Honey, Cinnamon, Lemons Ch. 11-12

'I'm sorry Polly. Is it inconvenient? Where's your husband?'

'He's in Canada and I'm left alone, again. It's not inconvenient at all, it's lovely to have company, I mean your company. Croissant? Pain au chocolat?'

'Oh, croissant first. Do you have any cheese?'

She brought him a half-eaten camembert, soft, warm and creamy, and he split his croissant and tucked in hungrily. 'Oh god, thank you, that's just what I need.' She poured them both coffee, and he gulped while she sipped.

'So, how did you get here?'

'Oh . . . I flew to Poitiers. On Friday. I have a friend near there and she let me work in her studio.'

'Who? Sab? Is she an artist?'

'What? Sab? No that's somebody else. How do you know her name?'

'You said it in your sleep.'

'Oh, well, no, it's somebody else. She's not really an artist, but she dabbles a bit. She has all the gear, paints and stuff, so I travelled light, didn't need to bring much.'

Polly looked across to Tim's shopping trolley and nodded. 'So I see. Sooo... she has all the gear and stuff. Including men's clothes? You didn't bring any apart from what you were wearing?

'No. That's why I was wearing shorts and...I mean, I came over on the spur of the moment, and...'

How old is she?'

'Who, Sab? Oh, about forty.

'Did you warn her you were coming to visit?'

'No...yes...I mean she invited me over for a break. Look, we were chatting online and I told her I was working on your painting and she said why not come and paint over here, close to where you are? So I thought it was a good idea, in case I needed to see you before I finish the picture, to finish it with you there to look at.'

'So you told her about me? What does she think about you painting a young woman?'

'I don't know really...I mean, nothing I suppose; I mean, why shouldn't I?'

Polly could see she was making him uncomfortable with her questions, but mischief drove her to continue.

'Did you tell her I'm only twenty-one? Young enough to be your granddaughter? Or didn't you bother going into details?'

'Look, she knows there's nothing between us. And she could see from the pictures that you're quite young.'

'Hmmmm, and is there anything between you? You and her?'

'No. We've just known each other for ages. We're just good friends.'

'That's an old cliché!' She softened and said, 'James, I mustn't tease you; you enjoy your breakfast. You can tell me all about her later, if you want; I know it's none of my business, but I'm dying to find out all about you. You're very sweet, you know.'

He blushed and bit into his croissant, and she couldn't resist teasing him a bit more.

'So, you've been chatting online?'

'Oh, it's just a way to stay in touch from time to time.'

'Do you chat to many women?'

'No. What about you?'

'I don't chat to women online! I don't chat to anybody online.'

He swallowed his mouthful, then said, 'But you told me you used to.'

'Ah, well, only to one person, and not any more, unfortunately. Still, you're here. I'll have to chat with you instead.'

'Have to chat with me?'

'Sorry, I said, 'have to' and I shouldn't of. I meant it'll be nice to chat with you.'

'Have.'

'What?'

'You should say 'shouldn't have', not 'shouldn't of'.'

His words stung her, touched a tender spot. 'Don't lecture me on my bloody English! Just because I haven't had a good education.'

'Polly, I'm very sorry. I won't do it again. I'm just old-fashioned. Sometimes I say thoughtless things, but I don't mean any harm. I'm sorry.'

He looked so crestfallen that she couldn't help smiling. 'James, you are...mature, and wise and intelligent, and I'm just a silly kid to you but "have" or "of", it doesn't matter, it's just words, what matters is the meanings and what's in your heart.'

'I know. I can tell you're intelligent, and not at all silly. Can we still be friends?'

'Yes of course we can. Hey, I googled Lucian Freud the other day. Are you as good as him?'

'No I'm not! Did you like him?'

'He's brilliant! I'm not sure I'd like him to paint me though; he does make people look very...I don't know, not very glamorous.' She eyed his dressing-gown. 'What are you going to wear today, I wonder?'

'Well, I've only got the stuff I came in.'

'Hmm...your clothes are in the laundry basket I'm afraid, I'll have to pop them in the machine before you can have them back.' She giggled. 'You had an accident last night.'

'What do you mean?'

'You wet yourself; but it was only on the floor and I cleaned it up, just a damp patch, not a puddle, and I had to clean you up too - blood everywhere, but nothing serious, just scratches, nothing to make a fuss about.'

'Oh god, I'm so embarrassed. I'm sorry.'

'It's OK, I'm used to it. It was my job you know; looking after old people. Sorry, I shouldn't have said old. You're not like them at all. You're very young for your age. Sorry, I'm making it worse.'

'No, that's OK. Thanks for looking after me. But what am I going to wear? I guess I'd better stay indoors till my clothes are dry.'

'Well, for now I'll lend you some of Malcolm's things; he's shorter than you so I have to turn up his jeans to fit him. I could let a pair down again; it'll only take a minute.'

'No, you mustn't go to the bother of that. I'll be off anyway when I feel better.'

'Oh, James! You can't just turn up and then run away again. Stay with me for a bit. Please.'

'I shouldn't stay really; I don't want to be a nuisance, best if I just give you the paintings and scram. God, I hope you like them, or one of them. I did them very quickly, but...'

'Oh James. Can I see them? Is that what you were carrying, that flat parcel? I put it in the corner on its edge, I hope that's alright, but I haven't opened it or looked.'

'I'm shy, now. But I'll have to show you sooner or later. Look, they are a present, if you like them. If you're not keen it doesn't matter.'

'I'm sure I'll love them. Them? You did two? Wow!'

'Different styles. Paint one until I'm tired, then have a rest by painting the other one. You get much more done that way.'

He brought across the package and she pushed aside the clutter to make room. He carefully undid the strings and laid the two pictures side by side.

'Don't touch, the paint's still wet.'

'Oh James, they're lovely! I really do love them. I'm not pretending at all, I really do! But why have you put a beauty spot on one? It makes me look like gran.'

'Oh sorry. I didn't do it; someone got into my room and did it while I was asleep.'

'That woman?'

'No a - a man. It's a long story. I'll take the spot off if I can get hold of some white spirit and a sharp knife, or even a bit of rag, it isn't hard yet; or a small paint brush.'

'No, leave it, then I'll have a portrait of gran to keep. How did you know she had a beauty spot?'

'You told me.'

'I want to kiss you!'

'No, Polly, you mustn't. I'm too old; I mean it's not decent.'

'Don't be silly! Pretend you're my grandad and let me hug you. What man? Her boyfriend, or husband? Not your boyfriend I hope!'

'No of course not; just someone she knows, but it's all a bit complicated.' He frowned and avoided her eyes as he made a couple of attempts to speak, then finally looked at her directly and said, 'Polly, listen. You told me the other day that you found me attractive and...I don't want you to feel like that. You're married and I'm old and that's that. Truth is, I find you attractive, but we mustn't do anything silly. I worry that you're too affectionate. People who are too affectionate can get hurt, or can hurt other people. What about your husband?'

'Well he's not too affectionate! And he's in Canada. Anyway, I'm not a silly little girl with a crush. I know you have to be careful. I found out the hard way with Tim.'

'The man you met online?'

'Text chat only, we didn't meet. Actually I did fall for him hard, even though we never saw each other. And I wasn't going to, just looking for fun and education. I promise you I'll be good. But you have to let me like you a bit in my own way; I can't help wanting to hug nice people; and you are so nice and sweet.'

'Well, hugging's nice but don't forget that the person being hugged might find it a bit disturbing. I mean, you are very attractive and you could make people fall for you if you go around hugging them. You have to control your exuberance for their sake. Especially if you're dealing with an old divorced man.'

'Oh James, I'm so sorry. So you're scared of falling for me? Do you really fancy me then?'

He groaned, 'Oh Polly. I really like you a hell of a lot, but fancy is the wrong word.'

'Oh OK. That'll have to do then I suppose. I'd better wash up.' Her eyes became hard and she didn't look at him as she stood up. She cleared the table without a word, then went into the kitchen, ran hot water onto the dirty plates, and clattered the crockery noisily. When she went back into the living room to tidy the table she flicked a glance at him; he was sitting with his head down and didn't look up at her. She had to bite her lip to keep herself from saying anything.

She stamped upstairs and fished out a cotton short-sleeved shirt and a pair of Malcolm's jeans and began to unpick the stitching round the turn-ups. By the time she had finished she had calmed down, and she went back down to the living room. She managed to smile at him. 'Here you are. Get dressed and we'll go for a walk, I can show you Malthus.'

'Oh...I'd rather not go out just now, I'm a bit tired. Thanks for the clothes, but...is there a clothes shop in Malthus?'

He was relieved when her face softened and she burst out laughing. 'Oh god, no! You can buy knicker elastic and cotton in the florists, but for clothes you need to go to Montmorillon; and then you wouldn't really get anything decent, unless you want to look like a local yokel'

She left him to put on Malcolm's things, then came back to inspect him. The jeans were still a bit short, but he looked respectable enough not to be embarrassing. 'You look great! Better than those awful shorts. Who chose that get-up for you? Was it her? Your mystery lady friend? Sorry, I really shouldn't criticise, it's not fair.'

'Oh that's ok, I only wore them for a special occasion.'

'Now, what kind of occasion could that be? Red shorts and a blue t-shirt! Are you alright? You look like you haven't shaved since I last saw you, and you don't seem to be like I remember you; I thought you were quite smart. Have you been pining for me and gone to pot?'

'Polly, could you possibly not ask me what I've been doing? I'll tell you all about it when I feel a bit better.'

'Well, I'm going to put your clothes in the machine. And you can spruce yourself up; we've got a shower-room downstairs and that can be yours. I'll show you round the house first so you know where everything is. Come on.'

She took him through to the kitchen, which was almost as big as the living room. 'This is the kitchen. That door leads to downstairs, and up here is the bedroom and stuff.' He followed cautiously as she skipped up a steep winding oak staircase, and she showed him the main bedroom and a second one which was set up as an office; both rooms were painted white and looked out onto the street. A shower room overlooked the long, narrow back garden, which was mainly lawn but with a vegetable plot at the end and, beyond, a neat modern house in a large garden, a row of tall slim poplars and then rolling countryside with hedged fields, cows and patches of woodland here and there.

'Madame Rousseau lives there. She's ninety-one and lovely; she sits looking out of her front window all day and waves when I go in the garden. She loves to see everything that goes on in Malthus; she can't go out so we all do her shopping for her and pop in for a chat every day or two.'

She took him back down then, and through a door in the kitchen which led to a bright room at the back of the house, with a small open terrace set one floor above garden level. They looked out across the top of a large vine-covered pergola, and in the distance Madame Rousseau's window swung open and she waved to them. Polly waved back, 'Now the whole village knows I've got a guest. Her eyes are like a hawk, so she knows you're older than me. I'll tell her you're my grandad. Come and see the garden.'

Another steep winding staircase led down to a large room at garden level. 'Shower and loo's in there. And there's your clic-clac,' she pointed to another sofa-bed; 'That's French for folding bed.' She took him out through the French windows and they were standing beneath the vine, which was lush and heavy with bunches of small green grapes. 'The grapes go black when they get ripe and you can make wine, except that Malcolm doesn't like it so he doesn't bother and we let Pierre have the grapes; he makes loads every year and he gives us some brandy that he gets from it. Actually he doesn't make it himself but there's a big machine that steams and smokes and smells and it comes round every spring and the brandy drips out. Guillaume drives it. It's amazing!

'And this is my lawn except that Malcolm has to mow it, 'cos I can't work the mower, but I try to look after the flowers and I grow vegetables. We have courgettes and melons and aubergines, and brilliant tomatoes, and artichokes and cucumbers and radishes and loads of stuff. Everything just jumps out of the ground!'

The vegetable patch was weedy and scruffy, but full of healthy plants; green tomatoes, small courgettes, baby melons....

'Look, blackcurrants, and raspberries! I love them with my breakfast when they're ready! Let's pick some French beans and a courgette and we'll have them for dinner! Oh god, there's a couple of artichokes, I adore them! Wait, I'll get the secateurs!'

They carried the harvest back to the house in a colander. 'Isn't it brilliant here? Do you grow veggies?'

'No, Polly. You've seen my flat.'

'Oh, sorry, James, I forgot.' She pressed his hand sympathetically, and was pleased that he let her do it without making his usual fuss about touching. She enjoyed the feel of his warm hand, rather bony fingers of course, but then he wasn't plump like Malcolm and he did work with his hands, if painting could be called work. She imagined his bony knuckles touching her cheek; his fingertip pulling down her bottom lip, telling her it made her look like a sulky little girl; his arm slipping round her waist; his experienced hand caressing her hip; she turning to him and pressing her breasts against his chest and looking up into his brown eyes; he struggling to resist her animal attraction, then losing the battle and bringing his lips towards hers...

'Yes, you've done well! Is it easy to get loads of manure out here in the country?'

'What?'

'Horse-shit, cow-dung, that sort of thing. Marvellous if you rot it down well, so it doesn't smell so bad. When we had a house with a garden I grew runner beans and potatoes, I used to get chicken manure from a neighbour who kept chickens - it really stunk. My wife wasn't very keen, of course.'

She let go of his hand, and was annoyed to see him rub his palms together as if washing them clean.

'Polly, where did you disappear to last Thursday - Thursday week - when you were supposed to come round? What happened?'

She frowned and turned to set the colander down on the doorstep, then looked back at him with a bright smile. 'Oh, well, I just needed to get back to London, away from Reading. It was my ex, to be honest. I saw him on Wednesday evening after I left you, and he was a bit unpleasant - childish! Anyway, I calmed him down, but I really didn't want to be where he could find me. I sorted it out that you'd be in the clear then I picked up my stuff and got a train. Then Thursday morning I got the Eurostar; it should've cost a bloody fortune to go back a day early, but I pulled a weepy and made the man sorry for me; he was so sweet about it and fixed it so I only had to pay an extra fifty quid. I'm sorry I let you down, but I was really worried about my ex at first; he'd been aggressive with me a couple of times when I was with him and I think he was getting into drugs and stuff. And then, trying to frighten me, right by gran's grave! I could've killed him actually afterwards! Anyway, that's typical of him; it's why I first went online, looking for a more mature man who would be kind to me.'

She looked at Tim and thought 'Poor James, he's white as a sheet.'

'James, are you OK? If you're feeling a bit fragile we can just chill all day.'

#

And so they did. He snoozed away the rest of the morning on the sofa bed while she did a wash and then made lunch - a garden salad and baguette and the rest of the camembert, and a spread made from tuna which came in a tin. Afterwards she apologised for not having a television. 'I love being away from it all here. I don't want to know about what's going on in the world, especially not in England. France is so romantic and foreign, even the news isn't so boring - I sometimes hear it on the radio, but I can't follow it properly in French, they speak so quickly! Anyway, I'm going to pop over to Madame Rousseau; you just relax and get over your bermp.'

'Bermp?'

'Inspector Clouseau; the Pink Panther, Gran loved it.'

She woke him up again at six o' clock. 'Dinner in fifteen minutes. Can you be a man and open some wine? Can we have Beaujolais? It's really cheap from Jean-Yves -- two fifty a bottle because it's nouveau, but it's three years old so he can't sell it to restaurants.'

'Who's Jean-Yves?'

'Our village wine merchant. He's very sexy, half-moon glasses and a naughty grin; I know he's being flirty even when he talks too fast - especially when he talks too fast! He's just up the road; he has a huge tumbledown barn full of wine, we can go and see him tomorrow. Is Beaujolais OK?'

'That's lovely, Polly, lead me to it!'

'While you're at it, open a bottle of St Emilion as well and let it breathe; pop it on the cooker hood to warm it a bit.'

She made him sit at the table and brought in two steaming artichokes and a dish of vinaigrette for dipping. She poured out two generous tumblers of wine, closed her eyes piously, said 'Rubbadub-dub, thank god for the grub,' and knocked back her drink before starting to eat.

She made a performance out of eating her artichoke, dipping each scale into the dressing then popping the soft end into her mouth, sucking and scraping with her teeth, eyes half closed, before discarding the tough bit into a bowl in the middle of the table.

'Oh god, these are heaven! So sexy to eat! Don't you love them?'

'Mmmm I do; they're excellent; well done for growing them! I've never tried.'

When they reached the centre he followed her lead as she cleaned off all the hairy choke with her knife. They poured dressing onto the hearts and she sighed contentedly. 'Let it soak in for a minute.' She swigged and stared fondly at him with droopy lids.

'James, why do people make such a big deal about sex? It's just people being nice to each other.'

'Well, yes, but there are emotional and social issues. People like, for instance, not to have a partner who is cheating on them.'

'But cheating isn't cheating if they don't know. Malcolm wouldn't mind a bit if I had some fun while he's away, 'cos he wouldn't know. I bet he gets up to things. Mind you, it's difficult to have fun here, everybody knows everything that goes on.' She topped up his glass, looked to see how much was left, then poured it all into her glass. 'I only took the last bit because it's got dregs in it. Crunchy dregs. I like to chew them; I'm a real weirdo! God knows what funny stuff I'd eat if I ever got pregnant!'

He swirled his wine, cloudy and aromatic. 'It tastes very...authentic. Proper wine, not just factory stuff.' He lowered his eyes and said, 'Do you think you will get pregnant?'