A Grand Old Time Page 22

  ‘So, she was the best one then? The lady in the photo on the end?’

  ‘Hélène. We bought this place together. She was the reason I stayed in one place. She made the money so that I have enough now. She was organised, very practical.’

  Evie thought she would have needed to be. ‘How long were you together?’

  ‘Thirty years, more. The wine-making was her idea. She was a good woman. I just drove the tractor and filtered the wine and—’

  ‘Played guitar?’

  Jean-Luc gave a half-grin. ‘I am a man who is all good for nothing. You see what you have found for yourself?’

  ‘I think she was a lucky woman, your Hélène. You must miss her very much.’

  ‘At first, there is pain and the heart dies a little. But you have made it beat again, Evie.’ He kissed her forehead.

  ‘You must meet my son, Brendan. He is a lovely young fella.’

  ‘I would like that. You have grandchildren?’

  Evie gave a small laugh. ‘His wife likes her house spick and span. I’m sure she’d have no place for any little ones.’

  ‘Maybe one day?’

  Evie pulled a face. ‘You’d get on well with him, Jean-Luc. I must text him; invite him over before the end of the year. What about Christmas? Would that be all right?’

  ‘This is your home, Evie. You invite who you want.’

  She beamed at him. ‘He’s very like his da. Same colouring, same hair. You can’t get a word out of him sometimes. Just like his father was. Two peas in a pod.’

  Jean-Luc frowned. ‘And you miss him, your husband, James?’

  ‘He was Jim, well, his proper name was Seamus. I called him Jim.’

  ‘You had a good marriage together?’

  ‘Oh, I thought so at the time, Jean-Luc. He was a very nice man. Very kind, very steady. But, you know, we never did anything like this. Stay in bed on a Sunday, read books, talk about our feelings and things. And I feel a bit sad saying this but, well, I don’t really miss him much any more, not now. At first it was an empty house and it was the little practical things, you know: how do I empty the bins by myself, how do I pay for all the bills? And then I got confused by the loneliness. I ran away for a little time, I sort of gave up on life a bit, went into hiding. But then, I thought to myself, I was just stuck in one place. Stuck in the mud. And I took off. I mean, I didn’t know where I was going or what I’d do, but I just took off. I had to. You know, Jean-Luc, you can’t love someone else if you don’t know who you are and what you want out of life.’

  ‘And do you know it now, Evie, the thing you want from life? Now you have travelled across France in your little car?’

  ‘Yes, I think I do.’ She looked at the worried eyes, the lines around his mouth. ‘This is what I want.’

  He kissed her and she was caught in his hug.

  ‘So, what shall we do with today, Jean-Luc?’

  ‘What do you want to do?’

  ‘Well it’s Sunday, so maybe a picnic, a little trip out somewhere? You could bring your guitar and we could sit in the countryside and you could serenade me in the sunshine.’

  His hand touched her cheek. ‘Maybe. Or maybe we could just stay here all day in bed, and talk.’

  Evie hugged him, her arms pulling at the back of his neck. ‘Pute être.’

  She stood at their wine stall in the market, the buzz of voices in her ears. This was her new venture, running the stall with Benji while Jean-Luc drove the tractor between the vines at Cave Bonheur to check the progress of the grapes and prevent the presence of weeds. Business was increasing, what with Benji’s expert knowledge of wine-making to impress the customers, and her patter persuading them to buy more than they needed. Next to her, Benji leapt up and down, talking about the grape harvest and how they would be making the wine in the big vats, how hot the temperature would need to be, and watching the bubbles form and then the deep Claret would pulse in the tubes.

  She thought about being in Jean-Luc’s arms, that huge hug which enveloped her completely, her face against the rough hairs of his chest, hearing the steady thump-thump of another human heart. She was thinking about the outside warmth of another body, her own feeling of warmth inside, of not being alone. She was strong; she could do whatever she liked now. She could help harvest the grapes, ferment the wine and put it into bottles. She might make cheese; she would have a pantry full of jams and chutneys in the autumn and next spring plant some vegetables, maybe make a coop and keep chickens. The spare rooms needed decorating, their bedroom too. They could even open a bed and breakfast for holidaymakers next summer. She thought about his face, the weathered leather of his skin, the roughness of his hair which crinkled against her fingers, the sinking flesh below his cheekbones. She heard Benji chattering as someone was buying wine and she thought about Jean-Luc back at their place, Cave Bonheur, driving on his tractor around the little vines which were bursting with grapes. Her mouth was smiling.

  ‘Well, you surprised us all, Evie. I think “dark horse” is the phrase that comes to mind.’

  Evie looked up to see Caroline, her hands on her hips, a frown on her tanned face, her sudden smile. She was being teased and grinned back. ‘Caroline. Good to see you.’

  ‘Who would have thought it, Evie? You and Jean-Luc!’

  She was amazed that she had nothing to say. It wasn’t long since she had called him Mr Grumpy.

  Caroline persisted. ‘Well. Spill the beans, Evie. It’s been three weeks, hasn’t it? Everyone is talking about it. You’ve saved that man’s business; you’ve probably saved his life.’

  She accepted the mug of tea Caroline held out for her, a flask in her other hand. She took a gulp and handed it to Benji, who was eyeing the drink, his mouth open.

  ‘He is a lovely man,’ Evie said. ‘You will have to get to know him better. Come round and have dinner with us next week?’

  Caroline beamed. ‘We’d love to. Now, how about you and I take a break? I’m sure Benji can mind the stall while we grab some lunch? I want to hear all about it. Oh, you’re such a wicked person, not telling me all the gossip! Jean-Luc—’

  Evie breathed out. ‘Give me ten minutes, Caroline. I’ll just finish up here and leave Benji to it. I need to run a quick errand then I’ll join you at your stall; I just have a couple of things I need to do. You’ll be all right for half an hour, won’t you, Benji?’

  ‘Of course.’ Benji grinned broadly, drained the tea and handed the mug back to Caroline, who called, ‘I can’t wait,’ as she walked off, swinging the flask. Evie would follow momentarily; she would call on the woodturner first, who should be at his stall, and ask how the new Cave Bonheur sign was coming along. She thought warmly how Jean-Luc’s face would brighten at the new sign.

  Evie took out her phone. A customer was at the stall and Benji was offering a bottle of red wine, speaking excitedly in words she couldn’t understand, except for ‘vin’ and ‘plaisir’. She found a message; it was Jean-Luc’s number and he had texted in French. Tu me manques, mon ange Irlandais, and she smiled at the words, although she only understood the last part. It was nice being his Irish angel. Then she found Brendan’s number and began to slowly write a message. She needed to make sure the words were just right.

  brendan, hope all is well & you & maura are enjoying the summer. She paused, remembering Maura, whom she had completely forgotten about, then typed again: im staying here in foix i am now living

  She stopped to think. She moved her thumb over the letters.

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Brendan was enjoying the countryside and the cliffs. He felt his lungs expand in the sharp air. His face was tanned and the back of his neck was warmed by the sunshine. Maura had stayed in bed again, claiming he made her feel ill, so he took another bus and found a route on his map. The sensation of being alone was good, his backpack bouncing on his back and the sea breeze in his face as he walked for miles, his head full of thoughts at first and then later calm and quiet.

  His wrist wa
s still in the cast after almost four weeks, but the aching had stopped. It gave him a feeling of freedom to be following the coastal path. Brendan walked briskly for three hours; his map suggested that another half-hour’s walk would take him to a beach where he could have a late lunch and there would be a bus back to the hotel. He stopped to take photos. The view down from the path was spectacular and he wondered whether he should take up painting or sketching, whether he could render the sweep of the beach and the smooth seas in oils. He thought how he would like to try the twenty-five-kilometre walk from Bidart to Hendaye, waking up early and taking the whole day to complete the journey.

  He had rediscovered how much he enjoyed walking, not just the sense of accomplishment but also the way the strong muscles in his legs made him feel powerful and in control as he moved from path to promontory, from beach to clifftop, from sand to grass to rock. The view was broad and open and he couldn’t help but make a parallel with his own life, a spectrum of new opportunity to go where he wished and be independent. He thought of Maura momentarily and imagined how it would be if she were walking beside him. She would be wearing the silly heels or the pink trainers, complaining of tiredness, asking how much further they had to go. He imagined her in hiking boots and a waterproof, talking to him about the landscape and asking questions about the geology. He thought of Great Gable and he sighed. It seemed like a long time ago.

  He took out his water bottle. He was thirsty; the water was lukewarm but he gulped greedily. Seagulls swooped and soared overhead, the whirling of handkerchiefs. In the distance he could see the ragged brown wingspan of a hovering buzzard. Below, the tide was coming in and the spray rose and slapped against the outcrop of rocks. The beach was a stretch of empty sand except for a lone fisherman and his net.

  Brendan’s mind strayed back to Maura in the hotel room. She would be asleep or reading a magazine, on her side, her arms around a pillow. Brendan had not hugged her for weeks now, their backs to each other in the bed, their adjacent shoulders cold, turned away at harsh angles. They hardly looked at each other. He did not like being in the hotel room. Now his wrist had stopped aching, he wanted to be out in the fresh air and he thought she’d feel the same. But now the situation had reversed: she was unhappy to stray out of the room most days. She looked pale and was lethargic when she woke, although she would agree to come down for dinner later in the evening, when she usually felt a little better. Meals were now quiet times, where they exchanged a few words, ran out of things to say and listened to the harsh scrape of their forks against the plates.

  A darker cloud was coming towards him. There was a new chill in the air, so Brendan reached into his backpack for his cagoule and heaved it over his head, pulling up the hood and snatching at the toggles. Ten minutes later, the rain shower came in and Brendan squeezed his eyes shut against the sudden torrent, feeling his face cooling and then becoming cold. He quickened his pace. Below, he could see a beach with a little wooden shack that he thought might be a café.

  It was still raining when he ordered his sandwich and French beer. There was only one other person in the café, an old man who was downing the last dregs of his ale. Brendan gave him a half-smile and looked away again. He heard the chair scrape. The old man moved across to his table, pulling out the chair next to him to accommodate his large belly.

  It was dusk when Brendan returned to the hotel in St Jean-de-Luz and he was looking forward to a shower and dinner. In the hotel room, Maura was lying on the bed, asleep. He picked up his laptop and checked emails; nothing from Penny Wray. He was hoping she would send more holiday pictures. He did not think she had returned to Dublin from Mexico; it was three more weeks until the new term started and he wondered if she would have an interview for the new job. He checked his emails again. He’d heard nothing back from St Cillian’s: it must mean he had missed another opportunity. Maura was breathing softly. He went into the shower.

  She was sitting on the bed when he came out, reading a magazine.

  ‘How are you feeling?’ he asked.

  She shrugged. He felt sorry for her, seeing the way her shoulders sloped forwards over her reading. ‘Maura, the cast comes off next week. We can go to Foix and see Mammy, then we can all three of us make our way back to Dublin in two days, three at the most.’

  ‘And what then?’

  He took a deep breath. ‘It’s all such a mess.’

  He saw her swallow hard.

  ‘Do you want any dinner, Maura?’

  ‘I might as well.’

  ‘Have you eaten today?’

  She made a face which told him no. He looked at the inky fingerprint smudges beneath her eyes, the grey pallor of her skin. Her hair was not brushed and was flattened on one side. She was wearing pyjamas.

  He put his hand out to her and she moved away. ‘Come on, let’s go downstairs and eat. Maybe you’ll feel better. You must be starving if you’ve eaten nothing all day.’

  ‘I have no appetite.’ She took a deep breath. ‘How was your hike?’

  ‘Good,’ he said, and wondered if he should tell her about Loris the fisherman in the café. She struggled out of bed and looked for something to wear and he decided it was best to say nothing.

  She pulled on a dress and tugged a comb through her hair, splashed water on her face and said she was ready. He saw how the dress hung from her shoulders; she was thinner and her suntan was fading. Her eyes were hollow and miserable and she was hunched over, arms folded over her stomach. For a moment, he wanted to hug her. His mobile pinged. It was Evie. Maura’s back was turned to him. He quickly read the message to himself: brendan, hope all is well & you & maura are enjoying the summer im staying here in foix i am now living in—

  ‘In a cave?’ he gasped.

  Maura faced him, her comb in her hand. ‘What?’

  ‘Mammy. She says she’s living in a cave. With a new man.’

  A week later, his hand moved freely. He examined it, as if looking at a long-lost friend. His wrist was pale and somehow thinner after four and a half weeks against the tanned forearm. He flexed it: it still worked. He tried to lift the luggage, but his wrist hurt too much, so he used his good arm to take the bags down one by one, glaring at his wife as he passed her. Maura did not help much; she leaned against the car and squeezed her eyes tight as if in pain. Brendan paid the bill and hoped that he could claim something back from the holiday insurance as he was now almost overdrawn, but decided to say nothing to Maura. As he started up the engine, she closed her eyelids and leaned back in her seat.

  His wrist ached but he was enjoying the drive. The scenery changed as they left the coast behind them and moved towards the rising hills and dense forests. Brendan hummed a little tune. They would arrive in Foix in three to four hours and he would find the Irish bar. There could only be one, and someone would know where his mother was staying. The bit about the cave worried him, but he guessed that it was a mistake in her text. Perhaps she meant the name of a hotel. The idea of being in an Irish bar made him think of Dublin and he realised he missed his home. He would buy a pint of Irish stout in the bar, phone his mother, and in a few days he would be back home. He would ignore his domestic problems until then. The little tune bubbled on his lips.

  ‘Please Brendan, don’t.’ Maura put her hand to her head.

  ‘Is my singing annoying you?’

  ‘It’s not that …’ She looked out of the window. He waited. ‘I have to tell you something – I have done something really stupid.’ She could not meet his eyes.

  His mind raced to the worst thing he could imagine. ‘What have you done?’

  ‘I shouldn’t have – I have done something terrible. While you were out hiking, I went on your laptop. There were some emails. I opened them up and read them. Then I – deleted them.’

  His mouth made a firm line. ‘What emails?’

  ‘That girl, Penny. The sporty one at your school. She sent you some more pictures and some emails.’

  He looked at the road ahead.


  ‘I owe you an apology. You were right. I know you aren’t having an affair with her now.’

  He was puzzled and intrigued and angry all at once. ‘So how do you know, Maura?’

  ‘Her emails. She said she was returning back to Dublin next week. She said she and Sam were still enjoying themselves in Mexico. They’re having the time of their lives scuba-diving. And she says Sam has just proposed, so it’s unlikely she’s cheating, having an affair with you. I read all the messages. It’s obvious from how she writes that Sam is her other half and she’s not interested in you in that way. She even said you and I should go to their ceremony at Christmas. I’d got it all wrong. She and you aren’t—’

  Brendan made a cough to clear his throat. Penny and Sam? Sam? He thought of Penny massaging his shoulders in the PE office. He thought of her in the red bikini swimming with dolphins. So she was with Sam. She had a boyfriend after all. He exhaled and sadness sank into the deepest place in his chest.

  ‘There’s something else.’

  He glanced at her and then back to the road.

  ‘You have an interview in two weeks. Early September. At St Cillian’s. For a new job.’

  He felt anger surge. ‘You deleted that?’

  ‘It’s in Trash. You have to tell them if you’re coming to interview. By the end of this week.’

  Brendan rubbed his sore wrist against his forehead. ‘Fine. I’ll do that. It’s just as well I still have time.’

  Maura’s eyes were on him, glassy with tears of shame. ‘I have been really stupid, haven’t I?’

  ‘Yes, you have.’

  She pursed her lips. ‘There’s something else …’

  ‘What else have you done, Maura?’

  ‘My job at the surgery – well, I’ve had far too much time off now – five weeks more than I should’ve … I told them two weeks …’

  ‘They can’t sack you?’

  ‘No, but I had a text yesterday. They’ve found a replacement to cover for me. And she’s doing really well. They like her. So when I’m back they’re going to discuss a job share between us, and ask me to think about changing my hours. I will be working less.’