‘Are you okay, Terry?’ Iris asks and I nod briskly and gesture at the road so she will know that I am not angry. I am driving.
Anger is not a feeling I’m all that familiar with. It’s like a pot boiling on the hob, the lid rattling on the top and the handle too hot to touch.
I don’t know why I’m so angry. I shouldn’t be so angry. Maybe I’m just tired.
I am, after all, an early-to-bed-early-to-rise type of person.
Brendan is the opposite.
In this way, we manage not to see a lot of each other.
This thought arrives like a bubble of air that struggles to the surface of a pond, rests for a moment before bursting. It seems to make a sound, this thought, as it bursts. A sort of relieved oof, like when you take uncomfortable shoes off at the end of your husband’s Christmas work party. I nearly look around to see where it comes from, such is the clarity of the sound this thought produces.
Now, I’m not thinking about driving on the wrong side of the road. Now, I’m thinking about my husband who I manage not to see a lot of.
It seems a sneaky way to put it. As if I have orchestrated our distinct routines with a view to seeing as little of him as possible.
Which is not the case. Opposites attract. Isn’t that what they say?
I concentrate on what I know.
I know his smell. It reminds me of a photocopier, his smell. Or a printer. You know that smell of heat from working machinery? It’s neither a good nor a bad smell. It is simply his smell.
He sleeps on his side and folds his arms across his chest in bed, which I’ve always considered an uncomfortable position to sleep in. And the funny thing is, he is in exactly the same position when I wake up at 6.30 a.m. He never moves.
What else? He eats porridge for breakfast. He soaks the oats in a bowl of water the night before. I don’t think he particularly likes it – he eats it methodically, and always leaves a small mound in the bottom of the bowl.
When he removes his wedding ring – which he can only do now with effort – there is something about the texture and colour of the skin beneath, white and spongy, that brings to mind the flesh of a hermit crab, seeking a new shell. I can hardly bear to look at it.
He hums the theme song to The Godfather when he shaves, and the funny thing is, he has no idea he’s doing it. If I mention it – which I don’t really any more – he denies it. He says he is not a hummer of tunes. Except he is.
He always puts his left sock on first, then his left shoe, which he laces before putting on the right sock, then the right shoe.
I know lots of other things. Of course I do. These are just the things that spring to mind when I am casting about for the things I know. Which is not something I do ordinarily.
Why would I, when he is right there, sharing a house with me. Sharing a bed. A bathroom. A kitchen table. A remote control.
The awful thing about thoughts is there’s no getting away from them. They’re right there. Going around and around on a track in your head like a toy train.
An exit appears and I swerve towards it, jamming on the brake as I near the roundabout at the top. It feels good to climb down the gears.
‘Where are we?’ Iris looks around, blinking. Her voice is heavy. She must have been drowsing.
How could she be drowsing? At a time like this?
‘Lunch,’ I say in my clearest voice. Like it’s not a suggestion. Or a possibility. It’s just a fact.
Lunch.
I’ve never felt less like eating.
The nearest town is six kilometres away, but feels longer due to my refusal to overtake an ancient tractor, pulling a trailer of what smells like silage. Eventually, we arrive at a picture-postcard French village, all cobbled, narrow streets, beautifully manicured gardens, a gleaming bronze statue of an imperious, massive-shouldered man on horseback – some army general I imagine – a slow-moving river spanned by a low, humpbacked stone bridge. The town centre opens onto a magnificent square, one side of which is taken up by the town hall which lords over the other buildings and hosts an enormous clock.
‘Here we are,’ I proclaim, parking in the first spot I see. I reef open the car door and scramble out.
‘Your phone is ringing,’ says Iris, eyeing me warily from the passenger seat.
‘Is it?’ I rummage inside my bag, pick out my mobile.
It’s Brendan. I steer my finger towards the phone. As if I’m going to answer it. I presume I’m going to answer it. Instead, I reject the call.
I can’t even say that I rejected it by accident.
I did it on purpose.
‘Who was that?’ asks Iris.
‘Brendan,’ I say. Iris nods, but doesn’t ask any questions, the way people don’t with an angry person.
I seem to be angry with everyone.
But Brendan and I haven’t even had an argument.
According to the town hall clock, it is six minutes past two. Dad says, ‘I could eat,’ when I ask him if he is hungry, but he always says that, no matter what time of the night or day it is. I link my arm through his, and he smiles at me, a kind and trusting smile. It seems wrong to be angry in the face of a smile like that.
While there are plenty of cafés and restaurants, the staff look at us disbelievingly when we say we would like a table for three.
‘It is after two o’clock,’ they tell us, pointing at their watches and clocks. ‘Lunch is served between twelve thirty and two.’
I make the tragic mistake of pointing out that it is only eight minutes past two, gesturing at the immutable clock gracing the façade of the town hall to bolster my schoolgirlish French and support my argument.
‘Yes,’ they say, nodding their heads. ‘Exactement.’
I try three different establishments, but the response is the same. In the absence of any other option, we return to the car, which I foolishly parked in full sun. ‘The only thing cooking in this town is us,’ says Iris, rolling down her window and fanning her face with her book.
I look at Dad in the rear-view mirror. His face is flushed and beads of sweat gather above his mouth. ‘Are you okay?’ I ask him, twisting the lid off a bottle of water and handing it to him.
He examines the bottle but doesn’t drink from it. Instead he says, ‘I want to go home now.’ Iris looks at me as if she’s waiting for me to say something. But there’s no need. Dad has already said it.
I turn the key in the ignition and drive out of the village, and it is only when I round a bend and hear the car horn blaring and see the oncoming car, I realise I’m on the wrong side of the road. I swerve and somehow manage to miss the car by a fraction and I wrestle with the steering wheel, desperate to regain control as the hedgerow on the far side looms large, scraping against the side of the car with a piercing rasp.
Iris spreads her hands across the dashboard. Dad points at the line in the middle of the road. ‘All traffic must keep to the left of the line,’ he says.
I manage not to stop the car. If I do, I won’t have the nerve to start it again. I drive on, ignoring my shaking limbs and my frantic heart rate. Beside me, Iris remains tight-lipped, but she is no longer bracing herself against the dashboard.
I drive on.
The road narrows and twists in an unfamiliar way. I think perhaps I have taken a different route out of the village. I appear to be on a much more minor road than before. There are no other vehicles. No road signs.
I am lost.
I am lost in France. With my demented father and my suicidal friend.
The anger drains out of me all of a sudden and all I feel is tiredness. It must have been there all along. It feels like a weight. Like chains pulling me down. I don’t think I have ever felt so tired.
‘I’m tired,’ I say, and even my voice sounds jaded, too quiet for anyone to hear. But from the back seat, I hear my father strain against the seat belt as he leans forward. ‘Tired drivers are a major road safety risk,’ he declares. ‘Both to themselves and to others.’
&nbs
p; Iris looks at me. ‘Your dad’s right,’ she says. ‘You should pull over.’
‘Where?’ I don’t mean to shout. It’s just the tiredness. I could drape myself across the steering wheel and be asleep in seconds.
‘Just pull in on the grass verge,’ says Iris. ‘Put the hazards on.’
This is how we happen upon the castle. Or at least the sign pointing towards the castle. It’s a crooked sign, faded and largely obscured by the ivy climbing the trunk of the tree from which it hangs.
I am alerted to the presence of the sign by my father, who makes a stab at reading it.
Château de la Duchesse Clara.
Underneath, in smaller lettering, Nourriture et repos.
Food and rest.
There are no photographs on the sign, no stars, no flowery adjectives. Just the name of the castle and those two words. Like a recipe for all ills.
My mother believed in things happening for a reason. She would say that we stumbled upon the castle at just the right time. Like it was in just the right place.
She would call it a Sign.
20
IF YOU APPROACH A STOP SIGN, YOU MUST STOP COMPLETELY.
The castle is not like the castles in fairy tales, with expansive, immaculate lawns and turrets and tiny square windows and a moat and drawbridge.
It is smaller, for one thing. There are turrets, but they look unsafe, as if they might crumble at the poke of a finger. There is no moat or drawbridge, but an ancient wooden gate that leads onto a gravel driveway, beset by weeds. One lone flag, tattered at the edges, hangs limply from a flagpole.
It reminds me of myself; exhausted, its best days behind it.
I sit up straighter. Try and rearrange myself into a sunnier disposition. I’m not exhausted. I’m just tired. And hungry. I need some food. And rest. Isn’t that what I always told the girls when they were down?
I come to a resigned stop at the front entrance.
A man appears in the doorway of the chateau.
‘Well, hello sailor,’ Iris says, drinking him in like a cold lemonade on a hot day.
In fairness, he is quite thirst-quenching, being tall and slender with a helmet of short, dark hair and a perfectly proportioned face housing amber, almond-shaped eyes and cheekbones you could hang your washing on. Even his mouth is worthy of note and I don’t notice people’s mouths, as a rule. It’s a full mouth, suspiciously red. Now it curls into a smile, revealing – of course – a beautiful set of teeth.
Perfect dentation, Dad used to say. That’s what his dentist told him years ago when he went for a check-up. You have perfect dentation. If he could see Dad now, with his now-you-see-me-now-you-don’t dentures. He’d be appalled.
We get out of the car and the Frenchman offers a discreet bow and says, in perfect English coupled with the delicious melody of French accent, ‘Welcome. My name is Jacques Hermitage. What is the name of your party?’
‘Did someone say party?’ says Iris, taking off her sunglasses, all the better to drink him in.
‘Have you seen my wife?’ Dad asks him, in an accusing tone.
I rush to intervene but Jacques reaches for Dad’s hand, shakes it gently. ‘Not today. But perhaps you would care to come inside for refreshments?’ He steps aside, stretches his arm towards the door, smiling his perfect-dentation smile, and Dad is like putty in his hands. So is Iris, who follows Dad with a brief, ‘You smell delicious’ aside at Jacques, who accepts the vintage-Iris compliment with grace.
I bring up the rear. ‘We are the Shepherd Armstrong Keogh party,’ I say, because no one has answered Jacques’s initial question. Up close, his handsomeness intensifies, like heat in a sauna when you ladle water onto the coals. I become aware of my hot face, my creased clothes – a clash of green leopard-print A-line skirt and orange spaghetti-string top – and my toenails poking out of the brown gladiator sandals, with specks of last summer’s nail polish.
‘Which one are you?’ he asks.
‘I’m Shepherd,’ I say. ‘Terry Shepherd.’
‘Terry.’ The way he says my name makes it sound far more exotic than it has any right to sound.
‘Allow me please.’ He holds out his hand, and for a ridiculous moment, I think he wants to hold my hand and I am about to slip my hand into his – perhaps this is a local custom? – when he adds, ‘The keys. I will park your car and bring your packages to your rooms.’
‘Oh, but … I’m not sure if we’re staying, I need to …’
‘Do not worry, you can decide later.’
And then, thankfully, he is gone.
Too much beauty, up close like that, can be overwhelming.
Iris was right though. He does smell delicious.
I think the heat is getting to me.
Inside the chateau, it is cool. It is also grander than the exterior suggests. More like a castle. Terracotta flagstones cover the floor in the reception area, and the walls are exposed brick, adorned with portraits of wigged, severe men in complicated shirts with ruffles to the neck, sitting behind important, mahogany desks. The largest frame contains a painting of a stately woman with dark hair piled high on her head, contained by a bejewelled tiara. No matter where I stand, her amber, almond-shaped eyes follow me. I imagine she must be Duchess Clara. There is nobody behind the reception desk – which looks very like one of the desks in the portraits – and while there is a brass bell on the counter, I don’t like to ring it. Instead, I follow the sound of Iris’s laugh, which leads me through a door, into a bright airy room where there is a bar – at which Iris and Dad perch on high stools – and a scattering of tables, elaborately set with silver cutlery, linen tablecloths, and crystal glasses.
Jacques materialises behind the bar.
‘Would you care for an aperitif?’ he asks.
‘Would we care for an aperitif, Mr Keogh?’ says Iris.
‘I don’t know,’ says Dad.
‘I’m going to take that as a yes,’ says Iris, turning to me. ‘What about you, Terry?’
‘I’m not sure if I—’
‘That’s three yeses then,’ says Iris, turning to Jacques. ‘What do you recommend?’
‘I believe champagne would be appropriate,’ says Jacques.
‘I concur,’ Iris says. Jacques disappears down some steps into what I imagine must be a cellar. Iris’s good humour is infectious and I find myself forgetting about my need for a rest, a shower, a change of clothes. Instead, I join them at the bar, and, when the champagne arrives, in elegant flutes, I drink the entire contents of my glass in one long, glorious tilt. Iris sets her glass down, with most of the champagne remaining. Dad spins a coin on the counter and Jacques picks up my glass and says, ‘Encore?’ and I say, ‘Encore,’ and Iris laughs and the sun pouring through the windows catches the pale gold of Dad’s coin, pirouetting on the beautifully polished counter, making it shine like the buried treasure the girls were always hoping to find on the beach in the summertime.
‘You’re a bit of a lush in France,’ Iris says when I finish my second glass and nod when Jacques says, ‘Encore?’
It’s true. At home, I never exceed the recommended weekly limit. Iris takes pride in so doing even though I’m sure she shouldn’t, given the amount of medication she’s on. And the fact of the MS itself. Alcohol can’t be good for it.
‘Alcohol is not the answer to your problems,’ I told Kate when that grunting, spotty boy in sixth year broke her heart and I found her in her bedroom, drunk and dishevelled.
‘Then what is the answer, Mum?’ Kate had asked. And she looked at me with her pale, beautiful face streaked with lines of sodden mascara, like she really wanted to know. Like she thought I might know.
I wish I had been honest with her. Instead, I offered a platitude. I can’t even remember what it was. Something like, There’s plenty more fish in the sea. Or You’re only seventeen years old, there’s lots of time, or What’s for you won’t pass you.
Something trite and meaningless.
Instead of the truth,
which is there is no answer. Not a simple one anyway. There’s just life, which can be hard, and when it’s not hard, it can be tedious.
But sometimes, there are snatches of joy.
Like here. Now. With the afternoon sun warm on my skin, flushing my face and making my heart beat in a way that insists I’m alive, and watching Iris flirt with Jacques, the way she can make him laugh. Make me laugh. And the sound of my laughter. Louder than people expect. Like my height. People are always surprised when they hear I’m five feet ten. I didn’t think you were that tall. That’s what people say. When they hear.
I went to hug Kate then. I thought, if I could take her in my arms and hold her tight and rock her, like I did when she was my little girl, it might be all right. But she heard my platitude, recognised it for what it was and she moved away from me. Just a small move, but the space it created between us was a chasm I could no longer reach across.
‘Are you okay?’ Iris puts her hand on my arm.
‘I haven’t always been a good mother,’ I say, which sort of shocks me – I didn’t think I was going to say that – and invigorates me – the clarifying truth of it.
Iris considers the statement. ‘Well,’ she says, ‘if I compare you to Vera, I’d say you were pretty bloody outstanding.’ We laugh, and when we stop, I say, in a loud and slightly slurred voice, ‘I think we should stay here tonight. I want to sleep in a castle.’
Jacques, polishing a glass behind the bar, nods when I say this as if he had been waiting for just such a pronouncement.
‘Let’s book in,’ I say, jumping off my stool. There is a sway to my stance, as befits a woman who has exceeded her recommended daily limit of alcohol by multiple units in the middle of the afternoon on an empty stomach. I catch sight of myself in the mirror behind the bar, towering over Dad and Iris, like the tall woman that I am. All five feet and ten inches of me.
We walk to the reception in single file, Iris first, Dad in between us, and me at the back. Jacques appears, as if by magic, behind the desk, and registers us. ‘Dinner will be served at eight,’ he says, and when he looks at me, he nods and smiles, like he is glad we’re here. Like we’re right where we’re supposed to be. I walk tall up the stairs and ignore Iris when she laughs at the slight stagger of my gait.
Rules of the Road Page 17
