by Celia Imrie
‘Oh, Lord, Tom. Oh dear!’
‘Anyway, I tried a train without a ticket and was chucked off at San Remo, and walked along the coast from there, sleeping in doorways, and I got here. People threw me pennies and some gave me bits of bread and cups of coffee. Then when I finally reached Nice, I realised that, although I knew you lived just outside the city, I had no idea in which town or village. I thought it might have a B or V, but so do lots of places, and there are so many with a Sur-Mer tacked on. The only thing I knew for certain was that from your window you could see the sea.’
Sally could hear the scissors chopping. He must be cutting his beard off.
‘So I went to every little Sur-Mer town radiating out from Nice and looked for a likely place, calling out your name, and looking through windows.’
‘Poor darling,’ said Sally. ‘So how long have you been so near me, without my knowing?’
‘About four weeks.’
‘Four weeks!’ Sally felt her heart stab, thinking of how many times they might have been a few hundred yards away from one another, round a corner, and not known it.
The door opened and the real, recognisable Tom stood before her. Wrapped up in Sally’s white towelling robe, his beard and hair roughly chopped, he looked so sweet and lost.
‘I’m going to take you up to the barber’s in the morning. Then we’ll go into Nice and get you a set of clothes,’ said Sally. ‘But now let’s go downstairs and I’ll make you a square meal, while you tell me everything.’ She laughed and slipped her arm round his waist. ‘You know, Tom, now that I think about it, if you’d called out Sally they’d have thought you were up to no good too. It means salted, or, depending on the word that comes next, exactly what you were when you arrived at Theresa’s – dirty!’
The Cookery Club meeting had dispersed pretty quickly after the arrival of Imogen.
Never had a roomful of people slurped up a bowl of soup and tossed down a glass of wine with such speed.
When the door slammed after Zoe, always the last to go, Brian slipped quietly into his room.
‘Who is that?’ hissed Imogen. ‘You didn’t tell me you’d taken a lover.’
Theresa made a sshh sound. ‘If you must know, he’s my lodger. His rent brings in a bit of money.’
‘Fine,’ said Imogen, watching the children tearing at bits of bread and cheese left on the table. ‘So where are our rooms?’
Theresa was at a loss.
‘I had no idea you were coming, Imogen, or I’d have got something sorted.’
‘I phoned ahead from Gatwick. You’ve had all evening. If you weren’t so busy carousing with your friends.’
Theresa looked at the red flashing light on the answering machine. Well, there was that query answered. The message must have been from Imogen.
‘For goodness’ sake, you’re always inviting me here, Mother. It’s Easter. Last time we spoke you said “Come at Easter”. So here we are!’
‘But I . . .’
Theresa didn’t know how to tell Imogen that, apart from Brian’s room, there was only her bedroom and it had only one bed. If she’d had warning at least she could have got some little put-me-ups for the kids.
‘Look, Imogen, I’ll phone up to the hotel just above me. They might have a room.’
‘A hotel? After the day we’ve just had?’ Imogen shook her head as though Theresa was an idiot. ‘If anyone’s going to a hotel I’m afraid it will have to be you. Look at the children. They’re exhausted.’
Theresa looked down at the three little pairs of eyes which looked anything but tired, rather, they appeared fired with exhilaration.
‘Can we have an ice cream?’ asked Lola.
‘I want to go swimming in the sea,’ said Chloe. ‘I’ve got my certificates.’
‘I’ve got sessisicakes as well.’
‘No you haven’t,’ Chloe sighed. ‘You have to be over nine and pass a test.’
‘Well, I’m hungry.’ Cressida started to cry. ‘I want Verdi cakes.’
‘Do you have fruit?’ Imogen enquired. ‘Just something to take the edge off. And where are the bedrooms?’
Theresa knew that her daughter wasn’t being exactly straight with her. Theresa might do things on a whim, but Imogen had always been one for diaries and long-ranging appointments. She never would just arrive at the airport hoping for a flight. Something was going on.
‘Aren’t you going to explain anything to me?’ asked Theresa, buttering pieces of baguette and handing them to the girls. ‘What on earth has happened?’
‘Nothing.’ Imogen did not look her in the eye.
‘You suddenly arrive on my doorstep with the children at eleven o’clock on a Wednesday night? It makes no sense.’
‘We’ll have all the time to talk in the morning,’ said Imogen, taking off the children’s coats. ‘Now we really must get some sleep.’
Feeling more suspicious than ever, Theresa ushered them into the bedroom. Only a few hours ago it had seemed so charming, but now looked dingy, cramped and claustrophobic.
‘This won’t do after tonight,’ said Imogen. ‘But we can discuss that when you come back for breakfast.’
Theresa knew there was nothing else for it but to trudge up to the Hôtel Astra, and hope that, on the night before Maundy Thursday and the start of the Easter break, they had a room free, or she would be sleeping on the street.
Sally and Tom talked till late into the night. While in India he had taken up painting, studying with a local Italian who had run away from life as a banker to concentrate on art, living his life in the style of Paul Gauguin, except painting the slum-dwellers of Bombay and the fishermen of Goa, rather than Polynesian girls.
It was this teacher who had made Tom realise that he too had run away – in his case, from his father. Now, with his father dead, Tom had no reason to stay away. More to the point, he wanted to come to the place that had attracted all those painters in the nineteenth and twentieth centuries.
On top of everything Tom said he wanted to see his mother again.
Sally couldn’t have been happier.
She slept lightly and woke with the sun, immediately jumping from her bed, convinced the events of the previous night had all been a dream. But Tom’s filthy, ragged clothes were still there, sealed in a plastic bag in the bin.
She let herself out as quietly as possible and ran up to the bakery to get a fresh loaf, and some treats, then returned to lay up for breakfast before Tom woke.
He came down, bleary-eyed, at 7.30.
‘I’d better get a job of some kind,’ was the first thing he said. ‘Do they need anyone changing beds or something at the hotels? Dishwashing. Anything.’
Sally winced. ‘I’m sure I can find you something better than that.’
Tom sat and spread apricot jam on a croissant. ‘I just need something which could earn me enough to pay my way and get me a bit of money for paint and a few canvases. Then I can sell the paintings and I’ll be all right. You’ll see.’
Sally feared that Tom was being rather optimistic about the idea of painting as a career.
‘I can give you the money for a canvas and some paints right away,’ said Sally, pouring coffee. ‘You can stay here and eat here, so you don’t need any money really.’
Tom held up his hands. ‘I don’t think you understand, Mum. I want to support myself. I have to get a room somewhere, and be independent. I won’t be kept by you. It’s what Dad was always accusing me of. I came back to show you I am not a leech.’
Sally moved across to the sink for no reason except to hide the tears welling up. She had never thought for a second that Tom was a leech, was very happy to have him here, and was so sorry that, simply because of his father’s attitude, he had stayed away for so long.
‘It’ll also make seeing you more fun. I can come to yours, and you to mine. I’ll cook you a curry.’
Sally’s landline phone shrilled.
Tom scuttled off to get dressed in whatever he could find tha
t wouldn’t be embarrassing.
It was Marianne on the line. Sally tried to signal to Tom, but he was gone. She told her daughter all about the excitement of Tom arriving, missing out the bit about his being picked up by the police.
‘Enough about him, Mama. I was thinking about coming over for Easter,’ said Marianne. ‘In fact I’m arriving tonight.’
16
And arrive she did, rapping at Sally’s door shortly before midnight on Maundy Thursday.
She didn’t want to talk. ‘Exhausted!’ she said, and went straight to bed.
In the morning of Good Friday, Sally happily made early breakfast for her son and daughter, and was thrilled to have her whole family united once more. She had persuaded them both to come in her boat to go into Nice to see the Passion Week processions.
While Carol filled her car, taking William and Benjamin, both squashing into the back seat, Ted packed the boat with almost everyone else.
‘Where’s David?’ asked William.
‘Boys will be boys,’ said Carol. ‘He wants to play with the new toy.’
Benjamin snorted a noise of disdain.
‘I’d have sat in the front if I’d realised,’ said William.
‘Mind you,’ said Carol, swinging on the road up the hill. ‘I wouldn’t mind a go on the boat too.’
‘Then who would drive?’ asked Benjamin. ‘Please, could you drop me off at Garibaldi, Carol? I want to nip down through Old Town.’
David was at the harbourside, helping Ted make checks on the engine, while the rest of the gang climbed aboard. Faith and Zoe arrived wearing sunglasses and headscarves, looking like elderly auditionees for some 1950s spy film, and sat happily together on the back bench.
Sally proudly introduced both her children, while trying to tell everyone the safety warnings, as she had been instructed. She pointed to the box full of life-jackets, the emergency bag, the inflatable raft. But no one was interested.
When Ted emerged, covered in engine oil and wiping a rag round his neck and chin, Sally introduced Marianne.
‘My daughter. This is Ted, my partner-in-boat.’
Marianne seemed to freeze, before politely holding out her hand.
‘So you’re the man who led my mother astray?’ she said.
‘I try to lead everyone astray,’ he replied, with a wink.
‘Not everyone, I hope,’ said Marianne curtly.
When Sally went to pull up the fenders, and untie the mooring lines, Marianne sat beside her and hissed into her ear, ‘Is that the same Ted you always talk about, Sian Kelly’s husband?’
‘That’s him. He’s a bit of a rogue, but ever so nice.’
After casting off, Tom, Sally, David and Marianne crowded into the little wheelhouse, to look at the gauges and switches, while Ted took the wheel. He was in the middle of manoeuvring away from the mooring when he put the boat into reverse thrust.
‘What’s happening?’ cried Faith.
Ted stretched out an arm, pointing towards the sea wall.
‘Look!’ he said, steering the boat back to the harbour side. ‘We almost forgot Jessica.’
As the boat bumped sides with the marina wall, without making any attempt to secure the vessel first, Tom stretched out an arm to help Jessica jump aboard.
Sally shouted, ‘That’s absolutely not the way to do it, Tom. Someone will get hurt.’
Jessica laughed and tumbled into his arms, knocking him flat to the deck.
From her prostrate position she called through to the wheelhouse. ‘Ted! I can’t believe you forgot me. You knew I was coming.’
Marianne whispered into Sally’s ear. ‘Who is that?’
‘She’s very sweet,’ said Sally. ‘Jessica comes to all Theresa’s Cookery Club things. Ted’s rather taken her under his wing.’
Marianne nodded and asked: ‘Do we get a drink on this boat or is it merely for transport purposes?’
Sally pulled a bottle of fizz from the fridge, and popped the cork.
Zoe took a glass and held it out. ‘I like your son, Sally,’ she said. ‘He’s fit.’
Tom had heard and turned, giving Zoe a dramatic wink.
‘See,’ said Zoe, quaffing her drink, and nudging Faith. ‘I’ve pulled.’
Theresa, having a late-rising daughter and three grandchildren in tow, went into town by rail, which entailed much hysteria in the girls, who were crazy about the double-decker train, and spent the fifteen-minute journey hysterically running up and down the steps playing ‘He’. They also enjoyed the subsequent trip down through the town on a tram.
‘Is it a bus or a train, Granny?’ asked Lola.
‘Both at the same time. Bit like the trams in Wimbledon.’
‘No, these are much swishyer,’ grinned Lola.
Imogen had not spoken much since her arrival, but Theresa had gleaned enough to realise that her son-in-law, Michael, had gone off for a ‘bit of space’, and ‘room to breathe’. She also knew that, by searching through his emails and text messages, Imogen had discovered that the room in which he intended to breathe was, in fact, in a five-star hotel in Sorrento, where he had booked a ‘romantic weekend break’ with the children’s new pretty Italian nanny, Verdiana.
Theresa had wanted to remind Imogen that, if the episode with Annunziata and Imogen’s father was anything to go by, hiring a young pretty Italian to loll about the house in her nightgown in the presence of her husband was not the best idea. When it came to nannies, what you really needed was a clod-hopping overweight hunchback with a heavy moustache and eyebrows to rival Frida Kahlo’s.
On the day after Theresa’s family’s arrival in Bellevue-Sur-Mer, Brian had done the gentlemanly thing and moved out. He had, he said, quite by chance, bumped into Stewart, an old friend from Glasgow, who had a little place in the city and he was going to base himself there till he found a suitable place to buy in Bellevue-Sur-Mer. Imogen took over his room, while the three children took Theresa’s. Theresa hastily bought a blow-up bed, a thing she had no idea even existed before, and she slept in the living room, tucked into the corner beneath the glass-topped table.
Today, as they strolled through the maze of crowded streets in the Old Town, Imogen marched grimly, tight-lipped, glancing into windows displaying brightly coloured bonbons, clothing and pottery, without the shadow of a smile. Meanwhile, Theresa zigzagged ahead of her, attempting to control the three kids, who were like wild dogs on a rampage and clearly having a whale of a time.
When the family arrived in the packed Cathedral Square, Theresa knew there was little hope of meeting up with her neighbours. People were jammed together.
She, Imogen and the three girls were squashed in against the glass windows of an ice-cream parlour. The girls faced away from where the procession was due. They looked at the ice creams and bawled.
Luckily, after a few moments, Imogen decided to leave the children with Theresa while she went down to the market ‘to get a coffee somewhere’. Theresa tipped her off which place to choose so that they could rendezvous there later. Carol and David were heading there too.
As soon as Imogen disappeared, Theresa quelled the children by buying them each an ice-cream cone of their choice. Then they stood, happily quiet, watching the procession. The whole proceedings seemed rather gai for a Good Friday, Theresa thought, especially as the whole shebang was led by a group of young men and girls in the traditional Niçoise folk costumes. The boys wore loose-fitting white shirts, pink breeches and red Phrygian bonnets, while the girls sashayed past in embroidered boleros and enormous pink-and-white gathered skirts, looking like sexier versions of Sandra Dee in her heyday. Then came the bowed priests and altar boys with their shrouded cross.
When the procession went into the cathedral, the majority of the crowd dispersed either into the cathedral after them or into the nearby cafes. Theresa decided to take the kids for a quick walk up the steep alleyways leading up to the hill, at the top of which was a cemetery and a park with ravishing views. The hope was that the walk
up would tire them, thus enabling the family to have a lovely lunch in the restaurant on the Cours Saleya.
Theresa clapped her hands. ‘Come along, girls, we’re going for lunch!’ The three girls scuttled along narrow dark streets where shards of light spilled in, creating black shadows. As the twisty streets became steep lanes where the tall houses seemed to meet at the top, squeezing out the sunlight, people became scarce. Theresa paused for breath at an intersection. There was a concrete bollard on the corner, so she sat while the girls happily played ‘He’, criss-crossing the lane, hopping up steps and down again. She looked ahead, along an intersecting lane. In the dark shade of a tall building about fifty yards away there was a man standing in a doorway. He wasn’t doing anything, just standing there. He pulled out a mobile phone and started stabbing at it, texting perhaps. Theresa knew she had seen him before somewhere, but couldn’t be sure where. He wore pale, ripped denim, with a worn brown leather jacket. He had a heavy moustache.
The man put the phone away, took a cigarette from a pack in his pocket, lifted it to his lips and lit it. As he breathed in, his head turned and he looked down the alleyway in Theresa’s direction.
For a millisecond, they caught eyes. And in that instant she recognised him. It was the man who had robbed her on the steps in Bellevue-Sur-Mer.
She realised that he didn’t know her, though. His head turned lazily in the other direction as he fumbled to replace his flick lighter in his jacket pocket.
Theresa looked about her, wishing a gendarme would appear. No one else was in sight but the children, who were energetically clambering up the steep steps.
She wanted to go along and confront this man. She decided that was what she must do.
Looking up the hill, the children naturally chose that exact moment to vanish round a corner.
Taking another glance at the man Theresa stood up, just as a second man appeared, running along to join him.
