A Grand Old Time Page 8

  She swirled and the town square passed by in a blur, full of revellers and musicians and vans selling crêpes and couscous. The bars were crowded, drinkers laughed together in doorways with a glass in one hand trying to clap to the rhythms. Evie turned again and her new partner was Kat. They were lifted on the gurgle of the pipes.

  Kat raised her voice above the music. ‘I can’t thank you enough. For everything.’

  ‘Ah, it was a pleasure.’ Evie thought of the piggery, now two gîtes, neatly painted over the last fortnight and homely with their crisp curtains and yellow walls. Adverts were already in place and bookings were being made for the rest of the holiday season.

  ‘I mean for being so sweet and patient with me. I was a real cow. I was making a mountain out of a silly little thing.’

  Evie leaned into the swing and Kat clutched her hands tightly.

  ‘Please say you’ll stay with us for the summer, Evie. Maddie would love that and so would I.’

  They turned in a spin and changed partners again.

  Popeye was back and he claimed Evie in his grasp. He gave her his creased smile again and said ‘Charmante’ to her, pulling her into his body. She inhaled the smell of tobacco and thought of Jim, how he had held her lightly when they had danced together to music in the sixties. Jim had shuffled his feet awkwardly but she’d always loved dancing.

  Popeye’s grip on her waist was determined. It was time to buy herself another glass of Pommeau, and she pulled away from him and walked over to a stall, ordering a small glass. The drink was thick syrup which clung to her tongue. It had a kick like a Saturday night in Dublin. She swallowed in gulps and it prickled her throat. Evie could see the beach down below the road. The day was draining away and a light rain began to nuzzle her face. No traffic passed except for the German in his campervan driving on his way elsewhere. He waved a hand in recognition and Evie waved back. She wondered where he was going, whether he would travel far, whether he would have adventures. His campervan was huge, like a small house, and she thought how nice it must be to point yourself in any direction and go where you choose. The campervan lumbered away and was gone and Evie had the sense of being left behind. She looked at the sea shining, sliced in half by the melting of the setting sun, and her eyes swept towards the arc of the coastline. She wondered what was beyond Brittany. The music and laughter warbled behind her. Evie looked towards the horizon again and felt her pulse quicken.

  They were driving to Le Faou for a special treat. Kat and Maddie had told her there was a bakery patisserie that sold the best cakes on the presqu’isle, explaining with a grin that they’d sampled most of the cake shops across the peninsular, and, as Evie had worked in a bakery for over twenty years, she must visit, then they would have lunch. Iggy licked his chops and the van was light with laughter.

  The cake shop sold macaroons, brightly coloured and crammed with cream. Evie ate three, telling the proprietor that the Dublin bakery wasn’t like this in the 1960s. Maddie and Kat held hands and talked of plans for the gîtes, themed evenings, parties, music, and Maddie grasped Evie’s hand. ‘We’d love it if you’d stay and help. As long as you’d like.’

  Lunch was delicious, crêpes and salad and bread with a glass of wine, and Evie was in a warm haze as they walked back to the van, arms linked. Maddie chattered about plans for her visiting holidaymakers, barbecues, even Christmas festivities, but Evie’s thoughts slipped elsewhere. A sign on a wooden gate caught her eye and she stopped. ‘Could we take a look in there for a minute?’

  Garage Lasnec sprawled behind open wooden gates, a mass of metal in various stages of repair. Georges Lasnec was languid, lifting the bonnet of a light green Peugeot. He was a tall man with a goatee smudge of oil on his chin. Evie asked him in simple English if he had any campervans for sale. Maddie translated and Evie was led around a path of vehicles in different stages of newness. She stopped.

  ‘Will you look at this lovely old campervan?’ she said. It was aqua blue and had a front like a rounded face. She paddled her fingers along the chrome of the little grille. ‘Ah, this is ancient and cheeky … It’s grand. I like it.’

  Kat said something to the man and he gave her the keys.

  ‘Jump in, Evie. Do you want to test-drive?’

  Evie slid into the driver’s seat. It was soft leather, comfortable. She glanced up at the roof, where a few rust spots had formed. It smelled musky, like a river bed, but sweet. Bright curtains hung at the windows, the edges frayed. There were some covers rolled up in the back, a wicker basket which looked like it would hold a picnic. She looked out through the windscreen, which was grimy apart from the lighter arc made by the wiper. It would need a good clean. Her hands slid smoothly around the steering wheel, then her fingers wiggled the gear stick. She smiled. ‘This needs some TLC.’

  With Kat as her passenger and Maddie and Iggy left behind in the garage, Evie swung the campervan out of the gate and into the road. It jerked and stopped, then lurched forward again to join the traffic. Evie hit the kerb and the campervan ricocheted and bumped onto the road.

  ‘Keep it on the right-hand side. You’re not in Ireland now.’

  ‘Oh, right.’

  Kat guided her around the town. Evie screwed her eyes and peered over the wheel, thumping the gear stick and jolting up onto the kerb and down again.

  ‘Brake.’

  Evie slammed both feet down, just missing the bumper of the vehicle in front.

  ‘Shite.’

  She swerved in front of a parked van, passing dangerously close to a cyclist, and she accelerated, remembering it was a while since she had driven the old Micra. It had been Jim who would drive them around Dublin, mostly. After his death, she had taken their car out, usually to the supermarket, several times to the graveyard. She didn’t enjoy the Dublin traffic, but here the roads were relatively calm. One driver raised his hand; let her out in front of him. With Kat’s guidance, she was able to negotiate a road island, and to overtake a slow car, putting her on the road back to Le Faou. She had driven exactly four kilometres: the campervan was clearly going to be lucky.

  They returned to Garage Lasnec, turning sharply in front of a lorry, which sounded its horn. Maddie’s face was anxious and Iggy was straining at his lead. Georges Lasnec put his hands on his hips.

  Evie slid out of the driver’s side and held up the keys. ‘I’ll buy it.’

  ‘Hang on a minute.’ Kat said something to Georges Lasnec who shrugged a laconic reply. Kat launched into fluent French, arguing, her words fast and energetic. Evie passed a hand over her head; the driving and the excitement were exhausting.

  The garage owner paused, grumbled and lifted his palms in protest; Kat threw a word at him, a number, a knife in a game of stretch, and he folded his arms across his chest. He grumbled; he forced his hands deep into pockets, turned away and nodded. She had won.

  ‘OK, Evie, he’s reduced the price. It needs new tyres too so he’ll put those on for you. Three thousand euros all in. How’s that?’

  Evie found her card in her bag, somewhere at the bottom.

  ‘That’s grand. Tell him we have a deal.’

  Her case was loaded, with its wheel fixed. She’d packed boxes of provisions, summer clothes, CDs, bedding, water and too many books, including one she had just started reading, a translation of something by Simone de Beauvoir, which Maddie had given her. It was hot and sticky inside the campervan and the beach would have been an ideal place to go with a book, but Evie had a map with a route marked in pencil. She had decided to go south, to see for herself the vineyards and the mountains, and she’d worked out a route based on Maddie and Kat’s jaunt to Languedoc two years ago. She leaned forward and stretched out her arms. Iggy leaped up, round-eyed, and Kat and Maddie hugged her, all three gripped in a rugby scrum. When they pulled apart there were tears.

  ‘Please come back and visit us, Evie.’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘And thank you for everything.’

  Kat handed her two pieces
of paper. One was an address and mobile number. The other was the cheque she had given them for rent. Evie protested but Maddie began to sniff, so she stopped.

  ‘You’re the best of girls. Like daughters. I’ll come back and see you both soon.’

  They embraced again and Evie clambered into the campervan. As she drove away, the rear-view mirror showed two waving women, their arms linked, and a barking dog.

  She leaned over the wheel, blinking, and swung onto the open road via the pavement. The sea was to her right and the highway ahead, shimmering with opportunity. A bend to the left took her up a hill, signposted ‘Menez-Hom’, which became steeper, a slope furred on either side with scrubby yellow and purple heather. She overtook a cyclist, moving to the far side of the road, and lugged the gears into second, making the campervan lurch forwards as if sprung. She pulled in at the top of the hill, parking between two large caravans, and clambered out. Evie clutched her bag and climbed the path to the top of Menez-Hom, the wind whistling hard in her ear drums.

  She could see people rising from the hills into the skies, tied into colourful canopies, looming in front of her then sliding down, out of sight. How free and calm they appeared, these hang-gliders, lifted and held on the wind, then shifting away again. She could see model aeroplanes flying, rising and tumbling, and, to the right, in the distance, there was a clutch of wind turbines and a small town. To the left, she saw a bridge and a river and, as she turned around to look behind, the sea shone back at her, smooth as a mirror. The panorama was vast and generous and she felt surrounded by new choices. She shivered, a delicious feeling composed of cold and opportunity.

  She scrambled back into the campervan. The cab was stifling and the air was thick; she started the engine and opened the windows, pushing the curtains apart to flutter in the breeze. The summit was far behind as she hurtled down the hill and saw the road open its arms to the left and the right.

  ‘Today is the lucky fourth of July. The world is my bloody oyster,’ she muttered as the gears champed together and she turned towards a sign which said ‘Ploeven’. She fiddled with the CD player and a familiar tune took to the air. Evie began to sing along, her voice warbling and light.

  An hour away, a yellow Fiat Panda had left the port in Roscoff and was just turning onto the main road. The driver stared straight ahead while a woman gave him directions from the passenger seat, a map under her nose.

  Chapter Fifteen

  They saw the sea from the road above. It was a shield of silver with a halo of sand shimmering in the sun. The Fiat Panda wound its way down the narrow bends, then the beach appeared to their right, speckled with swimmers. Windsurfers were zipping and unzipping the foam on the horizon. It was hot inside the car, even with the windows wide open. They drove up and down the seafront twice, looking for a hotel.

  Brendan’s brow furrowed. ‘She said she was staying near this beach, so she must be in a hotel. But there isn’t one here.’

  ‘There are some little apartments. Maybe she’s rented one of those. It would be funny to bump into her in a little café, maybe like that one there.’ Maura could smell pizza cooking; a blue and white sign offered ‘moules marinières/frites’ as the dish of the day for nine euros. Brendan turned his head from side to side.

  ‘Perhaps we should ask someone? Should I stop at this little shop – maybe she bought her postcards here?’

  He pulled up at the kerb and grabbed his jacket, slamming the door as he moved away; his mobile and wallet were in the inside pocket. Maura followed him, too warm even in her sleeveless top and shorts. There were ice-creams for sale, cold drinks, and newspapers. She picked out some postcards with pictures of the sea splashing spray. Brendan asked the proprietor in his best French if he knew of a woman who was staying close by, an Irish woman. The man pushed up his glasses and replied, ‘Oui.’

  His lungs emptied in a rush. He asked the man if she was an older woman, in her seventies. The man scratched his head.

  ‘Oui. Peut-être. Plus jeune … On ne sait jamais à ce qui concerne les femmes …’

  Brendan put his hands on the counter and leaned forwards. ‘Brunette? Petite?’

  The proprietor cleaned his glasses on his shirt and replaced them, peering back at Brendan. ‘Non. L’Irlandaise elle était une petite blonde.’

  Brendan asked him if he was sure and the man grunted assent. Maura handed over her postcards and bought stamps and two bottles of water. Brendan blew air out through his cheeks, then turned back to the car.

  ‘It can’t be the same woman. The one he knows has blonde hair. What should we do?’

  ‘Ring her, Brendan.’

  ‘We’ve decided. We’ll surprise her. She loves surprises.’ He imagined his mother being delighted to see him, hugging him, telling him she couldn’t speak a word of French and what a good job he was here; he was so good at the language, just in time to help her find a nice lunch, then she’d be on her way back home.

  ‘Text her, then go for lunch?’ Maura brightened. Brendan was already busy on his phone.

  ‘Best not to tell her we are here, my love. Not yet.’ Another image came into his head. His mother in a swimsuit, in a deck chair on the sand, a sun hat on her head, her face a picture of surprise and irritation. What if she didn’t need him at all? What if no-one needed him again, except for Maura? Guilt descended on him like a sudden downpour and he shivered.

  Brendan clutched the phone and typed: Where are you, Mammy? B x

  Maura placed a hand on his wrist. She leaned towards him, her lips close to his cheek. ‘We should be thinking of finding a hotel for ourselves, Brendan. We could be here for a couple of days, maybe more.’

  The mussels were served in a wonderful sauce, the chips were thin and crispy and the afternoon on the beach was lazy and soaked in sunlight; time stretched out in a glorious hammock of haze. Maura waded into the water, laughing, splashing, calling Brendan to follow her in and paddle. His mood lifted, seeing his wife smile with delight, her hair whipping across her cheeks. He checked the mobile repeatedly but there was no reply from Evie.

  They found a small, picturesque hotel by the river in nearby Châteaulin, they ate at a little Chinese restaurant and walked arm in arm back to the hotel. The water was smooth, calm as crystal, reflecting the arched bridge and green banks in symmetry. A cyclist passed, then another. Maura knocked back three glasses of wine and she was chattering about going to a French market in the town later in the week. Brendan looked down at his feet and used his spare hand twice to check his phone without her noticing.

  They shared a dessert; Maura chose profiteroles, and she giggled with delight as she plucked one from the plate and popped it between Brendan’s lips. He tried to push the worry of his mother away and enjoy her company. She was scintillating, charming the waiter in her meagre French, merci and s’il vous plaît, and the tall balding man in black was attentive to her, filling her glass and murmuring, ‘Vous parlez Français très bien. Vous êtes Allemande, Madame?’ She looked at Brendan quizzically, not understanding.

  He muttered, ‘He thinks you’re German. He says your French is good,’ and laughter bubbled from her lips. Brendan frowned at the waiter and wished he would go away.

  They walked back arm in arm and Maura disappeared into the bathroom. Brendan checked his phone for messages and then took some maps from his suitcase and selected the Ordnance Survey map of Finistère. In the shower, Maura was lathering herself and singing a song about a new day, her voice echoing against the glass of the cubicle. She was adding the bass line too, punctuating the tune with soft sounds like sucking fruit.

  Brendan felt his phone vibrate in his shirt pocket and he checked the text. In Anger. All fine. Don’t worry. For a moment he didn’t understand; was his mother irritated with him for texting her? He held his breath at the thought of his mother, independent and self-propelled, furious with him for encroaching on her holiday time. He replied quickly. Are you angry with me? Maura took up the chorus again, more booms and grunts, thrusting
her hips from side to side to the tune. The phone vibrated again. Staying near Angers. Going south. Nice here. Mammy x and he put it quickly in his pocket as Maura emerged, a towel around her torso.

  She tottered into Brendan’s arms and fell, covering them both with drops of water. She giggled and the towel slipped down a little from her body. Brendan noticed that the skin on her throat was raspberry-coloured from the hours spent on the beach; below was pure cream. She reached around to clasp his neck too tightly and she smelled of undiluted vanilla. He put his arms around her.

  ‘Tell me you love me, Brendan.’

  His lips skimmed the damp forehead. ‘You know I do.’

  The forehead creased. ‘I wish you’d tell me more often.’

  ‘But you know how I feel …’

  ‘Sometimes … you can be so distant.’

  ‘Maura—’

  ‘So secretive—’

  ‘Maura, don’t—’

  Tears pooled in her eyes and a fat one splashed over, still for a moment then exploding and running down onto her cheek. Brendan kissed it. He wondered if this would be a good time to explain how she made him feel unhappy sometimes, that she could be critical and he could be uncommunicative and withdrawn, but he still thought she was lovely and to ask if there was a way back to how they used to be together.

  Maura’s face crumpled, then it was covered in tears and she was sniffling. ‘Tell me everything is all right.’

  ‘Everything’s all right, Maura.’ Brendan looked at her mouth, her jaw trembling and slack, and he wanted to hold her even tighter. Something protective and primal surfaced and he glued his lips to her mouth. She pulled away and blinked, took a handkerchief and blew her nose.