The words he had repeated to himself over and over in his head now rang false.
Charles stared wordlessly down at his breakfast. After a long silence, he said:
‘Ginette doesn’t know what’s going on. If she did, she’d never have invited you to stay with her.’
George was taken aback.
‘W-what do you mean?’ he stuttered. ‘I’ve never kept anything from Ginette, I’ve never kept anything from anyone, I’m—’
‘What I mean is, she doesn’t know why I’m doing this.’
‘Oh, Charles, you’re doing it because it was your boyhood dream and we’re all allowed to try and realise our boyhood dreams at the grand old age of eighty, there’s no shame in that, none at all! And we’ve been gallivanting around like a couple of young boys for the last two weeks, but I’m sorry to say that my legs can’t take any more and I wouldn’t say no to a little break … And who knows, maybe we’ll even finish it some day.’
‘No George,’ Charles interrupted. ‘That’s not why I’m here. Of course I’ve been dreaming of this for yonks but whether it was this or something else, it’s not a lack of anything else to do that’s the problem. I’m doing it because I need …’
He paused for a moment, and then continued:
‘I need you and this Tour and to get out and see the world because my mind is getting worse by the day, George. It’s the curse of old age; my brain is degenerating and it doesn’t matter how many times they tell you that that’s just the way it is, and there’s no avoiding it, believe me George, when it does hit you it’s a living nightmare. And there’s no medication for it, there’s nothing but the loony bin and big black holes in your memory. So the only thing the doctors tell you is that you’ve got to keep your noggin working at all costs. And how? They tell you to do crosswords, that’s what they tell old fogeys like us, because they think that’s all we’re good for. But I’m telling you, you need crosswords and wordsearches and anagrams and Sudokus and all the rest of it just to keep your head straight; you need more puzzles than Téléstar can print. And I’ve had it up to here with crosswords, I can’t stand them any more. I know all there is to know, all the “ing”s and the “ed”s, the abbreviations of every country; I could do crosswords for France. OK, then there’s belote, and gardening, and letter-writing, and Scrabble – if you listened to them you’d be doing bloody basket weaving before long. But I’ve had enough of all that, George, I can’t do it any more … There’s something eating away at my brain, and it’s destroying everything: my memories, familiar faces, even the rooms in my home and the names of my grandkids. I’ve forgotten all the things I know. All of my memories have a chunk missing from them, and sometimes I get terrified that one day everything will just go, bam, and then what will be left of me? I’ll be all hollowed out like a shell on the beach, with nothing left, nothing – because what’s the point of being old if you don’t have any memories? Is life worth living when you’ve got no one left, because you’ve forgotten who your family are? It’s worth bugger all, George. Bugger all. There you go. The only thing Thérèse and I could come up with was this Tour de France. Changing scenery every day, seeing new things, meeting new people, learning … And at the same time I got to do what I’d always wanted, so when it was a choice between that and crosswords … We didn’t really believe it at the start, because you weren’t sure, so I didn’t let myself get too involved. But now, now we’re doing it. Maybe it won’t make a difference, maybe the lights are going to go out anyway and there’s nothing I can do about it. But maybe not, maybe it’ll work. Thérèse believes in it. As for me, I’m not convinced yet, but what can I do? Even if it doesn’t help, it’s definitely not doing any harm. And you know what, maybe I do believe in it, even if it’s just because I’ve got to believe in something. There you go. And Ginette doesn’t know. She doesn’t know that her brother’s losing his marbles. If she did, she wouldn’t have invited you to Notre-Dame-de-Monts.’
Charles stopped talking. George didn’t know what to say. He felt a lump in his throat. Why hadn’t he seen this earlier? He should have worked it out from the incident with the petrol pump, and from the leftovers after the picnic at Châteauneuf-du-Faou … And there had been other signs, now that he thought about it, like the day he forgot how to make a cup of tea. He now understood why Charles, who was normally unbeatable when it came to trivia, hadn’t joined in the recounting of the Tour’s historic moments.
What was he supposed to say? That the Tour was all very well, but what about when it was over? Was he going to go on a tour of the world? These days nothing was as far away as it had once been, it probably wouldn’t even take him that long … Was he planning on roaming the globe like a nomad until the end of his days, separating himself from his loved ones so he wouldn’t forget them? Charles was right, there was a lot of talk of dementia and so on, but he didn’t really know anything about it. It was something that happened to other people. And now he saw one of his friends clinging to illusions, trying to fight it. This Tour de France now seemed utterly absurd. At that moment he wished more than anything that he were one of life’s optimists, he wished he could believe what his friend was telling him, believe that this was making him better, heck, he wished at that moment that he believed in God, because God was capable of miracles.
Charles broke the silence.
‘I’ve got to tell you, George, I feel better for telling you. Keeping it a secret this whole time was … Well, anyway I told you because you should know Ginette asked you without knowing all of this. But I guess if your joints are playing up, there’s nothing we can do. Nothing we can do.’
It was a while before George had the courage to reply.
‘Yes, there is.’
That same afternoon, they were heading towards stage five. And this time they were determined to see it through.
‘And the Tour de France is off again! Over to you, Jean-Paul Brouchon, our man on the starting line!’ said George exuberantly as he plugged in his seatbelt. The companions got back on the road with an enthusiasm neither of them had felt since the first day of the Tour – and even on that day there had been a lot less laughter. Charles’s revelation had marked a new phase of their friendship. They could now say without hesitation that they were no longer neighbours, they were friends. Charles was visibly relieved to have shared his anxiety with George. He had also had a long telephone conversation with his sister. It had come as a shock to her, but she wholeheartedly agreed that some mental exercise was just what he needed. And George would not go to see her in Notre-Dame-de-Monts for the moment, but it was agreed he would come in November.
George was feeling so cheerful on the road from Nantes to Cholet that he started whistling Y’a d’la joie, the famous Charles Trenet song that reminded him of his childhood. Charles joined in, admittedly a little out of tune, but the end result was marvellous. And then all of a sudden, the words came pouring out of Charles’s mouth: ‘Miracle sans nom à la station Javel/ On voit le métro qui sort de son tunnel/ Grisé de soleil de chansons et de fleurs/ Il court vers le bois, il court à toute vapeur/ Y’a d’la joie bonjour bonjour les hirondelles!’
He sang the song all the way through. The lyrics surged up from the distant past and seemed to fill him with a fresh burst of energy. Just before the last verse, Charles was hit in his excitement by a wave of false modesty and said:
‘Oh, I don’t think I can remember the rest.’
‘Even so, I’m impressed!’ said George. ‘“You did what you could, but you blew me away!”’
Charles thought for a few moments and then cried out:
‘Brambilla! Pierre Brambilla! That’s what he said to Jean Robic when he won the Tour in ’47!’
‘Correct!’
‘So I haven’t forgotten everything, then! Still got something between the ears!’
Slowly but surely, the Tour route was leading them back to their native region. They spent the night in Cholet with friends of Charles. After a challenging day Charles was able to rela
x with his friends, while George got an early night, claiming various aches and pains. In truth he was behind in his correspondence with Adèle; he caught up that evening with six texts updating her on the events of the last few days, from his day out in Nantes to the conversation with Charles. He mentioned Ginette, of course, without saying too much, but he knew Adèle would be able to read between the lines. And while he was about it, he sent a text to Ginette. Neither woman replied instantly and so, just this once, he switched off his phone, put in his earplugs and fell into a deep, untroubled sleep.
Thursday 9 October
Cholet (Maine-et-Loire)–La Celle-Guenand (Indre-et-Loire)
They took great joy in driving down the roads that passed through Bressuire, Mauléon, Les Herbiers and Thouars. These were the roads they had driven down all their lives; the names sounded familiar and comforting. They fitted in here. They knew what kind of bread they would find in the bakeries, they could name all the plants, trees, and even the weeds. They knew which newspapers would be on sale in the newsagents and saw familiar old men waiting to cross the road. They would doubtless recognise the names on the village war memorials, names of families who still lived nearby. George and Charles saw their little corner of the world with new eyes. They had been looking at the same things all their lives, but only now were they really paying attention.
They were so close to home that Charles and Thérèse had arranged to meet. God knows how they managed to arrange it, thought George to himself, because Charles didn’t have a mobile phone. Returning the favour that Charles had done him, George decided to give the couple some time alone and went to sit in a café in the centre of Thouars with a seven-euro menu. There were a few other pensioners sitting inside. With the customary cloth over his shoulder, the owner was talking to a local sitting at the bar. It was technically forbidden to smoke inside so he kept going back and forth to the entrance, filling the room with smoke as he went.
George instinctively reached for his phone to give him something to play with and pass the time. He had received several texts from Adèle and one from Ginette. Two little old men nursing Duralex tumblers called over to him:
‘So young man, you’re playing at mobile phones just like the kids, eh?’
‘Well, I’ve got to,’ George answered politely. ‘For the granddaughter, you know how it is.’
And he turned his attention back to his text message, but the two men were clearly in a playful mood:
‘No, I dunno how it is, and I dun’ want to know. If we’re meant to do everything the kids do these days just to bloody talk to ’em, I dunno … young people these days can’t go a ’undred metres without tap-tap-tapping at their phones.’
And he imitated someone frantically writing a text. Before George had time to think to himself that this speech sounded familiar, the owner’s wife rescued him by murmuring confidentially:
‘Would you like to sit in the dining room upstairs? It’s a little calmer up there.’
The dining room was pretty, with walls lined with tapestries. The owner’s wife cleared the table and her iron, which she had left by the window, and gave him cutlery and a napkin.
Finally, he could concentrate on his texts. Ginette’s was mainly about the weather. Adèle was unhappy with her working hours. Ginette had been to visit a friend in Les Sables-d’Olonne. Adèle was worried she was coming down with a cold. Ginette had decided to redecorate the kitchen before November. Adèle had recovered from the cold, thanks for asking. Nothing especially interesting, in short. Nothing urgent. How funny that it had taken him eighty-three years to see the enjoyment in small talk.
A little later, Charles came to meet George, told him Thérèse sent her love, and off they went again. They drove on to Le Grand-Pressigny, which had witnessed the Tour, and La Celle-Guenand, which had not but it did have a magnificent seventeenth-century château where they could stay for forty-five euros a night. Charles and George were struck by the vivid autumnal shades of the Touraine landscape, the pastel grey and orange of the fields, the slate roofs and delicate clouds that drifted across the sky like puffs of smoke, the lush green forests and the dried sunflowers that seemed to bow their brown heads in repentance. Any doubts George had felt about continuing the Tour had now vanished.
For as long as they could remember, there had been a tacit understanding that George was wealthier than Charles. And although this was a simple fact for George, Charles had never quite felt comfortable about the situation. So he was particularly proud to be taking George out for dinner that evening, in Le Petit-Pressigny. Not to just any restaurant either; this one was mentioned in all of the guidebooks, and had even been awarded the much-coveted Michelin star, with particular praise for its speciality: rustic bacon wrapped in buttered green cabbage, with black pudding and crackling. This was not Charles trying to show off to George, of course; rather the two companions had not had a chance to celebrate their epic undertaking properly, apart from the half-hearted Kir in Guémené. And so it was with genuine delight that George accepted the generous invitation. It was an evening to remember; the exquisite food and wine enhanced the euphoria of recent events. The pair were the last, and happiest, people in the restaurant. Neither of them wanted the day to end.
Friday 10 October
La Celle-Guenand–Loches (Indre-et-Loire)
When George pulled back the curtains in his bedroom in the château at La Celle-Guenand, he saw that the weather had cleared up again. It was cold, but there wasn’t a cloud in the sky, and the newly gold leaves shone in the bright autumn sun. He had not slept well – the bed was very old, but this time he would not be complaining to reception. The chatelaine was lovely, an elegant and slim woman several years his senior. She looked after the château herself, renting out its dozen or so bedrooms to tourists, which must have been damn hard work. Everything looked worn out, threadbare and faded, yet George could tell that at one time his surroundings had been sumptuous. Even the carpet in his room had a noble history: the chatelaine had managed to acquire it through some well-connected friends during the renovation of the Ritz in Paris.
George was late for breakfast, which was served in the old armoury two floors down. The château had a magnificent staircase whose stone steps were worn from centuries of use. George was blinded for a moment by a ray of sunlight that came in through one of the large windows, causing him to lose his footing and slip just at the place where the steps were narrowest. The rest of his body tumbled after his feet, but how and in what order George would not be able to recall.
Fifty-eight minutes later he arrived at the hospital in Loches, where the doctor who saw him, although amused by the story of this unusual Tour de France, made it quite clear: the Tour ended here.
George was woken up by the arrival of his meal tray. After a moment of calm, the pain hit him with its full force. Was it the evening or the next day? No, it was evening. The nurse pushed his bed upright. He was weak, and felt as though his limbs were made of lead. He was finding it difficult to breathe. There was a drip attached to his arm and various machines were flashing next to him. He was alone, truly alone. He did not have his mobile phone next to him on the bedside table. There was a little sign stuck to the door: ‘Mobile telephones strictly forbidden.’ He didn’t touch his meal. He took his various tablets, one of which he could see was a sleeping pill, reclined his bed again with the remote control and waited for the medication to take the pain away.
Sunday 12 October
Loches (Indre-et-Loire)
Adèle hung up the phone. Thérèse, the wife of George’s Tour teammate Charles, had just told her that her grandfather was in hospital and that his condition was critical. It would be terrible for her career to miss several days of shooting; she might not even get a reference from the production company. She thought about it for a few moments until she realised that someone else could fetch the coffee and be responsible for all her other menial tasks for a few days. She was going to see her grandfather and that was that. The production
manager was initially reluctant, until she saw that Adèle was not asking for permission so much as informing her of her decision, and so instead told her she had to be back as soon as possible. It would be difficult to find another runner at such short notice. For the first time, it occurred to Adèle that she was perhaps more useful to them than she thought.
If she travelled overnight both ways she would only have to miss one day of work. She would take the train to Paris on Monday evening, get a few hours’ sleep on the sofa of a Parisian friend, then take an early train from the Gare Montparnasse, arriving in Tours in the morning, where she would take a regional train to Loches. She would arrive at the hospital by lunchtime. She would only have a few hours there: she would have to catch a train from Paris in the late afternoon. During this one visit she would have to be brave enough to tell her grandfather what she had been turning over and over in her mind since the previous evening. All she had to do was find the courage to say it aloud.
Of all the hardships that George now had to endure, one stood out from the rest: he was no longer able to send and receive texts. He didn’t feel cut off from the world, but he did feel deprived of a great pleasure. He was unable to express himself, and he felt very far away from his granddaughter and from Ginette. As for the rest of it, the doctor had seen him this morning to inform him that he was in for a long day of tests, scans and examinations. He was going to be dragged from department to department all day long. He had to find a way of getting his phone back.
Just then, a hospital worker came in to collect his tray.
‘Excuse me, Monsieur,’ George asked, ‘do you think you could pass me my jacket over there? I think my mobile is in one of the pockets.’
‘Ah, I’m afraid mobile phones aren’t allowed in the hospital building,’ replied the man in his West African accent. ‘And here they’re real sticklers for it. Even the staff aren’t allowed. But you can transfer your calls to your room telephone. Your family can call you on that.’
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