The Dumnonian Hoard: Rosenberg Twins Adventure #1

  Chapter Seven

  DINNER WITH THE DUGUAY’S

  It took us a lot longer than two minutes to locate La Mouette Blanche because Uncle Marty got lost and kept driving us in circles.

  “Just stop and let Troy ask someone, Uncle Marty!” I’d begged after our third time driving past the post office.

  “Sarah, I know where I’m going.”

  Clearly, you don’t.

  When we finally pull up to the tidy, two-storey house, it’s nearly two in the afternoon. Uncle Marty has us unload our bags and suitcases and as we’re doing this, out comes Madame Duguay.

  She’s about five foot three - five foot five is she stands upright - but still shorter than all of us. Add to that her gray, wavy hair and clear blue eyes that twinkle when she smiles, she reminds me of Stacey’s grandma who lives just up the street from us.

  “Hello, hello! How are you!? I’m so glad to see you’ve all made it...” She smiles at each of us. When she looks at me, her expression is one of tender affection and she reaches for my bags.

  “No, thank you,” I say, withdrawing my hand as she tries to wrest them from my grip “but I’ve got them...”

  “Nonsense. ARMAND!”

  I cringe as she yells for the man I soon learn is her husband.

  “Nos invités sont arrivés!”

  “What did she say?” I ask Troy in a whisper.

  He leans into me. “She said the guests have arrived.”

  “Ohhhh.”

  “Here, please,” she says, pulling the door open and ushering us into the house. “Come in. How was your flight? I trust it wasn’t too...what’s the word...turbulent?”

  She sounds British when she speaks English. Uncle Marty smiles graciously as he leads us inside. “We didn’t encounter too much turbulence, no. It was a relatively smooth flight.”

  Minus the creepy weird guy staring at me on the plane...

  “How long was your flight?” she asks, pushing me forwards as the rest of us head into the house.

  “Seven hours roughly - to Paris - and then another hour and a bit to Brest.”

  “That’s quite the journey!”

  We’re standing in the front entrance to their tidy, old-person looking home. There are comfy chairs in the living room that’s off to the left of the front entrance, their flower-print pattern matching that of the couch. Pictures of ponds and mountains and old churches adorn the walls while a wonderful aroma wafts in from the kitchen that’s to the right of the front entrance.

  “What’s that smell?” I ask, utterly in love.

  “Lamb with rosemary and shallots and carrots and red wine...”

  “Ahhhh, French cooking.” I beam at Uncle Marty. “This is more like it.”

  Uncle Marty looks amused. “Are you happy at last?”

  “Yes.”

  I pause as a tall, willow figured man with wispy gray hair enters the room. He wears green slacks and an old man knit sweater - and ugly tapioca colour with brown elbow patches - but his face is as vibrant and cheerful as his wife’s.

  “Hello,” he says, extending a hand to all of us. He shakes hands first with Uncle Marty, then with Troy, and finally with Josh and I. “My name’s Armand.”

  “This is my husband,” says Madame Duguay with obvious affection. “We’ve been married for thirty eight years now.”

  “Thirty seven, no?” he asks, looking slightly dumbfounded.

  Madame Duguay gives her husband a playful swat on the arm. “Thirty eight and you know it!”

  I can’t help but smile.

  “Yes, thirty eight years,” she continues, returning her attention to us, “and mostly good years. I’m Paulette. Paulette Duguay.”

  Uncle Marty gives a nod and a smile. “Yes, I was aware of your last name - though not your first. Either way, I’ll still call you Madame Duguay.”

  “However you like...” she says, bringing her hands together as she looks at Josh and I. “You two, I’ve set up your rooms down the hall. Armand can show you now so you can put your bags down.”

  I nod. “Sure, that would be great. Thanks.”

  She smiles and turns to Troy and Uncle Marty. “As for you two...I’ve made up two beds for you in the room upstairs.”

  “Oh, excellent,” says Uncle Marty.

  “And I can take you up there now to deposit your bags, if you would like.”

  Uncle Marty’s about to say something, but Madame Duguay plows on.

  “And then I thought we could sit down for some dîner.” She turns back to Josh and I. “Are you hungry?”

  At the word “hungry”, I hear my stomach growl.

  “Yes, starving.”

  Madame Duguay looks pleased. “Then we must eat. Quickly then. Armand, if you can show them to their rooms...and you two,” she says to Troy and Uncle Marty, “you can follow me upstairs.”

  There are murmurings of “thank you” and “what a lovely place you have here” as we go our separate ways. Armand is so tall his head practically scrapes the ceiling as he leads us down the hallway.

  “So...I didn’t get your name...”

  “Sarah.”

  “Sarah,” he says with a patient nod, “this is your room.” He pushes open the door on my left and I find myself staring into a room that looks like it’s out of a home decor magazine. It’s got a rattan chair in one corner, blue and white throw pillows all over, a book shelf filled with books and teddy bears - one holding a Happy Valentine’s Day heart - and a comfy looking bed that’s about four feet off the ground.

  “Wow!” I drag my bags into the room and toss them on the bed. “This is awesome!”

  Armand smiles. “Glad you like it.”

  Josh pokes his head in. “Ahhh, it’s so girly!”

  I make a face at him as Armand chuckles. “Your room looks a bit different, don’t worry. Here, I’ll show you. You’re right next door.”

  I listen to them move down the hall and enter the room immediately adjacent.

  Josh takes the opportunity to knock on the wall. “Sarah, are you there?”

  “Yes! I’m here! And you can stop doing that now!”

  The knocking ceases but my brother’s annoying voice doesn’t and I’m forced to listen to him go on and on about his video games (presumably boring Armand to death) while I unpack.

  Ten minutes later I’m unpacked, freshened up (I splashed some water on my face in the bathroom sink and combed my hair), and sitting down to dinner in the simple, country-style dining room with the others.

  “Mmmm, this looks exquisite, Madame Duguay,” Uncle Marty muses aloud as she sets steaming plates on the table.

  “Yum!” I exclaim as the various aromas flood my nostrils.

  “What are those?” asks Josh, pointing to a bowl at the centre of the table.

  “Those are artichoke hearts...have you never had them before?” asks Uncle Marty, eyebrows raised.

  My brother shakes his head.

  “Well, that is...unfortunate...” Uncle Marty takes up the bowl and drops one onto Josh’s plate. “It’s time you tried one!”

  Josh looks like he’s just been asked to eat deer droppings. “Eat...that!?”

  Uncle Marty smiles. “Why yes.”

  “What do you eat in Canada?” asks Madame Duguay, taking a seat at the table and unfurling her napkin.

  She waves it out and lets it float down to her lap.

  “Well...pizza, for one.”

  Madame Duguay laughs. “Pizza. Okay. But that’s not Canadian food! That’s Italian food!” She looks at Armand and Uncle Marty and all three exchange a smile.

  “Well, it’s Canadian...because it’s been in Canada so long...”

  “If you really want Canadian food,” I say, dishing up several artichoke hearts simply to spite my brother, “then you should try poutine.”

  “Ah, I’ve heard of poutine!” Madame Duguay exclaims, her expression exuberant.

  “Yes it’s American fries...with cheese and tomato sauce...no?”

&nbs
p; I shake my head and am about to correct him, but Josh beats me to it.

  “No! Not tomato sauce - gravy!”

  “Gravy?” He looks at his wife for clarification. “What is gravy?”

  “Sauce au jus de viande,” answers Madame Duguay.

  A look of comprehension dawns on Armand’s face. “Ahhh, yes. Of course. Mmm, that must be delicious!”

  I nod and watch him as he ponders what it must look and taste like.

  “So poutine is not Canadian food either though,” says Madame Duguay, picking up where she left off. “It’s from Quebec.”

  “Yes, but...” I look at Troy for assistance but he merely shrugs.

  “She’s got a point.”

  “Yeah, but Quebec is in Canada!”

  “For now,” says Madame Duguay, sawing away at her lamb.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Well, isn’t there some kind of sovereigntist movement in Quebec?”

  I look to Uncle Marty for a translation, even though she’s speaking English.

  “Sovereigntist movement...” he says slowly, mulling over his words carefully as he chews his peas. “You may know it as the separatist movement.”

  “Oh, you mean like the people in Quebec who want to separate from Canada? We talked about that in Social Studies last year.”

  Uncle Marty nods. “That’s right.”

  “You know, we have our own sovereigntist movement here in Brittany,” says Madame Duguay, spooning some pickled radishes onto the edge of her plate.

  Uncle Marty seems surprised by this. “Really?”

  “Oh yes,” says Armand, though his wife’s eyes catch his and it’s clear she doesn’t appreciate his interrupting her.

  Sensing this, Uncle Marty sets his gaze on Madame Duguay. “Who wants sovereignty?”

  “Why the Bretons of course.”

  Uncle Marty still has a surprised look on his face which invites further explanation from Madame Duguay.

  “It’s a long and complicated history - and a history, I might add, of which very few Bretons actually know all the details - but, suffice it to say that Brittany was once an independent kingdom.”

  “Really? I had no idea...”

  I have to admit I’m surprised that there’s something about history Uncle Marty doesn’t know, even more surprised though by his admission of this fact.

  “So when did it become part of France?” I ask, curious now because it’s something my supposedly smart uncle knows little about.

  “In the fifteen thirties,” Armand answers, buttering a slice of bread.

  “Wow...that’s a long time ago,” I say softly.

  “Indeed.”

  There’s a lull in our conversation - and for several minutes - as the six of us seem to concentrate on our dinner, the silence only punctuated by the scraping of cutlery on plates and the occasional request to “pass the” something or other.

  Once I’m finished, I sit back in my chair and study Madame Duguay. There’s a question I’ve been wanting to ask for the past half hour and now seems as good a time as any.

  “Madame Duguay?”

  She looks at me an smiles. “Yes, my dear.”

  “How is that your English is so good?” I’m suddenly conscious of Troy and Uncle Marty staring at me and I hasten to clarify myself. “I mean, not to be rude or anything, but you hardly seem to have an accent and you know, like, every word...so I was just curious...”

  She looks at something on her arm and brushes it away before giving me her attention. “Armand and I - that’s my husband - we lived in England for nineteen years.”

  “Oh, wow!”

  She makes a face. “I missed France the entire time.”

  “I’d love to go to England someday...”

  “Well, it’s a quick flight from Brest. Or you can take the ferry.”

  “Cool. Hey, Uncle Marty? Can we go to England maybe for a couple days?”

  “Sarah, we’re here on important business. We’re not going to England.” He looks at Madame Duguay. “Kids.”

  She smiles. “Oh, I know. When our Pierre was young he wanted us to take him everywhere too.”

  Armand gives his wife a warning stare.

  “Pierre...is that your son?”

  Madame Duguay lets out a little sigh as she looks up from her plate and makes eye contact with her husband once more. “He was our son...he passed away nine years ago.”

  My hand flies automatically to my mouth. “Oh, how awful! I’m so sorry, Madame Duguay...” I turn to Armand. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to bring it up...forget I said anything...”

  Madame Duguay smiles and pats my arm with her fleshy, wrinkled hand. “It’s okay, dear. It’s not something we try to hide away.”

  The way she says this, I get the impression that the “we” doesn’t include Armand.

  “No...of course not...”

  Armand clears his throat. “So, Troy, I understand you speak French?”

  Troy grins, grateful, it would seem, to have a new topic at the table. “Mais oui.”

  “But you’re not un Quebecois?”

  Troy shakes his head. “No, Franco-Ontarian actually.”

  Armand looks as though it’s the first time he’s heard the term.

  “I never knew there were French speakers outside Quebec,” he says, turning to look at us.

  “Oh, there are quite a few actually,” says Uncle Marty, seemingly eager to jump into the conversation.

  Did I mention my uncle hates being left out of any sort of intellectual or academic discussion?

  “Really!” Armand runs a hand through his grey, thinning hair. “Wow...that is...hunh...you really do learn something new every day.”

  Uncle Marty nods. “Yes, there are French speakers all across Canada actually, though the highest concentrations outside Quebec are found in the Maritimes and Ontario. The French speakers in the Maritimes are more commonly referred to as les Acadiens. You may have heard of them?”

  Armand smacks his forehead and I want to giggle. (Because how many old guys smack their foreheads!? Like, really!)

  “Yes of course! Les acadiens! I have heard of them.”

  Troy smiles at Armand’s sudden comprehension.

  “Of course, of course,” he continues, growing more enthusiastic by the second, “there is a famous...oh, what’s the word...the person who writes plays...playwright?”

  Troy nods. “Playwright. Un dramaturge.”

  Armand points to him. “Yes, good. Playwright.”

  “Hunh hunh,” says Troy in reply, urging him to continue.

  “There’s a famous playwright...we went to see her play...”

  “Paulette...” Armand then proceeds to rattle off a bunch of stuff in French that I completely don’t get - though looking at Troy - he understands everything.

  “Antonine Maillet,” says Madame Duguay with humble certainty, bowing her head ever so slightly.

  “Yes!” (Armand smacks his head again.) “Antonine Maillet.” He turns to us. “Have you heard of her?” He looks at me and I shake my head.

  “Yes...Antonine Maillet,” says Uncle Marty, “she’s the woman who wrote The Washerwoman, I believe.”

  Armand’s face registers a blank expression. “The Washerwoman?”

  “La Sagouine,” Troy interjects, translating the English title into the French one.

  Armand points at him once more. “Oui! C’est ca! La Sagouine.”

  “That must be the French name for it,” Uncle Marty grumbles, clearly plussed that Armand didn’t understand his answer.

  “We liked that play a lot,” says Madame Duguay. “We took my sister and her husband to that one for their anniversary. They had it at the théâtre in Rennes.”

  Troy nods, looking happy. “Wow, that’s great.”

  Madame Duguay takes in a bit of air - the way elderly people do when they have a thought they wish to express and need more oxygen. “Yeah...but...she’s gone now...my sister that is.”

&nbs
p; “Oh, I’m sorry,” says Troy quickly.

  Madame Duguay smiles and touches his arm. “You’re very sweet...anyway,” she says, turning to face the rest of us, “would anyone like something more to eat?”

  She only gives us half a second to answer.

  “Because I’m going to clear these dishes away and then bring out some tea an cookies which we can eat in the living room.”

  “That sounds lovely, Madame Duguay,” says Uncle Marty. He turns to me and my brother. “Would you two help Madame Duguay clear the table?”

  Even though it’s a question. I can tell “no” isn’t an option.

  I nod and rise slowly from my chair, followed closely by Josh.

  “Sarah - it is Sarah, isn’t it?” asks Madame Duguay, placing dirty cutlery and serving spoons into the lamb roasting pot and gathering dirty napkins for the garbage, “can I get you to take the plates. And Joshua - your name is Josué in French, by the way, and I think that is just a lovely name. Is it alright if I call you Josué?”

  Smiling, and clearly happy for the extra attention, my brother nods. “Sure.”

  “Very well then, Josué, if you could gather up the cups and bring those to the sink for me...that would be great.”

  She offers us both a polite smile as she finishes tidying and organizing the dirty dishes.

  Meanwhile, Troy and Uncle Marty follow Armand to the living room where each gets a couch or loveseat for himself.

  “I could get used to this,” I hear him say as Paulette and I move around the kitchen, as if in a ballet, each of us playing our part and doing our assigned tasks.

  Easy for you to say...you’re not the one cleaning up the dishes...