Petite Anglaise

by Catherine Sanderson

  ‘I’d like that,’ said Amy, apparently mollified. ‘Just so long as I don’t actually have to start a blog of my own, mind. This blogging lark is most definitely not for me…’

  21. Birthdays

  Anyone would have thought that my birthday weekend had been cursed.

  First, my boss refused to sign off on my holiday request for Friday, the day of my actual birthday, meaning that Tadpole and I had to take an impossibly late train to Rennes after work, arriving long after her bedtime. Wilting visibly by the second, but hell bent on fighting the urge to sleep, Tadpole did not endear herself to our fellow passengers.

  Once she was finally tucked up in the travel cot in the tiny utility room James had converted into a bedroom for her, he poured me a large, celebratory glass of wine and I snuggled into his side on the sofa, my legs tucked under my bottom. ‘Happy birthday, beautiful,’ he said, clinking his glass against mine. ‘It was brave of you to travel so late. I know it’s not easy.’

  I took a sip of wine and set my glass on the floor. Putting a hand on his thigh, I caressed it through the threadbare fabric of his jeans. ‘Now, I may be exhausted, but I wonder if there’s some way we could salvage this birthday of mine…’ Just then, a choking sound emanated from Tadpole’s bedroom. I cried out in alarm, swinging my feet to the floor and toppling my wine glass. James was already halfway across the room, and he flung open the door, fished Tadpole out of the cot and deposited her in my arms. She coughed again, disorientated, blinking in the bright lights. I patted her back ineffectually, and looked questioningly at James. He’d been a parent for far longer than I had: I tended to defer to his greater experience.

  But James barely had time to open his mouth to reply before Tadpole emptied the contents of her stomach all over the sofa. The cause of her discomfort was suddenly copiously clear. She’d eaten cherry tomatoes on the train; tomatoes which she had evidently neglected to chew. Tiny tomatoes which now decorated the sofa, many completely intact, their skins unbroken. Tadpole, who had scared herself witless with her own performance, began to howl. I looked down at my dress and my hair, which were splattered with flecks of cherry-red.

  Birthday sex, I suspected, might no longer be on the menu.

  ‘This place is lovely!’ I exclaimed as the waiter led us into a whitewashed room with a stone floor and ancient exposed beams in the ceiling overhead. It was Saturday night. Tadpole had made a speedy recovery – the same, sadly, could not be said for James’s sofa – and a friend of his had offered to babysit. James had made a reservation at a French restaurant nearby for a belated birthday meal. The room was softly lit, and a candle flickered on every table. Delicious gamey smells wafted out of the kitchen, making my tummy rumble. A glance at the menu chalked up on an old-fashioned ardoise confirmed that it was also rather expensive. James was really pulling out all the stops tonight, and I hoped he could afford it.

  ‘Choose whatever you want,’ he said, seeing me hesitate. ‘It’s a special occasion.’

  ‘That’s very sweet of you,’ I replied, ‘but only if you let me pay the babysitter.’ James looked as though he was about to protest but I cut him short. ‘Birthday girl’s prerogative,’ I added, my tone making it clear that I would not take no for an answer. I chose seared foie gras and a venison stew, while James plumped for a rather less adventurous steak with pepper sauce.

  ‘It’s been a long time since I ate anywhere so French,’ I remarked, between mouthfuls of velvety foie gras which melted on my tongue. ‘I didn’t realize how much I’ve been missing French food, until now.’ James and I had been living inside a cocoon these past few months. He’d brought out my British side. Instead of croissants, I now ate granary toast and marmalade for breakfast, washed down with a bottomless cup of tea, in place of my bowl of café au lait.

  ‘Well, I did wonder whether you might.’ James set down his knife and fork and looked at me intently.

  ‘It’s not that I don’t appreciate your cooking,’ I added hastily. ‘I love it when you cook for me, but it’s true that we tend to eat as if we were back in England. Shepherd’s pie, sausages and mash. It’s lovely, but I do miss French dishes sometimes.’

  ‘I suppose that’s what I’ve always eaten,’ said James, a hint of defensiveness in his voice. ‘I was married to an Englishwoman all those years. Whereas you were living with a French guy…’

  The waiter appeared to clear away our empty plates in readiness for the main course and set down fresh cutlery on the starched tablecloth. I was silent for a moment. James looked very handsome in the candlelight. He’d worn my favourite shirt with his smartest jeans, and was unshaven, with just the right amount of stubble. After all the trouble he was going to, I sincerely hoped I hadn’t hurt his feelings. But, unwittingly, by bringing me here, he had managed to put his finger on something my new life with him sorely lacked: the ‘Frenchness’ I’d been so drawn to when I first met Mr Frog.

  It wasn’t just about what James and I ate, of course; it ran much deeper than that. We spoke only English when we were together, whereas with Mr Frog at least half our conversations had always been in French. At James’s place we watched British TV, or leafed through British magazines, we drank at an Irish bar on the Place du Parlement de Bretagne in the evenings. At weekends James even played the occasional game of cricket with a local expat team. When we’d first met, I’d found this ‘Britishness’ appealing. The shared cultural references, the books and TV shows we had in common, all these things were shortcuts, allowing us to get to know each other more quickly, giving us an easy familiarity from the outset, over and above the head start which petite anglaise had given us. But now, a few months down the line, the novelty was beginning to wear off. I’d caught myself cringing a couple of times when I overheard James speaking his rather stilted French in shops, or on the phone. In the long term, did I really want to live a British life in France?

  Our meal over, we strolled hand in hand through the quiet, pedestrianized streets, my body tingling in anticipation of what would follow once the babysitter had been paid and we were finally alone. But all the same, I couldn’t quite shake off the feeling of unease which had overtaken me in the restaurant. By throwing in my lot with James, my inner voice whispered, wouldn’t I be turning my back on the very reason I’d come to France in the first place?

  ‘Va voir James?’ enquired Tadpole, turning in her pushchair to look at me as we sped through the park.

  ‘No, honey,’ I replied. ‘James has gone back home now.’

  Tadpole’s face fell. Over the past week she’d grown used to a new presence in the mornings and evenings. Arriving home from Tata’s, she tapped insistently at the door, chanting James’s name over and over until he opened it, just a chink, and peeped at her through the gap. Every day the same routine; every day the same delighted giggle from Tadpole. He was entitled to a kiss and a hug after her bedtime story; in the mornings she hopped into my bed and snuggled up between us.

  When Mr Frog had first moved out, at the beginning of July, I’d only allowed James to stay with me in Paris when Tadpole was away. But it was September now, and four months had flown by since we first met. I simply couldn’t bear to keep the man I loved at arm’s length any longer. The beauty of James’s translating job was that he worked from home – my home or his – and needed to return to Rennes only when it was his turn to spend the weekend with his daughters. I could no longer see any earthly reason why we should deprive ourselves of precious time together. We couldn’t survive on telephone calls alone.

  I’d broken the news of James’s impending visit to Mr Frog as gently as I could when I delivered Tadpole to his apartment one night, soon after my birthday.

  ‘He’s coming to stay next week?’ said Mr Frog, his voice choked with anger and disbelief.

  ‘Yes, he’ll stay for a few days,’ I said quietly. ‘Look, I don’t expect you to be happy about this, but if I’m ever to work out whether our relationship is built to last, I need to spend time with him. It’s easier
for him to come here than for me to go there.’ I lowered my eyes to the floor, noticing the fuzzy clumps of dust which lined the skirting boards. Mr Frog had never been fond of housework. But now was definitely not the time to draw attention to his shortcomings.

  ‘So, my daughter will wake up in the morning and find a stranger’s head on my pillow,’ he said flatly. It was a figure of speech: I’d bought new bedding when Mr Frog left, to symbolize my fresh start.

  ‘He’s not a stranger,’ I countered. ‘She’s seen James plenty of times in Rennes. And there’s no question of him taking your place. Don’t forget that he’s had to deal with another man living with his own kids, he’s really sensitive to the whole situation… He’s not there to replace her daddy, he’s just Mummy’s friend who comes to stay.’

  Mr Frog nodded, his expression sullen, but resigned. ‘So what you’re trying to say is that you both have my best interests at heart,’ he said bitterly. ‘That’s awfully big of you.’

  ‘Don’t be like this,’ I begged, my eyes mutely imploring him not to let things get ugly. Tadpole had raced into the bedroom when she arrived, but I knew neither of us wanted her to overhear any harsh words. ‘I know it’s not easy, any of this, but let’s not make it any harder than it has to be.’

  Now the week was up, James had taken himself back to Rennes while I was at work, and I was feeling desperate. Not because he’d gone, but because I’d promised Tadpole we would ambush Daddy with a birthday cake and candles. Less than a fortnight after my own birthday, it was now Mr Frog’s turn and, in less than half an hour, he would materialize to whisk Tadpole off for the weekend. Whether out of a sense of guilt, or just for her sake, I wanted to do something to make Mr Frog’s birthday special. What I’d failed to remember was that our local bakery was closed for refurbishment. It was almost seven o’clock, and our options were severely limited.

  I peered half-heartedly through the window of the Chinese traiteur next door to the hairdresser’s. Perles de coco and almond tarts stared blandly back at me – nothing that would look appropriate with birthday candles. I squinted across the road at the kosher sushi shop. Maybe they sold brownies? But no, the metal shutters were pulled obstinately closed. I would have to think again.

  With a sigh, I dragged Tadpole back to the petrol station we had passed five minutes earlier, with its 8 à Huit minimarket. Cake out of a packet would just have to do. It seemed nothing short of sacrilegious in a country where pâtisseries are so outstanding, but there was no alternative. Hopefully Mr Frog would be so bowled over by the thoughtfulness of our gesture that he would overlook the poor planning and execution.

  I dithered in front of the tired-looking madeleines, cake anglais – a pale fruit cake containing glacé cherries which resembled nothing I’d ever eaten in England – and bags of individually wrapped fondants au chocolat. Settling for the soft-centred chocolate cakes, we dashed home with only minutes to spare.

  When Mr Frog arrived, Tadpole took his hand and led him into the living room to show him the jigsaw she’d just finished, while I slipped into the kitchen to fetch a tray. I had arranged three cakes on a plate, a blue and white striped candle lolling at a drunken angle in the centre of each. As I paused in the doorway, I saw Mr Frog, his back to the door, busy shrugging off his overcoat. He didn’t hear his daughter – the soul of indiscretion – saying, ‘Happy birthday cake, Mummy!’ in a stage whisper as I approached.

  ‘Time to sing,’ I whispered back, and Tadpole began to sing, in English, just as we’d rehearsed on the way home. Mr Frog wheeled around, clearly startled, his lips forming the most genuine smile I’d seen on his face in a long time, his grey-blue eyes shining in a way which made me wonder if he wasn’t fighting back tears.

  ‘I help you blow, Daddy?’ offered Tadpole generously once I’d set down my tray on the coffee table, bending her head rather too close to the dancing flames for my liking.

  ‘Mais bien sûr, ma puce,’ he said, kneeling by her side at cake-level. ‘But first we have to count: un, deux, trois… souffle!’

  Once the cakes had been reduced to a small pile of crumbs, I dabbed at the corners of Tadpole’s mouth with a tissue, then ducked into her bedroom to fetch her overnight bag. Leaning against the doorframe while the lift clanked and groaned its way up to the fifth floor, I inhaled the dinner smells escaping from the neighbouring apartments and filling the stairwell. The smell of united families, I thought to myself. Families who sit down and eat square meals together.

  ‘Thank you, Cath,’ Mr Frog said as he pulled the lift door open and Tadpole stepped inside. ‘Ça m’ a beaucoup touché…’

  As the doors slid closed behind father and daughter, for a second or two my faith in the tightness of my actions wavered. I caught myself wishing that we could share moments like this more often; moments which would never have quite the same resonance with James. Because, however much I loved him, Tadpole was not, and never would be his.

  22. Jinxed

  The towering sycamores which lined the avenues along the route to Tata’s house had begun to shed their leaves, carpeting the pavements with a rustling layer of red, gold and brown which dissolved into a soggy mulch when the weather turned wet. The summer, with its dramas, its stresses and its idyllic moments, was well and truly behind me now; the métro– boulot–dodo routine had reasserted itself with a vengeance.

  Hot on autumn’s heels came an army of green-overalled street-cleaners. Working around the clock, their mission impossible was to combat the leaves, keeping the pathways in and around the park unencumbered. Approaches differed: old-school sweepers were armed with brooms and clear green plastic bags, while others used leaf-blowers, whirring engines strapped to their backs, and blasted the debris forcefully in the direction of the gutters. Road-cleaning lorries trundled lethargically along the roadside while a lone figure walked behind, hoovering up piles of rotting leaves from the kerbside, his task hindered by the cars parked bonnet to bumper along his route.

  ‘Look, Mummy! They all crispy, just like cornflakes,’ Tadpole cried as golden-brown leaves crunched under her shoes, and I made a mental note to make use of her observation in a blog post someday soon. She had insisted on getting out of the pushchair halfway to Tata’s and, as a result, we were making excruciatingly slow progress. Glancing at my watch, I winced. But faced with a choice between a barbed comment from my boss and wrestling a screeching Tadpole back into the pushchair against her will, the former won hands down.

  ‘Please be careful where you put your feet,’ I begged. Just because you couldn’t see the pavement didn’t mean that there was nothing to fear. The dogs and pigeons hadn’t gone on holiday; the evidence of their presence was simply better concealed. Just then, Tadpole noticed a leaf-blower up ahead moving purposefully towards us. She grasped my hand tightly in hers, almost crushing my fingers, and cowered against my thigh.

  ‘Regarde, Mummy! A hairdryer!’

  ‘Don’t worry, sweetie. He’s a street-cleaner. He’s just tidying up the leaves. There’s no need to be scared.’ I adjusted my trajectory all the same to give the green man the widest possible berth. Tadpole had an irrational fear of hairdryers.

  The man’s face was pitted, the skin above his bushy eyebrows deeply lined. The engine on his back smelled strongly of petrol, and he wore protective headphones to drown out its deafening roar. Courteously, he switched it off for a few moments while Tadpole and I sidled anxiously past. I rewarded his thoughtful gesture with a warm smile of gratitude.

  My smile soon vanished, however, when I cottoned on to the fact that the old man was slowly, deliberately, looking me up and down. ‘Ça va, ma biche?’ he said, his face contorted by a decidedly lewd grin.

  Good grief! Surely he didn’t think that I’d been flirting with him? I made no reply and, my cheeks reddening, quickened my step, forcing Tadpole to break into a canter to keep pace with me. A few steps further, however, I stopped dead. Something had just dealt a glancing blow to the back of my head.

  ‘Owww!�
� I yelled, letting go of Tadpole’s hand and wheeling round to confront the culprit. Surely it wasn’t possible the man had thrown something at me? But the leaf-blower had his back to us now, his motor turning at full throttle, and I doubt he’d even heard my cry. Aside from a clutch of firemen in navy-blue sweatshirts jogging parallel to us in the park, there was no one else in sight. I put my hand up to rub the top of my head and my fingertips came away spotted with tiny flecks of blood.

  ‘What’s matter, Mummy?’ asked Tadpole, her brow furrowed with concern. My eyes fell on a spiky horse-chestnut casing which lay shattered in two on the pavement behind me, a gleaming conker by its side. I had found the culprit.

  ‘A conker fell out of a tree and hit Mummy on the head,’ I said slowly. I supposed I should be thankful that it hadn’t been a pigeon dropping, although the French do say, for some reason, that a direct hit brings good luck. Conkers, however, bring only pain, and for the most part lie unwanted on the pavement once they fall, as there are no French playground games which call for marrons to be strung up and used in duels until their hard shells shatter.

  ‘I kiss your bobo better,’ said Tadpole maternally, delighted to have an opportunity to look after Mummy for a change. Squatting low on the pavement for a moment, steadying myself against the pushchair, I bobbed my head so she could touch her lips to my hair.

  The day had not got off to a particularly auspicious start, but Tadpole’s presence had a way of righting every wrong. ‘Come along then, sweetie,’ I said, hauling myself to my feet. ‘Mummy’s all better now.’

  However, things did not improve once I made it, late and flustered, to the office. My boss was dictating at full tilt that day, striding over to my desk at regular intervals to place yet another tape on top of the towering pile of typing the juniors had already generated. Every time I heard the unmistakable rattle of a cassette being prised from a Dictaphone, it set my teeth on edge. The other secretary on my floor – a French girl with a perpetual pout who rarely deigned to give me the time of day – had called in sick and, to my dismay, I’d been left to pick up the slack single-handedly. It had been truly frantic. I’d scarcely glanced at my blog – infuriating, as I was itching to post about my eventful journey to work that morning – and lunch had been a five-minute break, barely long enough to wolf down a sandwich.