I laugh at our two opposing takes on the situation as I take my pill box out of my pocket. Each compartment is labelled with the day of the week so I know if I’ve had my statin. In contrast, Ian pulls out a loose tablet from his pocket and swallows it, without water. I don’t know whether he’s taking paracetamol, viagra, or ecstasy, and I’m not sure he knows either.

  ‘We may as well take something for lunch,’ Ian indicates the buffet spread as he polishes off his second plateful.

  ‘We can’t do that.’

  ‘Of course we can. It’s fine, I always take something when I’m on the road. Everyone does.’

  ‘That’s probably why they have a sign which says quite clearly “don’t remove food from the breakfast hall”. I nod my head to the big sign by the entrance, which is translated into multiple languages so that everyone can clearly understand it. I can’t believe they have that many guests visiting from Croatia but it’s still translated into Croatian.

  ‘No one pays any attention to that. It only goes to waste. I expect they throw it all out if it’s not eaten. We’re actually helping the environment. That Greta what’s-her-name would definitely encourage it.’

  ‘Do you know what? I’ve not actually seen her discussing the benefits of stealing from hotel breakfast buffets at one of her rallies yet.’

  ‘Come on, these hotels started all this by using the tiniest glasses and plates. I mean, who drinks out of glasses this small? You can barely get one sip of juice from it.’ Ian holds the glass, which is more akin to a thimble, into the air. ‘If they’re going to limit us to a sip of orange juice, then it’s fair game to take some extra food.’

  I look around the room, wondering if we can get away with it. The maître d’ circles around checking on the spread, and the small and quiet nature of the room makes stealing an even greater challenge.

  ‘OK, what do we want?’ Ian asks as if he’s making a shopping list for the week.

  He looks across at the usual array of continental offerings. Croissants, pains au chocolat, pains au raisin, yoghurts, cereals, cheeses, hams, bread, fruit, and some nice muffins which I think we should start stocking at the B&B.

  I’m not going to be able to convince him otherwise, and so I anxiously watch as he wanders over and, less than subtly, piles a handful of bread rolls and a mountain of sliced ham and cheese on to his plate. I immediately realize that trying to cut out gluten and dairy in a country which is famous for bread and cheese isn’t the best idea.

  ‘It’s your turn,’ he says as he starts making up the rolls at the table.

  I hesitantly walk up and grab a selection of fruit and a couple of pastries, trying to think what we might want to keep us going later on the road. As I take my seat again, I look around, seeing if I can get away with putting the food straight into my bag.

  ‘Hurry up, she’s coming back!’ Ian whispers loudly, as I stuff the croissant into a napkin, drop it into my backpack, and kick it under the table, just before the maître d’ returns from the kitchen. She stares at both of us suspiciously as we pretend to talk and continue eating our breakfasts.

  ‘She definitely saw us,’ I whisper, paranoid, as soon she looks away.

  ‘Just act calmly,’ Ian whispers, trying to soothe my nerves. His tactics are not working. I fiddle with my glasses as my eyes dart round the room, waiting for us to be kicked out of the hotel.

  ‘I am acting calmly,’ I shout, sweat dripping from my head.

  We are conducting our theft as if we are operating a sophisticated jewellery robbery in Hatton Garden. Only we’re more like those old men who got caught and spent their last years in prison than anyone who has ever successfully got away with the diamonds.

  Ian leans under the table and drops his stash into my bag, then gets up again and less-than-discreetly pockets another banana. The way he’s going, I’m quite surprised he doesn’t put the cornflakes in his pocket, and then pour some milk in.

  ‘Are you ready to go?’ Ian says, not even bothering to sit down again.

  I wait and watch the maître d’ stroll into the kitchen.

  ‘Yes, let’s go now. Quick.’

  I walk towards the door, with an apple in my left pocket, a satsuma in my right, the crumbled croissants, squashed ham and cheese rolls, and crushed muffins in my bag.

  My walk quickly turns into more of a jog. I look like one of those funny Olympic race-walkers.

  Why did we sit at the table furthest from the exit? The room suddenly seems bigger than before. The exit looks miles away.

  How did I let Ian rope me into this?

  As I sidestep one of the other guests who abruptly brushes past with his miniature glass of pineapple juice, I feel something drop from my bag. Please let it be my pill box. My phone even. I don’t care if the screen has smashed. Just not one of Ian’s bloody bread rolls.

  As I look down, my fear is confirmed.

  It is the bloody roll and it’s doing exactly what it says it does. It rolls down the incline of the room. I debate whether I should quickly pick it up or pretend not to notice. I’m caught in two minds and I hover, staring at it.

  As I look up, out of nowhere the maître d’ has returned. She glares down at the bread roll, and then back at me, and then at the sign on the wall, as if the glances are enough to let us know that we are in trouble.

  I shake my head, tut, and nod accusingly towards the poor man who has just sat down with his miniature glass of pineapple juice.

  As soon as we’re out into safety, I look across at Ian, laughing, feeling like we’re teenagers again.

  30

  THEN

  May 1975

  Ian takes the largest plateful of lunch as he joins Simon and Raj in the vast school dining hall. The meat and veg don’t look of the highest culinary standards but he doesn’t seem to mind as he digs straight in.

  ‘You’re not still arguing, are you?’ he mumbles as he chews. ‘I can’t put up with another day of silence!’

  Raj looks across at Simon’s distraught face, and then over to Ian, as if checking for permission to talk.

  ‘It’s not about that. Mr Sullivan just announced the names of the boys going on the French exchange, and Si isn’t on the list. He found out that Si had forged his dad’s signature.’

  The mixtape mix-up is now yesterday’s news.

  ‘Oh, damn,’ Ian nearly chokes on his food, as Simon still sits stony-faced, barely touching his plateful. ‘How did he find out?’

  ‘He rang his dad.’

  ‘Crap. What’s the punishment?’

  ‘He said he was going to let Si off as he was pleased he was so keen to improve his French,’ Raj continues, speaking as if he’s Simon’s spokesperson.

  ‘Well, that’s good, ain’t it?’

  ‘The punishment is not going! I wanted to go to Bordeaux. I wanted to see Sylvie,’ Simon sulks, breaking his silence.

  ‘I’m sure there will be another chance.’

  ‘I don’t know how. Or when. This was my one golden opportunity. And I told Sylvie I was coming to see her. What is she going to think now? I really wanted to see maybe if there is something there – you know, more than just friends.’

  ‘Like your first girlfriend?’ Ian says proudly. ‘Surely you knew you would get caught though? How did you think you were going to get away with it? Where was Sylvie going to stay when she came?’

  ‘I’d have thought of something,’ Simon mutters, realizing that his plan was doomed from the start. ‘And what’s worse is my dad knows I forged his signature. He’s going to kill me!’

  ‘Your dad has said you can go on the camp to Wales though …. that could be fun,’ Raj says, knowing full well that camping in wet Wales will be anything but fun.

  ‘Come on, we’ll think of something. And at least you can finally have your pudding today,’ Ian points to the jam sponge on Simon’s tray. ‘That’s got to cheer you up!’

  With everything else going on, Simon had forgotten that the three weeks of having to hand over his precious desserts to Julian have come to an end.

  And even better, jam sponge is his absolute favourite.

  For a moment, at least, he forgets the disappointment, he forgets wanting to beg Mr Sullivan to change his mind. Simon reaches out and grabs the silver jug to smother his portion in custard.

  Except it’s not the custard jug. And he doesn’t realize this until he has smothered his entire pudding in gravy.

  His face sinks as he stares down at the brown liquid which now drowns his sponge, and mingles with the red jam.

  ‘You’ve got to be kidding me,’ Simon puts his head into his hands and despairs as the whole table erupts in laughter and ironic cheering. ‘Well, that’s just bloody great.’

  He looks at the dessert and moves his spoon through the gravy, considering just eating it anyway.

  ‘Come on, you can have mine,’ Raj slides his untainted pudding across the table.

  ‘Really? Thanks Raj, you’re the best,’ Simon smiles as he carefully checks the other jug, before demolishing his dessert.

  The resentment over the mixtape debacle is already forgotten.

  31

  Whether it’s the blue sky or Ian’s pep talk on the ferry, I smile as we get back on our bikes.

  The only downside, as we leave Dinan, is the cobbled stones which bump us up and down, and force us to get off and walk our bikes through the warren of narrow streets. We follow a man carrying his painting gear and easel, past the town’s famous half-timbered houses, down the steep cobbled hill, browsing the arts and crafts shops, until we reach the impressive port, and begin our ride along the Ille-et-Rance Canal.

  I don’t mind that we’re rapidly overtaken by a peloton of young cyclists – who Ian hopelessly tries to keep up with. I don’t even mind when we’re overtaken by a couple walking faster up a hill than we can cycle.

  As we follow the beautiful, if slightly hazardous, gravel path, I switch on my new speakers, and we work our way through the set list of songs Anna has curated, all our old favourites. We sing and laugh, and replay Sweet’s ‘Fox on the Run’ multiple times as we belt out the lyrics at the tops of our voices, seemingly having the majority of the French countryside to ourselves. I smile, thinking what a kind gesture it was from Anna, and how these same songs have made me happy for so many years.

  We cycle past countless locks, boats, and fields and fields of unwrapped hay bales. We’re stopped by a parade of black and white cows crossing the road, thinking that zebra crossings are for them. We pass the occasional house, and the even rarer little village. We see a couple of dogs fighting in front of a church, who pull their helpless owners into the conflict. We smile at a man who sits out on his front lawn drinking a glass of wine. We wave to a woman watering her plants. And every so often a cool breeze blows over us like someone is blowing out a candle, keeping us from over-heating.

  By the time we make it to Rennes, having given ‘slow travel’ a new meaning, we collapse on a bench in the luscious gardens of Thabor Park, surrounded by thousands of roses. As we rest our weary legs, watching the world pass us by, I reach into my bag and pull out the postcard I bought in Dinan.

  ‘What are you doing?’ Ian immediately asks.

  ‘I thought I’d write to Anna.’

  ‘Do people still send postcards? We’ll probably get back before it arrives!’

  ‘You’re probably right, but I thought it would be a nice surprise for her.’

  As I scrawl the message, my handwriting gets smaller and smaller as I run out of space, and I end up having to continue writing around the address along the perimeter of the card.

  ‘Talking of writing letters, what’s the latest with Sylvie? You’ve been very coy about it all,’ Ian nudges me, knocking my pen.

  ‘There’s nothing much to report,’ I say, as I watch a couple of dancers take to the bandstand. They start waltzing to a Bruno Mars song playing from their mobile, who I only know as Anna used to be obsessed with him.

  ‘Don’t give me that! You’re like a teenager, constantly checking your phone.’

  ‘What can I say? It’s been nice to write to her again, and hearing how she is. It’s kind of felt like it used to.’

  I realize that despite the intervening years, I’m in a similar position as I was back then. The two times in my life I’ve needed someone to talk to.

  ‘So has she said anything yet about why she stopped writing before?’ Ian asks.

  ‘No, she hasn’t. We still haven’t talked about that. As I said, I didn’t want it to be the first thing I asked her about, but I am tempted to bring it up now. I would like to know what happened, just out of curiosity if nothing else. It’s still niggling away at me.’

  ‘Do you think that’s a good idea?’ Ian replies quickly, turning to face me, as a couple walk past us hand in hand, reciting aloud the different names of the roses from the green metallic signs in front of each one.

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Well … what difference will it make? She’s talking to you now. Why go over old ground? She must have had her reasons.’

  ‘Would you not want to know why someone stopped writing to you? Why they didn’t tell you they’d moved house?’

  ‘OK, but maybe it’s not something that you should talk about in a message. I don’t know. It’s complicated. It could get messy. As you just said, it’s been nice talking again. You don’t want to ruin that.’

  ‘I suppose not,’ I say half-heartedly, confused by Ian’s strong stance.

  ‘Or, at least why don’t you wait until you meet her and then ask her in person? That would make more sense?’

  ‘Yeah, I don’t know if I am going to meet her though. I’ve not told her that we’re visiting Bordeaux yet.’

  ‘What do you mean? We’re literally going to be there in a few days and you can finally meet her after all these years!’

  ‘I don’t know, I was thinking it might be better if we don’t meet?’

  Ian looks at me, his eyebrow raised, as the couple who were reading out the names of the roses now take a myriad of photos of the flowers, their camera constantly clicking away.

  ‘What happens if neither of us lives up to the expectations we have of each other? Maybe we’re just better as pen pals?’ I shrug my shoulders as I finish writing the card, and put the cap back on my biro.

  ‘Better as pen pals? Honestly. You’ve got some hot French woman who likes you and you just want to write her letters?’

  ‘You know, sometimes I don’t think you’ve changed at all since we were at school!’ I laugh. ‘Did you ever grow up?’

  ‘And you’ve changed completely! What happened to the Simon who followed his heart? I don’t believe you just want a pen pal? I think there’s something you’re not saying.’

  Ian may be right, but I’m not willing to admit that to him, or even to myself just yet.

  ‘Let’s just get there first, shall we, and then we’ll see? In fact, let’s get to our hotel, for starters.’

  32

  I’m not sure you can call it an actual hotel.

  As soon as we step inside the dingy and dark front room of the B&B, I realize that bathroom doors are going to be the least of our problems.

  I’ve never seen so much stuff everywhere. The room is chock-a-block full of knick-knacks, ornaments, vases, jugs, dolls, books, frames. It looks the kind of house you see in the newspaper where some hoarder has been found dead amidst all their possessions. In fact, there could be any number of bodies under all these items and nobody would know.

  What was Ian thinking when he booked this place? What did the photos look like?

  ‘Bonsoir!’ the owner says as she greets us with a kiss on both cheeks.

  I know it’s French tradition, but I think my guests would be horrified if I welcomed them in this manner.

  ‘Come on in,’ the woman, who must be in her eighties, speaks slowly in a thick French accent, the lines sounding rehearsed, as if this is a stock phrase she has learnt.

  She continues to lead us through the maze of mess.

  Maybe Daisy could get a job here.

  As I nearly trip over, I notice – on a rare part of the wall which isn’t hidden – a series of framed certificates for her ecological awareness.

  Clearly she is not disposing of any rubbish because she keeps it all in her house instead.

  ‘Oui, yes, I am big supporter environment,’ she says, noticing me spot the certificates. ‘In my house, we no have lights.’

  ‘No lights?’

  She nods happily.

  How on earth am I meant to see where I’m going between all this mess with no lights?

  ‘I have only one room for guests,’ she explains.

  Presumably the other rooms are all for her possessions.

  She leads us into the one bedroom, and I wonder if we’ll be able to see the beds under the clutter. Remarkably it is fairly clean and tidy. Although even a teenager’s bedroom would be considered clean and tidy compared to the rest of the house.

  ‘This is nice room,’ I say, limiting my English to her level, for some reason, and putting my thumbs up. I look around, realizing there are no lights, or even plug sockets.

  ‘How long … the two of you?’ she says, pointing at both of us, and then makes a kissing gesture.

  ‘Oh no, we’re not …’ I try to explain, but Ian interrupts.

  ‘We’re just friends. His wife died.’

  ‘Thanks, Ian.’

  ‘I was just explaining to her.’

  She looks at us smiling, not understanding what we are saying.

  ‘Don’t worry. I’m very … I have open mind, oui?’

  I don’t try and explain. I just want to sit down for a few minutes in some peace and quiet. But she continues to loiter in the room, and I wonder if she’s ever going to leave. It looks like she is working out how to say something.

  ‘Le soir, euh …’

  ‘In the evening?’ I help her out. Ian gives me a look as if he’s impressed I managed to translate one word.

 

1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18 19 20 21 22 23 24 25 26