Ooh La La! Connie Pickles

by Sabine Durrant

  Conversation was mainly general: half French, half English. I didn’t have a chance to tell J anything about the shoplifting, the arrest, or the reunion with my grandparents. I began at one point. I said, ‘So, yesterday, we went to Paris and –’ But Julie interrupted. ‘Did you?’ she said. ‘Oh, so did we,’ and then she went on about how she’d dropped in on Delilah and they’d gone to this cafe for lunch and what a great time they’d had… So, the two of them obviously don’t hate each other any more. I’m very glad. That’s a very good thing. I mean, it was always awkward before, and if they’ve bonded over a croque-monsieur without me, well, great. Fantastic in fact. Couldn’t be better. I’m thrilled.

  Chapter Ten

  New vocab: j’ai changé mon look (I have had an image rethink)

  Friday 4 April

  P’s bedroom, 5 p.m.

  Since lunch I have eaten:

  1. Two hunks of baguette with butter and apricot jam.

  2. One chocolate eclair (bit disappointing, it had custard inside not cream).

  3. Three small heart-shaped biscuits called palmiers.

  4. Two triangles of La Vache qui rit.

  Can you tell I’m bored? Apparently, we’re still grounded. Didier is around today – listening to classical music in his room – so Madame Blanc is pretending to be strict. When Pascale shrieked, ‘But you let us out yesterday!’ she looked panicked.

  ‘Sssssh,’ she said, her brown eyes hooded, and went back to her dusting. Philippe is coming back from his school trip tonight and she wants it to be extra clean. I’ve never met anyone so sad.

  I thought Mother might ring me back yesterday evening, but she didn’t.

  I feel cross about Julie and Delilah becoming friends. There. I’ve said it. Does this mean I’m a horrible person? I always used to moan about what a pain it was that they didn’t get on. I used to have to adjudicate between them as if they were rowing siblings. Julie thinks Delilah is posh and stuck-up, being at private school and all that. Delilah covers the fact that she’s scared of Julie with a sort of breathy arrogance. But now they’re all chummy and I feel left out. What does that say about me? Not a lot.

  And I’m fed up with Madame Bovary. She’s got a little girl called Berthe whom she ignores, and I know her husband is boorish, but why doesn’t she just leave him? Mother had the nous to leave Jack – though that was different, because he kept having affairs.

  And I’m fat. I’ve done nothing but eat cake since I got here. I’ve got two – no, three – ginormous spots the size of Versailles on my nose. They were smaller – more like Notre Dame – but I’ve just spent half an hour squeezing them. (Why is squeezing spots so satisfying? It’s almost as satisfying as searching Marie’s scalp for nits.) When you see me, they’re the first thing you notice. Also I don’t know what to do about my hair. It’s long and straight like a nun’s veil. (Only not black and white obviously, but mousy.) Pascale has just said I should I cut it. In fact she’s just said she should cut it. Ha, ha. Naturally, I took one look at her punk-goth-black-spike-car-crash of a hairstyle and said, ‘No way, baby, no way.’

  I’m not that bored.

  Bathroom, 5.30 p.m.

  Oh God.

  P’s bedroom, 5.35 p.m.

  We’re not talking car crash. We’re talking motorway pile-up, involving several jackknifed vans and an articulated lorry. Pascale says it’ll be fine if I dye it mahogany. As if I’d let her dye it mahogany.

  Bathroom, 5.40 p.m.

  Oh God, God, God.

  P’s bedroom, 7.10 p.m.

  I can never go out – I can never leave this room – again.

  P’s bedroom, 7.12 p.m.

  Pascale looked out of the window, squealed and bounded out of the room. I can hear loudly overlapping voices and shrieks of laughter downstairs. There’s a male voice I don’t recognize. Philippe must be home. Tough. I’m staying here. I have no interest in meeting him. I know I’m going to hate him.

  P’s bedroom, midnight

  What can I say?

  I’ve got butterflies in my stomach. My mouth is dry like a stone. I keep fiddling with my mouth, twisting my lips and biting them.

  I realize why this house has been so quiet. It’s because when Philippe’s not in it everything is suspended, like a DVD on pause. Pascale has laughed all evening. Madame Blanc took off her apron for the first time and even Monsieur Blanc made jokes, tried to kiss his wife and wrestled with his children. Philippe’s a wind that blows everyone’s dark clouds away. Didier was quieter than usual, but he’s quiet anyway, so it doesn’t count.

  I had to go down eventually. Monsieur Blanc called up to me and then Pascale came running up the stairs and said I had to go down.

  When I edged into the room, Madame Blanc gasped.

  ‘What’s that?’ Didier said.

  ‘My hair,’ I replied.

  Philippe stepped forwards. He took my hand, bent down and kissed it. ‘Enchanté, mademoiselle.’

  He’s tall, though not as tall as Didier, but taller than, say, William, who’s a midget in comparison. He’s got hair the colour of conkers, lizard-green eyes and a silver stud in one ear.

  Monsieur Blanc said, ‘Pascale! What is the meaning of this?’

  She hid behind Philippe. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘It was an accident.’

  Philippe started laughing. ‘What is it, ma petite chatte?’ he asked, tickling her.

  ‘It’s my hair,’ I said again.

  He looked at me seriously. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘I can see. A certain resemblance to a purple chicken, no?’

  ‘No,’ I said.

  But everyone was laughing and the crisis passed. (For Pascale, at least. I still had purple hair.)

  Supper was thin slices of lamb with small oval green beans. Philippe regaled us with lots of stories about the Dordogne – the rivers, the caves, the force-fed geese. We were on cheese when he turned to Pascale and said, ‘And what have you been up to here? No mischief, I hope.’

  Madame Blanc scraped her chair back. It made a noise like someone clearing their throat.

  Monsieur Blanc told Philippe about the shoplifting.

  Philippe rolled his eyes at Pascale, but there was a grin waiting to happen at the corner of his mouth and she giggled. Didier said something curt at which Philippe sat up very straight and made a face like someone in trouble with a teacher. And again everyone laughed.

  After supper, he said he was going down to the bar in the main street. Pascale, darting a look at her father, said she was grounded and couldn’t go too. ‘Oh, let her,’ said Philippe. ‘Papa, be kind, be nice, remember being young.’ And Monsieur Blanc just shrugged, and said it was OK as long as Philippe promised to bring us home.

  At the bar, there were loads of people he knew. I didn’t feel left out like I did last Saturday before the party. Eric was there and he and Philippe had a game of pool. Pascale and I sat on the edge of a table, swinging our legs and drinking Coke (no more Pernod for me, thanks very much). When Philippe stretched out his arms to hit the ball, his T-shirt rode up so you could see the bars of muscle on his stomach. It gave me a feeling inside that I don’t know quite how to describe, like warm sand slipping through your fingers, or a wind reaching through your sleeves to ruffle the hairs on your arm.

  He knew everyone. I watched him moving around the room, having a joke with those girls by the door, play-punching that group of boys by the bar. When he came back to us, it felt like a privilege.

  That was before he started teasing me. He can be SO RUDE. I was wearing my green coat and he put it on and paraded around, on tiptoe to pretend he was on high heels. He said I looked like a Belgian pop star. I said I thought he thought I looked like a purple chicken. He said, ‘That also.’ I looked like both – a purple Belgian chicken pop star. He put some money in the jukebox and made us all dance. He and Pascale did something called le roc, in which he swung her under his arms and over. ‘Your turn,’ he said to me. I couldn’t do it, but it didn’t stop him – he spun me r
ound and round until I felt dizzy.

  But then some older girls and boys arrived and he horsed around with them. When he came over to us, he said, ‘I’m off, my children. See you tomorrow.’

  Pascale made a face. ‘You promised Papa to take us home,’ she said.

  He chucked her under the chin and in the end she just laughed.

  He and the group he’d been talking to began leaving and suddenly the bar was quiet again. Pascale and I decided to go home. I’m glad we left when we did because I saw François and the Crying Girl crossing the street heading for the bar.

  Pascale and I walked back. When we got home, Madame and Monsieur Blanc were in bed. Didier was the only one up, reading L’Immoraliste by Gide on the leather sofa in the living room. He was angry Philippe hadn’t brought us home. Philippe had promised, he said. Honestly, as if we needed looking after.

  Mother rang when I was out. Bother: too late to ring her back now.

  Chapter Eleven

  New vocab: mon petit chou (my little cabbage)

  Saturday 5 April

  Kitchen, 8 a.m.

  Everyone’s still asleep, but I’m wide awake so I’ve come downstairs. One strange thing – the front door’s unlocked and Madame Blanc’s coat isn’t here. She’s probably gone to stock up on Cif.

  I can see my reflection in the cooker hood. My hair looks much worse now it’s mussed. One side is longer than the other. I look like a cat that’s got caught in the rain. I’m seeing my grandparents this afternoon for tea – I can’t go looking like this. They’ll disown me before they’ve properly owned me. I’ve still got twenty-three euros. I’ve left the others a note and I’m going out to do something about my hair.

  Métamorphose, 9 a.m.

  They say they can fit me in. They’ve sat me down in a corner to wait. I’ve flicked through some magazines and I’ve found a picture of a beautiful girl with v. short hair. ‘Comme ça,’ I said. Of course, it’s the girl I want to look like – bugger the hair – but we’ll see.

  I must do something about my image. These magazines are full of girls looking elegant and poised. I’m just a mess. I used not to care, but I don’t want to look like a purple Belgian chicken pop star for the rest of my life.

  Here goes. They’re ready for me now.

  Métamorphose, 9.30 a.m.

  I’m in a chair right by the window, waiting for a tint to do its business, and who do you think just crossed the road and rang a bell on the door between Méphisto, the shoe shop, and the pharmacie? Madame Blanc. The door opened and she went in and it closed behind her. I can’t think what she’s doing up there. She had a bag saying ‘HyperCasino’, so she’d obviously bought some groceries. Maybe she goes shopping for some bed-bound old lady who lives there.

  Poor Madame Blanc. She is the saddest woman I’ve ever met. She has NO life. It’s all cleaning and tidying and cooking for her bully of a husband, or shopping for old ladies. I will never be like that when I’m grown-up. I’m going to have a job; no, not a job, a career; no, not a career, a vocation (not quite sure what yet), and will be answerable to no one. My husband will do my cleaning and cooking. I might shout at him if I come home from a busy day at the office doing my job, or rather my vocation, to find he’s thrown away an important newspaper. But I won’t because we’ll love each other so much. I expect he’ll be handsome and French and be called something like Philippe… Oh, stop it, Connie.

  Métamorphose, 10.15 a.m.

  Something intriguing has just happened.

  Madame Blanc has just exited from the same door. Not alone. And not with a poor old lady either. With a tall, grey-haired man, smoking a pipe. They stood on the pavement talking. Perhaps he’s her doctor, I thought. Or her osteopath. I’m sure there’s a simple explanation.

  And then he held his pipe away from his mouth and kissed her.

  I don’t mean on the cheek, in a French I’ve-only-just-met-you-but-I’m-courteous sort of way. On the lips. Although… I don’t know. French people are more demonstrative than us. Maybe it’s how osteopaths – who do tend to be quite intimate with a person’s body (their backs anyway) – say goodbye.

  Got to go – time for rinse and cut. More reflections on the extremely morally serious matter later.

  Métamorphose, 10.30 a.m.

  Does Madame Blanc have a bad back? Or is Madame Blanc having an affair?

  Back at the house, 12 noon

  Everyone looked stunned when I walked in. They were all in the kitchen or dining room drinking coffee, arguing in a low-level manner, when they saw me. I didn’t notice Madame Blanc flinch when I told them where I’d been. She did look at me very carefully, but then they all were, getting me to turn round so they could see my hair from the back, oohing and aahing in a very satisfying manner.

  Didier said I looked gamine, which I think means boyish. Philippe said, ‘Très chic, mon petit chou.’ Apparently, petit chou means little cabbage – are we talking Brussels sprout here? Pascale looks almost put out by all the attention I’m getting.

  I’m going upstairs to look at myself in the mirror (haven’t dared yet) and then search my suitcase for something suitable to wear for tea with my grandparents.

  Madame Blanc is re-ensconced at the kitchen sink. She is standing in the same way as usual. Her back doesn’t look any straighter. She looks just as glum.

  I had a quick look at the door opposite the hairdresser’s. There were several plaques with names on them. One of them said ‘Dr R. B. Montaigne’. Could be a medical practitioner. Then again, could be someone with a doctorate in Medieval History.

  Chapter Twelve

  New vocab: quelle taille? (what size?); grosse comme un éléphant (as big as an elephant)

  Same day

  P’s bedroom, 6 p.m.

  Meant to take this diary with me but forgot. Need to write quickly as Pascale, who is out, will be back any minute.

  Lovely afternoon. Lovely, lovely afternoon.

  Grand-mère – as she’s asked me to call her – is the kindest person I’ve ever met. Grand-père is gruff but I think he’s just shy. He’s had a really hard life. His father was killed in the war and his mother died of cancer when he was a teenager. Bernadette – my mother – was his only child and I think it broke his heart when she ran off. Grand-mère says they shouldn’t have been so angry with her – they realize that now – but that she had been so young and they were worried about her. They thought if they told her she was disinherited it would make her see sense. It didn’t… but by then it was too late.

  My grandfather stood up and left the room when she said this. ‘He’s a very proud man,’ she continued. ‘It was very hard for him. For both of us.’

  We were a little bit awkward with each other. I didn’t feel, as I’d hoped I might, that I’d known them for ever. I suppose life isn’t like it is in books. I was trying so hard to be nice and grown-up so they’d like me. I was worried they might be disappointed. Grand-mère made a comment about Pascale early on – something like, was she really the sort of person I should be mixing with? I don’t think she should have said that. She liked my haircut very much, but when she complimented me on it I felt her sort of look my Oxfam summer dress over as if she was mentally holding it up with tweezers. (It was the best thing in my suitcase.) Mother once told me her mother was a snob and I suppose I felt she was right. When you’re angry with someone it’s hard to see beyond faults like that. But when you’re not, you just have to accept them.

  We talked about the fact that Mother’s letter to them had gone missing. Grand-mère said letters didn’t normally go missing. But I explained how bad the British post was.

  We had tea and cakes at the apartment. The cakes were on a special tiered dish and were all different. Grand-mère said they came from ‘the best pâtisserie in Paris’. My favourite was a little strawberry tart with creamy custard under the berries. You know how you sometimes want to leave the pastry? Well, the pastry here was so sweet it was almost the best bit. I also liked the baby ecla
ir (though I wish I’d had chocolate to drink, not coffee) and the millefeuille which means a thousand leaves and probably had about a thousand calories. (I am becoming cake-obsessed.)

  When it was almost time to go my grandmother suggested she walk me to the metro and on the way she stopped outside a smart dress shop and made me go in with her. She went over to the sales assistant and they both looked me up and down for a bit. The assistant readjusted the fabric of the floral Oxfam dress round my middle and held my chin so as to study my face in the light. She flicked through the rails and pulled out a pair of brown trousers and a long-sleeved T-shirt top in a sort of plum. They pushed me into the changing rooms and made me try them on. All I could think at first was, ‘Oh no, not brown!’ which I realize was v. ungrateful of me. Then all I could think was, ‘Oh no, too tight.’ In fact, I thought that several times because she kept having to bring me larger sizes (I’m obviously deceptive. I don’t always look it, but really I’m grosse comme un éléphant.) Finally I was standing in the middle of the shop in a pair of trousers that fitted and the plum top, which I thought was too tight (big boobs – yikes), but they announced was perfect.

  There was a smile on my grandmother’s face that touched me. She gave me a kiss on the forehead and I felt my eyes fill with tears. She said she’d missed a lot of birthdays and Christmases and this was the least she could do.

  Do you see what I mean? She might be a snob, but she’s also the kindest person in the world.

  P’s bedroom, 6.45 p.m.

  Pascale has just got home. She looks ruffled, as if she’s been snogging on the back of a motorbike. Probably because she’s been snogging on the back of a motorbike. She told Madame Blanc she was meeting Stéphanie, aka the Crying Girl, but I bet she hooked up with Eric. Her hair looks squashed as if it’s been under a helmet.