Becoming Strangers (29 page)

He took a second to gather himself and he put out his hands in a gesture of almost avuncular warmth and forced a smile. 'European-style goodbye,' he had said, kissing her firmly on either cheek, taking his time, pressing her arms against her body.

'Goodbye?' she had queried, holding his arms still as he pulled back from her.

The daughter leaned across the table and her eyes considered the landscape that they were leaving behind, then she buried her ponytailed head into the 'M' shape she'd made with her arms on the table, closing off the light from her eyes.

His own children, two boys, adults now, pale and extreme as their mother, they were making respectable livings in this respectable country. That was something. Goodbye to all of them, he thought. Good luck to the girl.

T
HERE IS A SMALL FAMILY-RUN HOTEL
on the Île St Louis in Paris that is less expensive than the big name hotels but nevertheless attempts its own ostentation. The lobby is crammed with delicate objects, vases with lids are placed on spindle-legged tables that shift as one passes, drawing attention to the precarious beauty of things made in the past. With his oversized suitcase, George was obliged to take the elevator to his room on the next floor. In his attempt to avoid the help of the young man from reception, and his anxiety regarding the claustrophobic space and iron gating, George lost his temper.

'Just leave us alone, thank you, I can manage!' he instructed his helper.

'But of course, whatever you like, Monsieur,' said the young man with a wry smile.

'France is all right, but the bleeding French know it all, don't they?' said George, on the phone to Jeanette in his room. There was a tap at the door, followed by a few more taps, and George told his daughter to hold on while he went to it. It was the young man again.

'I hope, Sir, you will pardon me for my further assistance but you have left your wallet on the reception desk.'

George took the wallet from the man, nodded and closed the door.

'That was him again. I don't know who he is, do I.
Works here. Pain in the neck. Anyway, duck, I'm here safely. The train ride was a real treat. I shall never forget that. Nice English fellow doing the food. They leave you alone, the English. I like that. How's your mother? You're watching her then? Because she will take off, you know. Keep the door closed. She'll badger you about the keys and how she needs to get home now, but just be firm with her. Just you tell her, "You
are
at home." Keeping on about the bus to Tottenham. No, I'm not winding myself up; no, no, it's bloody hot in here. I'll have to open the windows. You and your sister went to see the residential home this morning, didn't you? Not bad, is it. Still if we all pull together we won't need it. Yes, of course we know it's there. That's a fact, ain't it? It ain't somewhere else, is it? 'Struth. I shan't stick her away while I'm fit and able, duck, let's not have an argument about it. Hold the line, just a moment, I can't take this perishing heat.'

He got up and took his jacket and tie off, then went to the window and threw it open. It was a grey, overcast day. A pigeon presented him with its profile and bobbed its head at him. 'Go on, dirty little bleeder, go on with you,' said George, waving an arm at the bird. He went back to the phone.

'No, it was a bird this time. A pigeon. Look, as I was saying, we can manage. Nobody knows how long for. I'm all right. This break will do me the world of good. You're a good girl to do me the favour. Just watch her for me, will you? I do worry.'

When they had finished speaking, he hung up the phone and lay back on the bed, looking at the mirrored door to the big dark wardrobe in front of him. He could see his two large feet, the shoes newly soled with good leather, and when he hoisted himself up on his elbows he saw the old mans face that occasionally took him by surprise. He looked at his watch. It was five in the afternoon. Jan was going to meet him there around seven and they would go out for supper. He could have a nap. But he didn't suppose he'd be in Paris again, so he raised himself, sluiced some water over his face at the hand basin and pocketed the room keys and his wallet, saying to himself, 'Silly old bugger, all we need is for me to start losing me marbles and all.' He let himself out of the door and went down the thickly carpeted stairs with his body at an angle on account of the narrowness of the stairwell.

He did his best to evade the young man on reception and was nearly out of the front door when the fellow hailed him, 'Monsieur! Monsieur!'

George turned heavily.

'Shall we keep the key here for you? It is normal.'

George went up to the desk and thanked him with gritted teeth.

'Monsieur?'

'What is it now?'

'It is raining. An umbrella?'

'No. I've got a hat, thank you. A hat's good enough,' and George took to the narrow pavement feeling in his
pocket for his usual peaked cap and retrieving it with pride. He put it on his head and turned back to the door, pointing it out to the young man, through the glass.

He took a turn along the street upon which the hotel stood. The fine drizzle pleased him. He could see the
bateaux-mouches
through the gaps in the houses, making their way along the Seine with people pressed together inside. Popping his head into a few of the restaurants and bars, he noted one or two open fires, and low lamps, and discovered he had an appetite. He'd have a nice bit of steak for supper.
'Pas de cheval, merci.'
Jeanette had told him was how you said 'no horse-meat.'
'Pas de cheval,'
he said now, dodging a middle-aged woman. There was room on the pavements for only one pedestrian.

From a brightly lit toyshop a young woman emerged with a stroller and tackled the step down on to the pavement with difficulty. George attempted to help her and she shone a smile on him that had him blush. Her child had a hat over his or her curls and sat with Wellington boots crossed at the heel in comfort and security, holding a wooden giraffe. He walked after them and when they stopped at a small park with a swing and a slide and a single bench, he stopped also and sat watching the mother push the child on the swing. When the child laughed, he laughed out loud himself and so he passed a happy fifteen minutes. The mother took the child out of the swing, coaxing it with a few words; the child made some tentative steps and
broke into a short run straight towards George. He put his hands out, as if to catch the child, but it turned back the other way and ran off again. Still he sat with his hands out, his whole focus upon the child, concentrating on it not falling. His head was forward, his tongue on his lower lip, his calves tense. When they went, he got up and retraced his steps to the hotel.

Jan had checked in and was in his room. At his request, the young man placed a call to Mr De Groot's room and George took the receiver from him.

'Hallo, mate, thought you'd never get here. Yes, lovely trip, thanks. Ravenous now. I say, mate, I could eat a horse!' The young man sighed pointedly, George noticed. 'Have a wash up, yes, and we'll see each other down here, say, in half an hour. Splendid!'

He returned the receiver to the man with a terse, 'Thank you,' and made for the stairs. He was on the second or third step when the young man called him again.

'Your key, Monsieur.'

George would have put money on the beggar having waited until he was on the stairs. He took the keys with a snatch.

'Perhaps you can remember them when I'm still at the desk, next time. I'm an old fellow, you see, it would help me out.'

'De rien,
Monsieur, you are most welcome,' said the young man, in a cheerful tone, turning back to his logbook.

T
WO DOORS DOWN FROM THE HOTEL
there was a restaurant with several small rooms, a central open fire, and menu boards posted around the place offering just two or three suggestions. George sniffed a little; 'Seems like they cant be bothered.' Jan suggested that it meant they might do the little they did rather well. 'Oh yes,' said George, 'there's that, of course.' He slathered the crusty white bread with butter and sat eating it, looking about the place and in particular at two young women by the window.

The place filled quickly and the loud conversation and background music obliged them to lean across the table to make themselves heard. Jan ordered a sweet white German wine for George, and a bottle of red too.

'I can't drink the whole lot, mate.'

'I'll be joining you.'

'Seems a lot of wine. Are you expecting company?' George nodded towards the table at the window and raised his eyebrows a few times, 'Eh?'

Jan watched as George ripped open a small sachet of sugar and poured most of it into his wineglass, stirring it round with the handle of his table knife. Catching Jan's look, George shook his head, 'Too sour, all the wines, they make them too sour. Why they can't do a nice sweet one I don't know.' Jan motioned at the waiter and said,
'Beaumes de Venise, s'il vous plaît.'

'What's that you say?'

'I'll get you a wine you'll like.'

'Not more!'

'Why not?'

'Is it cheap in here then? I thought it looked a bit like someone's front room.'

'Why should we care about money tonight? Besides, I am paying.'

George shook his head, 'Can't let you do that, mate. Your missus, is she all right with you going away on a blokes' weekend, then?'

Jan took a large draught of his wine, nearly finishing the glass. Red wine—like blood. He felt replenished. The heat reached his brain quickly, sedated his anxiety and flooded the chambers of his heart at the same time, he exhaled into a smile.

'Oh, she doesn't mind,' he said, swinging his head, and then pushing his glasses back up the bridge of his nose.

'Jolly good,' said George, 'everything was all right once you got yourselves home, I suppose.'

The waiter brought their main courses, two very handsome steaks accompanied by French fries.

'Mou-tarde, s'il vous plait,'
George enunciated heavily, then blushed and stuck his neck out as if expecting a fight.

'When you got home, I was saying...'

'There is no place that is home,' said Jan, cocking his head and raising one eyebrow as he picked up his knife and fork.

'What's that? No, it goes, "There's no place
like
home."'

'Yes.'

'It means there's nowhere else as good.'

'How is your wife, dear Dorothy'? She doesn't mind you coming away?'

'To see you? 'Course not. No, she's very pleased. It's a break for her too, ain't it? Chance to catch up with the girls. Watch the nonsense she likes on the TV, do her own thing...'

'She is well?'

'Oh yes. No better, no worse.'

Jan smiled to see the mustard fringing a few hairs of George's moustache.

'To be honest,' said George, walking his upper body forward on his elbows with knife and fork in either hand like ski poles, 'I was thinking you might have got in touch with that Laurie.'

'Why do you say that?'

George tapped the side of his nose with a forefinger. 'Keep my eyes open, don't I? You was pretty pally the two of you. She's a lovely lady.'

'Yes, that is correct, but it would complicate things too much.'

'I don't know about that. People always talk about things being complicated, don't they? I thought we was supposed to be getting it all easier nowadays. Load of nonsense. Well, it's not too late for you and her. I bet you've got her number.'

'No.'

'Well, you could call that Burns fellow, tell him you've got something of hers you'd like to return,' he gave a salacious grin, 'like her bra.'

Jan set his knife and fork aside and turned his full wineglass about between his fingers. 'I have thought of her, of course.' George nodded as he chewed. He had nearly finished his plate already. He ate like a wolf, hunkered down, slightly aggressive, not taking any chances. Jan thought to himself how it might have been Laurie sitting in George's place, popping a French fry into her perfectly lipsticked mouth, warming him with her flirtations, making his head swim faster than the wine. This adrenaline surged at the thought of it. He had dreamt about her since they came back, more than once. The dreams had spilled over into his daytime, leaving him anxious and heart-sore, as though something important was badly wrong, his mother was dying or his child was in hospital, only he could not recall what the thing was, he just felt troubled. He had felt so close to her in the dream, so bound to her.

George allowed a belch out of his mouth, sideways. It was loud, nevertheless.

'Pardon, Monsieur,'
insisted one of the ladies at the table near the window. George turned about and gave them a cheery smile and a wave of the hand.

'Seems I'm not the only one with a touch of wind,' he said, taking a big swig of the wine, 'd'you hear her?' It was like taking a big boy out to dinner and giving him too much soda pop and too many doughnuts. 'Well, anyway, you could get her number. I could do it
for you. I shall have to get in touch with that Burns fellow because I never got old Bills number and I should like to give him a call or write to him.'

Jan said nothing.

'Nice fellow. I know you had a bit of a falling out. Never asked why, shan't ask now,' George paused while he applied more mustard to his plate, 'but he was a good sort. I talked to him about poor Dorothy, you know, her failing memory, and he said to me some very interesting things. He said he thought that the memory was like a kind of bank account. A savings account what you can't take out of. He said he thought that at the end of the day, it was the only thing we acquired in our lifetime of any value. Blow the car and the house; it's memory what counts. He said no wonder I was getting a bit upset about Dorothy, it was like she was robbing the bank. Our bank account. So anyway I thought to myself: well I'll just make sure to close the account and keep the loot myself, under the bed, so to speak, and that's when I started writing the memoirs. I've gone right back to when I was born, earliest memories. I've enjoyed it, and I'm bloody glad I'm doing it, because none of us know when we're going to pop our clogs, do we?'