by Melody James
Sitting in a coach, in a train, in a tunnel, under the sea is surprisingly boring. I guess it’s how luggage feels in a Boeing 747. Except luggage wouldn’t care if it had mortally wounded the suitcase next to it. Rupert is keeping his mouth tightly shut. He doesn’t say a word, or even look at me, the whole time we’re submarining our way towards France.
I fight the urge to break the awkward silence between us, scared I’ll unleash another torrent of jokes. But guilt is knotting my stomach until I can’t stand it any more.
‘I’m sorry I snapped at you,’ I murmur, without looking at him.
Savannah bobs over the seat in front of us. ‘Who’s snapping?’ Her hair drapes over the headrest. ‘I thought you’d both died you went so quiet.’ Her eyes twinkle. ‘Either that or you were busy . . .’ she glances mischievously along the aisle to where LJ Kennedy and Bethany are trying to suck the faces off each other, ‘. . . getting to know each other.’
Fortunately, Rupert doesn’t follow her gaze. He’s too busy being pleased. It’s like watching a popped balloon reinflate. ‘I guess I can be a bit too talkative,’ he confesses. ‘I just wanted to make the journey interesting.’ He sits up with a jolt. ‘I know,’ he says cheerily. ‘Why don’t we have a sing-song?’
A groan sounds from further down the aisle. I crane my neck and see Ryan bury his head deeper into the seat in front. ‘When do we get out of this box?’
Sally’s smoothing his hair with a reassuring hand. ‘You’re doing really well, Ryan. It won’t be long now.’ As she speaks, the train jolts to a halt.
Ryan’s head jerks up, eyes popping with terror. ‘What?’ he gulps. ‘Are we stuck?’
Madame Papillon stands up at the front of the coach. ‘We’ve reached France,’ she announces, lifting her hands with joy. ‘Bienvenue!’ As she speaks, the doors partitioning the carriages slide open and the coach engine shudders into life.
Thirty minutes later, we’re whisking along a motorway. I stare out of the window at the trees lining the wide, clear road.
‘It looks so French,’ I breathe, taking in the wonders of the rolling farmland and houses clustered between fields and valleys.
Ryan’s staring out at the sky, slowly regaining his colour. ‘The tunnel wasn’t so bad.’ He breathes on his window and draws a smiley face.
Sally leans past him and gives his smiley face big ears and a long nose.
‘Self-portrait?’ he asks her. She whacks him with her tote bag.
‘Now, now, mes enfants!’ Madame Papillon sways between seats at the head of the aisle. ‘I know we’ve been travelling a long time, but we’ll be in Paris in an hour. Let’s try and pass the time nicely.’
‘What about that sing-song?’ Rupert pipes up.
Barbara beams. ‘What a lovely idea!’ she exclaims. ‘We could sing “Alouette”!’
Madame Papillon claps her hands together gleefully. ‘Splendide!’
Suddenly she’s leading everyone into a hearty chorus of ‘Alouette, gentille Alouette’.
I slide down in my seat as Rupert blasts out a chorus in a throaty baritone. He duets with Barbara across the aisle.
‘Je te plumerai!’
‘I wish someone would pluck you,’ I grumble under my breath.
Fingers tap my shoulder. I jerk round, surprised to see a hand poking between the headrests. Sam peers through. ‘Here.’ He’s holding out earphones. ‘Listen to this instead.’
I take them from him gratefully and jam them in my ears. Relieved as Sam’s music drowns out Rupert, I close my eyes. The song swallows me whole. I’m sucked in, amazed. It’s brilliant.
And the sound is sort of familiar. As I wrack my brain, trying to work out what band I’m listening to, the motorway winds towards factories and warehouses then feeds us down among blocks of housing that look more ornate. Then the music softens into a ballad. The guy singing sounds wistful, his voice husky with longing.
Who can know
Why she smiles
How she dreams
How she sings
She won’t tell
But I wait
And hope to see
That she may, one day, look at me.
Suddenly the road rises and spits us out onto a boulevard. Ancient French buildings line our route; trees wave in front of us like they’re welcoming us into Paris.
‘We’re here!’ Savannah pops up over the headrest again.
I tug out the earphones, excitement buzzing in my chest. I can see the Eiffel Tower. It’s rising in the distance, so familiar it’s almost cartoon-like. Cars zip round the coach as it glides deeper into the city. I press my nose against the window, eyes wide as I stare at the shopfronts and balconies, and window after window of buildings that look like doll’s houses.
‘Look!’ Marcus is kneeling up beside Savannah. Ahead, the road opens into a chaos of cars. They’re circling the Arc de Triomphe like it’s the most normal thing in the world. Like they’ve been circling it since the Revolution.
I feel the earphones tug in my hand and look over my shoulder to see Sam pulling the wire back towards his smartphone.
‘What did you think?’ He sounds shy.
‘Of Paris?’ I stare at him.
‘The music.’
‘Oh!’ The music! ‘I loved it.’ He looks shyer.
‘What’s the name of the band?’
‘It’s my band.’
‘Hardwired?’ I’m impressed. ‘It’s brilliant.’ I remember the husky ballad. ‘The love song was really sweet.’
‘Thanks.’ He shrugs like it was nothing. ‘It’s just a demo tape.’
A waft of flower and musk swamps me as Cindy leans across the aisle. She thrusts her face past mine and peers between the headrests at Sam.
‘Did you say demo tape?’ she trills. Sam looks flustered.
‘Can I listen?’ Cindy hooks the earphones from him and plugs herself in. ‘Flick it back a few tracks.’
Sam hesitates then starts tapping his phone.
‘Hey, stop there,’ Cindy orders.
I lean back against the window as she pushes between me and Rupert. She presses the earphones harder into her ear. ‘What a sweet love song.’
Sam flushes. As he ducks, self-consciously, under his shaggy fringe, I guess the love song must be about her.
Cindy’s expression has turned to goo. ‘It’s sooooo cute.’
With a frown, Sam yanks the earphones out of Cindy’s ears. ‘It’s not finished yet,’ he mutters, slumping back in his seat.
Cindy stares in amazement, but before she can play twenty questions with him, Madame Papillon stands up. Cindy slithers back into her own seat.
‘Mes enfants!’ She claps her hands. She’s high on Parisian petrol fumes, her cheeks flushed, her dark hair wild. ‘We’ve reached our hotel. I want you to make sure you’ve got all your belongings then file off the coach in a quiet and orderly fashion.’
There’s silence for a second, then the riot starts.
Bags and elbows buffet our seat. Everyone’s getting up at once and piling off the coach, as though they’ve arrived at Wembley five minutes after kick-off.
I stay where I am. Rupert looks at me. ‘I hope someone’s phoned ahead to warn Paris we’re coming.’ He ducks as a heavily buckled handbag sweeps over his headrest. Bethany is trying to push past Ryan and Sally.
Sally puts up a fight, digging her kitten heels into the floor of the coach and puffing herself up like a cat defending its territory. ‘Excuse me.’ She glares at Bethany, holding her back with electric eyes while Ryan makes a dash for the coach door. When he’s safely at the stairs, Sally turns on her heel and follows him, stately as a duchess.
Bethany growls under her breath as she passes us, her nails scraping the headrests like scissors. LJ follows a few steps behind, with the look of a virgin who’s just realized they’re dating a vampire.
Once the crowd has passed, Rupert gets up and waits while I slide out and head down the aisle. Savannah and Treacle are already
outside as I climb down the steep coach steps. They’re holding hands and bouncing, their faces glowing as they stare in delight at a beautiful hotel. The coach has parked outside its glass and gold doors.
I stop beside Treacle and gawp. ‘Is this where we’re staying?’
Treacle beams. ‘It must be!’
A maroon awning shelters the stone steps that sweep down to the pavement. Inside, a marbled floor reflects a thousand chandeliers.
I prepare myself for the Persian rugs and silken canopies I’d imagined. Tomorrow morning I shall throw open floor-to-ceiling windows and lean from a wrought-iron balcony, breathing in Paris.
‘Our hotel is this way.’ Madame Papillon picks up her suitcase and marches away from the gold and glass palace. She turns left and disappears into a shadowy gap between buildings.
‘Are we using the back entrance?’ Savannah whispers to me.
Mr Chapman interrupts. ‘Grab your rucksacks, everyone, and follow Madame Papillon.’
We wait while the driver throws rucksacks at us. Savannah’s bag bounces past her and she crouches beside it, panicked. ‘Oh, I hope my Givenchy isn’t smashed!’ She sniffs at it, eyes bright with fear.
Treacle heaves her pack onto her back. ‘At least all your clothes will smell nice.’
As my rucksack rolls past, I reach for it.
Crack!
A head thumps mine. Pain flares and I grab my skull to check for splits. It feels whole.
‘Sorry.’ I recognize the sorry.
Rupert! I force my eyes open and stare through the pain.
‘I was just trying to help.’ Rupert is cupping his nose in his hands. Blood is dripping between his fingers.
‘Are you OK?’ I rub my throbbing head.
‘Just a dosebleed,’ he squawks. ‘I’ll be fide. Happeds all the tibe.’
‘Gemma?’ Barbara fights her way through the crowd of rucksack-catchers. ‘What happened?’ She holds Rupert’s head gently.
‘We kind of crashed,’ I explain.
She’s hardly listening. ‘Tilt your head forwards,’ she tells Rupert. She guides him back towards the steps of the gold and glass hotel and sits him down. Shaking out a handkerchief, she presses it against his nose. She waves gawkers away. ‘It’s all right. I’m in St John’s Ambulance. Nothing to see.’
I hover uncertainly. ‘Can I help?’
Barbara smiles at me. ‘He’ll be fine.’ She glances towards Savannah and Treacle. They’re beckoning me wildly.
‘Hurry up, Gem!’ Treacle calls.
‘You go,’ Barbara urges. ‘I’ll stay with Rupert.’
Jeff pops out of the crowd. ‘Come on, Gemma.’ He hurries after Treacle.
‘Sorry, Rupert!’ I wave lamely as I follow Jeff.
He slows as he reaches the shadowy gap where Madame Papillon disappeared. It’s an alleyway lined with dustbins. Rotting fruit spills from the shady cobbles out onto the sunlit pavement.
‘Come on!’ Marcus dashes past us.
‘Why don’t we use the front door?’ I gaze longingly back at the awning-covered entrance of the gold and glass palace, and then peer down the dark alley.
Madame Papillon has stopped outside a doorway fifty metres ahead. There’s no awning, no glass, no gold. Just a dirty front door, with a battered sign hanging over it.
HOTEL DE NEVERS
I step over a squashed orange and follow Jeff into the gloom. Behind us I can hear dismayed muttering from my schoolmates as they begin to crowd down the alley.
Jeff chivvies me along. ‘Come on,’ he urges. ‘If we get there ahead of the crowd, we might get a half-decent room.’
‘If there is one.’ I stop outside the hotel door. The glass is smudged with fingerprints, the paint chipped.
Treacle stares at me mournfully. ‘This must be the crummiest hotel in Paris.’
Savannah’s face is stiff with horror. ‘We’re not actually going to sleep in there, are we?’
Madame Papillon is undaunted. ‘You will have a true Parisian experience here,’ she chirrups, and ushers us inside.
The reception hall’s no bigger than a classroom, and just about as glamorous. Chipped green lino covers the floor, dark at the edges where the mop clearly never reaches. Green walls shine with grease and hundred-year-old paint. A wooden counter is lit by a single dusty lamp. The only spark of romance comes from the wrought-iron lift at one end. There’s a notice on it.
EN PANNE
I decide it must be broken. A narrow wooden staircase wraps itself round the lift and disappears up to the next floor.
Suddenly a plump lady in a flowery dress, and an apron, pops up behind the counter. ‘Nasty chee-ldren to mess up my ’otel!’ She grasps the sides of her head as though she’s witnessing an accident. ‘Sacré bleu, ’ow many more?’ She peers behind me as Ryan, Sal, LJ, Bethany, Will, Sam and countless more kids crowd noisily through the entrance until the lobby is heaving. Everyone’s chattering. It’s like rush hour in Mumbai. I’m pressed against Savannah and Treacle. Jeff and Marcus are crushing me from behind.
Madame Sacré Bleu starts hammering a bell on the counter and everyone falls silent. Eyebrows knitted with despair, she taps her guest book with a pen. ‘Personne ne m’a dit qu’il y aurait autant!’
Savannah translates (a lifetime of skiing holidays has given her a head start on hotel chitchat). ‘I think she wasn’t expecting so many of us.’
Madame Sacré Bleu crosses her arms. ‘You will all ’ave to share.’
‘Of course.’ Savannah smiles at her. ‘Shall we sign your book?’ As she reaches for a pen, Madame Papillon squeezes past and starts unloading a pile of documents from her bag. ‘Here’s our ID.’ She litters Madame Sacré Bleu’s counter and then turns to us. ‘Go and find your rooms, mes enfants. I’ll take care of the formalities.’
There’s a stampede for the staircase. Cindy heads the charge, hauling Barbara after her. A dozen Year Tens are hot on her heels as she climbs the narrow staircase two at a time.
Treacle holds us back. ‘Let’s wait.’
Savannah gasps. ‘But we need to grab the best rooms.’
Jeff grunts. ‘I don’t think this hotel has any best rooms.’
I watch the staircase creak and shiver as Green Park students fight their way to the first floor. It’s like a re-enactment of D-Day without the beach. Behind us, the front door squeals.
Mr Chapman staggers in. He’s laden like a camel with roughly three hundred rucksacks. ‘Is anyone missing their luggage?’ he calls to the students, as they disappear upstairs. No one answers.
Miss Davis totters in after him, four rucksacks on her back. She stares wearily at Madame Papillon. ‘Are we all checked in?’
Madame Papillon holds up a hand. She’s poring over forms with Madame Sacré Bleu.
‘Come on!’ Savannah’s staring at the empty staircase. She heads across the chipped lino, dragging Marcus by the sleeve, and races upstairs.
Treacle glances at me. ‘Ready?’
I grin. ‘Let’s find a room.’ We chase after Savannah, Jeff following. By the time we’ve climbed the first flight, Savannah’s at the top and is peering along a narrow corridor. Weak light bulbs illuminate dingy yellow wallpaper.
Cindy is patrolling the hallway, opening and closing doors as she inspects rooms. ‘It’s a little cramped,’ she sniffs.
Will leans out of a doorway at the end. ‘You should have this room, Cinders.’ He stares pointedly at her bulging rucksack. ‘The wardrobe’s huge.’
Sam squeezes out past him. ‘It’s bigger than the rest of the room.’ He spots me. ‘Try a few floors up,’ he calls. ‘The only view on this level is the billboard across the street.’
Treacle grabs my hand and drags me up the next flight of stairs. Bethany and LJ are disappearing round the corner above us. They’re already bagging rooms by the time we catch up.
‘Hey, Gem! Treacle!’ Sally Moore’s voice calls from the top of the next staircase. She’s beckoning wildly.
Sava
nnah slides past us excitedly. ‘What?’
‘There are empty rooms in the attic and you can see over the rooftops!’
We’re after her in a flash as she winds round and round the wrought-iron lift shaft, following the stairs to the top of the hotel. The paint’s bubbling on the wall and great damp patches are spreading down from the ceiling as we reach the top floor. A single bulb lights the hallway.
‘Marcus!’ Savannah presses her face against the lift shaft and shouts down through the fretwork. ‘There’s space up here.’
I hear footsteps and he appears with Ryan and Rupert. Sam’s behind them. I blink at him in surprise. ‘I thought you were sharing with Will?’ I step out of the way as he reaches the top.
‘I am,’ he answers. ‘I just wanted to make sure you got a room.’
He starts opening doors. ‘This one isn’t bad.’
I look in. The wallpaper’s peeling and the two single beds are lumpy and covered with quilts that look like they survived World War Two. The walls slope where the roof presses in, but there’s a tall window at the end of the room and I can see rooftops and sky through it.
‘Wow!’ I head towards it and stare out. Beyond the chimneys and tiles, the city reaches on for miles, crowded with buildings. I can see the Eiffel Tower way off in the distance.
I’m suddenly aware of Sam standing behind me, staring over my shoulder. He reaches forward, flicks open the window catch and then pulls it open. Cool air blasts my face. I smell food and petrol and dust.
‘You have to have this room,’ Sam says. ‘The view is great.’
I turn. ‘But you found it.’
He shrugs. ‘So?’
Treacle and Savannah rush in. ‘Wow!’ Treacle crowds me at the window.
Savannah slides in beside me. ‘Cool.’ She glances back at the twin beds, her nose wrinkling as she catches sight of the World War Two quilts. ‘Do you mind if I share with Sal?’ Sally’s peering through the doorway. ‘There’s a huge mirror in her room.’
Treacle laughs. ‘You’ve hit the jackpot!’
Savannah shoves her indignantly. ‘Some of us care how we look.’ She gives Treacle’s tracksuit a withering look. ‘I still can’t believe you actually wore it. I thought you were joking.’
