Ooh La La! Connie Pickles

by Sabine Durrant

  No news from William. I rang Julie but she hadn’t heard anything. ‘How’s he getting home?’ she said. I told her he was getting the coach. She said, ‘You’ll see him some time in the new year then.’

  Pascale is being sweet. She can’t wait to come to London in the summer. She wants to have a wild time. I told her she’d chosen the wrong girl to have a wild time with and she gave me a funny look. ‘Liar,’ she said.

  I’ve given her my brown trousers and top. She looks nice in anything that’s not black and I don’t need them any more. They were magic trousers but the magic wore off. Do you know something? They just weren’t me.

  Pascale’s just come in, tapping her watch. We’ve got to go.

  Gare du Nord, Eurostar, carriage seventeen, 11 a.m.

  So, it’s all over. Or nearly is. We’re still in the station, but we’re on the train, Julie and I, and this time we’re sitting with the others. Monsieur Baker, v. dashing (not) in a black beret, is keeping his evil eye on us. Stacey Owens has got an enormous bag of those madeleine cakes and is passing them around. Joseph Milton’s got some Haribos. Good to know he’s been absorbing the culture. It’s all v. noisy. Everyone’s got stories to tell. Julie’s telling the whole gang how for the first few days she thought she was being poisoned. Abby Morton went skiing and broke her arm. There’s a queue to scribble on her cast.

  I cried saying goodbye to Pascale. We hugged each other downstairs, at the escalator. Eric was meeting her outside on his bike and taking her to the park. She looks so much happier than she did when I arrived. When her mother left them for those few days, Pascale found out how much her father loved her. Good things do sometimes come out of bad. I watched her as she left the station and walked into the sunshine. She is wearing black again today, but it looked purple in the light.

  My grandparents were waiting for me upstairs; and my grandmother held my face to kiss me. She was smiling and looked much less tense.

  ‘Bernadette rang us late last night,’ she said. ‘She gave us her apologies for her rudeness at lunch. She says she was not quite ready to see us, but maybe in a month or two, we would like to come to London to visit her – to visit you all.’ There were tears in her eyes.

  ‘I’m so glad,’ I said. ‘I really am.’

  And I really am, but do you know? It doesn’t seem so important now. The family that matters is the one waiting for me at home: Mother and Mr Spence, Marie and Cyril. And my head was still full of William.

  Julie bundled up before they left.

  ‘Enchantée, I’m sure,’ she said cheekily when I introduced her.

  ‘GIRLS!’ squawked a panicked Monsieur Baker. ‘Move it!’

  So, that was that.

  I’m glad I’m going to see them again soon. I’m glad my grandfather said, ‘Enchanté,’ and kissed her hand. It shows he’s got gallantry and a sense of humour. And next time – because now there is going to be a next time – I might get to see more of both.

  Eurostar, carriage seventeen, 11.32 a.m.

  We’re pulling out of the station now. All I can see is tracks and overhead wires, and the backs of buildings covered in graffiti. A crane, high-rise flats, a station, houses, a park, tennis court, wasteland…

  I never did get to go up the Eiffel Tower.

  It’s all quietened down in the carriage. Julie’s gone to see if she can get two Cokes with the money she’s got left. If she hasn’t got enough, she’ll get one and we’ll share it. I’m going to read Madame Bovary in a minute. I’ve hardly read any of it. I think she’s about to be unfaithful to her husband. Not with a driving instructor, though.

  Now we’re on our way, I am so excited to be going home. There are butterflies in my stomach. I can’t wait to see London, to get to our street, to see our house, my family and to be in my own room. I’ve missed the messiness of London, the ugliness, that combination of the smart and the tatty – you don’t find that in Paris. You know, the ruched curtains in one house, the burnt-out car outside the next. And I’ve missed knowing the area where I live like the back of my hand; it’s worth a lot, that. Everything’s full of memories. I always said Paris was my spiritual home, but sometimes you have to go away to appreciate what you’ve got.

  Julie’s back (one Coke and a KitKat to share).

  She’s just said something odd.

  ‘I thought William was getting the coach,’ she said.

  ‘He is.’

  ‘Funny that. I’ve just met him in the buffet.’

  Eurostar, the buffet, 11.51 a.m.

  It isn’t far – only two carriages. I got here as fast as I could. He was leaning against the counter, drinking a cup of tea. When he saw me, he grinned and threw something in the air.

  ‘You’re late,’ he said.

  It was an Eiffel Tower key ring.

  I only just caught it in time.