A Grand Old Time Page 11

  A sigh. ‘I hope so, Brendan. I liked Brittany so much …’

  He stretched out a hand, touching her shoulders, massaging away the tension as he remembered Penny Wray doing to his muscles in the staff room at school. He pressed firmly, with newly acquired skill.

  ‘Ow. You’re hurting.’

  He was silent for a moment. ‘Sorry, Maura.’

  ‘What are you sorry for, Brendan? The car, or ruining the holiday? We were happy last night, weren’t we?’

  He rolled onto his back, stared into the darkness, thinking for a while. Then his voice came out as a croak, ‘Maybe if we’d had children.’

  There was a long pause and he thought he heard her snuffle. Then her voice came, a whisper. ‘It’s too late for all of that now.’

  He moved his eyes, straining to see something in the blackness which surrounded him, something which might help him figure the problem out. ‘We could start again though; try to get on a bit better together, when we get back.’

  ‘It’s always later with you, Brendan. Never now. You’re not spontaneous.’

  He made a sound through his lips. ‘You’re spontaneous enough for us both.’

  ‘Yes, but sometimes, it’d be a nice thing for you to take the initiative.’

  He knitted his brow and stared into the darkness. ‘Initiative?’

  She huffed, briefly. Then an idea came to him. He rolled back to her, curved his hand into a palm and smoothed it across her hips, held the roundness of a buttock for a moment, then slid his hand to caress the other.

  ‘Maura, we could book a holiday in Corfu? A second honeymoon? What do you think? We could book it when we get back. Spontaneously.’

  He tried again, massaging one buttock, then another, and he nuzzled his face into the soft hair at the back of her neck and whispered, ‘My love.’

  Then the demon voice came again from the darkness: ‘Go to hell, Brendan.’

  He turned away from her and, as his eyes closed on the day, a small thought wormed its way into his mind. He didn’t understand Maura at all. After all these years, he didn’t know what made her happy. He doubted that he could do it any more. Those times had gone and he wasn’t sure he’d ever get them back.

  Maura tore a croissant in half and pushed the soft bread into her mouth. She nodded at Clémence as she poured from the coffee jug and Brendan muttered his thanks as his cup was filled up. Clémence smiled and brought in a carafe filled with orange juice. Brendan thanked her again in French and tried to explain that he and his wife might need to stay one more night depending on whether the car could be repaired in time. Clémence nodded, told them she had many English visitors and could speak the language quite well, then she moved back into the kitchen. Maura stuffed the other half of her croissant into her mouth and washed it down with coffee. She pulled a face and added two lumps of sugar. She stared directly at Brendan.

  ‘Well, I hope for your sake the car can be mended today. This holiday has turned into a nightmare.’

  Brendan took a breath. ‘If you think back, Maura, it was never meant to be a holiday. We came here to get my mother.’

  She made a mocking face and put on with it a mocking voice. ‘Always your bloody mother.’

  ‘That is not very nice, is it?’

  ‘Oh come on, Brendan, she’s never liked me. Not since the day you first took me home.’

  ‘That’s not true.’

  ‘It is. The first time I met her she gave me cold tea and then ignored me and spoke just to you. If it hadn’t been for your father, no-one would’ve spoken a word to me all through the dinner, you and your mammy with your heads together all the time. She only tolerated me because she wanted grandchildren. She never has anything to say to me; talks to you as if I’m not there. She’s always given me the brush-off.’

  ‘She likes you.’

  ‘Oh, you couldn’t see it. She can’t do anything wrong, your precious mother. And you’d never defend me, Brendan.’ Another croissant was ripped in half.

  ‘That’s not fair.’

  ‘But you aren’t interested in what I think, are you?’ Maura shoved the last piece of croissant into her mouth. He could hear the muffled words. ‘I hope the bloody woman is dead.’

  Brendan stood up and pointed his finger. ‘That’s enough, now.’

  Maura stared at him. ‘Well, of course I don’t mean that, for sure. I’m sorry for what I said. But I’ve reason enough to be angry with her.’

  ‘What reason would that be?’

  ‘I’ve a list as long as your arm. Remember all those years we were trying for a little one, how upset I’d get each month I found out I wasn’t pregnant? And she’d be totally insensitive. She’d never ask me how I was feeling. Oh no, it’d be all about her and the miscarriages she had, all the babbies who would’ve been girls with silly names and how she kept trying and trying till eventually she had you. Well, bully for her.’

  ‘It upset me too. I wanted a baby just as much as you.’

  ‘And she thought we were totally unsuitable for each other.’

  ‘She did not.’ He stared into his coffee.

  Maura clenched a fist. ‘She told me so many times how proud she was you were a sports teacher, and how you loved the cycling and swimming and football. When I told her I wasn’t the sporty type, she suggested I buy a bike and try harder. As if I had to change who I was for you. And you know how I hate exercise. I’d rather do anything in the world than climb up on a bicycle.’

  ‘Well, maybe Mammy had a point. It would be good to share things.’ He was thinking of Penny Wray, her golden ponytail, her white shorts. ‘Maybe we’d be more compatible if we shared a hobby.’

  Maura was looking up at him, and the anger in her eyes became wide panic. ‘Brendan, why can’t you understand—?’

  ‘I don’t know, Maura. I’ve no idea what to say any more. We’ll try and get along as best as we can and then we’ll collect Mammy and take her back to Dublin.’ He sighed, without looking at her.

  Maura made her eyes narrow. They resembled mini-missiles, glittering: perhaps she would shoot him dead if she could. He stared harder. She looked away. Brendan took another gulp of coffee and swallowed audibly. Clémence was at Maura’s elbow, holding out more croissants. Maura took one and shredded it into pieces.

  They walked past the river and through the town, where the roads narrowed and the houses were three storeys tall, in white and brown stone. The card in Brendan’s hand gave the address of the garage and Clémence had explained to him how to get there. Maura dawdled just behind him and he knew she was tired; her heels clacked on the pavement and occasionally she would stop and slide a finger into the sling-back fastening, slowing him down. He resolved that today would be different: everything would go well. He’d pick up the car, drive it away; they’d stop somewhere special for lunch. Maura would smile, the skin around her eyes crinkling and happy. He’d make her laugh and they’d hold hands across the table. She’d tell him she was sorry for being angry and he’d promise to be more communicative and affectionate and they’d find a hotel, make love and fall asleep in each other’s arms. In the garage, Brendan saw the Panda straight away. There was no-one around, so he walked through the lines of vehicles and into the office, leaving Maura slouching, sullen, leaning on the car.

  There was no-one in the office; papers were strewn on the table and on the wall there was a calendar with pictures of the town, Cantenay-Épinard, showing, for this month, a colour photo of the river and surrounding greenery. A clock shaped like a wine bottle ticked on the wall. It had a slogan which read ‘Pays de la Loire’. The time was ten forty. Brendan walked out of the office hoping someone would be outside working but there was no-one.

  He went back to Maura, who had opened the Panda’s door and was sitting down with one shoe off, rubbing her heel. She looked up at Brendan. ‘Well?’

  ‘There’s no-one here.’

  ‘OK, that settles it. Let’s get in the car and drive off.’

  ‘Maura, w
e—’

  ‘The keys are in it. If no-one can be bothered to turn up to ask us to pay then that is their fault.’

  ‘But—’

  ‘There are no buts about it, Brendan. I am not staying here any longer.’

  A cheery voice called, ‘Bonjour’, and Olivier appeared around the corner, wearing extremely clean-looking red overalls. He shook Brendan’s hand and started to talk about the car. Brendan asked him to slow down please and to repeat. Olivier put his hands out and showed the size of the problem. It was a big one. The radiator was finished, terminated, kaput. He could fit a new one but the car was a Fiat and they did not have one in stock. Someone in Angers could bring one out tomorrow or, at worst, in two or three days’ time. Maura seemed to have understood because her arms were folded tightly across her chest and her face was thunderous. Olivier was sorry, but Clémence had a lovely kitchen, he knew this because she was his aunt and why did they not enjoy a little holiday while he fixed the car for them with a brand new radiator which would be very reliable? Brendan thanked him and said yes, a new one would be a good idea and they would be happy to wait. He turned to see Maura walking out of the garage, standing by the edge of the road, looking uncomfortable in her heels. Brendan thanked Olivier, who leaned forward and tried out his English, indicating Maura with a flick of his head and using a low tone. ‘The women. They kill us every day, hein?’

  Brendan agreed and he glanced at Maura first to see if she was listening. Then he went over to join her by the side of the road.

  ‘How many days did he say it would take?’

  Brendan waved his hands as Olivier had done to show the extent of the problem. ‘Tomorrow. Maybe the next day. Never mind. We can spend time here. We could even take a bus into Angers—’

  Maura heaved herself to full height, wincing in the heels. ‘I am not taking a bus. Anywhere.’

  She walked away to the other side of the road. There was an immobilier, a local estate agent, with photos of houses for sale, and she was gazing at the window. Brendan pulled out his phone and turned away. He found his mother’s number and typed in a message: Where are you staying in Angers, Mammy?

  Maura did not move except to shift her weight from one foot to the other, her shoulders slumped, her face unhappy.

  Brendan’s phone vibrated in his pocket and he pulled it out, pressed the button and read his mother’s reply: Very stormy weather yesterday. Gone south to the sun. Brendan heaved a deep sigh before he could stop it and wondered what to do.

  Chapter Twenty

  Evie was feeling very pleased with herself. She’d left the campervan in a little car park just a short walk away and found a lovely restaurant, Le Petit Ours. The sign showed a picture of a small bear smiling and dancing, and Evie repeated the French words softly to herself. She watched a middle-aged couple eating seafood at the table opposite and she was intrigued by what they were doing, as they lifted the shell-shaped cups to their mouths and seemed to sip the contents, one by one, before placing the shells in a bowl.

  The waiter was a friendly young man in his late teens, his hair swept back from his forehead by an elastic headband, and he asked her what she would like. She pointed in the wine list to a bottle of Chablis and said: ‘Un, s’il vous plaît, Monsieur.’ He returned with a bottle, not a glass, but she did not mind as the wine was cool and went down so easily. He brought her crusty bread and asked what she would like to eat and she pointed at the couple sipping at their shells at the opposite table and smiled at him and said: ‘Un, s’il vous plaît, Monsieur,’ and he came back with a metal bowl full of moules marinières.

  She began tentatively, tipping the juice into her mouth, tasting the flavours of garlic and wine and herbs, then eating the little bit of flesh. She wondered what Jim would have made of it all. Jim liked his food plain with plenty of potatoes and gravy; for him a treat was a pastry filled with cream or a sweet biscuit with chocolate. No, Jim wouldn’t have understood this moules lark at all; he would have shaken his head and grinned shyly and asked if they had chips and bread and butter instead.

  Evie ate her bread and moules and garlic and topped up her own wine glass, her green leather jacket on the seat next to her, covering her handbag. She was a woman of independent means, a traveller, a character who knew her own mind, like Simone de Beauvoir, whose book she had just finished reading. Simone had some strong views on a woman’s place and what to expect from the world; she believed that women should demand more of life and of themselves. Evie agreed. Simone was her new favourite role model. Evie had started a new book today; it mystified her, but she guessed that these French writers were very different to the authors of the simple romance books in Sheldon Lodge about troubled girls who needed rescuing. Certainly this English translation of a book by Albert Camus, about an odd man who didn’t mind when his mother died and went swimming with a new girlfriend instead of mourning, shocked her a little. But she was enjoying reading it and something exciting was bound to happen soon. Evie admired the French, the way they slowed down the pace: their books, their food, their way of life. And anyway, she had not understood Dubliners when she read that at school, but perhaps she might come back to Joyce later. After all, wasn’t he an Irish treasure?

  She ate the last of the moules and finished off the bottle of wine. She wondered whether to ask for another bottle. She’d always liked wine, a glass here and there with a meal, but somehow the French wine was so much nicer than the stuff she’d bought in the supermarket in Dublin. Perhaps it was because she was in France, on holiday, now an independent thinking woman like Simone de Beauvoir. She waved an arm, and the waiter was beside her, offering a dessert. Evie had never tried tiramisu before, so she ordered one with no idea what it was. The waiter praised her choice, cleared the table and was gone.

  The couple opposite had finished their food and were talking. They were holding hands across the table and the woman threw her head back and laughed. The man lifted her hands to his lips, never taking his eyes from her. Evie brushed back her hair with her fingers and wondered if she missed the company of a man, if she would like a romance in her life. The tiramisu arrived and she decided she didn’t, as she dipped the spoon deep into chocolate and closed her eyes to better taste the coffee and whipped cream. She finished the dessert in moments and then she ordered a cognac. She’d had plenty of cognac before, but never as smooth and unctuous as this one.

  She waved at the waiter and giggled as he moved to her side. ‘Un more, s’il vous plaît, Monsieur.’ He frowned for a moment and then whisked away, whirling back with another.

  Evie leaned on her elbow and swayed a little. The couple opposite were kissing across the empty plates and she turned to them and laughed. ‘You’re never too old for a little bit of romance, now, are you?’ They stared at her and the woman looked offended.

  Evie drank the last of her cognac, slurping the remains from the bottom of her glass. She poked a finger in the last of the tiramisu and pushed a smear of cream into her mouth. The waiter was by her side. She blinked up at him, pointed at the empty glass and said, ‘Un more?’

  The waiter pretended not to understand and handed her a piece of paper in a little dish. It was a bill, written in strange scrawl, the numbers leaping across the page. She dug deep into her bag, found her purse and attempted to count thirty euros. The notes stuck together in her fingers, so she flung a handful onto the dish and eased herself up, pushing the table back as she moved. Her legs felt soft beneath her. She thought of the slithery moules in their garlicky sauce.

  ‘I’m sauced too,’ she giggled and moved away.

  She struggled into the green leather jacket. The young waiter was by her side. His forehead was furrowed, eyebrows up near his headband. ‘Madame?’ He steadied her elbow. ‘You give me – too many.’ He pushed several notes into her hand and they fell to the floor, He stooped down and picked up the money, wrapping it in her fist, curling her fingers around carefully. With a studied insistence, she unfolded a single note and gave it to him wit
h a flourish.

  ‘For you, Monsieur.’

  He stared. ‘Vingt euros?’

  ‘It’s a tip. You’ve been lovely. I’d love to have had a grandson, just like you.’

  She sailed past the canoodling couple and found the door. ‘If that’s what eating the saucy moules does for you, I’m having them again,’ she told them, her face earnest.

  The cold night air hit her in a blast and, for a moment, she couldn’t remember whether to turn right or left. She wrapped her arms around the handbag and began to snigger. ‘If there are any muggers in France, I’ll bash them with the bag, so I will.’

  She turned herself towards the car park, a deliberate repositioning, and set off at a pace as if she’d been pushed, leaning forward and taking little steps. She stared up at the stars which swirled like milk stirred in coffee above her head and she staggered.

  ‘I haven’t been this pissed since that Christmas, years ago, when we went to Brendan’s for lunch and drank gin and tonic. Maura cooked us that dry chicken. Or was it a duck? Goose! Of course it was a goose.’ She spluttered. ‘You had to heave me home that night, Jim. Where are you now, now a lady needs an arm to lean on?’ She lurched forward, her steps meandering. ‘Who knows where you are now, Jim? I don’t have a clue. You could be anywhere. Or nowhere at all. Who knows? Not me, that’s for sure. But I know where I’m going.’ She stopped by the little campervan and fumbled in her bag. Her fingers touched metal and she flourished the keys, tried to ease them towards the lock, missing the key hole. ‘I’m going to bed, for sure, if I can ever get this fecking door open.’

  She awoke as the skies were spattered with pink, rolling over in her sleeping bag and curling her legs to her chest. Her stomach was twisting, her head was throbbing and her throat thickened with the threat of nausea. She tried to make her mind control the rising sensation in her stomach. Her body rebelled; her face and hair were drenched in sweat, and dizziness pulled at her eyes. She was still for a moment, breathing deeply, then she slipped out of the sleeping bag and tugged at the door.