by David Evered
Peter looked up as a young woman approached. ‘Cass!’ he said totally surprised.
‘Got it in one and Stefan will be here in a moment when he has bought us drinks.’ She leant forward and kissed Jenny on both cheeks and then kissed Peter.
‘How do you know Cass?’ asked Jenny taken aback by the encounter.
Peter laughed and was greeted by Stefan with a hug when he appeared. Cass introduced Stefan to Jenny. ‘Perhaps we all have some explaining to do,’ said Peter.
‘My explanation is simple,’ said Jenny, ‘but I should love to hear yours. I suspect it might not be so simple. I’m beginning to think that my earlier judgements about your propensity for risk-taking were seriously mistaken! You may remember,’ she said looking at Peter, ‘that my thesis was on Christina Rossetti. One of the magazines is doing a series on the Pre-Raphaelite painters and their relationship with Ruskin. I was assigned to the project and Cass came into the office as a Pre-Raphaelite expert to discuss it. We met and we hit it off and have had a drink after work several times now.’
‘You’re right, my explanation is not so straightforward. It was early in September, just a few days after Andrew’s funeral, that Ann had to go back up to Newcastle. I took her to King’s Cross and I just felt very low. I decided to walk to the office. It was a warm day and I was in no hurry so I sat on a bench in a square in Bloomsbury. I fell into conversation with Stefan who was sitting on the same bench and then Cass joined us. It was a strange and almost surreal day but they took me in charge. Oh God! That sounds like being arrested but it wasn’t like that. We went for a drink and several more and then we went to the zoo where I fell asleep on another bench in the sun and when I woke up they had gone. They were very kind to a total stranger.’
Jenny’s eyes had opened progressively wider and wider through this abridged account of his meeting with Cass and Stefan. ‘Peter, I would have said twenty-four hours ago that you were quite the most unlikely person to astonish me and you have managed to do it twice within an hour.’ She was laughing and hugged him. ‘You are quite my favourite brother-in-law or ex-brother-in-law.’
‘That’s not too difficult to achieve as I’m the only one in that category.’
‘Maybe, but you are still a lovely man and I have to say that my sister is a very silly woman to have left you.’
‘That’s lovely, but I must also thank Stefan and Cass for looking after me that day. They offered me company in a way that I never knew I wanted, but it was welcome.’
‘I’m sorry we had to abandon you at the zoo,’ said Stefan, ‘but we had to go and you looked so much at ease that we decided it would be kinder to let you sleep on. We left you my address.’
‘Yes, I still have it. It’s in my wallet.’
‘So are you a happier man than you were?’
‘Yes, Jenny can tell you all about it.’
‘Why don’t you come to the jazz club with us and you can both tell Cass about it while I’m playing and attempting to live up to my name?’
Peter hesitated. ‘Come on,’ said Jenny. ‘Be the new Peter! I love the new Peter even more than the old one and even the old one was pretty good.’
‘Alright, let’s go.’
He relaxed as the three of them cradled their drinks and let the music flow over them in the informal setting of the club. The violin, guitars and bass created an authentic gypsy jazz sound, playing many of the standards: Limehouse Blues, Dinah and a number of Django Reinhardt compositions. As Peter left to go back to Barnes, Jenny whispered in his ear, ‘Do let me know how you’re getting on. I don’t want to lose touch.’
14
Peter wrote to Sally the following day to say that he was planning a short holiday before starting to look for a retreat and commit himself to writing in earnest. He would be coming to France and crossing over the channel on the last Saturday in June and wondered if he might visit. The reply came a week later. It posed no questions and passed no comment. ‘Peter, you are welcome to stay for a few days. I have a spare room. If you are driving and leaving on 28th June then I would suggest that you arrive here the following day. The house is quite difficult to find. I shall be sitting on the terrace of La Belle Etoile in La Roque-Gageac taking a tisane at 5pm on 29 June. Take care and remember to drive on the right! Sally.’
The last two weeks of the month were fully occupied with making practical arrangements and ensuring that there would be a seamless handover of his work. He arranged to board a ferry very early on the morning of the last Saturday of June so decided to leave the evening before and stay in a small inn close to Newhaven. His journey out of London in the summer Friday evening exodus was slow but that mattered little. Peter felt light-headed and almost carefree as he reflected on the endless hours that he had agonised over making such a momentous decision. Now that it was made and the venture was underway he felt buoyant and assured that he would succeed.
* * *
The early morning call had been unnecessary and, after a scanty breakfast, Peter covered the short distance to the quayside. He waited in the car in the early morning mist, surrounded by overloaded vehicles filled with anxious and expectant holiday-makers. The cars were taken through the checks and controls, part of the pre-holiday ritual which reaches its climax as the cars are marshalled into position in the bowels of the ferry. He climbed up to the deck and stationed himself at the stern of the boat as it steamed slowly out of the harbour and headed for France. He stood looking back at the receding port along the expanding, perspective-distorting avenue of the wake. After a while he turned and started to scrutinise his fellow passengers. The most striking distinguishing characteristic of those on deck was that they all formed part of an identifiable group. A cluster of hyper-active schoolboys were being shepherded by an anxious, tall, bespectacled, etiolated schoolmaster with short sideburns wearing a tired tweed jacket. This was decorated with a series of enamel badges on the lapels, four ball-point pens in the breast pocket and leather patches on the elbows. There were numerous family groups with anxious fathers enjoining their offspring not to lean too far over the guardrail as they gazed excitedly at the sea below, tentatively holding soft toys out to catch the spray. Mothers were eagerly scanning the duty free price lists in the pamphlets they had been handed as they drove on board. He saw older couples savouring each remembered stage in the journey as if re-watching a favourite and well-loved film. Then as the gulls started to wheel away and leave the stern, passengers dispersed to seek refreshment, duty free shopping and the lounges. He remained on deck and relaxed on one of the benches as the sun warmed. There seemed to be little point in sitting alone amongst the crowd below. He closed his eyes as he anticipated the days ahead.
‘Hello, has England gone away now?’
Peter looked round and found that a small girl whom he judged to be about seven years old had climbed onto the bench. She was kneeling and looking over the back of the bench towards the stern. She eyed him with solemnity and patience as she waited for a reply.
‘Yes. It’s all gone away now.’
‘Good,’ she smiled, cheeks dimpling and long dark hair falling forward over her face. ‘Will France come soon?’
‘France will come that way,’ he pointed towards the bow, ‘but I think it will be a little while before we see it.’
‘I think I’ll sit down then,’ and she turned and sat demurely with her hands on her lap.
‘What do they call you?’
‘I’m called Tanya and I’m going on holiday to France. Do you know, we got up awfully early this morning at four o’clock. It was still quite dark and there were no other cars on the road and now here we are on the boat and Mummy and Daddy are asleep,’ she concluded rather breathlessly.
‘And have you any brothers and sisters?’
‘No, except William, but he doesn’t really count because he’s only a baby.’ She paused, ‘I saw you all alone. Is your Mummy with
you or has she gone to sleep too?’
Peter divined correctly that he was being questioned about a wife. ‘No, my Mummy’s not here; I haven’t really got a Mummy to look after me.’
‘That’s sad. Are you going on holiday all on your own?’
‘Well yes, but I’m going to meet someone.’
‘Is it a friend or a girlfriend?’
‘It’s a girl who’s a sort of friend.’
‘Is she nice?’
Peter hesitated for a moment – was Sally nice? That flat and insipid word seemed wholly inapplicable to Sally. He tried vainly to conjure up a suitable adjective but failed. ‘Yes, she’s very nice,’ he said finally.
‘I’d better go and see how Mummy and Daddy and William are.’ She jumped down. ‘Perhaps I’ll come back later.’
‘Well, I shall be at the front later to make sure that France doesn’t forget to arrive.’ She waved and was gone.
The crossing was finally concluded and the passengers disembarked at Dieppe. It was mid-morning and the sun was reaching its zenith as the cars left the quayside, the drivers intent on making their way to their various destinations. The cohort of English cars rapidly dispersed and was absorbed into the French domestic traffic. Peter opened his sunroof and stopped on the edge of the town to arrange his maps on the vacant passenger seat and re-read the note from Sally. He folded the letter, re-buckled his seat belt and set off on the long drive to south-west France.
The temperature and the humidity rose steadily and after crossing the Seine at Rouen he headed for the long straight roads which crossed the central plain. Mirages glistened on the road ahead. The sentinel poplars gave a stroboscopic view of the countryside. Hectares of maize stretched into the distance on either side, erect inflorescent heads contrasting with the lanceolate leaves covering the forming cobs. He drove steadily on through the day as it became uncomfortably hot, stopping only for a brief lunch of cheese, fruit and beer. He finally stopped for the night between Châteauroux and Argenton-sur-Creuse, happy that he had covered some two-thirds of the distance and comfortable in the knowledge that he would be able to complete the journey at a more relaxed pace the following day.
The hotel in which he spent the night was unmistakably French. The small bedroom was above the bar and the sound of the nearby A20 provided a continuous backdrop to his evening. The ill-fitting door and the shutters shook and clattered as the occasional camion rolled down the village street. It was a restless and solitary place to spend the night. He took dinner in the small restaurant below but it was almost impossible to prolong the meal so that it would occupy more than a small fraction of the evening which seemed to stretch interminably ahead. He consumed the food with neither thought nor appreciation. He drank a brandy as he took his coffee and finally headed to bed just before ten.
He awoke early after a night disturbed by the traffic and the resonating chimes of the church clock. He found it impossible to delay his departure beyond eight o’clock. It was evident, with a journey of less than two hundred miles, that he would arrive some hours ahead of the appointed time but the thought of covering most of the distance before the sun reached its height had its attractions. The arable plains slowly yielded to the wooded hills of the Périgord Noir, riven by deep valleys as they fell towards the river. He reached Souillac and turned westward alongside the Dordogne. The road followed the convoluted course of the river as it passed from wall to wall of the gorge, the high limestone cliffs overhanging each bank in turn. Crenellated, turreted châteaux stood on their several vantage points overlooking the one-time border between the Angevin Empire and the kingdom of Burgundy. He stopped in the early afternoon some fifteen kilometres short of his destination at one of the small pebbled beaches in a concavity of the river. He consumed the sandwich which he had purchased earlier and then lay on his back in the sun. The catacombed cliff rising above the southern bank was in deep shade. The summit of the cliff appeared to be moving slowly and languorously below the cirrus scattered haphazardly against the brilliant azure cupola above. Trees clung improbably and horizontally to the cliff face. The powerful and oppressive heat drove Peter into the river where he swam indolently on his back in the fast flowing and weedless stream.
Finally the time had passed and he made ready to leave for the meeting place. He drove slowly knowing that he would still be early for the rendezvous. He continued along the river road to La Roque-Gageac, glancing at his watch from time to time. The restaurant stood close by the road. He was still twenty minutes early so he parked and walked down to the wall overlooking the river. Leaning back, he looked up at the cliff towering above him wondering at the randomly scattered dwellings, half house and half cave, set into the rock and the holm oaks clinging to the cliff. The single row of dwellings was framed by the Château de la Malartrie at one end and the Manoir de Tarde at the other. The late afternoon sun illuminated the houses, throwing their reflections onto the gleaming river. The restaurant shone brightly in the sun, highlighted by rows of pelargoniums and petunias below and red and blue striped sun blinds above. As he stood there enjoying the scene, a figure descended from the restaurant by the outside steps. Peter started forward but she was already running across the road towards him.
‘Hi,’ she kissed him on the cheek. ‘I guessed you might be early so I thought I’d come early too and wait here for you.’ She led him back across the road. ‘First, we shall have a drink and then I’ll take you to the house. It must have been a very long and extremely hot journey.’
‘It was, but I arrived close by shortly after lunch and have spent the last couple of hours sitting in the sun and swimming.’
‘I am pleased you’re here.’
‘I hope so. I did rather invite myself and gave you little opportunity to refuse.’
She smiled. ‘I found that flattering.’
‘That’s kind of you – I just felt…’ But the sentence remained unfinished as she placed a finger across his lips.
‘No, Peter, this is not the time to talk. I’m sure that occasions to do that will come later.’
‘Perhaps you’re right.’
When they had settled with their drinks she turned to him. ‘Now, I’ve been planning. First, when we’ve finished our drinks, we’ll go back to the house and then, just for tonight, we can go out to dinner. But before I tell you my plans, you must tell me what you want to do.’
‘I’m intending to enjoy a holiday for a week or so before settling down to the business of writing.’
‘And do you have plans to travel elsewhere in France?’
‘No, in keeping with my newly liberated state, I have planned nothing for this first week and am open to any suggestions, but I don’t want to impose on you or disrupt any plans that you have.’
‘Well, I do have a suggestion but it’s entirely up to you to decide if it appeals. In view of your arrival, I’ve decided to take a week’s holiday myself, thinking that you would probably enjoy a week of rest and relaxation.’
‘Holiday?’
‘Yes, of course.’ She smiled. ‘I have to work while I’m here. I put in a regular number of hours each day and only take time off for particular occasions. It’s really very similar to an office routine.’
‘I had never really thought of writing as an occupation in that way.’
‘I’m sorry if I’m disillusioning you but the image of the author dashing off several hundred words of sparkling prose between bouts of heavy drinking and fornication is purely fictitious for almost all of us!’
‘Now you’re disappointing me,’ he said laughing.
‘I do, as I said, take time off from my schedule for particular occasions – I have decided that you are a particular occasion. Come on, you can follow me back to the house. My car is the small blue Renault parked over there.’
15
The room was still cool although the morning was well advanced when Peter awoke and
slowly oriented himself in the soft light of the shuttered room. He had slept well after his journey and a relaxed dinner in a small restaurant in a lane in Sarlat, well away from the regular tourist haunts. He rose and, throwing back the shutters, leaned out to take in the view of meadows stretching down to the pines in the valley below. Lizards ran with small convulsive movements across the cream-washed, sun-warmed walls. The meadow grass was decorated with tall purple spikes of meadow clary interspersed with the soft blues, mauves and pinks of scabious, chive, orpine and ragged robin. He showered and dressed and stepped out onto the terrace. Sally was already sitting there reading – coffee and croissants on the table. She looked up. ‘I take it that you slept well.’
‘I did indeed. It’s so peaceful here and the view from my bedroom is idyllic.’
‘Well, this is the first day of R and R for both of us. There’s no rush. I’ve been thinking of how we might spend the next few days but you must tell me if this doesn’t appeal to you.’
‘I’m a stranger here; my first impressions are that anything you suggest will seem magical.’
‘I’m not sure I can promise magic, but I can offer you a view of an idyllic and in some ways an untouched part of rural France. There are many things to see and places to visit: châteaux, gardens, the caves, small villages and mediaeval towns. It’s important that we do not try to do too much. It’s all too easy to become over-châteauxed round here. I would suggest that the days might go something like this. We start with a leisurely breakfast as we’re doing today and decide where we want to go; there’s a lot to see without having to drive very far. As long as this weather holds then we should picnic at lunchtime: baguette, pâté, cheese and fruit and, of course, a glass of wine – after all this is France. Then we can simply relax or swim in the river or, if feeling enthusiastic or energetic, we could continue on our touristic way or take a walk. We can shop for provisions for the evening on the way back to the house. How does that sound?’
