A Grand Old Time Read online

  The car park was quiet and the cold air slapped her face. She swayed a little. Then her stomach could contain its burden no longer; there was a heaving from her belly which she couldn’t control and a violent upsurge, followed by another. Evie leaned out of the doorway, watching the vomit hit the gravel, wiping the spittle which swung like elastic from her mouth. She sat back and, although no-one could see her, she felt embarrassed. She waited a moment, willing the nausea to calm. Her body heaved with another wave, and her mouth was suddenly full. Her stomach had a muscle of its own, and she leaned out of the doorway and was sick again. She could taste the soured warmth of moules and wine. Her head was knocking, and she slumped back on the sleeping bag. For a moment, she lay still, wondering what to do, not able to think of a solution. Then her fingers found a bottle of mineral water. She unscrewed the cap, took a swig and spat onto the heap of vomit, rinsing her mouth. There was half a litre left and she poured it all outside the van onto the gravel, hoping her embarrassment and nausea would disperse with the dissipated contents of her stomach.

  She was weak and dizzy, so she slumped back onto the sleeping bag and closed her eyes. When she awoke, it was hot inside the van under the powerful glaze of the closed windows. Her hands were ice-cold and she covered herself with the duvet. Evie rolled over and wondered if she would be sick again. Her mouth was dry and her bones ached. Sleep enfolded her again and when she opened her eyes she could not remember where she was. She looked at familiar things – her jacket, her clothes, her books – but she felt confused. She sat up and wiggled the door handle; she had left it unlocked. Her bag was still safe: her money, passport, cards and phone were still there. The time on the phone was ten past four. It took a while for her to understand that it was afternoon. She needed water; she remembered that she had tipped the last of her bottle away, so she would need to buy more. The keys were in the bottom of her bag, but she didn’t think she could drive. Evie decided it could not be far to a supermarket or a baker’s. She’d buy water and maybe some fruit, although she did not want to eat a thing.

  Evie struggled out of her clothes, changing damp pyjamas for T-shirt and jeans. Her skin was a grey colour, her arms cold and mounded with goose pimples, so she tugged on the green jacket and some shoes and wriggled out of the van, hugging her bag to her against the puff of fresh air. She locked up, and stepped over the pile of vomit which had set like jelly in a cluster at the edge of the campervan. Each movement, each decision was difficult. She pulled on her sunglasses: her head was a boom-box, and her eyes hurt.

  She crossed the car park, her legs only just holding her up. When she reached a low wall, she stopped and leaned on it for a moment to catch her breath. The buildings about her seemed to be shifting, as did the cars, the little shops, the restaurant where she’d eaten. Evie hoped she could find a pharmacy and buy something to calm her stomach and give her some energy. She checked the road for traffic like a child, looking right and then left, making sure she could cross. She would laugh about this tomorrow; indeed, she would never drink alcohol again. Perhaps it was the moules marinières that had disagreed with her, or simply that she’d enjoyed too much of a good thing. Her stomach heaved; bitter bile lurched into her mouth and she swallowed it, regretting it instantly as her tongue tasted acid and a fist of pain grasped at her stomach again.

  There was a little shop and she made her way towards it. Pushing open the door was an effort, then she realised she needed to pull the door towards her. The action of tugging made her tired. Inside the shop were pungent cheeses, and some ham hanging from a hook. Evie saw sausages curled in the chilled counter; they looked like intestines and she had to hold her hand to her mouth just in case. A woman was being served and the man behind the counter was hacking at a joint of beef. The acrid smell filled Evie’s nostrils and she retched, but nothing came up except the taste of bile. She shivered inside her jacket and felt her body jerk forwards. She steadied herself by putting out her hand, almost knocking down a display.

  Evie raised the sunglasses a little; the shop lights were an intense white, so she lowered the shades again. Her body sent her mind an immediate warning: standing up was not easy and she should not do it. She looked for somewhere to sit, hoping that she could hold on a few seconds, then dizziness enveloped her and she crashed forward. The last thing she felt was the bouncing of tins around her and the hardness of the flagstone floor as she fell.

  Evie was conscious of blankness, then whiteness; walls, a small window, a tight cover folded over, holding her down. She was lying on a bed in a hospital. She gazed around herself slowly; there was a drip in her hand and her head hurt. She raised a hand to her face and felt the folds of a bandage over her forehead. She leaned back on pillows, groaned softly and closed her eyes.

  They flickered open again and a nurse was standing over her, calling her name. The nurse wore a crisp uniform and was bending forward, touching her hand. Evie moved to sit up. The nurse told her to be careful, to be slow, and someone would come and talk to her in English. She helped Evie to sit up, propped by pillows. Evie took in the room: small, the walls white but grubby, a window: she was looking over a courtyard; a town was behind and into the distance. The light hurt her eyes.

  Another woman came in, this one thin, tall, with greying hair which had once been black. She wore tiny pearl earrings and she looked severe. Evie managed a laugh; the woman did not smile back, but introduced herself as Dr Masson.

  Evie looked at her directly. ‘Am I better now? How did I get here?’

  ‘You were in a shop. You fainted, Madame Gallagher.’

  ‘Am I all right now? I think I ate some dodgy seafood …’

  ‘Evelyn, you were dehydrated. You hit your head when you fell. We have put you on a drip to put fluids back into your body. You are not badly hurt but you must rest.’

  Evie held the doctor’s frown in her gaze, for a moment, taking it all in. The doctor tried to help her by explaining again.

  ‘In your bag you have a passport and so we found out your name, and your details. Your handbag is safe in your locker with your purse and other belongings. Someone in the shop called for an ambulance. I hope you have the insurance for travel abroad in Europe. Are you on holiday here?’

  Evie nodded and thanked the Lord she’d sorted out her insurance when she booked the ticket in Liverpool. All would be fine. ‘Can I go now? I have a campervan in a car park.’

  ‘Who is travelling with you?’

  ‘Oh, I am on my own. It is a sort of road trip, you see. I have a campervan and—’

  The doctor exclaimed, a light sound falling from her lips. ‘Alone? Surely not, Evelyn. You have a relative we can contact? Husband? Children?’

  Evie shook her head and it hurt a bit. ‘No-one. I have nobody to contact.’

  ‘But you are seventy-five years old.’ The doctor was indignant.

  Evie was puzzled. She knew how old she was. She gave a little snort. The doctor continued.

  ‘You are not young. You should not travel alone. You should respect your body. It is no longer the body of a young woman and you should not travel without assistance.’

  Evie’s teeth came together. ‘I’m not demented,’ she replied. Then she found another word. ‘I’m not decrepit.’

  ‘But, really …’

  ‘There are no buts about it.’ Evie was insistent. ‘I have a campervan. I’m having a little holiday. By myself.’

  The doctor looked horrified. ‘You have no-one with you? No friend? No helper?’

  Evie shook her head again, more with disbelief than as acknowledgement of the doctor’s words. Dr Masson wrote something on a clipboard and put it at the bottom of the bed. ‘Are you hungry, Evelyn?’

  Evie was, surprisingly, and said so.

  The doctor still did not smile. ‘We’ll keep you in overnight and then, tomorrow, we will consider letting you leave the hospital. But I strongly advise you go home to Ireland where you can be looked after properly. You need to slow down, at your age.’ />
  As the doctor turned to leave, Evie called out to her. ‘You wouldn’t say that if I was a man. It’s all just plain wrong if you ask me.’ The doctor had gone.

  Steadily, she eased her aching body to the side of the bed and sat up. She felt fine. She opened the locker beside her and took out her things: passport, purse, phone, debit card, car keys; all looked fine. She smiled.

  ‘Bloody doctor.’ She gave a grim little laugh. ‘Complete bollocks. I’ll show her.’

  Evie pulled out a map and spread it across the sheet on the top of the bed. She looked at the pencil lines she’d drawn and put her finger on the place where she thought she was. She moved her finger right, and further to the right, mouthing the place names to herself. Finally she settled on a dot.

  ‘Now where was I going? Here we are now. Carcassonne,’ she read. ‘Walled city. Lots of history. Nearby Limoux. That will do me fine. That’s where I’m going. No more of this sexist, ageist nonsense. Simone de Beauvoir wouldn’t let them get away with it, I’m sure of it. I’ll show them.’

  Chapter Twenty-One

  ‘You can phone me to tell me the Panda is ready, Brendan. Clémence and I will be back sometime later. We are going to treat ourselves this afternoon.’

  Maura was chirpy as she spoke through the window of Clémence’s car; they had dropped Brendan off outside the garage and were off to Angers to do some shopping. Clémence had become Maura’s new best friend over the last two days; they watched television together in the evening in Clémence’s lounge, while her husband checked on the animals for the night. They had shared a bottle of white wine late into the early hours and Brendan heard them chortling together when he was in bed, their voices whispering and scratching in his head as his mind drifted into sluggish sleep. Bad dreams came, which seemed to last the whole night, and he woke at dawn to hear the birds chirruping, feeling the coldness of Maura’s shoulder turned against him as she lay across most of the bed, a snore purring in her nose.

  And now the women were off to explore the shops and have lunch in Angers. Brendan’s job was to make sure the car was fixed and that they were ready to leave tomorrow morning first thing. He watched the car turn the corner. Maura was gone for the day.

  He walked into the garage yard, his hands in his pockets. The yellow Panda was where it was when he left it. Olivier came from the office; when he saw Brendan, he smiled and held out his hand. Brendan asked about the car and, in particular, the new radiator. Olivier’s face was bright with optimism, as he explained that the radiator had arrived the previous afternoon, but when he’d tried to fit it, it was the wrong one and he had sent it back again.

  ‘Maybe tomorrow or the day after, then you will be on your journey. You are comfortable at Aunt Clémence?’

  Brendan replied that Clémence was the perfect hostess, and yes, he would be happy to stay another day or two. He took out his phone to ring Maura. He thought for a moment, and put the phone in his pocket. It would keep.

  Brendan walked down to the river and leaned against the brickwork of a bridge. The water was green-tinged and still. He wondered if Maura would enjoy hiring a canoe and spending a few hours on the river. Perhaps there was somewhere locally where they could rent a raft or just have a swim. Brendan enjoyed the water, although his memory was a little soured by supervising swimming lessons at school. He’d stood helplessly by the pool and listened to countless stories of why one of his students couldn’t go in the water but had no note from home; at the other end of the spectrum, there was the splashing and pushing and tomfoolery of the bigger boys, roaring and swearing and bullying, which he punished with detentions.

  Brendan wondered if Maura might bring him a new pair of swimming-trunks back from Angers. He had left his on the bed in the hotel in Brittany. He took out his phone; there were no messages so he put it back in his pocket again. He imagined his body lifted and supported by water, the pushing strength of his arms as he moved forwards, the sense of propelling himself forward against pressure. He thought of water lapping around his ears, the coldness tingling against his chest, the droplets filling his eyes. He wondered for a moment if Maura would agree to go swimming with him in a lake. She wasn’t a strong swimmer, but he could teach her. He imagined them both together in a lac, clear cool water lifting them. In the image Maura’s hair was damp, little strands across her face, and her head was back, laughing. His arms were around her and he imagined her leaning back into his grasp, trusting him, closing her eyes as he and the water carried her along. He wondered if they would kiss, and he’d gaze at her wet face, slide his hands over the smooth texture of her swimsuit and her strong body beneath. He breathed out and wondered if Penny Wray was snorkelling in Mexico. His daydream shifted to himself in mask and flippers beside a young woman, her blonde hair streaming behind her; they were both surrounded by gleaming light and shoals of vivid fishes. Brendan opened his eyes.

  He found somewhere to sit where the grass was dry and straw-like, and he stretched out his legs. The river was glass-smooth, reflecting trees and bushes and a small house upside down. Brendan felt his heartbeat begin to slow down.

  Two children and a man were approaching from the road. They were on bicycles; the girl was a teenager and the boy a few years younger, maybe nine or ten. The man had a dark beard and wore cycle shorts and a top advertising soya yogurt. They stopped on the bridge and wheeled their bikes down to the riverside. They were talking together in French. They laid their bicycles down and the man began to point something out in the river to the children. The girl made a quiet reply and sat down. The boy pulled a ball from a backpack; it was a small football and he and his father started to pass the ball. The girl joined in and the three were running and giggling. The man called his son’s name. Alexandre certainly had a good kick on him. Brendan watched them as a sports teacher scouting for potential talent; both children were skilful and competitive and the girl could head the ball well.

  Their dad’s encouragement was gentle and humorous; there was no sense of disappointment if a kick was missed or went in the wrong direction. Brendan thought how nice it would be to have a kick-about on a day like this, next to the river with such a breathtaking backdrop; how good it would be to share ice-creams afterwards and then get back on the bikes and have a ride home, the children chattering and laughing. He wondered where the mother was. Perhaps she was working, perhaps the parents were divorced, but the man had two fine children who clearly enjoyed their time with him. Perhaps the mother was like Maura and didn’t enjoy cycling, but was waiting at home with a smile, maybe with cinema tickets, ice-cream. Perhaps he was a widower, and something tragic had happened. The children wore clean clothes and their game was carefree.

  Alexandre booted the ball high. It came down with a thud, bobbled over towards Brendan and came to a stop near where he was sitting. He leapt up and returned it on his right foot. His kick was confident but not too hard. The boy was appreciative with his ‘Merci, Monsieur’ and there was admiration in the child’s tone. The father looked over and smiled his gratitude. Brendan waved back, half hopeful that they might invite him to join in or at least ask him to go in goal.

  But the family finished their game and packed up their belongings; the father pulled on the backpack and they pushed their bikes back to the road where they mounted, and were off, the girl first, then Alexandre, who turned and waved before the father ushered them safely on their way. Brendan was sad to see them go. His hand was still in the air when they were out of sight. He lowered his arm and wondered where everything had all gone wrong.

  An hour later, he was sitting inside a little café where betting was being shown on a large monitor. The racehorses were out and they were being led up and down, their names flashing on the screen. Brendan drank the dregs of his bière blonde, then he ordered a second beer and a plate of côte d’agneau. He was served by a pretty woman in a blue dress, her hair cut in a dark bob, her lips a vivid red. She told him he spoke French well and asked him if he was Belgian. He told her no, he
was Irish, and she put a hand to her mouth and said how she loved Ireland and had visited County Kerry once many years ago and did he live near there. Two men in the café were looking at him. One of them was sitting on a stool at the bar, his back turned, reading a paper and occasionally looking over and frowning. He wondered if that was her husband but the man looked considerably older.

  The side of lamb was pleasant and the gravy was plentiful, so Brendan decided to stay a little longer. He had nowhere else to go. He ordered a third beer and a crème brûlée lavande, which the woman told him was a speciality of the house. It was displayed in a lilac glass bowl, looking professional with its moat of sweet sauce, a crunchy sugar topping giving way to a delicate lavender cream. He wished the portion had been larger.

  He ordered a coffee, and the waitress asked him where he was staying and for how long. He told her and she replied enthusiastically that Clémence was a friend of her cousin, Jeanne, and that it was a nice place to stay. She glanced at his wedding ring as he paid the bill and she made him promise to come back for lunch again, perhaps with his wife. Brendan made an unequivocal humming sound between his lips, thanked her for the lovely meal and walked into the sunshine. The beers made his head feel fuzzy and blurred his vision; his mood lightened. He took out his phone. There were no messages and he did not intend to ring Maura. Stubbornness was stiffening his jaw. He found his mother’s number and texted her. Where are you going in the South? Send an address, Mammy.

  He put the phone back in his pocket with a smile. Action was what was required and, as he sauntered back to Clémence’s for an afternoon snooze, he was a man of action, decisive and capable. Tomorrow he would buy himself some brightly coloured swim shorts. He began to whistle a little tune.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  The doctor’s comments were still buzzing in Evie’s head the next day. She picked up her handbag as the doctor dismissed her with the stern words: ‘Remember my advice, Madame. You are no longer a young woman.’