by Judy Leigh
Evie muttered ‘Shite’ to herself inside the hospital, and several times as she walked the kilometre to the car park, the word banishing her bad mood for a few seconds before she felt cross again and said it once more, a mantra against capitulation. This morning the bandage had been removed from her head but the swelling was still visible, although it did not hurt as much as her knees, which ached constantly. They must have been jarred by the fall.
By the time she reached the campervan, she was exhausted. Evie checked that everything was still in its place. She opened all the windows and smoothed the pages of the map, then she was ready to start on the drive, which would take the rest of the day. She would drive to a supermarché – she was glad it was nearly the same word as in English – and buy herself some treats for the journey. She was about to start the engine when her mobile sounded from her bag. She read Brendan’s message: he wanted to know where she was going. She smiled. He was a good son and was clearly interested in the trip she was making. She imagined him at home, a map of France on the coffee table or on his laptop, tracing her journey proudly. Brendan would be impressed with her choice of a historic city. She typed in Carcassonne quickly with her thumb and pressed send, putting the phone back in her bag without checking the screen. Her knees hurt as she pushed the pedals down, in particular the one she was using for the clutch. She pulled out of the car park and into the town traffic, peering over the dashboard to find a signpost.
She yawned: she had been driving for a few hours. The sunshine streamed through the windscreen as through a magnifying glass and her head began to hurt over one eye, pulsating steadily where the bump was. There was little traffic in the town, so her attention was on signposts and she glanced from her map on the passenger seat to the signs, searching for Carcassonne, negotiating a roundabout and several sets of traffic lights, then she turned onto a main road, a straight avenue flanked with trees. Her mouth was dry and her tongue thick, so she resolved to stop at the next lay-by and have some orange juice and maybe some fruit. A thought was rattling in her head: she might even take a nap and rest her knees. A car passed her closely, obviously in a hurry, and Evie wondered if the driver was annoyed that she was only travelling at forty kilometres an hour. She clutched the wheel tightly and peered over the dashboard at the road. There was a low shimmering of heat haze on the tarmac and hills were rising to the left.
A police car passed her with its blue light flashing and a gendarme waved Evie to pull over. She saw his little cap and smiled and waved back. He overtook her and an arm came from the window, a strong finger indicating a lay-by to the right. Evie exhaled and followed him, braking steadily so that she did not stop too close to his bumper.
The little man in the blue shirt was marching towards her, a frown on his face, and Evie glanced at his smart uniform. She was about to grin at him but she wound down the window and proffered a solemn expression. He spoke to her and she had no clue what he was saying but his face looked serious. Perhaps there was a killer on the loose. She shrugged and he spoke again but it was still no clearer. She leaned out of the window and raised her voice so that he could hear her over the noise of the passing traffic.
‘Hello to you. I don’t know what you’re talking about though, Officer. I don’t speak French very well. I am here on holiday.’
The policeman gesticulated over his shoulder; the other policeman came to join him, and they spoke together in hurried voices. The other officer couldn’t have been more than twenty-two. He was obviously the junior partner.
‘How can I help you?’ she asked, smiling as widely as she could.
‘English?’ the young officer asked, his face sombre.
‘Irish,’ she replied. ‘I am here on holiday.’
‘Where are you going?’
‘Carcassonne.’
‘May I see your driver’s licence? Passport?’
Evie took them from her bag and handed them over. The police officer studied them for a moment, then made a curious expression, wrinkling his nose, and handed the documents back.
‘You are Evelyn Gall-agg-her?’
‘Evie,’ she smiled. ‘Officer,’ she added as an afterthought.
‘This vehicle is French.’
‘Well done,’ she said, congratulating the young man on his skills of deduction. ‘I bought it in France.’
‘The vehicle belongs to you?’
‘Oh yes,’ said Evie. ‘I certainly haven’t stolen it. I paid with my winnings. I put a bet on a horse and it came in at a hundred to one. I had a streak of good luck. Four’s my lucky number.’
The young gendarme did not understand. He spoke to his surly companion, who replied in a low voice, and then the younger one spoke again.
‘Back there in the town you drove through a red light.’
Evie didn’t remember doing it.
‘Are you alone? No-one else is with you?’
‘Oh for God’s sake, can’t a lady travel by herself?’ Evie decided her tone was a bit rude and then gave the young officer a winning smile. ‘Yes, I am on my own, Officer.’ She thought for a few seconds. ‘But when I reach Carcassonne there will be a whole bunch of us. Twenty old people, all from Ireland. An old folks’ bucket list club – we’re all on holiday together. It’s our last holiday. Ever. You see, we’re all very ill with a terrible disease and we only have about six weeks to live, Officer. That is why this holiday is so important. It’s our last holiday. Before we die a very painful and terrible death.’ She gave a little sniff to prove that she was telling the truth and wiped at her eye with the crook of her finger.
The gendarmes had a conversation. Evie listened closely but could make nothing of their words. The young man put his hand out and laid it on Evie’s arm, which was resting on the open window frame. He patted her twice and nodded his head up and down before he spoke.
‘I see you have an injury on your head. I understand now. You are a brave woman and we wish you a good holiday with your friends.’
Evie was about to ask what friends, but then she remembered and said, ‘Oui, Monsieur,’ twice. She put a hand to her head as if she had a serious and painful wound and then she gave the officer a heroic smile as she imagined Joan of Arc might have smiled before she was taken to the stake. She put on her humble face. ‘Merci, Officer.’
‘Drive safely, Madame. Look out for the red lights next time.’
‘Oh I will, Officer. You can be sure of that. If there is a next time, of course. Time being so short and all. Yes, indeed I will. Thank you.’
The young policeman was grave. ‘I wish you good luck.’
The other gendarme, the older miserable one, reached out and took her hand and said something in French, as if bestowing a blessing. Evie thought they were both charming.
‘You take care now, Officer. You’re doing a grand job.’ She thought for a moment and then waved to them through the window. ‘Have a nice day.’
The two gendarmes saluted her politely as they made their way back to the police car and drove away. Evie breathed out. ‘Bollocks.’
She rummaged in her bag for the orange juice. It was warm and the top was sticky but she took a swig, then another. She looked over her shoulder to the back of the campervan and decided a snooze was in order.
Chapter Twenty-Three
She slept until late afternoon. The sun’s heat pooling through the windows against her back made her roll over and hug the pillow. Her stomach growled and the muscles in her legs and back felt tight. Evie craved a hot shower and a soft bed and time to recover from the fall. A good wash-down in a public toilet, spitting toothpaste into a cracked sink, was an adventure for a while but she could afford the luxury of a hotel and her body deserved some rest and comfort. She’d drive to a small village, clean herself up and find a nice little café: the bitterness of a coffee and something warm and stodgy would go well in her stomach. Then she’d find somewhere to stay near Carcassonne.
She drove for hours and it was well into the evening when she saw it. She
blinked her eyes and wondered if she’d misread the sign but it was there clearly, with an arrow pointing the way. ‘O’Driscoll’s Irish Bar: 1 kilometre’. Evie followed the arrow, leaning heavily over the steering wheel to look for the next sign. A car behind her blasted a horn and she wondered whether she was going too slowly or whether they were upset that she just changed lanes without indicating. The pub was to the right. ‘À droit’, an arrow pointing the way.
She found it, a dingy-looking building with a dark door. The paint was peeling in rough strips, showing a bruised pink colour beneath. A sign above in black and red said ‘O’Driscoll’s Irish Bar’. By the door was a green and gold logo declaring that a range of Irish beers was available. There were several parking spaces opposite, so Evie reversed into one of them twice, carefully, stopping close to a battered red sports car, and then she grabbed her handbag and made for the door.
At first she thought the pub was closed. The door knob twisted in her hand: she pushed her weight against the wood to heave the door open, but it would not budge. It was almost seven o’clock, but perhaps the pub was not yet open. She turned away, then the door yawned open and a young man with a huge moustache and sideburns crashed into her, slurring in French. He blinked at Evie, then took her hand, patted it twice and muttered, ‘Pardon, Madame,’ before lurching into the street. Evie caught the door before it closed and went inside.
O’Driscoll’s Bar was lit with foggy yellow lamps; it was a long thin room with huge wooden pillars supporting ceilings that were crusted and cracked, low-hanging and dull grey. The room smelled of stale bodies, beer and damp, each smell distinct from the other. Wooden tables were scattered to the right, mostly empty, beneath a video screen where a football match was being played out soundlessly. A man and woman were sitting at one table, half-pints of beer in front of them, their heads close. The bar was in the corner, on the left, arrayed with glasses hanging from the ceiling and beer pumps sticking up around the red surface of the bar.
Three men were at the bar, their backs to Evie. Two were little men, their bodies leaning forward, drinking together. One wore a sort of beret perched on the side of his head. Evie remembered her red beret, which was abandoned now beneath the rest of her luggage, along with the new coat she’d bought in Dublin. Dublin and Sheldon Lodge, and even Jim, seemed a great distance away. The two little men chortled softly and emptied their glasses, raising them towards the barman to order a refill. They turned to Evie; one raised his hand to her and she replied, ‘Bonjour’, feeling ridiculously pleased with herself.
The last man was probably in his seventies, standing separate from everyone else; he wore a black leather jacket and, as he turned slightly to observe the newcomer, she noticed he wore a Bob Dylan T-shirt. He was very tall. He twisted back to the bar. His hunched shoulders seemed to warn the world that he did not wish to be disturbed. Beneath a cap his hair curled and was held in a small ponytail, which was iron grey in colour. Evie approached the bar and saw the barman refilling glasses for the two friends. He spoke to her in French and she nodded, assuming that he’d said he would be with her in a minute.
Around the bar were fading pictures of Ireland in its pastoral glory hanging from nails hammered into the walls, and one or two photos were arranged closely together. They had dark wooden frames and showed two men in caps working with spades in the fields; a woman in a bonnet serving food to a family in a dingy house. There was a larger picture of two men with raised fists, their knuckles shiny and pale and their faces contorted in pugilistic parody. The bar was lit with little white bulbs; on the wall was a sepia picture of an ocean liner and some people boarding it, wearing old-fashioned clothes. Evie eased herself onto a high stool to rest her knees. A fairground display of drinks was available and she was about to order an orange juice, as she was driving, when she saw a pump offering Guinness, which she’d drunk in a Dublin bar with Jim, years before. A half wouldn’t hurt. After all, wasn’t it full of vitamins and iron?
The barman had dark hair and thick eyebrows, a stubble-rough face, lively blue eyes and muscled arms. He wore a T-shirt with a cartoon picture of a Dublin bar on it. The slogan said: ‘My idea of a balanced diet is a beer in each hand’. Evie smiled. ‘I’ll have half of your Guinness, please.’
The barman laughed out loud. When he spoke, his accent was Northern English, all elongated vowels and brimming enthusiasm. ‘You’re an Irish lady. Well, I’ll be jiggered. Eh, you’re a long way from home, love.’
‘On holiday.’ Evie extended her hand. ‘Evie Gallagher. From Dublin.’
‘Ray Deakin. From Salford, Manchester. My parents were from Ennis, County Clare.’ He indicated the pictures. ‘All this stuff was theirs, God bless them. When they went, I sold up and came over here, fancied a bit more sunshine really, and I started O’Driscoll’s. My mother was Doreen O’Driscoll.’
‘Pleased to meet you, Ray. This is a grand bar you have here.’
‘I try not to drink away most of the profits.’ Ray passed Evie her half-pint of dark liquid with a creamy topping. ‘On the house, since you are my first Irish customer for a long time.’
She took a mouthful, supping from the top and allowing the froth to stick to her upper lip like a soft moustache. She let it stay for a moment and then licked it clean. ‘Mmm. That’s good.’
‘Well, it’s nice to meet you, Evie.’ Ray beamed across at the men on the bar, indicated Evie and said something in French. She recognised the word ‘Irlandaise’ from her encounter in the post office back in Pentrez. She raised her glass to the two men talking together and again to the tall man. The drinking pair raised their glasses warmly; the other man, aloof and unfriendly, leaned away from Evie. He downed the last of the brandy in his glass and slammed it on the counter with a single word. The barman went to fill it up again and the tall man scratched his head underneath his cap and looked directly at Evie. His eyes were chestnut brown and intense. Evie thought he was rude, so she swallowed another mouthful of her beer, ignored him and started to chatter to Ray. ‘So, how long have you been here?’
‘Twelve years. Married a nice girl from Foix, Paulette: she’s upstairs with the kiddies. She helps out down here when it’s busy, which it is usually this time of year. I get all the British football and the big fights in here on the screen. The French love the boxing. And on St Pat’s Day we have a party. It goes on until the early hours. Even the mayor comes in. There’s sometimes a fight or two, plenty of singing and dancing. It’s a riot.’
Evie ordered another half of stout and decided she would probably sleep in the campervan in the car park. She’d ask first, but Ray seemed very laid-back and kind. She’d find a hotel in the morning, and review her plans after Carcassonne. She imagined postcards of the walled town and thought how nice it would be to send postcards to Brendan and to Sheldon Lodge and a nice message to Maddie and Kat and maybe to Odile in Angers, where she had enjoyed such a lovely meal. She’d call in and see them all on the way back.
‘Ray, do you have food here?’
‘I could rustle you up something, love … a plate of stew perhaps and a piece of apple pie.’
Evie beamed. ‘That would be grand.’
Chapter Twenty-Four
Four hours later, Evie was feeling relaxed and happy. She had eaten a plate of rich stew, some melt-in-the-mouth apple pie and had drunk four more halves of stout and two cognacs. She struck up a conversation with the two little men, although none of them really understood each other, but the men pointed at the array of bottles and Evie said, ‘Non … Non … Non …’ until they reached the huge decanter of cognac. She then said, ‘Oui, s’il vous plaît,’ and the men each bought her a brandy. Her knees had stopped aching. She noticed the tall man, the septuagenarian with the dark eyes and little ponytail, glowering at her from behind his glass. Evie wondered what he was staring at, stuck out her tongue at him and looked away. His gaze was unflinching: when she looked back, he was still watching her. She offered to buy the two men a drink, pointing at the optics, an
d they laughed and asked Ray for a beer each. Evie glanced again at the disgruntled man, on his own at the bar, emptying the dregs in one gulp.
‘Can I buy you a drink, Mr Grumpy?’ she offered, and laughed. She saw a look of disapproval on Ray’s face. The bad-tempered drinker shook his head and said something in French to Ray, who refilled his glass.
Ray came over to her. ‘Jean-Luc prefers his own company. Don’t pay any attention to him, let him be.’
Evie shrugged and started to ask Ray about his family and if he missed Manchester. She was holding forth about Dublin and how lovely it was this time of year. ‘It is grand when the flowers are all out and the birds singing. And the people are so friendly, Ray.’
Ray was agreeing with her when an echoing bang came from the bar to her left. Mr Grumpy had slammed down his glass. Ray asked him if he wanted another and brought over the bottle for him. The tall man with the little ponytail was in a bad mood, and he swallowed his refill in one gulp. Evie noticed the two drinkers moved away from him a little and then the couple at the table picked up their bags and left.
Evie wrinkled her nose and looked at him again through the corners of her eyes. ‘He’s a bad-tempered one, isn’t he?’
Ray gave her his warning look once more but Evie didn’t care. She was bathed in the glow of beer and cognac, good food and a friendly Irish bar. ‘I mean, you come out for a drink to relax and to have fun, don’t you, and not to bring a miserable face to show to everyone.’
The irritable man emptied the bottle into his glass and put it down firmly. He delved into his pockets and found several euro notes, unfolding them and laying them flat on the polished wooden surface. He turned his gaze on Evie and the dark eyes were flecked with fury. He spoke in English, perfectly clear, his French accent tinged with American, his voice gravelly and heavy with contempt.
