A Grand Old Time Read online

  ‘That’s grand.’

  ‘Oh, what a lovely word, grand. How Scottish. It’s so nice to meet you, Eartha. And what is it you do? I don’t suppose you work now, do you?’

  Evie’s mind was searching for a good story to tell. Her mouth was only seconds behind. ‘I am an actress,’ she confided. ‘Well, we say actor for both men and women now, don’t we? I’m very up to date with all the PC. I am here in France making a film just at the minute.’

  ‘Oh I love how you say film, fill-um, and such a nice accent. Ah Geoff …’ The thin man in the suit had returned: he bent long legs and flourished a bottle of wine. There were cool drops of moisture on the neck and label. Geoff poured generously into three glasses.

  ‘Eartha was saying she’s in films. How really super.’ Peggy took the glass and began to drink in small sips. She stopped between each small mouthful deliberately, as if holding a thought.

  Geoff looked anxiously at his wife. ‘Do you like the Chablis?’

  ‘Oh yes – it is obviously a good vintage. I can smell peonies and citrus.’ She drank again, stopping to reconsider. ‘Lemon, I think, maybe a hint of grapefruit.’

  Evie looked away and back at Peggy again and thought she was talking complete shite.

  Geoff swallowed a mouthful, and looked hopefully at Peggy. ‘Apricot notes, perhaps? Geranium? Lychee, yes, I can taste lychee, too?’

  Peggy beamed at Evie again. ‘What do you think, Eartha?’

  She sniffed at the glass. ‘Lovely smell of grapes mixed with something close to cat piss. Packs a good solid punch. We Scots like that.’

  Peggy turned her attention to her lapels, smoothing them down. ‘Eartha is an actor, Geoff. She is here doing a film.’

  Geoff gave her a tentative smile and rubbed his chin, as if considering a menu of choices. ‘And what sort of film is it that you are making, Eartha?’

  ‘You’d make a good Miss Marple, I think.’ Peggy rested her jaw on the soft flesh below. She frowned. ‘She wasn’t Scottish though, was she? No. So, is it a period saga? Costume drama? Maybe the one about the Scottish policeman? What’s he called? Hamish something?’

  An idea leapt into Evie’s head. She gave her most winning smile. ‘Pornography.’

  Geoff swallowed breath and Peggy held her glass in the air for a second too long before taking a quick mouthful. ‘Oh dear.’

  ‘Oh, it’s very tasteful pornography.’ Evie waved her wine glass in the air. ‘I am the starring role. I play Lady Whiplash. I have a brothel full of girls, all ages and sizes, from all countries, even Scotland, and we beat the men for pleasure.’ She lifted her glass again, as if showing how she could beat them with a gesture of her little finger.

  Peggy was horrified. ‘That’s awful!’

  ‘Not at all.’ Evie was in full swing; wine was sloshing in her glass. ‘It’s a great story line. I am a bit of a nymphomaniac and I control my bordello with an iron fist. Then one of the girls becomes romantically involved with a rich man – I think he is a judge or a lawyer, maybe a solicitor, yes, definitely a solicitor – but he’s found strangled naked in his bed by his braces and the police enlist my help to find the killer.’

  Geoff swallowed more wine and refilled his glass quickly.

  ‘Oh, so it is a little like Miss Marple?’ Peggy looked hopeful.

  ‘Sort of.’ Evie patted her on the knee as if to reassure her that all was quite above board. ‘A kind of modern Miss Marple – with porn.’

  ‘Well,’ Peggy began, but her words were drowned in the thrum of a bass guitar tuning up. A drummer banged his sticks hard on every surface, twice, and then faster, in a roll. A guitar twanged and a little riff lifted on the night air.

  ‘Rock music.’ Evie was delighted. ‘That is grand. I love a bit of punk rock. I hope they do the one about never minding the bollocks.’

  Peggy wriggled in her seat. Geoff drank the last dregs from his wine glass, but the bottle in his other hand was a quarter full. The band launched into a frenzy of screaming and leaping, the lead singer cavorting in front of them in leather and ripped denim. Peggy stood up.

  ‘This isn’t quite the guitar recital I was hoping for,’ she yelled. ‘I am afraid I will say good night to you, Eartha. It was so lovely to meet you.’ Peggy extended her hand and Evie took it briefly before the woman in the blue suit turned away. She heard her say: ‘Perhaps we will bump into you again.’

  Geoff took her hand. ‘A pleasure to make your acquaintance, Eartha.’

  Evie thought she saw him wink at her. He followed his wife; she was a shifting blue shape in front of him as she pushed through the crowds.

  ‘And don’t forget to catch my fill-um when it’s out.’ But her words were lost in the yelps of the vocalist who was hurling himself across the stage, his voice a frenzy of gravel and French expletives.

  Evie drank her wine. She closed her eyes and the lids throbbed in time to the pounding rhythm. Once she would have stayed for the whole party, dancing, allowing the beat to bounce her on her feet for hours. She and Jim had seen some bands in Dublin: The Kinks, or was it Herman’s Hermits, and The Bachelors. She’d danced in her mini-skirt, her hair piled high, twirling until her stilettoed feet were sore. But she was tired now; and it felt different: the weariness clung to her bones and settled into an ache in her joints and behind her knees. She swallowed the last mouthful of wine, feeling its bitterness turn to a delicious tingle on her tongue.

  ‘Scottish, indeed. Peggy and Geoff and their complete bollocks.’ She pulled her jacket collar up and the darkness enveloped her as she left the group on stage rocking and reverberating, her eyes roving through the dim light for her little campervan.

  Chapter Eighteen

  While Evie had been exploring the village of Oradour, Brendan and Maura had set off for Angers in search of her. They had not spoken for some time. The sun poured through the windscreen, which intensified the heat like a magnifying glass. Maura stared of the window and he concentrated on driving the car, his brows knit in a taut frown. Every so often, she sighed, folded her arms across her chest or twisted her neck to look at the passing signs on the motorway. One of them read ‘Angers, 60 kilometres’. Brendan worried about what sort of accommodation they might find in Angers, whether it would provide anything interesting for Maura. She’d been unhappy to leave Brittany, dumping her case in the back of the Panda with a thud and making sure that the slam of the car door echoed her displeasure.

  Brendan waited for her to break the silence. It was two o’clock and they had not eaten. Maura sighed again, more loudly. Brendan took a chance.

  ‘It’s very hot. I think there might be a storm later. I hope Mammy will be all right.’ She wiped her forehead with her hand and breathed out. ‘How are you feeling, my love? Are you hungry?’

  Almost immediately, he wished he hadn’t spoken.

  ‘No Brendan, I’m certainly not hungry.’

  ‘Are you not feeling so well?’

  Maura clenched her jaw. ‘I hate every minute of this journey. It was supposed to be a holiday. I was having such a lovely time in Brittany. I thought you were too. I mean, we could’ve stayed a few more days.’ She pouted, made a baby-doll face and then sighed.

  Brendan concentrated on the road ahead, at the vapour rising from the tarmac, at the heavy lorry which swished past. Another lorry shuddered next to him and took its place in front. It was hot in the Panda so Brendan opened his window. Maura sighed again. He thought perhaps he’d phone Evie when they stopped for a toilet break, or at least text her; and check if she had sent him a message.

  ‘It is only sixty kilometres to Angers,’ he said. His voice sounded futile. He tried again. ‘I’m sorry. You know how important it is to find Mammy. We’ll have a nice time in Angers. How about I get us a lovely lunch first?’ He glanced across at Maura. She tucked in her chin and her cheeks were red. Brendan wondered how he could cheer her up.

  He was feeling troubled. He knew now that his idea to follow Evie and to be the knight in armour who w
ould bring her home to safety had been unrealistic. His father would have expected it of him. But his mother’s security contradicted Maura’s need for a romantic holiday. It was his entire fault and now she was angry. A sigh shuddered from deep inside him. She was right, certainly: they needed a break together, space to remember the good times, opportunity to enjoy more good times together. He thought about his father again, how he had smiled, years ago when they returned from Corfu as if they were a honeymoon couple, and how he’d glowed then, feeling bashful and proud. That holiday had been a great success. Brendan had the uncomfortable feeling that this time he had made a huge mistake.

  Cars and lorries swung in from behind, to the left and then back in front of them. Brendan wiped sweat from his eyes and blinked. Steam or something vaporous was curling from the bonnet. He blinked again to make sure. Plumes of steam rose in the air. Maura sat upright.

  ‘Brendan, will you pull over. Something’s wrong with the car.’

  Brendan looked around him wildly. Her voice became louder. ‘For God’s sake, stop. There’s steam pouring out of the front.’

  The fog in front of them was so thick they could hardly see. Brendan swung onto a slip road, drove across a mini-roundabout and into a lay-by. Maura was out of the car before he could pull on the handbrake.

  She shrieked at him, ‘We’re on fire. Oh my God, we’ll blow up.’

  Brendan picked up her handbag, slid out and slammed the door. He calmly held out the bag which she snatched from him. He shrugged. ‘Maybe it’s the radiator, love. We will wait until it cools down and just add a bit of water. It will be fine.’

  Maura was breathing heavily. ‘Can’t you call a mechanic out?’

  ‘I’m sure it’ll be all right. Perhaps the water levels are a little low.’

  ‘Didn’t you check before we left?’

  Brendan scraped the toe of his shoe in the gravel. ‘I’ve some bottled water. It will be fine.’ He put a hand on her shoulder. She pulled away, and went to stand at a distance from the car and from him.

  ‘Bloody car,’ she muttered. ‘It’s been on its last legs for months. I told you we should have invested in …’

  Brendan walked down the lay-by until he was a few yards from her. He sat down on a grassy patch and put his head in his hands. Cars rushed by. Maura rummaged in her bag for a tissue. An overwhelming feeling of futility squeezed at his throat and he swallowed.

  The radiator was bubbling. Brendan wrapped a handkerchief around his hand to turn the cap. He yelped as it still burned through the cotton to the soft part of his thumb. Steam hissed and he heard a similar sound from Maura who was behind him, watching. He poured mineral water into the radiator from a bottle, replaced the hot cap and stood back, his hands on his hips. He noticed there was oil on his shirt and his hands. He wiped the handkerchief against his shirt and the oil smudged in a wide rasp. Maura snorted. He put the handkerchief in his pocket and looked at the sky. It was cloudless, blue, holiday perfect. Maura moved away, her high heels wobbling below tight leggings and a sleeveless top. Brendan rolled up his sleeves further, wondering if there was a T-shirt packed somewhere in the back of the car within reach. He decided against it; she would make a comment – she had told him this morning that he would be too hot in the shirt. He opened the car door on her side.

  ‘In you get, my love. It will all be grand now. Right as ninepence.’

  Maura slithered into the seat and Brendan closed the door, hunkering down in the driver’s seat, and starting the engine. The engine roared and he pulled away; soon, he was negotiating the mini-roundabout and was back into the line of traffic on the motorway. Maura exhaled and twisted her body away from him to look through the window. He stared at the road ahead. She sniffed and looked around the car nervously. ‘Brendan, will you promise me the car’s all right now? I think I can smell something funny.’

  He shook his head. ‘All will be fine now, Maura. I have it sorted.’

  Angers was thirty kilometres away. Brendan thought about finding a hotel, texting his mother. He’d check the car in at a garage just to be sure, find a nice restaurant and relax. Maura would be calmer and her good mood would soon come back. Perhaps they’d cheer up over a pleasant meal. He could suggest that, once they were back in Dublin, there’d be the possibility of finding a late booking in August for the two of them. Corfu, perhaps? Maura would be happy then and Brendan imagined them resuming their happiness of the previous night: good food and wine, lots of laughter from Maura and the shared nights of passion. He began to whistle. Brendan imagined that he would even find his mother, that she’d be pleased to see him, tell him how glad she was she had such a good son who knew what was best. She’d laugh and say she’d no idea what made her take off to France at all.

  Steam began to rise from the bonnet; it became stronger until it reminded Brendan of an Icelandic geyser. A laugh seemed inappropriate but it broke through his lips like muffled hysteria.

  ‘Stop the car, Brendan.’ Maura’s voice was low and thick, like a demon in a film. There was a lay-by to the right and he pulled in and stopped the car with a wrench of the handbrake. Maura was out, slamming the door. She walked away, perched on a stone, and rummaged in her bag, finding a bar of chocolate. She bit into the bar with venom and Brendan reached for his phone.

  Four hours later, a van arrived with a trailer. A young man in his twenties introduced himself as Olivier, shook Brendan’s hand and glanced furtively at Maura. She was looking at her watch; it was twenty past seven. Brendan used his best French to explain to Olivier that the water was hot in the car. Olivier looked in the bonnet, swore in French and said something, indicating the trailer. Brendan looked puzzled, so Olivier tried again and Brendan understood: they would take the car to his garage twenty kilometres away and spend the night in the town, where there was a host who would give them bed and breakfast. The next day Olivier would try to mend the car for them. Brendan and Olivier loaded the Panda onto the trailer, and then they squeezed in the cab next to Olivier. The engine shook and rattled violently. Olivier was chattering as they joined the motorway traffic.

  Olivier told them cheerfully that the village they would stay in was called Épinard, which Brendan thought meant spinach. They would be able to find temporary accommodation with a woman called Clémence and she was a very good cook. Brendan smiled and moved his head up and down to show that he understood while Maura stared at the passing cars. Olivier said that it was a good thing they had broken down in the Loire region, as they would have time to taste the local wine, which was exceptional, and the delicious produce of the area. Brendan thought that was what he had said and repeated it to Maura.

  ‘Olivier said we could try some of the local wine; the Loire is famous for good wine.’

  Maura was livid. ‘I can guess what he said.’ She turned to look out of the window. ‘Some holiday this is turning out to be.’ Olivier told Brendan she would be better after a good meal and Clémence’s chambres were very confortable.

  It was past ten as they drove into Cantenay-Épinard, past the river and the town hall, and there were a few lights on in people’s homes. Brendan was surprised at how dark it was: absolute darkness, a tight blanket of blackness and no suggestion of the hazy light pollution he was used to at home. Olivier dropped them at a metal gate where a woman was waiting for them; he helped them to unload their suitcases, gave Brendan his business card, asked him to call the next day and drove off with the Fiat Panda rattling on the trailer.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Clémence was a strong-looking woman in her fifties or sixties, her dark hair short, and wearing a jumper and jeans. The bed and breakfast was situated on some type of smallholding with chickens and goats. Brendan thought it would be a perfect spot to take children for a holiday. The great outdoors, countryside and scenery to explore, cycling, camping. Clémence ushered them inside the house where there was a table set for two. A carafe of wine was laid out on a large farmhouse table, together with crusty bread and a steaming basin of
stew. Brendan mumbled, ‘Merci’, and sat down, resting his head in his hands. Clémence left them to eat and drink, which they did in silence. Brendan asked Maura twice if she would like more to eat and drink, and she held out her glass and plate without speaking. Clémence brought them a slice of something sweet, a pie made from eggs and fruit, possibly cherries, which tasted comforting. By the time she had put two cups of black coffee in front of them, Brendan’s eyes were starting to close.

  Their room was at the top of the house. Brendan carried both cases, and Maura followed, shoes in hand. The room was dark, with floral wallpaper and a huge wooden wardrobe with carvings of a traditional peasant man and woman farming the land. The man held a scythe and the woman wore an apron. The floorboards were wooden and creaked beneath their feet and the wind buffeted the rafters, but Brendan could only see the bed with the brass headwork and the embroidered coverlet. They brushed their teeth over a small basin and Brendan changed into his pyjamas. Maura had already slipped beneath the covers and was facing away from him. Her body felt warm and he snuggled close to her, but she jerked away as if she was shocked. He put a tentative hand on her shoulder, which felt cold.

  ‘We’ll make the most of this place tomorrow, shall we, Maura? We could have breakfast and go and taste some wine and look at the river while Olivier is fixing the car. What do you think?’

  Maura said nothing for a while. Brendan patted her on the shoulder. ‘Maura, I know things haven’t gone right today. I’m sorry about the car.’

  She sighed, keeping her back to him. ‘It was all going so well.’

  He tried again. ‘I know. We’ll have a good time though. Wait and see.’