The French House E-Book

Nick Alexander

• Herausgeber: Corvus
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Sprache: Englisch

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2013

Beschreibung

The Top 10 E-book Hit: over 200,000 copies sold to date CC is trapped by a job she no longer loves in an unfriendly city. So when her new boyfriend decides it's time to sell up and move to the South of France, she decides in seconds to change her life. After all, who wouldn't pick an azure sea, aperitifs and sunshine over a dreary commute and a rainy climate? She hadn't expected a tumbledown farmhouse in the middle of nowhere. Or a motley assortment of surly builders, eccentric farmers and a resentful, terrifying neighbour - who happens to be her boyfriend's aunt. Suddenly, CC's dream of a place in the sun is looking more like a nightmare. Does she have the courage to stick it out, and make a home of her French house?

Leseprobe

Nick Alexander was born in Margate, and has lived and worked in the UK, the USA and France. He is the author of the five-part ‘50 Reasons’ series of novels, featuring lovelorn Mark, and when he isn’t writing, he is the editor of the gay literature site BIGfib.com. Nick lives in the southern French Alps with two mogs, a couple of goldfish and a complete set of Pedro Almodóvar films.

Visit his website at www.nick-alexander.com

Also by Nick Alexander

The Case of the Missing Boyfriend

The Half-Life of Hannah

The 50 Reasons Series

50 Reasons to Say Goodbye

Sottopassaggio

Good Thing, Bad Thing

Better Than Easy

Sleight of Hand

Short Stories

Published in paperback in Great Britain in 2013 by Corvus, an imprint of Atlantic Books Ltd.

Copyright © Nick Alexander 2013

The moral right of Nick Alexander to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act of 1988.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities, is entirely coincidental.

10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

Paperback ISBN: 978 0 85789 635 3 E-book ISBN: 978 085789 634 6

Printed in Great Britain

Corvus An imprint of Atlantic Books Ltd Ormond House 26–27 Boswell Street London WC1N 3JZ

www.corvus-books.co.uk

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

Thanks to my friends and readers and to those that are both, for being so constantly enthusiastic and supportive – you make it all worthwhile.

Thanks to everyone at Corvus for making this book a reality, to Jerome for his help with the French text, and to Rosemary for being my touchstone.

CONTENTS

THE BIG SKY

NOT A HOT TORRENT

THE GREAT CONTRACEPTION DEBATE

MEETING TATIE

TOURIST HEAVEN

DIVINE INTERVENTION

SNUGGLING

SEPARATE NIGHTS OUT

FAST TRACK

COLD AND GREY, BUT IN LOVE

BIOLOGICAL TIME BOMB

BE CAREFUL WHAT YOU WISH FOR

FAST TRACK TO SIBERIA

ANGELS VS. DOCTORS

TOO MANY GHOSTS

HOME ALONE

THE RIGHT SET OF EARS

FIVE LITTLE DEATHS

SOMEONE JUST NEEDS TO STOP ME

FOR EACH THOUGHT, AN EMOTION

OTHER PEOPLE’S BUSINESS

ROUND ONE

ROUND TWO

ROUND THREE

WHAT YOU DID TO ME

LIKE MOTHER, LIKE DAUGHTER

JE L’AIME

A LITTLE TOO RELAXED

LOVE IS THE DRUG

THE BIG SKY

When I get to Nice airport, I am expecting my new boyfriend to be ready and waiting, pulling faces at me through the glass as I watch for my suitcase to appear on the carousel.

I’m already in a heightened state of anticipation about this trip because, however it goes, it will influence our future. If I like it here as much as Victor seems to, then we could end up together in France. If I don’t . . . well, that hardly bears thinking about.

When he still hasn’t appeared by the time I drag my suitcase out into the arrivals hall, I feel a spike of anxiety.

I scan the crowd a few times, walk around the big fish tank – twice – and even read the names people are holding up on their scraps of cardboard, before doubtfully following the smokers outside.

I switch on my phone and adjust the clock to local time – 2 p.m.

It’s a crisp January afternoon and the sky is deepest blue, the light low and yellowy. It’s exactly the same weather as the last time I came to Nice and I wonder if it is always this way. I check my mobile and start to compose a text message asking Victor where he is but am interrupted by two hands slipping around my waist from behind.

‘Hello, sexy lady. Don’t turn around,’ he says in a dodgy French accent.

I giggle and attempt to turn but Victor hops around and manages to remain behind me.

‘What are you doing?’ I ask, starting to laugh and finally pulling free before spinning around to face him.

Victor raises his hands to cover his grinning mouth. My own smile fades.

‘I know,’ he says. ‘I’ll get rid of it as soon as we get back.’

I have had a phobia about men with beards for as long as I can remember. I even saw a shrink once, and we pretty much traced it to the fact that my father had one. But, sadly, knowing the origin of a phobia doesn’t seemingly make it go away. Such are the limitations of therapy.

I swallow hard, and pull his hands away from his face. ‘Jesus, Victor!’ I say. ‘You look like Osama Bin Laden.’

‘It’s why I was late,’ he says. ‘They wouldn’t let me into the airport until I could prove I wasn’t a terrorist.’

‘Really?’

‘No,’ Victor laughs. ‘Not really.’

I pull a face in spite of myself.

‘I know!’ he says. ‘Honestly, I was going to shave but the pipes froze.’

‘They froze?’

‘Yeah. It was cold last night and both the tank in the van and the standpipe froze. But I’ll do it as soon as we get back, I promise.’

I nod and just about manage a smile. ‘You will!’ I say.

‘Anyway,’ Victor says, moving in. ‘Any chance of a kiss from my little Chelsii?’

I shake my head. ‘None,’ I laugh. ‘And calling me Chelsii definitely won’t help your case. You know I hate it.’

‘Sorry. CC. And just a peck then?’ he says. ‘To say hello?’

I close my eyes and lean in, trying to push my phobia from my mind. Our lips meet, but then his straggly beard tickles my top lip and I suddenly feel sick. ‘That’s it!’ I say, covering my disgust with a false little laugh. ‘Sorry but . . .’

‘Hey,’ Victor says, serious now. ‘It’s OK. You told me all about it. I know. I’m sorry.’

He starts to drag my suitcase towards the car park and reaches for my hand. ‘So how was the flight?’

‘Fine,’ I say. ‘Orange.’

‘On time, anyway.’

‘Yes. Unlike someone I could mention.’

‘Yeah, the roads were bad,’ he says. ‘So I had to take it easy. Have you eaten?’

‘A sandwich. Horrible but filling. And what do you mean the roads were “bad”?’

‘Oh, icy. Slippery.’

‘Eek,’ I say. ‘Should I be scared?’

‘No. Well, maybe just a bit. Later on, I’ll tell you when.’ He squeezes my hand tight. ‘God, it’s good to see you.’

‘You too,’ I say. ‘Well, it will be when you get that doormat off your face so that I can see you.’

Once Victor has negotiated the traffic and merged onto the motorway, I ask, ‘So we don’t go through Nice, then?’

‘No,’ Victor says, leaning forwards to look in my wing mirror before changing lanes. ‘No, we’re, um, west, so . . . But if you want to go down and visit, it’s only an hour.’

‘Is it hard having a right-hand-drive?’

Victor shrugs. ‘You get used to it. But ultimately I’ll end up swapping the van for a French car. As soon as I don’t need to live in it any more, I suppose.’

‘It’s freaky sitting here,’ I say. ‘I feel a distinct need for a steering wheel.’

‘We’ll get you one,’ Victor says, casting me a wink. ‘One of those stick-on kid’s ones.’

We sit in silence for a minute or so and I steal a glance at Victor’s bearded profile. Surprisingly, I think it suits him. He looks rugged and sexy. It’s just the sensation of it against me that I can’t stand.

After only a few minutes on the motorway we turn off and immediately start to head up into the hills. ‘I had no idea that the coastal towns ended so abruptly,’ I say, watching the clichéd tableau of French Provençal life sliding past the windows.

‘Yeah,’ Victor says. ‘It’s great, isn’t it? And this is still town compared to where we’re going.’

The road winds past stone cottages and along tree-lined country lanes and then up and over a small hillock and through a copse of dense trees. When we come out on the other side, a majestic mountain range comes into view – bleak and grey and stark against the blue sky.

‘Wow,’ I say. I point to a raggedy village clinging to the side of the mountain. ‘Is that us?’

‘No,’ Victor says with a laugh. ‘No, we’re right over the other side of that mountain.’

We continue on and up, and around each bend there is another bend, and over each peak there is another peak.

‘So many hilltop villages,’ I say.

‘Yes. And all empty.’

‘Really?’

‘Pretty much. Most of them have twenty or thirty old people living in them. When they’re gone, I think that will be it.’

‘Incredible views, though,’ I say.

And they are. As we round another bend, suddenly we can see the road before us. It is a simple ledge carved from the side of the mountain winding around its contours, gradually heading towards the peak. To the south I can see the Mediterranean Sea in all its turquoise glory, and in the distance I can see huge, white, snow-capped peaks.

‘They’re like proper mountains,’ I say.

‘They are, they’re the Alps.’

‘They’re not, like, the actual Alps, though, are they? Not really.’

‘Yes,’ Victor says, glancing at me. ‘They are. Really.’

‘It’s not snowing where we are, is it?’

‘No. Not yet at any rate.’ He glances at me. ‘Are you scared?’

I look down at the sheer drop below and say, ‘No, not yet. Is this where I should start to be?’

‘No,’ he says, slipping one hand onto my knee. ‘Not of my driving, anyway. You should maybe be scared of the facilities.’

‘The facilities?’

‘The bathroom. In particular.’

‘Right.’

‘It’s cold.’

‘Nice. I love a cold bathroom.’

‘Very, very, very cold,’ he says.

‘OK,’ I say, pulling a face. ‘I shall prepare myself for that.’ I turn back to look out at the scenery. ‘I’m in awe. I had no idea the Riviera could look like this.’

‘No,’ Victor says. ‘It’s surprising, isn’t it?’

‘It’s just so big.’

‘You said you’ve been here before, though?’

‘Yes, but just to Nice. And along the coast a bit.’

‘On a date, you said.’

‘Yes.’

‘You didn’t want to tell me about it.’

‘No,’ I say.

After a full minute of silence, Victor laughs. ‘OK then. I’ll just try to imagine it, shall I?’

‘If you want,’ I say.

As we bump over the numerous potholes in the final stretch of ‘road’ to La Forge, the hamlet in which the house is located, I check the time on my phone. Though the drive has taken almost an hour, the torturous road and the setting sun make it feel like more.

‘You have reception?’ Victor asks, glancing over at me.

‘On and off, yes. I was just looking at the time. It’s hard to believe that it’s not even four, what with the sun setting and everything.’

‘Well it’s not really setting, is it?’ Victor says. ‘It’s just dipping behind the mountains.’

‘Sure . . . God, this road’s bad!’ I exclaim as the van bumps around.

‘Ha! You think this is bad? You just wait!’ And as if to prove his point he turns off down a dirt track – in fact, even dirt track would be overstating it. It’s a muddy wheel-stain which crosses a field.

‘Don’t you worry about getting stuck?’ I ask. ‘I mean if it rains . . .’

Victor shrugs. ‘It doesn’t really matter if I can’t get home, this being my home,’ he says, gesturing about the van.

‘No,’ I agree. ‘I suppose not.’

When we finally pull up in front of the farmhouse, words fail me. ‘Gosh!’ is the best I can manage.

‘Gosh?’ Victor repeats, pulling on the handbrake and releasing both of our seat belts.

We climb down from the van and Victor slides one arm around my waist. ‘Home!’ he says.

The farmhouse is a large single-storey building of the same grey stone from which all the drystone walls around the property are made. It is set into a niche carved from the hill behind. The building has only two tiny windows on the visible side and a gaping hole in the roof. To the right and left of the main house are two outbuildings, each about two-thirds the size of the main house, neither of which has any roof whatsoever.

The three buildings enclose what must once have been a gravelled courtyard, only most of the gravel has long since been driven into the mud. Vast amounts of junk sit in piles strewn around the courtyard: a rusty bike, a half-burnt settee, an almost entirely decomposed oil drum over there; a broken lawnmower, a garden chair, an old gas cooker and a toilet seat over here.

The sun is dipping behind the mountains now, the whole ensemble sliding into grey and, to be perfectly honest, I’m struggling to see the potential. The overriding ambience is cold, derelict and rather sinister.

‘You have to use your imagination,’ Victor says, pulling me tight. With his free hand he points as he describes what I’m apparently failing to imagine on my own. ‘This whole area nicely gravelled. Roses growing up the walls. No, um, hole in the roof. That cherry tree in blossom.’

I nod at the gnarled skeleton of a tree. ‘Is that really a cherry tree?’

‘Yep,’ he says.

‘It looks dead, though.’

‘You’ll find trees do that in winter,’ Victor says. ‘Come! I’ll show you the house before it gets dark.’

He leads me across the desolation zone to the front door and then pushes and kicks it until it opens. The inside isn’t as bad as I expected. That is to say that it actually looks like a house, albeit one that has never heard the words ‘interior design’ or ‘cosy’. With the exception of the gaping hole above our heads, it looks like a basic, old-fashioned Provençal farmhouse. It looks like someone lived here once.

‘Nice range,’ I say, nodding at the huge iron wood stove.

‘Yes,’ Victor says, releasing my hand and crossing the room to stroke it. ‘It’s rusting because of the roof. I wonder if it will clean up?’

I follow him across the room and look up through the hole. ‘It’s not going to fall on us, is it?’

‘What, the sky?’

‘The rest of the roof, silly!’

Victor shakes his head. ‘No, I went up there to check it. It all seems pretty solid. The hole is a bit of a mystery, actually.’

‘Yes,’ I say, thoughtfully. ‘It’s not like there’s anything to fall on it.’

‘Big bird?’ Victor says in an ironic tone.

‘Bloody big bird,’ I laugh. ‘Meteorite, more like.’

‘Maybe.’

‘When are they fixing it?’

Victor shrugs. ‘I can’t get anyone to even come and have a look. They all say it’s too remote.’

‘Well, we need to get it covered,’ I say, ‘even if it’s just with a tarpaulin.’

Victor grabs my hand and squeezes it. ‘You have no idea how nice that “we” sounds,’ he says.

‘Actually, I have,’ I say, bumping his hip. ‘It felt nice to say it, too.’

Victor looks up at the darkening sky again. ‘I thought about fixing it myself,’ he says.

‘That’s dangerous.’

‘Nah, not really. It’s just that the roof is made of these corrugated sheets and I can’t even lift one. Anyway.’ He pushes me towards the hallway. ‘So you’ve seen the lounge-cum-kitchen-cum-dining room.’

‘Have I?’

‘Yes. Here’s the rumpy-pumpy room,’ he says, steering me into the next room.

‘Hmm,’ I say. ‘Needs some work before it’ll be seeing any rumpy-pumpy.’ The walls are bare stone. The floor is peeling vinyl. The hole in the roof extends over a rusty metal bed.

‘Indeed,’ Victor says, already leaving the room. ‘And then this is the second bedroom or office or—’

‘Cupboard,’ I say, peering into the gloomy, windowless box room.

‘Probably need to put a window in here.’

‘Yes.’

‘And then, finally . . . La pièce de résistance . . .’ He grabs my hand and pulls me excitedly through to the final room. ‘The facilities.’

‘Jesus!’ I exclaim. For though comfortably sized, the ‘bathroom’ is absurdly basic, comprising a toilet bowl in one corner, a rusty yellow sit-up bathtub, and a stone sink.

‘All mod cons,’ Victor says.

‘Yes, I can see that.’

‘Madame will note the complete absence of a flushing mechanism,’ Victor says, sliding his hand across the wall behind the toilet bowl.

‘How lovely!’

‘And . . . wait for it . . .’

‘Yes?’

‘No hot water.’

‘Jesus, Victor.’

‘I know.’

‘Can’t we get that working?’

‘It’s not that it doesn’t work. It’s that there isn’t a hot water system in the house.’

I frown and scan the room, then peep back down the hall. ‘I also just noticed – no heating.’

‘Other than the range, none.’

‘God, whatever happened to the French art de vivre?’

‘I know. But I can imagine it finished,’ Victor says, heading back outside. ‘Can’t you?’

‘Sure,’ I say. But it’s a lie. Maybe I’m just too tired to imagine anything this evening.

Back out in the yard, the light is fading fast and, with it, the temperature is plummeting.

Aware that I’m sounding like a real killjoy, I try to think of something positive to say about this tumbledown farmhouse he has inherited. I’m a terrible actress, so any outright lies about finding the place appealing are only likely to make things worse.

‘I bet you can see masses of stars up here, can’t you?’ I finally offer.

‘Yes. It’s amazing.’

‘I love that,’ I say. And it’s true. ‘I’m actually quite good at spotting all the constellations. Waiine had a telescope when we were little.’

‘Waiine? Oh, your brother. Sorry, I forgot. Sorry.’

‘It’s fine. Even I forget sometimes,’ I say, clearly a lie. ‘It was a long time ago.’

I stroke Victor’s arm and then add, ‘But yes, I’m sure it will be brilliant up here for star-spotting. God, it’s going to be cold, though. I can see my breath already.’

‘Yes, as soon as the sun goes behind the hills. Still, it is January. And we are eight hundred metres above sea-level.’

‘Right,’ I say.

I turn to look back at the house and shiver. Victor wraps his arms around me and slips his hand into the pocket of my jeans. ‘It’s bad, isn’t it?’ he says.

I sigh deeply. ‘It’s a lot more work than I thought. If you want to make it nice, I mean.’

‘Is it a mistake, do you think?’ he asks. ‘Do you think I’ve bitten off more than I can chew?’

I shrug and gaze at the buildings. ‘To be honest, I’m not sure,’ I say. ‘Can you ask me again tomorrow?’

‘Sure,’ Victor says.

‘I’m freezing.’

‘Me too. Can I tempt you with an aperitif in Château Volkswagen, Madame?’

‘Does the heating work in Château Volkswagen?’

‘Oh yes.’

‘Then that would be a pleasure, sir,’ I laugh. ‘But it’s mademoiselle, thank you very much.’

Drinking gin and tonics in the van is cramped but rather lovely. Victor produces chilled tonic and even ice cubes from the mini-fridge and a bag of Japanese rice snacks from a cupboard, then we settle on the bench seat, my back against his chest, his knees either side of me.

Slowly, beyond the windows, the sky flames red and then gradually fades to black.

‘You hate it all, don’t you?’ Victor says after a long silence, during which the only sound is the clinking of ice cubes against the side of the glass and the hiss of the gas heater.

‘What? This?!’ I exclaim. ‘You’re joking! I love being here with you like this. It’s fun.’

‘But you hate the house.’

I reach up and stroke his head until my hand reaches his beard. ‘I hate this thing,’ I say, tugging on it.

‘Oh, God!’ Victor laughs. ‘I nearly forgot. I’ll shave in a minute. But don’t change the subject.’

‘I don’t hate it,’ I say. ‘It’s just, well . . . it’s a far bigger project than I imagined. I’m a bit daunted, I guess.’

Victor takes a few sips of his drink before replying. ‘Can I tell you a secret?’ he asks.

‘Of course.’

‘I’m not very proud, but, so am I.’

‘You’re what?’

‘Daunted.’

I arch my back so that I can look up at him. ‘I’m not surprised,’ I say.

‘It is too much, isn’t it?’

I think about this for a while, and it slowly dawns on me that what Victor needs most from me, what he is silently begging me for, is to not agree with him.

‘It’ll be OK,’ I tell him, struggling at first for authenticity. ‘Projects always feel like that at the beginning. You just have to get stuck in. Do one thing at a time.’

‘But I haven’t got stuck in, have I?’ he says.

I smile. ‘I wasn’t going to say anything, but I did wonder what you’ve been doing.’

‘It’s not that I’m lazy or anything. I just can’t think where to start. I’ve just been sitting, staring at it mostly.’

‘Well, that’s easy,’ I say. ‘You start with the hole in the roof.’

‘Yes, I know. That’s what I thought. But when I tried . . .’

‘You couldn’t lift the sheets of stuff.’

‘Yes. I drove down to buy them. All the way to Nice. But when I couldn’t even get them into the van, I realised that there was no point.’

‘They’re really that heavy?’

‘Well, about forty kilos. It’s more the size. They’re pretty unwieldy.’

‘So it’s a job for a proper roofer.’

‘Only I can’t get one. I phoned at least ten but they’re all busy or they say it’s too far, or . . .’

We slip into another less comfortable silence, and then Victor squeezes me between his knees. ‘You’re not regretting this, are you?’ he says. ‘Because I can drive you to a hotel tomorrow. I can drive you to a hotel now, if you want. You are on holiday. We can still make this into a nice one.’

‘No,’ I say, thinking as I speak. ‘I think we need to get this whole project under way. I think that’s why I’m here.’ As I say this, it strikes me as a mini-revelation: this is why I am here. Because that is what love is – giving the person you love whatever they need at that moment in time no matter how uncomfortable it is to do so. And right here, right now, what Victor is silently begging me to be – even without realising it – is a roofing partner. So a roofing partner I will be. And strange as that may seem, it feels like the most amazing opportunity to turn our relationship into something real. It’s not that is isn’t real, of course. But being so recent – we only got together a month ago, after all – it all still feels rather fragile and new.

‘We could do it together,’ I say.

‘You think?’

‘Or are they too heavy? I mean, I’m not that strong, but I can lift one of those thirty kilo bags of soil. Well, just about . . . Could two of us lift your roofing thingies if we put our backs into it?’

‘You don’t want to spend your holidays roofing.’

I laugh. ‘You know what? It’s exactly what I want to spend my holiday doing. I’m funny that way.’

‘We could try, I suppose,’ Victor says, his tone superficially doubtful, but already I can hear the first spark of hope breaking through.

‘I’ll tell you what else I’m itching to do.’

‘Hmm? Yes?’ Victor says sexily.

‘Well, that too, of course. But I meant get rid of all of that junk in the yard. The place will feel much better then.’

Victor sighs deeply and then puts his drink down and slips his arms around me, pulling me tight. He’s wearing the same Aran jumper he had on the day he left England, and the hug feels no less magical than the one we had then. ‘Thank you.’

‘Any time.’

‘Can I tell you another secret?’ he asks.

‘Yes?’

‘I think you’re the bee’s knees,’ he says.

‘Well, good,’ I reply. ‘Because I think that you’re the bee’s knees too.’

While dinner cooks, Victor shaves. We eat spaghetti for dinner and drink a bottle of wine, then simply fold out the bed so that we can lie side by side and look up at the night sky.

The stars, when they appear, are astounding in number and clarity, so we stare at them and talk quietly about everything and nothing: about my best friend Mark and his new boyfriend Iain, and France and Victor’s missing aunt, who supposedly lives next door but hasn’t been spotted yet. And when we have seemingly caught up on the gossip, I begin the far more soothing job of pointing out the constellations.

Just as I am describing Orion, with Victor’s head squashed against mine so that I can point out the individual stars, I am overcome by a deep sense of belonging, an overpowering and rare sensation of being in exactly the right place at the right time within this vast universe, and, for once, of being with the right person too. It hits me unexpectedly just how improbable this is in this infinite space, how stunningly lucky we are to have bumped into each other, and the realisation is so moving, so humbling, that my voice cracks and my vision blurs, and I have to wipe away an unexpected tear before I can continue stargazing.

‘You and me in the middle of all this,’ Victor whispers, and I know that he is feeling it too.

NOT A HOT TORRENT

When I wake up the next morning, Victor is attempting to make coffee, something which is fairly challenging in the confined space left when the bed is folded out.

Hello, he says, grinning, presumably at my sleepy head. I tried to be quiet, but . . .

I stretch and yawn. Its fine, I say. God, I slept so well! What time is it?

Nine, Victor says. The suns just coming over the mountain now. Check out the frost before it vanishes.

I blink to clear my eyesight and sit up, pulling the heavy quilt around me. It looks like snow, I say.

I know. Beautiful, isnt it?

Yeah, but it must be cold out there.

Oh it is. Good job Le Chteau has heating, huh?

The range?

No, I meant, Chteau Volkswagen.

It works well. Whats that smell?

Smell?

Yeah. Toast or something.

Victor grins and nods over at the cooker. Theyre only long life croissants, but grilled, theyre fine.

I yawn again. They smell fabulous.

Hey, look out the other side.

I shuffle around to face the other way and stare as the sun creeps down the front of the farmhouse, bouncing off ice crystals as it hits each frosted item of junk. Beautiful, I murmur.

The frost melts almost instantly, Victor says, and I see the sparkling reflections fading even as he says this.

Its lovely, I say, thinking as I say it that it will be all the lovelier once all the junk has gone.