03. Sweet
A sharp, sweet, air hits as her mother opens the front door.
“Darling!” Her mother bellows, hastily removing her apron and shuffling out of the way to let her inside.
“Hello Maman,” Anaïs slips into the hallway, smiling softly. She removes her coat and hangs it on one of the many crowded hooks.
“You look too thin,” her mother tuts, looking Anaïs’ figure up and down.
“Never mind, we have fresh bread in the kitchen, and plenty of jam.” She grins eagerly as she hobbles down the hallway. Her short, fervent, mother is clearly on a mission.
Anaïs slips her shoes off and hangs her bag tenderly before following. The sweet smell of her mother’s labours intensifies as she enters the kitchen.
Jars cover every visible surface, in every colour imaginable. The sink is filled with fresh plums, nectarines, and peaches, all softly glistening in the cold morning sun, waiting for their turn to be cut, cooked, and cooled.
“Maman,” Anaïs breathes, utterly shocked, “What is this all for?” She half expects her mother to confess she’s opened a jam shop at 72 years old.
“What do you mean?” her mother waves flippantly.
“For fun, my love! I might give some to the neighbours, or the girls at work, but the rest is for me.”
Anaïs inspects the batches of jars. Her mother has scrawled Kiwifruit Jam, Grapefruit Marmalade, and Blueberry Preserve on the corresponding jars with a permanent marker and noted down the batch date. It looks like she’s been at this for days. Anaïs bites her tongue about the intensity of her mother’s latest obsession, the concern that festers inside of her creates an unforgiving ache.
“Where have you been getting all of the fruit for this?” she instead asks, knowing how her mother loves to tell a story.
“Well!” her mother leaps at the opportunity, pulling up a stool so she can peel her peaches and talk.
“Do you remember the old man at the farmer’s market? The stall at the very end?”
Anaïs nods, she recalls his friendly recommendations whenever she comes to stay with her mother during the summer. He always has the freshest strawberries of anyone in town.
“He’s going out of business, something about his sons all moving to the city, sad, anyway, he’s been trying to find other ways to sell his produce in bulk. We worked out a deal, I made him a few jars of each fruit in exchange for a discount. It’s been the most fabulous way to spend my days!”
Anaïs is reluctant to believe her mother is actually saving any money in this endeavour, but she hasn’t seen her so happy in years, so she keeps this to herself too.
“I’m glad you’re enjoying it Maman,” Anaïs replies tiredly, “Tu voudrais un thé?”
A look flickers across her mother’s face, as if she’s just been cussed at, but she quickly swallows it. “Yes, please, English breakfast,” she replies, fixating on the stone fruit in her hand, “with milk and two sugars.”
”Okay,” Anaïs replies, obediently boiling the kettle. In her old age, her mother had stopped speaking her native tongue, resenting it even. Anaïs, on the other hand, finds English exhausting. It feels as if the English had a word for everything, while the French used their words more organically. People know what you mean by how you speak, the English are not so inclined toward nuance.
Her mother’s penchant for using English has made her something of a recluse in Narbonne. She frequents a small café-owned by an Englishman and his wife- and the grocers, who are Canadian but keeps to herself otherwise. Anaïs had moved to Toulouse at 19 to attend university, returning for the summer and Christmas. When her Australian father, the cause of her mother’s love pour Anglais, died suddenly she decided firmly to only speak English for the rest of her days. Anaïs often wonders how madly in love, or in grief, you have to be to stop speaking your own language.
The kettle clicks. She pours two cups full of water and dumps the teabags inside. Her mother is still focused on peeling her peaches.
“You should pick which ones you’re taking home with you,” her mother muses, “Benoit will be here soon to pick up his selections.”
“Benoit?” Anaïs asks, reluctant to select any of the jars.
“From the market,” Her mother replies sourly.
“Oh,” Anaïs says, softly replacing a jar of blueberry preserve with her mother’s tea. “Is this any good on toast?”
Her mother’s face breaks into a thin smile when she sees Anaïs holding the jar.
“It’s exceptional on sourdough with butter,” she grins, gesturing towards the fresh loaf nestled against the sea of jars on the dining table.
“Sold,” Anaïs smiles, although her heart is not really in it. She turns her back before her mother can notice and sets herself down at the table. Her mother starts chopping the peaches and discarding the stones. Her hands move swiftly and unapologetically. Anaïs wonders if this action stops her mind from trawling through happy memories. It’s the only way Anaïs herself can let go of the loss.
