Page 31 of The Magic of Provence (A Year in France #3)

‘Where’s Heidi?’

‘She can’t come with us today. Didier’s looking after her.’

It felt different being in Christophe’s car without the back seat being filled with the huge, gentle dog. It felt oddly a little more intimate, as if a chaperone had taken the day off.

Fi stole a peek at Christophe. She rather liked this new feeling. ‘Where are we going?’

‘To a village called Puget-Théniers. It’s about an hour’s drive up into the mountains.’

‘Why couldn’t Heidi come?’

‘Because she would have had to stay in the car and it’s far too hot for that.’

‘Why would she have to stay in the car? What’s in Puget-Théniers?’

Asking one ‘why’ question after another made Fi feel like a small child.

But it wasn’t the only feeling that was childlike this morning.

Being with Christophe like this – completely alone, with no hint of a chaperone – heading towards an unknown adventure was creating a sparkle of excitement that reminded her of her earliest memories of waking up on Christmas morning knowing that something amazingly wonderful was about to happen.

‘A train station,’ Christophe told her. ‘We are taking a special train from Puget-Théniers to another village called Annot. It is le Train des Pignes à Vapeur . A…’ He seemed to be focussing on the traffic around them. Or maybe searching for a word. ‘A vintage train,’ he said.

Vapeur … Almost an English word. ‘Steam?’ Fi offered.

‘Oui. C’est ca . I’ve been wanting to do this train trip for a very long time.

It’s a good thing that we’re collecting photos for Nonna.

I was trying to think of something different for us to do and it made me remember the train and it will be perfect.

It’s exactly the sort of thing lovers would do for a day together.

’ Christophe threw one of his gorgeous smiles over his shoulder. ‘It will be fun, I promise.’

But Fi was still hearing the echoes of his earlier words. Or one in particular.

Lovers …

Just the sound of the word, let alone its implications, made Fi’s breath catch in her throat.

She had to press her fingers against her lips and finish breathing in through her nose to stop it turning into a gasp.

A door had opened, letting in flashes of daydreams – ones that had somehow been absorbed into the fantasy game of being a couple – and allowing them to wrap themselves around her.

And how could she stop them? Here she was, on a glorious summer’s day, wearing a pretty long, layered sundress she’d purchased at the market last week, with a soft straw hat ready to protect her from the sun, in the company of the most beautiful man in the world, who’d invited her to go to lunch with him.

A man who was completely at ease. Maybe as excited as she was about the adventure to come.

‘The train only runs over summer. It’s a tourist attraction but many French people love it also. It’s famous. So is the railway line. I believe this is the only original part left of les Chemins de Fer de Provence – the old railway.’

‘ Chemins de fer ,’ Fi repeated, adding the words to her increasing vocabulary. ‘Isn’t chemin a path?’

‘ Ouais . Literally, an iron path.’

‘Ah… fer is iron.’

‘And you are a maréchale-ferrante . A farrier. Or there’s another English word with iron in it. I forget.’

‘An ironsmith?’

Christophe nodded.

‘Blacksmith is another word for my job. Did you know there is a brownsmith as well?’

‘ Non …’ Christophe’s eyes were wide as he glanced sideways. ‘Tell me all about him.’

Oh, he loved knowledge, this man. His curiosity was as childlike as Fi’s ‘why’ questions and those tendrils of excitement, and it was one of Christophe’s most endearing traits.

He was genuinely interested in the world – and the people – around him.

He had an intelligence that was fast and hungry and he cared.

About people. The world. Life. And, above all, his family.

Fi could imagine him sitting with his nonna one day soon, entertaining her by talking about the new things he had learned about smithing.

It was important that she dredged up every bit of knowledge she’d gathered over the years.

‘A smith is someone who works with metal. Goldsmiths and silversmiths explain themselves. A brownsmith works with metals like brass and copper. A blacksmith is an expert in making shoes for horses and there’s a whitesmith as well, also called a tinsmith, who makes the pretty polished things like bits and buckles and stirrups.

Some smiths are incredible artists, who make sculptures and furniture and oh…

so many things. I’d love to do that one day.

I could make artwork for gardens. Maybe Ellie could expand her new business.

We could call it Les Chemins de Fer et … what’s the word for stone? Pebbles?’

‘Stone is pierre . Pebbles is cailloux . Could it be Les Chemins de Pierre et Fer ?’

It sounded even better when Christophe said it. He was nodding with approval at the idea, as well.

‘Do you want to do that one day more than having a riding school in a forest or in the mountains or beside a river?’

Goodness… did Christophe remember every single thing she said to him? Fi thought about the question for a moment and then narrowed her eyes as she pursed her lips. This whole day was a fantasy, so why not throw her future into the dream?

‘I want both ,’ she declared.

Christophe’s laughter filled the car. ‘And you shall have it, amore , I’m sure of it.’

* * *

There was something about trains and small boys.

Christophe Brabant’s father had adored them enough to keep his immaculate Hornby train set with its shiny black engine, beautifully detailed carriages, the clip-together rails and the waiting room in the hope of having a son to share the joy with all over again.

Le Train des Pignes à Vapeur was that train set, which Christophe and his father had spent so many happy hours playing with, come to life and he needed a moment to swallow the prickly lump that suddenly formed in his throat.

Like going to the Fête du Citron , playing with the train had ended when his father died, but Christophe was quite sure that his mother had the set packed away in a box somewhere.

Maybe she and Nonna both dreamed of seeing him sharing the toy with his own son. Or daughter.

Part of that lump was a knot of grief for his father. Another part was grief for the children he would never have himself. How could he even contemplate having a family when he was incapable of giving the mother of his children the kind of love that held a family together through thick and thin?

The moment was broken decisively when the engine puffed an enormous plume of smoke from its chimney and a piercing whistle sounded.

Fi squeaked and clutched his arm but her eyes held a gleam of absolute glee.

Christophe’s laughter swept the ghosts of his grief far enough away to vanish into the cloudless blue sky like the mix of smoke and steam coming from the chimney of a train due to depart any second.

‘ Allons-y ! Let’s go!’

Christophe led Fi to their carriage as the whistle sounded again, jumped on board and then leaned down to offer his hand to help her climb up the narrow steps.

They found their seats and he insisted that she sat beside the window.

The train jerked and then slowly began moving and the small boy inside Christophe wanted to squeak with excitement the way Fi had when the whistle had first sounded.

The train conductor came to check their tickets and Fi nudged Christophe.

‘Why has he got those little pine cones stuck to his cap?’

‘Because this is le train de pignes – the train of pine cones.’

‘Why is that its name?’

It was obviously not the first time the conductor had answered this question. Christophe listened to a well-rehearsed response in French and then translated for Fi as the conductor moved on.

‘There are apparently two reasons. The first is that we are going through country that is covered with pine tree forests.’

Fi glanced out of the window as he gestured towards it but turned instantly back to watch his face. Her expression made him feel as if every word he was saying was important.

That he was important.

‘The train used to go so slowly that people could get off and collect the pine cones,’ he continued. ‘The other reason could be that the pine cones were used for fuel if they started to run low on coal to keep the engine going.’

It was going steadily now, the rocking motion and the sound of the train a delight.

Windows got hastily shut when they went through tunnels and the smoke was trapped around them but then opened to let some air into carriages that were already hot enough to be stifling.

It was a relief when they stopped for a break at a station along the way, giving everyone a chance to stretch their legs and admire the train from the outside again.

Christophe and Fi went straight to the engine.

They watched a man with a soot-streaked face shovelling coal into the furnace and sympathised with what the job would be like on a hot summer’s day.

They admired the shine of the brass rim around the headlights and agreed that the restoration of this train had been a labour of love.

And then it was time to get a photograph.

For Nonna.

Christophe took out his phone and took some pictures of the train and of Fi with the side of the engine behind her. Another passenger smiled at him, speaking with an American accent.

‘Would you like me to take a photo of you and your lovely girlfriend?’

‘Yes. Thank you.’

This was perfetto . Christophe handed over his phone, positioned himself beside Fi and put his arm over her shoulders. It wasn’t hard to smile, especially when she leaned into him so that her head was on his shoulder. When he looked down he found that she was looking up at him as if… as if…

As if she was his girlfriend. His copine .

As if they were head over heels in love.