Chapter 02/06
No braces in this chapter. Feel free to skip ;-)
Both ladies are busy during the next few minutes: Ms. Martin is scurrying around in the kitchen and Lea is clearing out the bag that contains everything she had needed in the hospital over the past few days.
As if following a secret sign, Lea drops her pajamas on the floor after a few minutes - they have to be washed anyway - grins and makes her way to the kitchen. Just with the difference, that the sign was not that secret, mysterious and inaudible to begin with: The door of the sideboard, behind which the tall glasses are stored, makes such a peculiar creaking noise that it can be heard all over the house.
And when this little door is opened, it can only mean one thing: "Can I have two scoops of ice cream in my iced coffee?" Leah calls ahead.
"If you like..."
"And a waffle with it - or two! - and whipped cream on top and cocoa and sprinkles and chocolate sauce and ..." She falls silent when she arrives in the kitchen. Her eyes widen and the corners of her mouth twist into a big grin when she sees what is laid out on the small buffet:
There is a large tray with steaming hot coffee in a large mug for the mother. Sugar shaker and a small milk carafe next to it. Two plates, on each a large piece of bewitchingly fragrant apple pie with a mountain of whipped cream. For each one a scoop of vanilla ice cream in a small bowl with homemade rhubarb compote.
"Do you still want two scoops in your iced coffee, despite that?" asks the mother, pointing to the tray with a spoon.
"Really, how can you ask that, mom?" Lea grins with big eyes. Her mouth is watering and she is sure that everyone in a wide area should hear her stomach rumble. "Sometimes I think you can do magic ..."
"It helped that I knew what time you were to be discharged ..." Ms. Martin, obviously delighted with the praise, is now generously sprinkling chocolate flakes over the whipped cream of the iced coffee, which - "child-friendly" - contains significantly more cocoa than coffee: "Could you maybe fetch the cake forks? And if you want, a long spoon for yourself ..."
"Will do!" The drawer with the cutlery also makes a creaking noise. But that's no wonder, because the sideboard, like the rest of the kitchen, is almost a hundred years old. And the kitchen furniture is nowhere near as old as the house itself.
Old and of course not comparable to a "modern house": Right angles are nowhere to be found; the windows are small and hard to open. There are no window-blinds, and the shutters are more for decoration. Most of the walls are "just" plastered mud bricks and the solid wood floor is so curled and twisted in places, especially in the corridor, that they have to be constantly careful not to stub their toes.
And yet the house by no means gives the appearance of a ruin. On the contrary. Even the Dubois family, who a few years ago built a low-energy house with all the bells and whistles next door, has to admit that the old house is "charming".
The outer walls were newly whitewashed a few years ago; the beams of the half-timber framework are dark brown and in good shape; the window frames and shutters, even if they don't close properly, have been repainted and are beautiful to look at. The black slate shingles on the roof contrast nicely with the white of the walls and blue of the windows.
Of course, cosmetic repairs would be needed, just as it wouldn't hurt if a carpenter would take a look at the furniture. Pretty much every wooden connection in the house creaks; a couple of shingles on the roof are cracked and "maybe" one or the other of the shutters has a few varnish tears ... after all, Ms. Martin is not a professional painter. But none of it is really important; they are - as said - nothing but cosmetic repairs. And the simple yet beautifully decorated chests of drawers and cupboards will last another hundred years even without professional help, if the residents so desire.
The soft "clink" when the mother puts the iced coffee on the tray brings Lea back to the here and now. "Where were you in your thoughts?"
"I just thought how strange it is here," sighs Lea. "You know, mom, but ... I like it here ..."
The mother raises her eyebrows: "What's THAT supposed to mean?"
Lea looks a little guiltily: "I didn't mean to say that I want to leave here. Not at all, I like it here. But you also have to admit that this is not a 'normal' house and that a lot of my classmates couldn't even imagine living 'like this' ... "
She doesn't want to admit it, but Ms. Martin is a little hurt by that remark. After all, this is her "dream home" and hearing her daughter talk like that is like a stab in the heart. A very small stab, mind you, because she knows well enough that Lea is basically right. It IS a "strange" house after all.
Ms. Martin, however, can't think of anything better than to live here. After separating from her husband - when Lea was but one year old - she wanted to leave Paris. Leave the overcrowded area behind and go into the countryside. Here, practically directly at the English Channel, just a few minutes from Calais, stands this house that she immediately had fallen in love with. Of course, the house had to be fixed up, but it was worth that effort ... and Lea knows nothing else than to call this house her home.
Many years ago, it was a cottage of a larger farm; the house where the old parents lived after the younger generation took over. There isn't much left that has survived of said farm: just this house and the garden behind it. Over the decades, civilization had gradually closed in on the once lonely farm and now this old house is just one of many in one of many streets.
For some reason it wasn't razed to the ground to make way for new buildings back then. Maybe - maybe (!) - because it is one of the few houses in the area that can't be denied having its own character? Not one of the dozens of almost identical prefabricated houses of the last few years, but a house on which one can read its history. A house that - strange as it sounds - seems proud of its history. A house that its owner is particularly proud of.
She carries the tray outside onto the small terrace. Of course - how could it be otherwise - the stones have also warped over time, so that it is always a bit of a gamble to be able to arrange the small table and chairs wobble-free. Ms. Martin nods resolutely: The levelling of the terrace will definitely be her next project!
"I had realized this in the hospital ..." continues Lea, without suspecting anything of the mother's thoughts: "Of course it's nice not always having to worry not to clog the toilet and such. But ... "she sighs theatrically," this is my home. And somehow, I missed it ... ", with a silly grin, she pats one of the old wooden beams.
"What did they do to you in the hospital?", The mother shakes her head with a smile.
"It's just nice to be able to sleep in my own bed again. Especially when I'm greeted like that", Lea points to the tray and reaches for her iced coffee.
Of course, not everything in the house is a hundred years old or even older. The previous owners - or was it the owners before them ... or the owners before them? - had provided for electric light. There have been no wash bowls in the bedrooms for a long time; the little wooden outhouse has not been the toilet for decades and an electric water heater has recently been installed to provide warm water in the bathroom. A modern flat screen TV hangs on the wall in the living room and the computer is standing in the corner of that room. And of course, both residents have their own mini-computers in the form of smartphones.
But that is practically the end of modern comfort. Due to the earth-floor, the humidity in the cellar is so high that the vegetables stored there sprout faster than one can say "Sacré Bleu"; in winter, thanks to the wood stove, the living room - apart from the kitchen - is the only warm place in the house and what cannot be prepared in the microwave is still cooked on a wood-fuelled oven.
And yet Ms. Martin cannot imagine anything other than living in this very house. Of course, the garden also had a big influence on this decision. The house had stood empty for a long time and the garden was accordingly overgrown. And yet it had "spoken" to the woman who had walked wide eyed across the property with the agent. Now, after a lot of work - both indoors and outdoors - and a dozen years, the house and garden have been refurbished and tidied up and are beautiful again.
A house with a history and a garden where the grass seems greener, and the trees are taller than those of the neighbours. A sea of flowers in front of the house, now swaying in a gentle breeze. The long, narrow walled gravel driveway that looks as if it wants to invite visitors to another time.
Behind the house is a large garden, significantly larger than several of the neighbouring gardens put together. With large bushes and gnarled trees, some of which are as old as the house. Or maybe even older ... the majestic oak in the middle of the garden certainly already stood here before the farm. Elderberries, cherries, plums, mirabelles, pears and apples grow here, just like blackberries, raspberries, strawberries, currants and a lot more. Only the quince tree was planted by Ms. Martin when she moved in.
At first, she had also considered digging a pond, but she was afraid that her daughter, who was still very young at the time, could do "nonsense" and put herself in danger. As it turned out three days ago, her daughter is not past this stage even more than a decade later ...
It's true: the house certainly has its own peculiarities; it almost seems fallen out of time. But in return the inhabitants are rewarded with - among other things - a beautiful vista of their own garden, which is glowing brightly in all colours. And not far away, the "Pas-de-Calais", the English Channel, glitters bluish in the light of the sun. On a good day - like today - the white cliffs of Dover can be seen in the distance.
And the neighbour, who apparently felt that he could not gain any new information by sticking around, has thankfully moved the lawn mowing to the other side of his house, so that the noise pollution is also kept within limits.
Or in a few words: It is peaceful and beautiful here.
The fact that the ravages of time - despite all of Ms. Martins work - not only gnaw on the house, but also leave their traces on the garden, can be seen from the broken branch that still lies under one of the apple trees and that is responsible for the fact that the younger resident of the house now wears a colourful cast on her right arm.
"I don't think I have asked you this before, but did you actually choose the colour yourself?"
Lea looks down at the plaster cast on her right forearm and smiles: "Surprised?"
"A little bit. I would have thought that you would have chosen a ... well ... 'less flamboyant' colour ..." The mother quickly adds: "Not that this is a bad colour ..."
"I would have, if I could have ..." Lea sighs a little. "You know, mom, the people - that is, the doctors and nurses - were really nice and all ... But sometimes I had the feeling that I was already too old for the children's wing ..." She nods and raises her arm with the cast, "and THAT is the best example!"
She fishes the rest of the vanilla ice cream out of the bowl with her spoon and eats it with delight. The rhubarb compote did not survive long either. Her lips show a fine "milk moustache" from the whipped cream of the iced coffee.
"I was only allowed to choose between this colour - I think one of the nurses called it 'bubblegum-pink' - squeaky-yellow, neon-blue and puke-green. The yellow and blue hurt my eyes and that green was particularly nasty to look at ... so I had no choice ... Because 'white' is apparently MUCH too boring for children and only for adults or something like that ... "
"Do I hear a slight bitterness there?"
"Nope, not at all", Lea grins.
