Bon Voyage, Connie Pickles

by Sabine Durrant

  Didier and I exchanged several glances through this until finally he said: “Papa, I don’t think Mother realizes how much you love and appreciate her. I wonder if, when she comes back, you should not be angry with her, but tell her all the things you’ve been telling us.”

  Monsieur Blanc seemed to recover himself at this point and made some gruff noises, which prompted the rest of us to clear the table and do the washing up.

  I was doing the glasses when the phone rang and everybody jumped. Monsieur Blanc got there first. His face crumpled. “Constance!” he called irritably. “For you.”

  It was Mr. Spence, calling to finalize arrangements for the weekend. Mother doesn’t have a clue where she’s going. He’s told her it’s romantic. “And no bikini required! Ha, ha.”

  “Yes, all right,” I said.

  We agreed that I’ll pick them up from the station and spend a bit of time with them tomorrow. And then meet for lunch, with grandparents, on Sunday.

  I called my grandmother, who is giddy with excitement and obsessed with getting the place right. She ran through several brasseries—this one too crowded, this one too smoky, this one too booked up. In the end we agreed on somewhere at the top of the Pompidou Center. “Are you sure we shouldn’t tell Bernadette that we will be there?”

  she said. “Wouldn’t it be better if she was prepared?”

  I told her forewarned was forearmed and we didn’t want that.

  I’m going to write to William now. Unaccountably, despite all that’s happening, I miss him.

  Chapter Nineteen

  New vocab: une famille Française typique (a typical French family)

  FRIDAY, APRIL 11

  Under the covers, 9:30 a.m. It’s

  It’s Good Friday, the day you should spend contemplating your sins, looking deeply into the darkness of your soul, etc., etc. We’re going to church this evening, but I’m not going to confession because I can’t handle it in French. So I’ll take a moment here to unburden.

  1) Technically I am still coveting someone else’s property, i.e., William.

  2) Impure thoughts, i.e., Philippe.

  3) Deceitful actions. Mother is, even as I write,on the Eurostar. No panicked phone call from Mr. Spence, so he obviously persuaded her onto it. The real sin is arranging Sunday lunch, but I’m sure the Lord knows it is all for her own good.

  I’d better go downstairs and see what the mood is today.

  The kitchen, 10 a.m.

  Monsieur Blanc is wearing the dark blue suit he wears for work, with a pale yellow tie. He hasn’t done anything about his beard, so he looks like one of those puzzle-books Marie used to like so much—when you can flick a page and put a different body on the wrong face. He’s Monsieur Businessman underneath, the old man of the sea on top. Valerie has got him helping her with her accounts—they are laid out over the table and he is sitting at the head, tapping on a calculator. She keeps sidling up to tell him how clever he is. It’s all very manipulative for my liking.

  Philippe is in the clos with Pascale and Eric. I went out to see what they were up to. The sky was blue with heavy white clouds. The sun was going in and out. Eric was trying to persuade Pascale to go for a ride with him on his bike. Pascale, who was wearing black eyeliner and a bathrobe, was telling him she couldn’t leave her father. Philippe, in long, baggy shorts and a sleeveless T-shirt, said, “I’ll come,” and wrapped his arms around Eric from behind and made a slightly obscene churning movement. Eric pulled away and pretended to clobber him and then Pascale started shouting at Philippe. Valerie came out of the house and told them to quiet down. And then Monsieur Blanc emerged and said, “My daughter, come and quench your poor, deserted father’s loneliness” (or something), and Pascale, throwing a defiant look in the direction of her brother and beau, went back into the house with him. Valerie followed.

  Eric, who hasn’t said a word to me in the two weeks that I’ve been here, flicked his fringe behind his ears and said, “Do you want to come for a ride?” I didn’t really want all that grease in my face so I said no and he roared off, leaving me—alone! at last!—with Philippe.

  Oh. Oh. Oh.

  We sat on the wall and talked! He was so sweet. He said, “So, you’ve been here ten whole days now,” and I said, “Fourteen,” and he said, “Oh yes, I was away when you came. And how have you found your time with a typical French family?”

  Monsieur Blanc’s sobs filled the clos. I said, “Errr …,” and we both laughed. A pause followed. “I’ve really liked getting to know Pascale,” I said. “And Didier, of course, and …and you.”

  I was pulling the leaves off the plant I was sitting next to and rolling them between my fingers. When I looked up, he was checking his watch. He said, “I’d better …er . . .”

  “Where’s Didier now?” I said.

  “He’s gone to talk to our mother. I wanted to go but he thought he would be better at it.” He stood up.

  I stood up, too. I was trying not to feel disappointed. I said, “There’s a party tomorrow. Are you going to come?”

  “A party? Where?”

  “At Mimi’s. You met her when she spent the night. On the Île de la Cité. It’s a fantastic apartment. Her parents are away.”

  “Oh, are they?” he said, and then, setting my heart racing again, “Well, maybe I’ll be there.”

  The kitchen, 11:50 a.m.

  Didier is back. I don’t think from the setness of his expression that the conversation with his mother went well. I’ll have to wait until later to find out because I have to leave RIGHT NOW to meet Mother and Mr. Spence.

  RER, between Châtelet and Nation, 4:30 p.m.

  I thought they’d missed the train. I was a little bit late and I got to the Gare du Nord as the Eurostar was pulling in. I ran to the right platform and watched as gaggle after gaggle of weekenders wheeled their suitcases past. A large American woman in turquoise slacks and a baseball cap with I’VE BEEN TO THE PLANETARIUM on it stopped to ask if I could tell her where “you gotta cab.” I didn’t know but I showed her the picture of a taxi with an arrow above her head and she waddled off. Two teenage girls passed me with their parents. “Let’s do shopping, then lunch,” the mother said. “No, let’s do shopping, then shopping,” the elder girl said.

  No sign of Mother and Mr. Spence. The only people still coming off were very old or had masses of luggage; but then, suddenly, behind a couple pushing a cart laden with suitcases, I saw what I thought was the top of Mother’s head, and then to one side of the cart a bare, hairy leg that looked like it must belong to Mr. Spence, and then the couple with the cart was past the pillar and there they were, behind them, the two of them, coming toward me. Mother, who was in her nicest black suit and her work heels, was beaming from one side of her face to the other, although as she got closer I saw tears were also pouring down her cheeks. Mr. Spence, a bag in each hand, stood back while we hugged.

  “You’re not angry?” I kept saying. “Promise you’re not angry. Or sad? Tell me you’re happy.”

  She was, she said, still weeping, very happy.

  “Your hair!” she said.

  “Do you like it?”

  “Yes!”

  Mr. Spence—John—stepped forward and handed her a huge striped handkerchief to wipe her eyes. “Go on,” he said. “Have a good blow. You know you want to.”

  She blew and then she wiped again. “Is she okay?” I said. “Was it all right? She didn’t try and run away when you got to Waterloo?”

  “No,” she said from behind the handkerchief. “I didn’t.”

  “She wanted to see her big girl, didn’t you, Bern?”

  I said, “Bern?”

  Mother, always known as Bernadette, gave me a warning look. “Let’s go and find the hotel.”

  Mr. Spence insisted we get a taxi. We had to wait. The fat Planetarium woman was way ahead of us. But there were lots of taxis and it didn’t take long. Mr. Spence read out the address of the hotel in such a terrible French accent, the driver—A
lgerian, I think—looked blank until Mother took the Thompson itinerary from him and read it out herself. “Best Western Etoile!” she repeated, raising her eyebrows and giving a little squeal of excitement.

  Mr. Spence looked back at me from the passenger seat and winked.

  It was heaven traveling through Paris in a taxi. Mother said, “I expect this isn’t what you’ve been used to!” and I was about to say, “No, that’s right. The only other time I was in a taxi in Paris I wasn’t concentrating on the scenery, as I’d just met my grandmother for the first time,” but luckily I stopped myself and told her about the taxi ride through Brussels instead. She said she’d seen the statue of the boy who peed and that it looked nothing like Cyril. She tapped me on the head with her passport and then gave me another big hug.

  I wanted to know how everyone was at home. Cyril, a retiring soul who is only happy tucked up on the sofa with a plate of peanut butter sandwiches watching Pokémon, had been invited to a soccer party by a boy at school. He’d gone reluctantly, dragging his sneakered feet all the way across the playing field, casting reproachful glances over his shoulder at Mother. When she’d returned to pick him up: a changed boy! He had scored three goals, was charging up and down—red, muddy, and sweaty—with a gang of other boys, and could hardly be dragged away. “Ah,” Mother and I said in unison as we flashed past the Gare St-Lazare.

  She said Marie was her usual bumptious self, had thrown herself on the floor, sobbing and rending her bosom, at the news that Mother was leaving for two days but had cheered up the moment Jack arrived to take her and C to LEGOLAND. “Hardly had time to kiss me good-bye,” Mother added.

  “And Jack?” I said. “I hear . . .”

  “New girlfriend in telemarketing.”

  “Yes, and . . .”

  “New job. Yes. Fruit bowls. Hmm.”

  She looked at me and we both laughed. Mother is so over Jack, it’s not funny.

  Mr. Spence leaned over and said, “I hope you don’t laugh at me like that when you’ve chucked me out.”

  Mother began to pout and go coy (she is all kitten as far as men are concerned), so I said, “She can’t chuck you out. You own the house.” And Mother and I burst out laughing again.

  “Women,” Mr. Spence said. “Save me from them.”

  Luckily, the taxi driver’s English didn’t seem to be up to it and he didn’t answer.

  The Best Western was not as awful as I’d imagined. It was all red-and-gold carpet and roses in vases. An American family was drinking champagne in the foyer. But the elevator cranked and smelled of damp and there was a mattress leaning against the wall outside their room.

  In the bedroom, a fantasy in peach and white, Mother lay down on the bed, bounced up and down a couple of times, and rested her head on the pillow. She tapped the mattress next to her and called, “Chérie.” Mr. Spence, who’d just emerged from the bathroom thrilling to the news that the toilet was taped up, went to lie down. I don’t think I’m ready to witness any public displays of affection (with him—yuck), so I made sure I got there first. He had to sit on the stool with thick straps instead of a seat. (What’s that about? Is it a special stool specially for luggage? Is that necessary?)

  “Now, Constance. Tell me everything. Are you having a lovely, lovely, lovely time?”

  It’s funny that thing people do: ask you a question with the answer built into it. Mother does it a lot. It’s a way of ensuring that the world is comfortable around her, a way of keeping the bad out. You can’t really reply, “Um, well, not exactly lovely . . .” without sounding churlish. There’s no room for disagreement. You either have to agree, or go further in the same direction. As in: “Not just lovely, FANTASTIC.”

  “Not just lovely, Mother. FANTASTIC,” I said.

  “And is Pascale super, super, super?”

  “Um.” I thought for a moment and then laughed to myself. “Yes,” I said. “She is. She’s very interesting.”

  “And Paris, chérie? Is it what you imagined?”

  “Yes. Mother,” I said. “It is. It’s …it’s lovely.”

  “And what have you been doing? Have you been to Sacré-Coeur?”

  “No. Not Sacré-Coeur.”

  “Les Tuileries?”

  “No, not yet, but . . .”

  “Montmartre?”

  I shook my head.

  “Le Louvre? Le Jeu de Paume?”

  “No.”

  “The Eiffel Tower? Chérie, Cyril, he is so excited to hear about the Eiffel Tower.”

  “No,” I said, surprised. “I haven’t been up the Eiffel Tower. I was going to, but . . .”

  “So, Constance. What have you been doing?”

  “Well . . .” I couldn’t tell her about meeting my grandmother or Pascale’s brush with the law. I couldn’t tell her that. I couldn’t tell her about being kissed by François, or the crying girl, or falling in love with Philippe. And, apart from that, what had I been doing?

  “I’ve seen Delilah a few times,” I said. “That’s been nice. And Julie. I’ve met up with her.”

  “Delilah and Julie! You can see them at home!”

  “I know.”

  “And the Blancs, have they been nice to my little Constance? Are they a good family?”

  “Oh Mother,” I began. Then stopped. I really wanted to tell her about Madame Blanc and her obsessive cleaning and Monsieur Blanc and his bullying and then the crisis of the last few days—the terrible tension, the emotions flying everywhere, the trauma, the embarrassment—but she was looking at me so expectantly and happily, I didn’t want to disappoint her. So, I started making up stories about them. I should have just said, “They’re very nice.” But I said, “Thérèse—that’s Madame Blanc, but she won’t let me call her that; in fact the moment I got off the bus, she said, ‘I’m Thérèse, and I’ll hear no more about it’—and I wander down to the market together every day. She didn’t speak any English when I first arrived, but I’ve taught her loads. She used to be a ballet dancer and every night, after supper, we all sit around the table and she dances and Monsieur Blanc—Pierre—sings. He’s got a deep baritone. Didier, that’s the elder brother, plays the piano. And Philippe and Pascale and I clap hands and call out, ‘More, more,’ until everyone falls to the ground, exhausted.”

  “Oh,” said Mother. “Gosh.”

  Mr. Spence said, “Sounds a bit much.”

  “No, it isn’t, it isn’t. And then we play Monopoly.”

  “In French?” asked Mr. Spence.

  “Um …yeah.”

  “So what’s Mayfair?” He laughed.

  I thought quickly. “The Champs-Elysées.”

  “Of course,” Mother said, smiling.

  “And there’s this lovely bohemian aunt who comes to visit and sometimes we go for long family walks after church on Sundays, stopping off for bread and cakes—”

  “I can see you’ve been enjoying the cakes.”

  “And then we go home and they take it in turns to cook. Sometimes Monsieur Blanc—I mean, Pierre—throws steak on the barbecue and Didier and Philippe toss up a salad and . . .”

  “You’ve had better weather than we have, then,” said Mr. Spence.

  “It’s just nice to be part of such a nice, conventional family,” I said.

  Mother looked for a moment as if she was going to burst into tears. It’s only now, as I sit here on the train, that I think maybe I went too far. But in fact she smiled and said, “Oh chérie. I am so glad, because staying with a family you do not know could be an unsettling experience. I was worried that it might be so, but I was wrong. It is all wonderful.”

  “Yes,” I said. “It is.”

  Mr. Spence was standing by this time, at the double-glazed windows, peering out. He said, “Bern. Shower.

  Then hit the town? What do you say?”

  “John, I am in your hands.”

  She stood up, sighed deeply, and then stretched; and while she was doing so, Mr. Spence sidled up and put his arms around her—bit higher
than her waist—as if he was going to lift her off the ground. He isn’t that much taller than she when she’s got her heels on. Then—ugh— “You’re in my hands now,” he said. She smiled into his face. Then he kissed her—much longer than necessary, thank you very much.

  “Er—hum,” I said. “Minors present.”

  “Sorry.” Mr. Spence cleared his throat and stepped back. “It’s just that your mother …grrrr …Miaow!”

  I made my excuses and left.

  Chapter Twenty

  New vocab: un pouf (an ottoman); les coussins de soie (the silk scatter cushions); les tea lights (the tea lights)

  STILL FRIDAY, APRIL 11

  Living room back at La Varenne, 5:30 p.m.

  An atmosphere.

  Valerie has rearranged the living-room furniture by putting the dining table at a different angle and switching the sofa so that it faces the window rather than the fireplace. She has brought an ottoman into the house. Currently she is upstairs in the master bedroom, scattering Moroccan silk cushions. Monsieur Blanc is making himself a sandwich in the kitchen—I’ve only seen his back, but it looks troubled—and the Blanc children are sulking in the garden.

  When I went out, Pascale said, “I liked the sofa where it was.” And Philippe said, “I liked the dining table where it was.” And Didier said, “Maybe she’ll have another consignment of Moroccan tea lights to pick up soon.”

  “There is no way I am having a pouf in my bedroom,” added Philippe.

  It’s odd, but I feel more detached now that I’ve seen Mother, now that Mother is in Paris. I’m only going to be with them until Monday—that’s only two and half days. It seemed as if I’d be here forever on Wednesday, but now I’m almost gone. I don’t know whether I’m happy or sad.