A Grand Old Time Read online

  ‘Some of us come here to be alone with our bad temper, Madame. If I have offended you, quite honestly, I could not care less.’ He turned his head away and spoke to no-one in particular. ‘I will say good night.’ He said something in French again to Ray, turned and walked out of the bar without a glance back. It was silent for a moment, and then the two little men ordered more drinks for themselves and one for Evie.

  Evie refused; she’d drunk enough, merci, and she turned to Ray and apologised for offending his customer. ‘I hope I haven’t spoilt your night, Ray. I’ve had such a lovely time.’

  One of the two little men drinking, the one with the beret, turned to Evie and said something, called her ‘Madame’, and waved his hands earnestly.

  ‘Maurice is right,’ Ray told her. ‘We are delighted to share your company. Don’t pay any attention to Jean-Luc; he is miserable most of the time. He spends what he has in here on drink and he seems happy enough as long as no-one speaks to him. He has his own troubles, but he never shares them.’

  Evie tried to forget about the man Jean-Luc and his bad temper, but the image of him stooped over the bar, his shoulders tight, a glass in his fist, stayed with her. She thought about his dark brooding eyes. He could have been a character in Wuthering Heights.

  ‘I’ll have that drink after all,’ she said. ‘Oh and Ray, I’d like to stay around here for a day or two before I go on to Carcassonne. Can you recommend somewhere?’

  Ray chortled. ‘I can do you a good bed and breakfast here; full Irish, with soda bread thrown in and the best coffee in town. Evening meal too, if you want it, love.’

  ‘It’s a deal,’ Evie told him, her eyes shining. ‘And I would like one of the best coffees in town now, with my cognac, if I may, please, barman.’

  ‘Coming up.’ Ray busied himself with the coffee machine, and a cup and saucer. ‘Are you parked nearby? I’ll give you a hand in with your things and then you can meet my wife, Paulette.’

  The next day, Evie found herself in the market at the nearby town, Saint-Girons. It was a forty-minute drive; she took another half an hour to find somewhere to park and it was a ten-minute walk downhill to the market. Ray told her over breakfast that Carcassonne was under an hour away, so she decided to stay where she was for a few days, until the lump on her head was flat again and her knees and muscles less painful.

  Saint-Girons was lovely, a town full of hippies and interesting-looking people, and the market was colourful and lively. Music throbbed on the air – African drumming and a man in a long kaftan who had a type of harp that he played with the neck sticking out in front of him, and a little band of three French men in berets who had an accordion and a guitar and put their hearts into singing traditional songs.

  Rich smells of cooking followed Evie around: scented couscous, roasting chicken, spicy bhajis, and tangy cheeses. People smiled and chatted to her, many in English. There were stalls of clothes hanging, brightly coloured as flags. An English lady, tall and slender, probably in her fifties with wavy auburn hair and a long fringe, was selling pots of jam and chutney and Evie bought some yellow bean chutney and stopped for a chat with her about her life in France. She was called Caroline. She wore a long print dress and leather sandals. She lived with her partner, Nigel, out of town, halfway up a hill. They’d done up a guest house and the jams were just a sideline. Caroline told her it was a great place to live; summers were glorious and winters often snow-bound, which made the area exciting and cosy. Caroline gave Evie her business card with her mobile number on it, and invited her for coffee whenever she liked. Evie promised to give her a call. She drew some money out of an ATM and bought some crazy jewellery: two leather-and-bead bracelets, a brooch shaped like an owl, a chakra necklace, and two toe-rings. Evie felt her mood soar as she moved past stalls of home-made honey and leather belts, piles of fresh strawberries, sandals and shoes and hats. She bought herself some blue leather sandals to show off the toe-rings, as well as an African print dress and a bright scarf, and some curried okra and organic rice to eat for lunch.

  There was a stall selling bright rolls of plastic fabric. Evie ran her fingers over the soft squishiness and stood back. There was a pattern of a Paris café, an Eiffel tower and an elegant woman with a little dog on a lead. There were brightly coloured balloons, a sunshine-yellow fabric with blue cornflowers. She smoothed her fingers over a design with repeated lemons in green leafy squares; another fabric displayed bunches of grapes but the most attractive was a repeated pattern of colourful macaroon cakes like the ones in the shop in Brittany. Evie asked the woman at the stall about the fabric and she worked out that these were tablecloths which were sold by the metre. The designs were cheerful and she thought she would buy some to take home. She stopped for a moment. Home was not Sheldon Lodge, not any more. It could be somewhere else. Dublin? Her home could be wherever she liked. The thought felt good, and she breathed in the atmosphere of the bustling market and smiled.

  She arrived at a stall that sold wine: bottles of white caught the sunlight and shook out a golden shard of brightness; deep burgundy reds in dark glass; unusual spirits in ornate bottles; all bearing the label ‘Cave Bonheur’ and the logo of a smiling farmer holding up a clutch of purple grapes. Evie spoke to a young man, about eighteen or twenty years old she guessed, his face fixed in a wide grin. He had an exclamation mark of wheat-coloured hair and his thin arms and legs were sticking out from a T-shirt and baggy shorts. Evie greeted him in plodding French, asking if he spoke English.

  He nodded, looked nervously over her shoulder and rubbed a flat hand across his brow. ‘A little, Madame. I can try. How can I help you?’

  ‘I want a nice bottle of red wine, something really special. It’s a present for the lady where I am staying. Paulette. To drink with dinner. What can you recommend?’

  The yellow-haired boy looked around him, choosing. He spoke to himself in French, presumably saying the names of the wines aloud. Then he offered a bottle to her. ‘You like the nice Bordeaux?’

  Evie pointed to another bottle. It was litre-sized, and had a plain label. ‘What is this one?’

  He looked anxious, put the Bordeaux back and offered her the larger bottle. His brow was soft with sweat. ‘Languedoc-Roussillon. Product of the pays.’

  Evie frowned. ‘Product of the peace?’

  The boy shook his head. ‘Pays, Madame. Pays. Pays.’

  Evie didn’t understand. ‘Pee? Did you say it was pee?’ She started to laugh.

  The boy’s face was serious; his brow was knotted with worry and he began to wave a hand in front of his face and rubbed the back of his neck with his fingers. ‘Produced in the pays. In the région. Here, in our vines, at Cave Bonheur.’

  She gave him her best smile. ‘Oh. Is it good wine, then, this one?’

  He nodded, his chin bobbing up and down. ‘Very special. Six euros, Madame. If you buy ten bottles, I can sell you four euros fifty each bottle.’

  Evie delved into her bag. ‘I’ll have two bottles of the Long Dog, please. If I like it I can come back and buy more. It’s difficult to carry lots of bottles away by myself and it’s uphill all the way back to the bloody van.’

  The boy grinned and he seemed to relax. His smile pushed out his cheeks. ‘No problem, Madame. Here is the card of our business. You can visit and we do the free dégustation.’

  Evie pulled an alarmed face. She was not sure what he meant – it sounded like free disgusting, which couldn’t be right, could it? – but it didn’t sound good. She wondered if it was drinking the last of the wine dregs and paying nothing for the privilege.

  The boy rubbed his neck with his fist and tried again. ‘You taste the wine before you buy. Free to taste, so if you like, you can buy.’

  ‘Free wine?’ Evie chortled at the thought. ‘Sounds grand. Is your place far from here?’

  ‘Two kilometres outside Saint-Girons on the road to Foix. The direction and telephone are on the card. You can come and visit.’

  ‘I would love to.’ Evie
paid for her wine, shoving the large bottles into her handbag so only the necks stuck out. ‘Nice to meet you.’

  The boy shouted after her as she walked away, waving his arms and leaping in the air. He was clearly excited. ‘My name is Benji. Remember me. I have the wine ready when you come.’

  Evie hauled her handbag onto her shoulder, gripped her other purchases in her hand and headed for the winding street which would take her back to the campervan. She’d enjoyed Saint-Girons market and was looking forward to a nap and then another evening in O’Driscoll’s.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  ‘Caucasians, Brendan? What on earth do you mean?’

  Brendan came out of the en suite, a towel round his waist. He’d been by himself for most of the day and he sat tiredly on the edge of the bed, where Maura had placed her bags of shopping from Angers. ‘That’s what she texted me. I asked her where she was staying in the south and she replied Caucasians. But it’s not on the map anywhere.’

  ‘It has to be.’

  Brendan looked at Maura, at her serious face, and wondered when they had last exchanged smiles. They had been in France for well over two weeks. He recalled the night in the hotel in Brittany when they had been happy, at least for a while, and shrugged. ‘I can ask her again. But she said she was off to the south and was staying in Caucasians. Perhaps it’s a mountain pass. The Caucasians?’

  Maura raised her eyebrows. ‘And the Panda?’

  ‘Should be ready for collection tomorrow afternoon. About two.’

  ‘So what will we do with ourselves tonight, Brendan?’ She looked at him hopefully and he thought for a moment.

  ‘I know a nice little café where they serve good food.’

  Maura wriggled from the edge of the bed. It was late afternoon and the window was wide open, the sun spilling into the room, a deep yellow strip of heat. Dust danced on the air, little twirling specks hovering. Maura walked through the slice of light and over to the wardrobe, her back towards Brendan. ‘Right. If we’re going out, I’d better put on my glad rags.’

  She seemed not to notice him as she pulled clothes from the wardrobe, her mouth twisted in indecision, and put them back. ‘I hope it’s not too far to walk. These country lanes are playing havoc with my feet.’

  Brendan watched her struggle out of her jeans and T-shirt. She glanced at him, then turned her back to him. He watched her hoist a pretty emerald-green dress over her head and pull it down over her hips. He noticed the furtive way she dressed, quickly, her arm a shield across her body. Brendan turned away, looking at his fingernails. He glanced at her again, trying not to stare. Maura smoothed the material of her dress and scrutinised herself in the mirror. She combed her hair, leaned forward to put lipstick on her mouth and caught his eye. She smiled and Brendan saw the sweet, bubbly girl he knew years ago. He moved over to stand behind her and placed a hand on her shoulder. In the mirror, he noticed her eyes twitch towards him and she reached an arm round behind her, took his hand and pulled it around her waist. Brendan examined his reflection: an unhappy man whose cheeks had begun to sag, who had started to look like a hapless bloodhound, and a feeling of futility and guilt grasped at his throat. Their reflection looked back at them, a hopeful couple who were once happy, who could be happy again perhaps, but he had no idea how to achieve it.

  The meal passed quietly. The woman in the blue dress was not there. The waiter was dark, his hair lank, and he wore heavy spectacles and a sombre face. They ordered the beef and shared a bottle of red wine. Afterwards, Brendan suggested they went for a walk by the river. Maura asked him jokingly if he was going to push her in, and he didn’t reply. They walked down to the bridge where he had seen the father and his children playing football. Brendan leaned against the same brickwork and Maura rested against the bridge and they stared into the river beneath. The air was cold and Maura shivered. Her arms were covered in pinpricks of goose-flesh and she hugged the thin fabric of her green dress close to her body. Brendan took off his jacket and put it around her shoulders. She continued to gaze at the river, into the depths. Brendan took her hand, which lay limp in his fingers, and turned towards the road winding away towards Angers. He would need to contact Evie again and find out where she was staying.

  A line of cyclists went by in colourful tops and shorts and Brendan thought about a cycling holiday. It would do wonders for his muscle tone and he imagined his legs brown and strong in Lycra shorts, his bike loaded with a tent and cooking equipment. The hedgerows would be bursting with wild flowers and honeysuckle smells, the burr of bees, and the road would be wide and edged by fields of sunflowers raising tall yellow heads to the sky. He imagined his companion riding up to come alongside him, wearing her safety helmet, a smile on her face and a long ponytail twisting in the breeze behind her. It was Penny Wray.

  Brendan pulled himself out of his daydream, back to Maura. He let go of her hand. ‘Shall we have a seat down there, on the riverbank? The grass is quite dry. We could watch the sun set.’

  ‘Don’t you think it’s a bit late for romantic gestures, Brendan?’

  ‘I thought it might be nice if we—’

  ‘Nice? Nothing’s nice at all.’ Her eyes glittered. ‘We’ve just eaten a meal together, a lovely meal, and you hardly said a word. I thought spending time together would make us feel happy again.’ Tears filled her eyes. ‘But it hasn’t worked, has it?’

  ‘I’m trying my best.’

  ‘But you won’t tell me what’s wrong.’

  ‘I just don’t know how I feel any more.’ They were silent, then he mumbled, ‘How do you feel, Maura?’

  She shook her head. ‘Sometimes I’m afraid I’m going to lose you. Sometimes I just want to cry. It’s as if all the love we had has leaked away and we’re just going through the moves. The thing is, I still feel something for you, Brendan. But I’m not sure who you are any more. Or what you want. Then I think you must want something, but perhaps it isn’t me. So I feel angry and then I don’t know what I want either. It’s just not quite right between us, is it?’

  Brendan shrugged. ‘What can we do?’

  Maura slumped forwards. He thought about putting an arm around her shoulders but somehow his limbs wouldn’t move. The silence hung between them, a thick brick wall. The silence became brittle. Minutes passed.

  ‘Maura,’ he began. He saw her face was streaked with tears. He forgot what he was about to say.

  ‘Do you still love me?’

  ‘Yes,’ he began but the word filled in his mouth and he could say no more. She looked away and her shoulders were shaking. Brendan put a hand on her arm and he was aware that it was a hand of pity. He waited for the other feelings to follow: love, affection, a familiar caring that might still be there, the glue of their past. Brendan felt the cold wind blow through his shirt.

  Maura stood up, wiping her tears from her cheeks and pulled his jacket tightly around her. Her face twisted, holding back another sob. She jolted her chin up but there was regret carved in the sadness of her face. ‘I’m going back to Clémence’s. I think I’ll have an early night, Brendan. We both have some thinking to do.’

  ‘I’ll stay here a little bit.’

  ‘Good idea.’ She turned to go. ‘I think we both know that things are not good at the moment. We need to decide if this marriage is important to us. Or if it isn’t.’

  Brendan bit his lip.

  She waited for him to speak, and when he said nothing, she whispered, ‘Shall I see you back at the bed and breakfast?’

  He nodded. She hesitated then bent over and brushed her lips against his cheek. He shivered again. Her eyes lingered on his face and she was lost in her own thoughts.

  ‘I do care, Brendan. I know I don’t show it enough but I care more than you think.’

  She walked away in her thin dress and his jacket and her silly sling-back heels, and he watched her with sadness. She became smaller in the distance, more fragile, and he thought about running after her, grabbing her in his arms, telling her that h
e’d try again to make her happy, even harder. He clutched his knees and leaned forward. A sob heaved in his chest, another, and he let out a cry and wept like a child.

  The sun had almost gone; there were smudges of red on the horizon but the sky was dark blues and purples, streaked with scratches of orange. Brendan’s hands and fingers were becoming numb. The bells of a clock crashed in the distance. He remembered a time when he was younger, when he had been afraid to go home because he had broken a window. In one of his rare teenage moods he’d slammed a door and one of the panes had fallen out and shattered. Evie had swept it up with a broom and told him that it was his responsibility to sort it out with Jim when he came back from work. She had said, ‘Your da will be furious,’ and Brendan had run off with his football to the park and stayed there, brooding, until the bite of the cold was worse than any rocket he would get from his father. He’d dawdled home and Jim was mild and good-natured about it. They’d put in the new pane of glass together, Jim showing his son how to smooth the putty around the pane.

  Brendan’s childhood had been a good one. His parents had loved him and encouraged him. Jim had watched him play football each week and Evie had clapped and smiled when he won the poetry prize at school. They were both pleased that he’d become a sports teacher and their wedding present had been sensible: money for a deposit on the house. They had been practical parents but Brendan needed some softness now. He wished he could ring Evie and tell her about Maura, but he would feel awkward asking for help. He envied his mother her capacity for fun; he and his father had been the quiet ones while she was the one for a song, a dance, a laugh. They both used to watch her in action as she chattered away, the same fondness in their eyes.

  He and his father were made of similar stuff: words were more often thought than spoken. And now his father was gone, his mammy was far away and his marriage might be dissolving to dust. He had no-one to talk to. He took out the phone and found Evie’s number. He could text her and ask where she was. He could ring, but she’d know right away in his voice that something was wrong. He put his fingers through his hair. What was love? Was it just physical passion or romantic sentiment, or was it just a habit to keep the loneliness away? He would walk back to the bed and breakfast, slide his cold bones next to a slumbering Maura. Tomorrow they would have to sort it all out, the Panda, Evie, their marriage. Brendan pulled himself to his feet, put his hands in his pockets and turned in the direction of the shadows.