A Grand Old Time Read online

  The song ended, Billy the Banjo offered up a flurry of final notes and the applause echoed around O’Driscoll’s Bar. Evie was mouthing her thank-yous when she saw him. He was leaning on the bar, a glass in his hand, not clapping. His little ponytail stuck out from beneath the cap and his eyes were shining. She felt mischief rising through her lungs and she blew him a kiss. He continued to stare without looking away.

  Evie grabbed the mic and brushed the blonde fringe from her eyes. ‘I am so glad you are all having a good time tonight, on this special celebration, Ray’s birthday,’ she cooed sweetly, batted her lashes and looked directly at the grumpy man. ‘I want to say how nice it is to meet such lovely people in France, so kind and so welcoming and so friendly.’ The applause became louder and she curtseyed.

  At this point she was Edith Piaf in her little black dress; she was on the verge of asking Billy the Banjo if he knew ‘Non, Je Ne Regrette Rien’ when she realised she didn’t actually know the words. She smiled beatifically at the audience and suddenly wanted to speak to them in French. She raised her hands in appreciation, then took a bow. ‘Merci.’ She thought again. ‘Je t’aime.’ The applause was even louder. She racked her brain for another phrase but decided that ‘Voulez-vous coucher avec moi ce soir’ wasn’t really going to fit the bill.

  She bowed again and Billy helped her down from the stage area and began playing another tune. She joined Caroline and Nige who both said she was wonderful. She made her excuses, saying that she was going to visit the ladies’ room, and edged towards the bar, deliberately squeezing through the drinkers until she was behind the ill-tempered man who was leaning over a drink at the bar, his back hunched and square. She was not about to let a grumpy man ignore her performance. She muttered to herself, ‘So he won’t clap, then? I’ll show him.’

  She wriggled between him and a man holding out a glass and she called out to Ray, who was pulling a pint from a long-handled pump. ‘What did you think of my song, Ray? It was for you, on your birthday.’

  Ray winked. ‘Wonderful, Evie, love. Top class.’

  She heard the cantankerous tall man make a sound through his nose. She looked at him, directly meeting the chestnut eyes. ‘And just what is your problem?’ She batted her eyelashes. ‘You have a problem with emancipated women who enjoy themselves, do you?’

  The man was a little taken aback at first, but he soon found his composure. ‘I have no problem, Madame. But it appears that you do. You sing like a frog.’

  Her heart pounded. She met his eyes. They were dark and brooding, tormented eyes as she’d imagined Heathcliff’s to be, but she wouldn’t look away. He had just insulted her singing.

  ‘And you look like a bloody toad.’ Evie made herself as tall as she could, but she barely came to his shoulder. ‘A big, ridiculous, rude toad. No wonder you are by yourself and have no friends. You are just fecking miserable. You need to get a life and stop being such a miserable bollix.’

  She narrowed her eyes and watched what he would do next. He gave an exaggerated shrug with his big shoulders, and pulled a creased face. ‘Who knows? Maybe you are right.’

  He looked sad for a moment, and she felt the instinct to put out her hand and pat his shoulder, to comfort him. She looked at her hand and mentally willed it to be still. She had drunk too much wine again. She supposed it was part and parcel of being in France. She met his eyes again and found she couldn’t look away. The big man breathed out deeply, a sigh like a volcano, then he turned his face back to Evie.

  ‘But it was a miserable song, all about death. I dislike all this morbid remembrance of death of which you people sing. And you, Madame, you still have the voice of a frog.’

  He took another swig from his glass. Evie put her hands on her hips and stared at him.

  ‘And just why are you so rude? What is it you have a bee in your bonnet about, for goodness sake?’

  He shook his head. She noticed his broad shoulders, his deep-set eyes, and she felt her pulse pound in her throat. He would have been good-looking once, but his face was sad, ravaged by lines around his mouth, presumably from being so miserable.

  His voice rumbled from somewhere deep in his chest. ‘You English people with your sayings, bees and bonnets. I suggest you go back where you came from, Madame, and take your terrible songs with you, and leave me in peace.’

  ‘I’m not English, I’m Irish,’ she breathed, and stared at him for a few moments, taking in the leather skin and iron grey hair, the tattered jacket and the Bob Dylan T-shirt. ‘I’d wish you a nice night, but I don’t think you’ll have one, you being so grumpy and all.’ She marched away, her heart beating hard and her fists clenched.

  Ten minutes later, she was talking pointedly about ‘Danny Boy’ to Caroline and Nige, trying to push Mr Grumpy away from her thoughts. Nige thought it was a Scottish song. He was offering cashew nuts from a bowl to everyone who came past.

  ‘Why does everything have to be Scottish?’ Evie asked, remembering the couple she had met at the night market in Marmande. ‘Or English.’ She glanced across towards Mr Grumpy, who was still leaning against the bar and had his back to her. She noticed the stretch of muscle across his shoulders encased in the leather of his jacket.

  ‘It mentions pipes and glens – aren’t they Scottish?’ Nige had drunk three orange juices but he appeared merrier than anyone, swinging his hands up and down to show what glens were.

  Caroline took his arm affectionately. ‘It was written by an English lawyer. Based on a tune called the “Londonderry Air”.’

  ‘Irish, then,’ Evie insisted.

  Nige was round-eyed with admiration. ‘How did you know that, Caroline?’

  ‘Pub quiz champion, 1985.’

  They laughed and Nige began to talk to them about his plans for the cellar and how he could use it for wine storage. Caroline was explaining that they could create a gym or a sauna, even a hot tub, and she invited Evie to visit them and stay for dinner in a few days’ time. Evie peeped between them and noticed Mr Grumpy was still at the bar. She resumed listening intently to them both talking across each other; her mouth was full of nuts and she tried to think about dinner with Caroline and a visit to the free tasting she had promised herself, when there was a crash of glasses from the bar.

  Over her shoulder, she saw two men were fighting, fists raised and legs kicking, and Ray’s worried face as he steered Paulette to the back of the bar area. There was another loud shout, which sounded like swearing, and one man had a beer glass which he broke and pushed towards the other’s face. An arc of beer flew from a glass and there were punches and a wooden stool was shattered as someone fell back onto the floor, knocking into an old man. There was more screaming and the flurry of knuckles. Ray was trying to position himself between the two men but they were locked like battling bulls and he couldn’t separate them. A space widened around them, and they lurched backwards into the crowd; one of them knocked Evie forward and Caroline caught her and kept her upright. The men were on the floor and the sound of their voices snarling was like slavering dogs. They rolled and spat and fists rose and descended.

  They were pulled apart and noise became silence as the two men snarled at each other. The tall irritable man held them up, one in each hand, where they drooped like coats from a hanger. He said something to them in a soft, slow voice and put them down gently, at a distance from each other. One of the men had spattered blood on his shirt and Ray was there with a first-aid kit. The injured man was still angry and he pulled his hands away from his stomach and cried out.

  There was blood on the other man’s forehead, a handkerchief stopping the cut. Ray and Paulette were tending to the groaning man who was bent double, clutching his belly, a woman next to him, holding his hand. Ray joked that it was nothing more than a little flesh wound, a plaster would probably do it and he’d be right as rain in the morning. The other man moved away.

  Evie’s eyes sought out the bad-tempered man. He was leaning over, catching his breath at the bar, as he swallowed
the last of his drink. He met her eyes, and he nodded briefly at her before walking away, his wide shoulders and his black cap sliding swiftly through the crowd before he disappeared behind groups of drinkers. She watched him go, and wondered what made him so grumpy, whether he had a difficult life, whether he had a nice wife at home to cheer him up. Obviously not. He was too miserable – who’d want to live with a man like him? Billy the Banjo struck up his chords and he began to sing ‘Dirty Old Town’.

  ‘What was that all about?’ she asked Caroline.

  ‘It happened so quickly.’

  Nige shrugged. ‘A party isn’t a party without a good fight.’ He finished his orange juice in a swig. ‘They’ll be best friends again tomorrow.’

  It was almost midnight. She went over to the food and helped herself to a sausage and some cold colcannon. The last of the Dublin coddle bubbled in a slow cooker, still warm, so she spooned it on top of the potatoes and cabbage. She lifted the fork to her mouth, watching Ray move chairs and Paulette clean glasses. Billy the Banjo packed away and put his arm around Marion, who looked at him with adoring eyes. Caroline and Nige helped each other into their coats and the man with the winded belly was happy enough, his arm around his opponent, who now had a plaster over one eye. Evie finished her food and watched the couples going about their business and she yawned: it had been a long day and she was ready for bed.

  She turned to go upstairs to her room, but stood still again and recalled her conversation with the irritable man. He spoke good English, with a little American twang, and she wondered where he had lived to become so fluent. She frowned and remembered Ray’s words; the reverential way he spoke about him … she recalled his name, Jean-Luc. She thought of how readily and skilfully he had stopped the fight, how others seemed to respect him. She thought again about the glow of his eyes, the rumble of his voice, and how sad he seemed. He had leaned against the bar, alone, his broad shoulders set, as if the troubles of the world rested on them. He had criticised her voice, been quick to insult her. She had set him straight though, she thought, and she felt pleased with herself. She took the thought upstairs with her and was still thinking about the irritable man as she slid between the covers and closed her eyes.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  The Panda, with a full tank and its new radiator, idled outside Clémence’s bed and breakfast and the sun was seething. Brendan was at the wheel and they were saying their goodbyes. Maura stood with her new friends and she was effusive, kissing Clémence and her husband and Olivier on both cheeks and handing Clémence flowers and saying what a good time she had shared with them. Brendan was conscious of the nagging ache in his chest. He glanced out of the window at the road in front of him. He stared at his hands on the steering wheel, at his wedding ring and up at Maura who still had her back to him.

  ‘We should be leaving, Maura. It’s past three.’

  ‘We have a map, Brendan.’ She spoke without turning, as if a map solved all their problems. He made a mental note of distances: it was seven hours to Foix and so he could do it in two days if they made an overnight stop. Bordeaux was halfway there, somewhere in the middle of the route, and there might be a nice hotel, although he dreaded the hours he would spend in the car with Maura, or the minutes they would spend sitting across a table. He waited quietly until she was in the passenger seat and he drove the car away, Maura trailing her waving hand through the window. The face she turned back to him lost its smile almost immediately.

  ‘Where are we staying tonight?’

  His mouth searched for placatory words but those days were over and he needed to be clearer, tougher. ‘Bordeaux,’ he replied, thinking that a laconic answer would be safest.

  ‘How many hours to Bordeaux?’

  ‘Three, four. We can be in Foix tomorrow.’

  ‘Thank God for that.’ She delved into her bag, took out sunglasses and put them on, then found a CD of her choice and leaned back in her seat. Brendan swung the Panda onto a busy road and took his place in a line of traffic.

  It was half past eight when they arrived on the outskirts of Bordeaux. Maura demanded a hotel with a restaurant and Brendan was happy to oblige her; it was her only conversation with him for the whole journey. They put their cases in the room, changed and shared a silent meal. Brendan yawned and made a move to go upstairs. Maura put a hand on his arm and her sudden touch made him jump.

  ‘Should we have a little walk outside and get some air before we go to sleep, Brendan? Just to take the air and have a look at Bordeaux at night? I expect we shall be off to Foix tomorrow straight after breakfast, to find your mother.’

  She was trying her best. Brendan’s stomach lurched in anticipation and he left her in the foyer looking at the décor while he popped upstairs for a jacket for them both.

  As they stepped out, she took his arm and he wondered if she was holding onto him for her own protection. He inhaled the strong cloud of perfume that surrounded her. They walked without speaking for a while, looking pointlessly in shop windows. A clock from a church chimed eleven; Brendan hoped the hotel doors would not be shut, and he suggested that they turn back soon. Maura was thinking; she was working out how to say something to him. He did not help her out – the silence was a better companion than anything she might say. He heard her breathe in.

  ‘Brendan …’

  He waited.

  ‘Do you think … you know, when we find your mother and we go back to Dublin … Do you think …?’

  He could hear her struggling to find the words.

  ‘Is there any chance that we might …?’

  Brendan was quiet for a moment. He could feel her thoughts, but the memories of her, tender and twenty and clinging to his arm, resting her head against his shoulder, left him hollow. ‘A fresh start? I hope so. I don’t know, Maura.’

  They walked on. She took another breath. ‘I’d like it if we could both try.’ He felt the tension in her body as her arm, looped through his, became stiffer. ‘Can I ask you something?’

  ‘Anything.’ He wondered if she would ask him if he had feelings for another woman, if he had feelings for anyone else. Or if he had any feelings left at all.

  She was swallowing something painful. Perhaps it was pride, perhaps it was the softness of memories, but they clogged her throat. ‘In a perfect world … you know, Brendan, if everything was ideal … what sort of wife would you like me to be?’

  Brendan didn’t reply. She went on. ‘I mean, what might make things better between us? How could I win you back?’

  He winced. The word ‘win’ implied that Maura was prepared to make some kind of effort to make their marriage work again. He lurched for an answer and one didn’t come, then out of desperation, a sentence came out of his mouth.

  ‘We would share more things together.’

  ‘What sort of things?’

  ‘Activities.’

  ‘Oh, you mean sex?’

  The muscles in his stomach contracted as he thought of her cold back, turned against him for the last few nights. Her fingernails gripped the flesh of his arm. He forced a smile. ‘Not necessarily, I mean other things too.’

  ‘What other things?’

  He thought for a moment and it came to him. ‘White-water rafting.’ He tried again. ‘Cycling, maybe.’

  Her placatory mood suddenly shifted and her eyes narrowed. ‘You want me to go white-water rafting, Brendan? Are you mad?’

  He pulled his arm away. It was better to say nothing. She spoke again, more insistent.

  ‘You want me to ride a bike?’ Her nose wrinkled with the memory of Evie’s words about how she should share her husband’s hobbies, and she puffed air from her lungs, annoyed. ‘Me? On a bike?’

  Brendan tried to keep his voice level. ‘No, Maura, I don’t want you to ride a bike. I don’t want you to go white-water rafting. You are right. It wouldn’t work. We don’t seem to be able to share anything.’ He put his head down, turned them around and they began the walk back to the hotel. When they a
rrived in the foyer, he wanted to go up to bed and Maura hesitated. She was quiet, thoughtful; she had something on her mind. Turning away from Brendan, she said she’d stay in the bar. She needed a coffee and some time to think.

  He climbed the stairs feeling miserable. In the bedroom, he pulled on pyjamas and rolled onto the cold bed. His mind was crowded with images, he recalled some photographs of himself and Maura as they were five years ago, their arms around each other, smiling. He’d suggested a walking holiday in England and they’d visited the Lake District together. He’d bought her walking boots and they’d taken packed lunches and backpacks and set off to climb Great Gable. He’d found a steady rhythm in his legs and a repetitive pop song in his head, which had given his stride speed and purpose. Before long, Maura was lagging behind, and he’d turned to see her, red-faced and tired, holding out her hand to him. He’d pulled her along, helping her climb the scree section, which she managed on hands and knees. He’d been impressed by her humour then, and her gritty perseverance.

  At the top, they’d stood, the wind in their faces, gaping at the greys and greens of the hills. Brendan had been exhilarated and Maura thrilled that she had made it to the summit. She’d hugged him and told him she felt on top of the world. He’d promised he’d get her the Death by Chocolate pudding in the hotel that night, with extra cream; she’d been so determined and they’d asked a passing hiker to take a photo of them, the lakes in the background. He remembered, he’d felt like his heart was singing and he could never be happier than he was with this spontaneous, lovely and affectionate woman, his own wife.