The interior of the shop was gloomy after the bright summer sun. As I adjusted my gaze I saw a young woman looking haughtily back at me. In my haltering French I started to ask her if she knew where the village that we needed was situated. She put her hand up like a policeman in rather an imperious manner.
“Stop, stop, Madame. Do I look like the kind of woman who cannot speak English?” I hung my head in shame although I was not quite sure why. “Oh” I said and wished I had not asked for her help. With that she pulled her pinafore over her head and said “The shop is not busy, I will close up for a few minutes. Wait for me at the front of the store.”
As I got back into the car, she whizzed around the corner in an old Renault and took us the ten miles that we needed to go. We waved our thanks; she scowled and was on her way. I love it when something unexpectedly good happens; it confirms your faith in human nature!
The farmhouse loomed large into view and we all stared hard as we had not really known what to expect. Grant opened the door with a huge key that, as directed on his notes, was under the third stone on the left. The door creaked as he pushed it open and the four of us peered round the corner. A dim pall was cast over everything and a solitary mouse took a moment to stare at the intruders and then scurried across the stone kitchen floor.
“Great start” mumbled Grant as we stumbled forward. We all fanned out to investigate the rambling house and discovered that there were nine bedrooms on three floors. Enough for all our guests in comfort we calculated. On the third floor there was an attic bedroom with a huge four poster bed with an old iron chandelier perched precariously over it.
I reached out and gently patted my hand on the old damask bedspread. It had that vaguely cold, damp feeling that sends shivers down your spine. “We will take this room” I whispered to my husband as I thought the rest of the house might be warmer for our guests.
Slowly over the next two days they began to arrive………..