2006 - A Piano in The Pyrenees

by Tony Hawks

  “Great.”

  “Maybe you should come out to France…”

  “Maybe.”

  “Bye then.”

  “Bye.”

  I didn’t sleep too well that night. I just couldn’t shut down my mind. From time to time I kept saying out loud, “This is it.” What ‘it’ was I couldn’t necessarily define, but this definitely had an ‘it’ feel.

  “Yes, this is it,” I repeated, before rolling over onto my side with the intention of curtailing these agreeable but sleep-preventing thoughts.

  And all this from one phone conversation?

  The mountain air must have got to me.

  18

  I Drove All Night

  As it turned out, Fi and I didn’t have our magnificent reunion in either France or Britain. Spain was to host the event. The next time I’d called her, she said that she was going to spend the following weekend in Spain visiting her parents who had retired out there fifteen years previously, and who were about to celebrate their fortieth wedding anniversary.

  “I could drive down and see you if you like,” I’d said.

  “Isn’t it a bit of a way?”

  “No, I’m right on the border with Spain. It would be fun to meet your parents anyway. I’ll drive down on Friday evening.”

  “Great. But I still think it’s a bit of a way.”

  “Nonsense.”

  §

  It was bloody miles. Five hundred miles, to be precise. A glance at the map revealed Spain to be a needlessly substantial body of land, and the journey from Bagneres-de-Bigorre to Valencia to be quite some undertaking.

  Clearly I needed to hire a car. The red Peugeot 106 had served me well but it wouldn’t survive the kind of pounding that this weekend was going to give it. Also I reckoned that I needed to break the journey, so I booked myself into a credit-card-operated hotel situated in some industrial estate a few hours into Spain. Well, I thought, if I’m going to a new country, I may as well experience the culture.

  As I loaded my bags into the car and prepared to wave goodbye to the view that had revived me in the mornings and soothed me at night, I was struck by a worrying thought. Wasn’t rushing down to see Fi exactly the same mistake as I’d made when I’d hastily put the offer in for this house in the first place?

  “It makes you appear too keen,” Kevin had clearly stated.

  I tried to reassure myself that a ten-hour drive in a hire car with an overnight stop wasn’t keen at all, merely committed. And didn’t women like commitment? And anyway, keen or not, hadn’t it all worked out rather well with the French house in the end? Perhaps my initial response to Kevin had been the right one.

  “Well, I am keen. What’s the point of not appearing keen if I am?”

  I set off in the late afternoon, and as I crossed the Pyrenees, following the same route that had been used by political dissidents, smugglers and soldiers for generations, I watched the landscape change from the lush greens on the French side to the barren, rusty reds of Spain. As darkness fell I began to sing Roy Orbison’s song, ‘I Drove All Night To Be With You’. I liked the romance of this. I knew that Fi was worth this drive, and in a way I wanted her to know it.

  I didn’t tell her that, though, when I called her from the soulless hotel that was to provide me with rest (and very little else) before the second leg of my journey began at daybreak. Instead we made playful small talk.

  I hung up the phone and made my way back to my cheap and distinctly uncheerful hotel room where I sat on the hard bed and prepared myself mentally for sleep. I needed to be fresh in the morning.

  I was fully expecting it to be a big day.

  §

  Normally I don’t like long drives. Actually I’m not crazy about short ones, and medium-length ones get on my nerves. This morning, however, I was getting quite a buzz out of nailing each passing kilometre. I was dominating the fast lane, and I was getting ever closer to the moment when I would see Fi again.

  It was going to be a roadside rendezvous.

  “There’s a little bit where you can park just after you’ve paid your motorway toll,” she’d said. “I’ll meet you there at midday.”

  It was one minute to twelve. My heart was pounding. I didn’t know what car she’d be driving so I had to scrutinise each one. She shouldn’t be difficult to spot. She was gorgeous with beautiful long blonde hair. Unless, of course, she’d cut it off—or perhaps she’d dyed it? Suddenly I was struck by how long thirteen years is. A new fear grabbed me. Perhaps the telephone conversations we’d shared had been deceptive? Could it be that when we met in the flesh we’d find that we’d both changed so much that the magic wasn’t there any more?

  Six minutes past twelve and no sign. Fi was late but that was OK. It was a woman’s prerogative.

  Twelve minutes past twelve and still no sign. Still OK—this was Fi’s prerogative. Wait a minute! What was going on here? Wasn’t this whole thing ringing some ominous bells? I was struck by a terrible thought. Maybe this was Salamanca all over again. I was in Spain, after all. Arantxa and Mercedes had left me and Tim forlornly sitting on those church steps all those years ago. Was Fi about to do much the same? Maybe this was my destiny. To be the ‘nearly man’ of love.

  Twenty past twelve and still no sign. Just as the worries were about to turn into genuine pain, an old Ford Escort pulled over with a flustered but beautiful woman at the wheel.

  “Sorry! I got lost. They’ve built a few more roundabouts since I was last here,” said the driver, who looked just as good as I’d remembered.

  Fi got out of the car and we hugged. It was a warm hug, a special hug, but it wasn’t without its tension. We were both clearly still a little nervous.

  “Hello again!” I said.

  “Yes, hello again to you too.”

  “You look great.”

  “Rubbish. You look good, though.”

  “I know.”

  She laughed.

  “Come on. We have to go to the supermarket to buy lunch. My mother expects guests to grasp the concept of self-catering.”

  Maybe it wasn’t the most romantic of starts to our weekend but it was certainly fun.

  “I love coming here,” said Fi as we walked the aisles looking for her father’s favourite cheese. “I like playing Spot The Spaniard.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Well, look around you.”

  I followed Fi’s instructions and I soon saw what she meant. For the first time I noticed a lot of sunburnt faces, and men in socks and sandals.

  “God, the place is crawling with Brits,” I said.

  “Yes. And we get a point for every Spaniard we spot.”

  “OK. Well, there’s one over there!”

  “She’s behind the delicatessen counter. Staff don’t count.”

  Fi won Spot The Spaniard. It had been a close game. It had been 4–4 for a long time, but Fi snatched victory when she spotted a young family of three by the soap powder.

  “Seven-four,” she boasted proudly. “A fine victory. Although I’m a good deal more experienced in this than you.”

  For a moment I wondered if the French Pyrenees would ever become overrun with Brits in the same way as southern Spain. I hoped not. Its Frenchness was what made it special. I wanted more than the Britain in the Sun that this part of the world seemed to have become.

  §

  “Mum, Dad, this is Tony,” said Fi as we reached the front door of the modest Spanish villa. “Tony—this is John and Arlene.”

  The pretty house was set on a small hill and had pleasant views of the neighbourhood (largely made up of pretty houses on small hills with pleasant views of the neighbourhood). I wasn’t nervous about meeting Fi’s parents. Getting on with girlfriends’ parents had always been my forte. It had been the ‘getting on with the girlfriends’ bit that I’d found hard.

  “Hi there, pleased to meet you,” I said, confidently.

  “Good to meet you,Tony,” said Arlene.

  “Come and
have a beer,” said John. “You must be dying for one after that journey.”

  The tall, slim John waved us through to the terrace, looking a little like I might imagine myself in another twenty-five years. Arlene tagged along beside him, jovial and giggly, and clearly delighted to have their daughter around. Soon we were all laughing together, and it became apparent that we were going to get on just fine.

  With each passing minute, the initial nervousness between Fi and I dissipated and we began to share the odd brush of hands, or affectionate touch on the shoulder. How I’d longed for fleeting moments of intimacy like these all those years ago.

  The closest I’d got had been in Manchester. It had been Fi’s first producing job in television—filming a comedy benefit for the Big Issue. I’d hosted the show and as a result we’d worked closely together, rehearsing in the afternoon. At one point we’d both been down in the auditorium and we were needed up on the stage. The stage hands hadn’t put the movable staircase in just yet, and so I took it upon myself to put my arms around Fi’s waist and hoist her onto the stage. As I did so, there’d been a definite moment of frisson between us. But, alas, that’s all it had been. A moment.

  Perhaps it was because I’d been thirty-three to Fi’s twenty-five. At that point I was beginning to reach a period in my life where I was ready to slow down a bit, whereas Fi still had her foot pressed down hard on the accelerator. Maybe things would be different now. After all, you know what they say.

  Good things come to those who wait bloody ages.

  §

  We played tennis in the afternoon. This gave me the chance a) to show off a bit, and b) to stand behind Fi with my arm across her midriff whilst showing her the topspin forehand. Afterwards we swam in the sea, and I admired her body, taking good care to make these examinations when Fi was preoccupied with gazing at the view or observing fellow swimmers. We talked about old times, we laughed and we shared the occasional affectionate touch. As we walked back to the car from the beach I wanted to hold her hand, but like a nervous teenager I couldn’t summon the courage. What if this was a step too far? What if I’d been misreading the signs? I remembered my ‘date’ with Monique, back in France. She’d appeared keen enough—but things, it seems, are never that straightforward.

  Our first evening together for over a decade was no ordinary meal. We were joining John and Arlene at a favourite restaurant in celebration of their fortieth wedding anniversary. As we sat down at the table I had to smile at the unconventional nature of my relationship with their daughter. Having initially got close to each other, we had introduced a thirteen-year hiatus—and then, having re-established contact, I’d travelled miles from one country to another in order to share in a unique family occasion. Shouldn’t we have at least kissed each other before this happened? Oh well, rules are there for breaking, I suppose.

  “So, Tony, how do you like living in France?” asked John, as we tucked into our fish soup starters.

  “I like it,” I said. “I’m not there all the time, but when I am, I definitely feel the stresses of London life peeling away.”

  “Will you be taking Fi there?” enquired Arlene, who I’d already learned was someone who liked to race straight to the point.

  “I hope so,” I said, throwing a glance at Fi. “I’m going to make a formal invitation later.”

  “Good,” said Arlene.

  I looked at John and Arlene. Forty years together. God, how impressive is that, I thought. To be married for forty years. To live in the same house, share the same bed, bathroom, holidays, anecdotes and dreams. Well, maybe you don’t share the same dreams. Perhaps that’s how you survive. I guess that they’d had their ups and downs. What couple hasn’t? I suppose the secret to longevity is to have more ups and fewer downs. That would be the challenge ahead for me and Fi, if we ever managed to get our act together and actually start something.

  “Where’s Tony going to sleep?” asked Arlene, as we staggered back into the house, filled with excellent food, wine and festive champagne. “Shall I make up the sofabed in the lounge?”

  “It’s all right, Mum,” said Fi. “He can come in the guest room with me. There are two beds in there.”

  My mind began to race. This was good. Very good indeed. I would deal with the problem of the twin beds later. One step at a time.

  Five minutes later I was offering my final congratulations to Fi’s parents before being led by the hand towards the guest room by their beautiful daughter. She opened the door, pushed me into the room, shut the door behind her with her foot and pulled me towards her.

  And at that moment our friendship ended. Fortunately something rather lovely took its place.

  §

  The weekend was all over so quickly. Just as Fi and I had finally begun the relationship that had been so long in gestation, we were parting again. I was driving back to France and she was flying back to the UK.

  I drove Fi to Valencia airport, only freeing my hand from hers when I needed to change gear. All too soon I was pulling the car into the departures drop-off point where we would have to say goodbye. The two of us got out of the car and hugged. The hug intensified and soon we became locked in a deep embrace. I knew that we were creating the kind of amorous spectacle that I’d watched so often with envy when I’d been at airports travelling on my own. It was my turn now to be the leading player in what could have been the final shot of a romantic movie. The trouble was that this wasn’t a film and that our lives would continue the moment this embrace was over. Just as soon as the credits had rolled and the audience had filed out of the movie theatre, Fi would have to queue up at check in, and I would have to drive for bloody hours on a dull Spanish motorway.

  Why do they never put that bit in films?

  As I motored north towards the relatively lush greens of France I thought of Fi flying home and wondered if at any point she’d be directly above me in the air. One thing was for sure. She’d be travelling much faster than me. By the time I checked into the same charmless hotel that had housed me on the outward journey, she would have been in London and on her way back to her flat. She’d have crossed seas and mountain ranges, whilst I was still stuck in Spain.

  I slept soundly, though, and with a deep contentment that felt somehow new to me. In the morning I would complete the final leg of the journey and face the inquisition of the four Frenchmen who would be working at my house. I’d mentioned the reason for my Spanish excursion to the boys just before I’d left and there’d been a good deal of unintelligible Bigourdian banter on the subject.

  Fabrice was working alone when I made it back to the house.

  “Bonjour, Monsieur Tonny!” he exclaimed. “And how is Casanova?”

  He was standing near the would-be swimming pool, beaming cheekily. I started to tell him the story of the weekend, and I soon discovered that now his chums weren’t around him, he was happy to talk more seriously to me. He seemed anxious to know more about the background to my new relationship, and when he heard the details he couldn’t quite believe it.

  “Mais non!” he said, shaking his head. “After thirteen years! This is incroyable!”

  He wanted to know still more. How did I feel?

  It was no good, though. I just couldn’t find the French words to sum up what I was really feeling, however hard I tried. I wanted to communicate how I felt sure that this was the start of something significant, even though I only really had some history and a weekend in Spain to base it on. I struggled to convey to him how the usual doubts that surrounded the beginning of a relationship just didn’t seem to be there. I attempted to explain that I had no explanation.

  Fabrice, power drill in hand, looked at me with an expression that suggested I was overcomplicating things. Then he shook his head and said a few English words, no doubt gleaned from the American films he’d watched.

  “Tony, you are in love.”

  Then, in a masterful display of bathos, he began drilling.

  §

  In the days that f
ollowed I felt more alone in the house than I had done before. The peace and quiet of which I’d grown so fond now only served as a reminder that something was missing. Suddenly this house didn’t feel like the best place to complete the work on my screenplay and I started to contemplate heading back to England earlier than I’d planned. After all, I had Roger to think about. How would he feel if he knew that I’d met a potential perfect petite Anglaise and then I’d failed to go back to England to pursue her?

  So it was, days later, that I stood in my garden and attempted to lecture Fabrice, Philippe, Laurent and Stephane on what work needed to be done in my absence.

  I had booked myself on a flight back to London.

  §

  “How are you coping?” I said to Brad as we sipped coffee in Covent Garden.

  The heating in the café didn’t seem to be working very well and we were both still wearing our thick coats. The British winter had just begun its long slow assault on the disposition of its people. They weren’t fully fed up with it yet—but give them another three months.

  “I’m better than expected,” an upbeat Brad replied. “It’s almost like losing my mother has been a wake-up call to me. It’s made me re-evaluate my life. It’s made me really think about what I do and don’t enjoy.”

  “And as a result of this thinking, have you drawn any conclusions?”

  “I’ve done more than that. I’m in the process of winding up my project-management business.”

  “Wow. And what will you do instead?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “And that doesn’t bother you?”

  “Nope. The right thing will come along. All I have to do is be ready and waiting. In the meantime I’m helping Ron out with the odd bit of building work.”

  “That’s great news. How is the old bugger?”

  “He’s on fine form, Tony. I really think he’s turned the corner with that depression thing that he battles with.”

  “Let’s hope so.”

  “And what about you, Tony? Anything to report on the love life?”

  “Ah. I’d better order two more coffees. This might take a little time.”