The Life Situation

by Rosemary Friedman

  Oscar collapsed in the seat.

  “Fancy dying in a Hovercraft!” Rosy said.

  “He didn’t say dead. He said passed away,” Daisy said.

  Rosy gave her a withering glance.

  Karen said: “Fine start to a holiday.”

  “Ours wasn’t too good.”

  “Not too bad either, comparatively speaking.”

  They looked out of the window uneasily as an ambulance passed them by.

  “I’m going to stretch my legs,” Oscar said. “We’ll be in this queue for hours.”

  They had not driven through Paris yet without mislaying the Boulevard Périphérique. This time was no exception. The fact that it was pouring with rain and the children tired and irritable did not improve Oscar’s temper. They stayed the night in Fontainebleau and faced each other at breakfast peppered with mosquito bites.

  Apart from the itching and scratching and demands for the calamine lotion day two was a distinct improvement on day one. The Autoroute du Sud was not crowded. By mid-day the rain had stopped and the weather became decidedly warmer. No one was sick and they declared unanimously that the Autoroute amenities had improved immeasurably since their last visit. The garages were treasure troves of robots which spewed forth coffee, chocolate, Pepsi, ices at the touch of a franc. There were books, sweets, rest-rooms and super civilized toilet facilities.

  As they drove further south the girls changed into shorts. Oscar took off his shirt and opened the roof and they made for the nearest Jacques Borel, the high-spot of the journey for which Rosy and Daisy, who seemed on these trips to be entirely at the mercy of their stomachs, had been waiting.

  The restaurant was advertised on huge signs across the road some twenty kilometres in advance. At each scarlet hoarding with its two familiar pigtailed waiters hustling along with a trolley of food between them they shrieked out ‘Jacques Borel!’ in what appeared to be agony but was in fact ecstasy.

  When they finally pulled off the motorway they declared themselves dying of starvation.

  Despite the crowds of holidaymakers, being France and not England they were immediately allotted a table. Rosy and Daisy almost ate the menu with its shiny, luscious pictures of fried chicken legs in a basket, hamburger with chips, swirling ices topped with chocolate sauce and cigarette wafers.

  “Remember we’re driving,” Oscar warned automatically. “Unwise to eat too much.”

  They did not deign to reply.

  Rosy settled for the chicken (accompanied by foil-wrapped jacket potato) and Daisy the hamburger and chips. He and Karen opted for an omelette forestière and a Kronenbourg. They sat amazed and amused as Rosy finally demolished an ‘Atomic Chantilly’ and Daisy a ‘Soleil Couchant’ created from vanilla ice cream, raspberry ice cream, gooseberry sauce and pineapple-flavoured cream. Never had a setting sun been more eagerly consumed.

  Oscar looked at his watch. “Time’s up.” They filed out towards the car.

  It was almost midnight when hot, tired and sticky they arrived in the tiny town of Ste Maxime and enquired the whereabouts of the Auberge du Chardon Bleu.

  They scarcely remembered getting into bed. Oscar had been too tired to hunt the pillow and had fallen asleep on the bolster. He awoke to the sound of a yard broom on stones and a sinking sensation in the pit of his stomach caused not by hunger but the awareness that today there would be no Marie-Céleste.

  Beside him Karen slept. He lay still in an attempt not to waken her and examined the bedroom in the light that filtered in through the shutters. The floor was red-tiled and clean; the central light and lamps wrought iron. On the wall was a telephone on a hook. The cotton curtains were grey-and-white trimmed with scarlet bobbles. The inventory taken and still bored, he picked up the cardboard folder from the small table beside his bed. In the half light he was able to read the Auberge du Chardon Bleu welcomed him and hoped he would enjoy his stay. There were instructions concerning keys, electric current, hotel linen (you are kindly requested neither to take the hotel linen to the beach nor to hang anything out of the window). There were further comments concerning noise, guests en pension (packed meals at twenty-four hours’ notice), restaurant, parking of cars, air conditioning, complaints. There was also advice on where to buy lingerie, knitwear, bathing costumes, photographic and camera supplies and real estate… Karen stirred. They were still scrubbing the stones. He wondered what Marie-Céleste was doing at that moment and willed her to think of him. Padding over the cool tiles he flung open the shutters and was hit full in the face by Provençal sun. It never failed to lighten his mood, however low.

  “Is it a nice day?” Karen said.

  That and every day that followed; not even a mistral. Yet he could not settle. They had been at the Auberge for seven days. It could not be faulted. The service was personal to the extreme. Monsieur and Madame watched their every coming and going; Oscar swore they recorded it in a book. The inn was built around a courtyard over which their room looked whose stones were always scrubbed at first light. In the courtyard, its balconies heavy with bougainvillea, twice daily they ate their meals, each one a tiny banquet and fully justifying the couronne in the Guide Kléber, the étoile in the Michelin. Lunch was light; a salade Niçoise or melon, followed by rougets or sole; devilled chicken perhaps with the children’s beloved frites followed by ice cream and fresh fruit. At night, beneath the stars, the patron, who personally supervised each dish, really went to town: potage de légumes, mousse de saumon, médaillons de charollais, vacherin; consommé madrilène, quiche lorraine, cotes d’agneau, ratatouille, crêpes soufflées.

  Under different circumstances Oscar would have enjoyed it. He could not relax.

  Uncharacteristically he got up early, unable to lie in bed. He took the children to the beach each morning while Karen tidied the rooms and washed bikinis and beach towels and chased missing hair bobbles and flip-flops from under the girls’ beds.

  The beach, only eighty metres away, was a family one. There were the customary umbrellas, orange and blue, chaise-longues, matelas, boats, gondolas, and pedaloes for the hiring. Waffles and grape juice were available for the hungry which Rosy and Daisy seemed invariably to be the minute they had had breakfast. They were no trouble. They spent most of the day in the water, which was warm and ideally shallow, with Delphine and Pascalle with whom they were firm friends.

  He would sling the girls’ discarded clothes over the spokes of the umbrella, together with his own shirt, and having retrieved various footwear from the sand, he would study his Var-Matin or write to Marie-Céleste. As usual in August the newspapers carried little but catastrophes reported with relish. A tourist evacuated to hospital by helicopter; an eight-hour traffic jam of aoûteins on the road to Ste-Maxime following an accident; the death (with gory pictures) of a racing driver in the Dutch Grand Prix.

  He wrote to Marie-Céleste each day. Each morning on his way to the beach he enquired for mail from the patron, attempting to sound as if he could not care less whether there were or not but held his breath as the letters were sorted and he watched for the familiar hand…

  The letters did not come easily. He sat with the airmail paper against the folded newspaper, chewing his biro. He wrote ‘I love you, I need you, I miss you, I want you,’ like some love-sick schoolboy. Despite the fact that writing was his profession he found it hard to convey to Marie-Céleste on paper the state of inner turmoil in which he found himself. All he knew was that he wanted to go to her; did not want to miss one moment of the growing baby, one glimpse of the maternal smile. Once he got going it was not so bad. His feelings poured out ungram-matically.

  He was unaware that Karen had come to stand behind him on the soft sand.

  “So many letters!” she said. “Not like you.”

  He folded the paper in attempted nonchalance. “Father…” he said, “it’s awfully dull for him never going out of the bedroom…”

  “He’ll wonder what’s got into you. I don’t suppose you’ve written him more than a dozen
letters in your life.”

  He wasn’t aware that she’d noticed his unaccustomed activity.

  “Where are the children?” she asked. “Don’t tell me Rosy’s going in without her lotion, I must have told her a hundred times…”

  He could not understand how it was that she did not know, never guessed, when he felt he had Marie-Céleste emanating from him in flashing lights. Her only complaint was that they did not make love as often as usual on holiday. In other years they had gone upstairs after lunch while the girls were sent to rest and in the coolness of their shuttered room enjoyed a lovemaking more satisfactory than at home, helped by the aphrodisiac effect of the lunchtime wine and the sensation of wellbeing brought about by the relaxing heat of the sun.

  On five of the seven days which they had been away Karen had gone to the bedroom alone. He’d stayed on the beach to sleep or read or walk in the discomfort of the mid-day heat.

  She’d asked once if there was anything wrong.

  “No, why?” His heart was pounding.

  “You seem so edgy. The holiday; I don’t think you’re enjoying it.”

  “I am. I am.”

  She’d held him in her arms. “Poor Oscar.”

  He waited, puzzled. “I know you didn’t really want to come away.”

  He realized suddenly she was talking about his father.

  “Sorry if I’m giving you a rough time.”

  “You’re not. I only thought…perhaps it would help…take your mind off…if we…”

  He had tried and was astonished that he had been able to perform out of pity for Karen.

  Afterwards she said: “I told you it would make you feel better. There’s nothing like sex for taking your mind off things.”

  It seemed incredible how she attributed the changes in his behaviour to Dr Adler, his father’s illness.

  He dusted the sand from her mattress for her and stood up.

  “Where are you going?”

  “To post my letter.”

  “Can’t it wait until we go up?”

  “My legs are burning.”

  For dinner they had soup de poissons, omelette aux champigons, noisettes d’agneau, courgettes, le petit duc.

  Rosy, sun-tanned and healthy looking as a peach, said: “Golly, I’m full to bursting!”

  The patron hurried over the stones and told Oscar he was wanted on the telephone.

  The ‘restaurant en plein air dans le frais jardin-patio ombrage’ had never seemed so large. He tried not to hurry. She had had a miscarriage; the baby was dead; Marie-Céleste was dead; Ernest was dead. He had left her the number but she had said that she would only use it in an emergency. He answered the smiles of the diners at the other tables as he passed. A waiter with a tray of artistically arranged omelettes at shoulder height stood in his way. They did a little dance in each other’s path with many a “je m’excuse” from the waiter.

  The bar was quiet, dark. He picked up the receiver which the patron had laid down.

  “Marie-Céleste?”

  “Oscar?”

  “Yes.”

  “Oscar, this is Mother…”

  Back at the table Karen waited anxiously.

  “Who was it?”

  Oscar sat down. What sort of a man was he to be relieved that it was only his father who was dying? He told Karen.

  “Mother says he keeps asking for me. She thinks I should go.” My God, he actually felt excited at the prospect. His heart was pounding.

  “Then we must go,” Karen said. “You won’t mind, will you girls? Grandfather is very ill.”

  “Just me,” Oscar said, terrified. “There’s no need whatever for all of us…spoil the children’s holiday.”

  “I wouldn’t dream of staying here without you. The girls won’t mind, they’ve had a week which is more that a lot of children have.”

  “I insist,” Oscar said. “Besides, we’re committed for the bill. In a tiny place like this they won’t get another family for a week. People have already made their plans and it’s almost the end of August…”

  Karen considered.

  “If you don’t want to drive,” Oscar said, “I’ll take the car, drive all night, and you can fly back.”

  “I don’t mind driving,” Karen said.

  “What do you think, girls?”

  “Fly,” they declared in unison.

  “You drive too slowly,” Rosy said.

  “I thought I drove too fast?” Oscar said.

  “Yes, but we like it.”

  “I wouldn’t have thought so from the complaints.”

  “We have to complain so that you won’t go faster!”

  They sent the girls out with money for crêpes along the seafront, while Karen packed his case.

  The patron was immediately sympathetic and assured Oscar that he need have no worry about his wife and children. They would be well looked after and he would see to it that they had everything they required.

  By the time Rosy and Daisy returned, Rosy with sugar on her face and Daisy smelling of the cognac she had had on the crêpe, Oscar was ready to leave.

  He kissed them all, Karen clinging to him and, leaving all three standing on the narrow pavement waving, drove off into the night.

  He felt like an arrow released from a bow winging its way in the direction he had yearned to go all week. Each time his thoughts turned to Marie-Céleste he tried to concentrate on his father. He could not. He is dying, he told himself, your father is dying. He was unable to make the words mean anything.

  At dawn he was on the outskirts of Paris. Already the complex of roads was filling with traffic speeding towards the city. He stopped at a café for breakfast. He had never liked the dullness of northern France; Flanders, Ypres, Wimereux evoked thoughts, romantic and angry of death with no glory and poetry of misplaced sentiments, but otherwise the flat, uninteresting countryside failed to move him. He was tired and had to concentrate extra hard in order to keep sufficiently awake to avoid accidents. He was conscious of his reactions slowing down and knew he was reaching danger point. He was relieved to see the sign for Calais.

  From Dover he telephoned Marie-Céleste. She was no longer looking after her patients and was at the flat.

  “OK to talk?”

  “Fine.”

  “I’m in Dover.”

  “Oscar! Anything wrong?”

  “My father. Mother phoned so I came home. I’m on my way to Brighton. When can I see you?”

  “Whenever you like.”

  “I need you.”

  “I need you too.”

  “I’ll ring from Brighton. Are you fat?”

  “Enormous. I waddle like a duck.”

  “Have you packed your case?”

  “Oscar! There is almost a month.”

  “You never know.”

  “I know.”

  “I have more experience.”

  She laughed. “I hope you had an easy time!”

  “I love you. I must go and see Father.”

  “I hope…no that’s stupid. I’ll be thinking about you.”

  It was four o’clock when he arrived in Brighton. He was going to make a joke about having the kettle on but one look at his mother’s face deterred him. He wasn’t sure how he found himself with his arms round her, her tears soaking through his shirt.

  “I haven’t cried before. I suppose it’s relief that you’ve come. Your holiday… I’m so sorry…he suddenly seemed to get worse… Tom has been several times and Dr Macready is being marvellous with the morhpia but there’s nothing…he’s been so brave, Oscar.”

  He gave her his handkerchief.

  “Are you going up?”

  He tried to delay the moment, afraid.

  “I wouldn’t mind a cup of tea.”

  “I’ll put the kettle on while you pop up.” She went towards the kitchen then stopped. “Oh, Oscar, there’s a nurse; he didn’t want to…but he can’t…you know…and I couldn’t manage him alone any more…she comes from an agency…”
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  The vast bedroom was quiet, sun-filled. The nurse in a white uniform with a navy blue belt sat in the armchair. She had blonde hair tied tightly back, not more than twenty. She stood up when he came in.

  He crossed to the tidy bed. His father’s face was an ochre mask. Oscar thought he was dead already and the nurse hadn’t noticed. The bed was almost flat except for a swelling in the middle. Oscar guessed it was a cage to take the weight of the bedclothes.

  He stood looking down.

  The nurse made a move.

  “Don’t wake him,” Oscar said.

  “He’d like to know that you’re here.” She put her face close to that of his father. “Dr John. Dr John. Can you hear me? Your son has come to see you! Your son is here.”

  “Oscar,” Oscar said. It was like sending a telegram.

  “Oscar has come to see you, Dr John!”

  The eyes opened at the name. The mouth tried to speak.

  Oscar stood awkwardly. He wasn’t good at this sort of thing. He wouldn’t have woken him up to start with.

  He looked at the skeletal hand in its striped pyjama sleeve on the white sheet. He could not. No, he could not. The nurse, unafraid, took it in both of hers, soothed it.

  “Your son has arrived. You wanted to see him. You told me you wanted to see Oscar. Well, he’s here. All the way from France.”

  There was a chair by the bed. Oscar sat on it. The eyes, expressionless, followed him.

  “Take his hand,” the nurse said.

  He took it as the nurse had done, stroking it. He wondered if there were something wrong with him. If these things should have come instinctively.

  “How are you?” Oscar said stupidly. God what next? You’re looking better? No; not that. One could stoop only so far.

  “I came to see you. We’re back from holiday,” he lied, sure that time had ceased to have meaning, soon would cease altogether.

  His father was trying to say something. It sounded like “Whoopsadaisy.”

  “Rosy and Daisy?” Oscar said. “They’re fine. They’ll come and see you…” The lies came more easily now.

  He mouthed something else. Oscar was stumped.