonous in the corner.
Nicolas raised his bottle in salute to Jerome. “Ah, that’s good!” He spoke after a long slug of his drink.
Jerome went to the end of the table and, taking up his axe, used the handle to give the log underneath a giant shove. Sparks erupted up the chimney, but the flames leaped, and the whole room grew in warmth. They passed a few minutes of silence while they each supped their beer, then made idle chatter.
“So what’s up with M. Demille?” Alexandre asked.
“I’ve no idea,” responded Jerome. “What do you mean?”
“He and Madame Altier were having a right good gossip this lunchtime when I went out to unload the wood from the trailer. I could hear them through the hedge out on the road. She said the word ‘disgrace’ and the name of this place.” He laughed and shook his head, taking the sting out of his words. “Then he was ranting about the English and how they are all moving here and buying up property. They must have realised I was there after that and it all went quieter. I know they were still blethering though.”
“M. Demille would rather I closed. I’ve never done anything to him,” Jerome said. “But her, Madame Altier, she just doesn’t want the competition since she does meals at that B and B. She’s expensive, though, for what she offers. That’s what I understand. Her vegetables are not too fresh either. The deserts are just pots from the supermarché, too,” he added.
There was no love lost between them. Madame Altier had been a good friend with Jerome’s ex-wife, Hélène.
Hélène had departed after one more very heated row about the state of the kitchen. She liked to dominate in this department. As with many wives of her generation, she believed that she should run the household, including the domestic arrangements for the restaurant/bar. Jerome was clear that this was his work and she had no place interfering with his arrangements, no matter how chaotic his management. He produced good, tasty food using fresh vegetables, meat and fish. Most of the meat had been running around the yard not one hour earlier than the preparation required. His organisation left much to be desired, and she could not stand for it. She moved out and took the three children with her. They went to live with her parents several years ago, if this was the real reason, and she never set foot in the village again.
People had much to talk about on the subject, as with any small place world-wide. Everyone had an opinion and a side to take. These divides managed to survive the rigours of time until few remembered the initial cause of the rift. Still, they persisted. Son took the side of father or mother and brother with brother or sister until the gulf grew and deepened.
Conversation between the three men, propping up the ancient oak bar, was minimal as was their habit. The atmosphere was convivial and relaxed as they leaned against the ancient wood. Forsaking the table and chairs, they preferred to stand in the age old way of men drinking beer.
The door opened again and the upright and righteous figure of M. Demille entered. Like many of the inhabitants of such villages, he was of the older generation. However he viewed himself, he still wore blue working dungarees and flat cap, almost a uniform, and his florid face sported a drooping grey moustache. This was a remnant from his army days that demonstrated that he was French to his core.
“Bonsoir,” remarked Nicolas, standing to shake hands. Alexandre followed suit. Everyone understood where allegiances lay, but it
Nicolas raised his bottle in salute to Jerome. “Ah, that’s good!” He spoke after a long slug of his drink.
Jerome went to the end of the table and, taking up his axe, used the handle to give the log underneath a giant shove. Sparks erupted up the chimney, but the flames leaped, and the whole room grew in warmth. They passed a few minutes of silence while they each supped their beer, then made idle chatter.
“So what’s up with M. Demille?” Alexandre asked.
“I’ve no idea,” responded Jerome. “What do you mean?”
“He and Madame Altier were having a right good gossip this lunchtime when I went out to unload the wood from the trailer. I could hear them through the hedge out on the road. She said the word ‘disgrace’ and the name of this place.” He laughed and shook his head, taking the sting out of his words. “Then he was ranting about the English and how they are all moving here and buying up property. They must have realised I was there after that and it all went quieter. I know they were still blethering though.”
“M. Demille would rather I closed. I’ve never done anything to him,” Jerome said. “But her, Madame Altier, she just doesn’t want the competition since she does meals at that B and B. She’s expensive, though, for what she offers. That’s what I understand. Her vegetables are not too fresh either. The deserts are just pots from the supermarché, too,” he added.
There was no love lost between them. Madame Altier had been a good friend with Jerome’s ex-wife, Hélène.
Hélène had departed after one more very heated row about the state of the kitchen. She liked to dominate in this department. As with many wives of her generation, she believed that she should run the household, including the domestic arrangements for the restaurant/bar. Jerome was clear that this was his work and she had no place interfering with his arrangements, no matter how chaotic his management. He produced good, tasty food using fresh vegetables, meat and fish. Most of the meat had been running around the yard not one hour earlier than the preparation required. His organisation left much to be desired, and she could not stand for it. She moved out and took the three children with her. They went to live with her parents several years ago, if this was the real reason, and she never set foot in the village again.
People had much to talk about on the subject, as with any small place world-wide. Everyone had an opinion and a side to take. These divides managed to survive the rigours of time until few remembered the initial cause of the rift. Still, they persisted. Son took the side of father or mother and brother with brother or sister until the gulf grew and deepened.
Conversation between the three men, propping up the ancient oak bar, was minimal as was their habit. The atmosphere was convivial and relaxed as they leaned against the ancient wood. Forsaking the table and chairs, they preferred to stand in the age old way of men drinking beer.
The door opened again and the upright and righteous figure of M. Demille entered. Like many of the inhabitants of such villages, he was of the older generation. However he viewed himself, he still wore blue working dungarees and flat cap, almost a uniform, and his florid face sported a drooping grey moustache. This was a remnant from his army days that demonstrated that he was French to his core.
“Bonsoir,” remarked Nicolas, standing to shake hands. Alexandre followed suit. Everyone understood where allegiances lay, but it
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