George's Grand Tour (5 page)

When she had filled her plate with whatever unappetising dish was on offer that day, she went back up the three flights of stairs to have her meal in peace in the production office. Unfortunately, there were two other girls already eating there and she couldn't refuse their invitation to join them. Michelle and Sophie, second production assistant and assistant make-up artist respectively, were very similar: they were both almost thirty, pretty in a bland sort of a way, obviously came from privileged backgrounds, spoke very quickly, and tried hard to hide their posh accents. It was nothing like the conversations she once imagined took place on film sets: on shoots where everyone was paid fairly for the work they did, where people's individual talents were allowed to shine, people would talk about the influence of the Nouvelle Vague, the films of Wong Kar-wai or the remastered versions of Cassavetes' classics, all in between two perfect takes. In reality, Michelle and Sophie were talking about Steve, the sound engineer, who had cheated on his wife with Sally, the continuity girl, in the toilets of the Swan pub, and about the big booze-up on Tuesday night, which apparently had been even bigger than the one on Monday night.

At times like this, Adèle seriously considered packing it all in. Her job was ridiculous. She fetched the actors' coffees and anything else they required, made the extras wait around when shooting was delayed by five hours, recharged the walkie-talkies, and roamed the streets to find the owner of the car whose alarm was holding up shooting. She worked fifteen hours a day, six days a week, for no pay. It would have been different if she were
learning something! But she wasn't learning anything, apart from knowledge of the sexual exploits of Sally the continuity girl. Most of the time she was nowhere near the set, or there was no space in the room where a scene was being shot, especially not for a runner. She never got to see any of the things she was interested in and dreamed of one day making a Hollywood career out of: the cinematography, directing the actors – in essence, the creative process.

And on top of that, she had to put up with the most vulgar conversations. If only Irving Ferns was still here! He had been on set for the first two days of filming, playing the role of the grandfather killed at the beginning of the story. She had spent more time with the eighty-one-year-old actor than with anyone in the crew, and she had enjoyed his company a good deal more than that of any of the empty-headed assistants. He would be back towards the end of the schedule to shoot a couple of flashback scenes. But would he remember her? Friendships were short-lived here, and he had seemed in a strange mood when he left.

She was distracted from these gloomy thoughts by the sound of her phone – she had got a text. She couldn't help smiling as she read it:

And then almost immediately after:

It was a good excuse to slip out of the cramped office. She raced down the stairs, went out into the street, threw her plate of barely touched food into the nearest bin and texted back:

She stood out in the cool evening air for a little while, but no reply came. Having been rattled by her grandfather's accident and a growing sense of disillusionment, she realised that this exchange had lifted her spirits. Where had her grandfather learned text language? He had never sent a text message in his life. It was funny to think of her grandfather, who rarely ventured beyond his vegetable patch, starting to write like that! Come to think of it, it was quite brave, what he was doing. Mad, bonkers even, but brave. ‘Because that's what we wanted to do.' She smiled again. At that age … You had to admire him.

He must have spent months planning the expedition; must have gone over the route a thousand times in his head. He must have had moments of doubt, told himself it was too ambitious. She hoped it would live up to his expectations. And she understood better than most about dreams that end in disappointment.

Well, that's one thing off my list! George thought to himself. The text had been sent, the text had been received, and so his granddaughter would leave him alone for the moment. But the
bizarre spelling that was clearly required to write the things was totally perplexing. Adèle hadn't warned him about this. It was going to be a problem: he was certain that it would not always be as easy to find someone to write his texts for him as it had been here.

The story of how these texts came to be sent went like this: Charles had not been any help at all, so George had had to go and ask at reception, which was very quiet at that time of night. He had to interrupt the receptionist, most likely an intern of no more than twenty who was deep in discussion with another girl, probably a friend who had come to keep her company. He explained the problem. The two girls seemed to find the request rather amusing and asked excitedly what they were supposed to write.

‘Hôtel du Centre, comma, Brest, full stop. All good, full stop.'

The girls got him to enter Adèle's number into his phone and then showed him how to type a message and send it. And with three clicks the message was on its way – to London! He then asked them to send it again because he had forgotten to write ‘Finistère' after ‘Brest'. It was a chance to go over everything he had just learned. But he was not convinced. What he saw on the screen resembled only vaguely what he was trying to say: ‘Hôtel du Centre, comma, Brest, comma, Finistère, full stop.' Most of the vowels were missing; the word ‘Finistère' didn't have any vowels at all. George was almost ashamed to send it to Adèle: he was very strict about spelling and had told his granddaughter countless times when she was little that flawless spelling was the key to success. She had always made him proud by coming first in class dictations.

He plucked up the courage to point out:

‘But young lady … I mean … the spelling is a little …'

‘Yes, but you see texts have their own spelling. Text language is a bit odd, but it's cool, you'll see.'

‘Ah, OK, it's got its own spelling has it? But why can't you just write normally?'

The young girl thought for a moment, and it was her friend who finally answered him:

‘It works better if you write them in text language. It's, like, quicker.'

George nodded as if he understood. He would have liked to learn more but three English tourists had just arrived with all their suitcases and it was time for him to go up to his room.

On his way back upstairs, he received a reply from Adèle. ‘OK.' This text language was rather annoying but it had helped take his mind off other things. Adèle's little message had made him happy. He looked at it several times, but then it was gone, lost in his phone, and he couldn't get it back. At least he knew it was in there somewhere. It was like getting a little postcard. That would really make the girls downstairs laugh, an old fogey saying that text messages were like postcards. But still, it had made him happy.

George and Charles spent the day exploring the town. George remembered photographs of Brest's proud arsenal as it stood before the war, with its castle and beautiful ships. But as he kept saying to Charles, the Germans had blown everything up. Wide, dead-straight roads, concrete high-rises and depressing architecture had risen from the rubble. On the receptionist's advice, the two friends headed for the harbour, which was more authentic and had more going on than the centre of town.

By the time they arrived, they had worked up a thirst, but all the café terraces were overrun with teenagers with funny haircuts. In search of a café ‘like the ones back home', they walked along the docks amid cranes and green and red buoys, disused railway lines and rusted grain carts, and soon forgot what it was they had set out to look for. It was a nice day and the sea air was refreshing, even if it did smell slightly of petrol. Their stroll
took them right up to the marina at the far end of the harbour. Down a side street, they happened upon Chez Odile, where they settled down to a steak and chips, followed by cheese and coffee. They made slow progress back to the car: they needed time to digest. George managed to take a nap during the ten-minute drive back to the hotel, where they had a well-earned siesta.

It was 6.30 p.m., and Charles had been banging on about one thing all day: he had come to Brittany to eat
galettes bretonnes.
The hotel reception recommended Crêperie Saint-Malo, just around the corner. At quarter to seven, they were the first diners in the restaurant. Charles was in a great mood, but his travelling companion was squirming in his seat. Eventually, when he couldn't keep quiet any longer, George took the bull by the horns.

‘So, just to be clear, you have no idea how to write texts?'

‘Not a clue.'

‘Right, because … I have to send one to Adèle this evening. Which is a nice idea, but I don't know how to write them.'

‘What do you mean, you don't know how? You sent one last night, didn't you?'

‘Well, as far as the technology goes, I've got it. It's not actually that complicated, you know. But anyway, the point is, there's a special language. You can't just write a text like you'd write … I dunno, a postcard. You see, it doesn't pack the same punch if it's written normally,' said George sagely, as if this were a universally acknowledged truth.

‘No, no, of course not,' agreed Charles, not wanting to seem out of touch.

‘But I'm no expert when it comes to text language.'

‘So how did Adèle write her text, then?'

‘Well, she didn't exactly reply in detail … It's hard to tell from just one word.'

‘Of course.'

Charles wasn't sure what to make of this. Everyone wrote text messages. Even his friends in the senior citizens' club did it. They were no sharper than him – quite the opposite in fact – and he found it hard to believe you had to go to the lengths of learning a foreign language (well not strictly foreign, but as good as) just to send a little text message. Then again, if it was true, he was the one who was going to look stupid and all things considered, it was better not to seem daft. ‘You should have told me earlier,' said Charles. ‘I would have asked my grandson Jonathan, in Niort. He'd know for sure, he spends his whole day sending text messages.'

‘You couldn't give him a ring, could you?'

‘I don't think it can really be explained over the phone … I'm sure we can find someone here to show us the ropes.'

The two men ordered some cider. Wearily, George went on.

‘It could even be that there aren't any rules. You know how they just make up words these days, and even worse, they do it in
Franglais
, you know,' he said, throwing up his hands in despair.

‘It's not that slang
verlan
, is it? At least with
verlan
there are proper rules, and it's not even that complicated. You just switch the syllables around.'

‘There are rules alright, but it's not exactly poetry, is it?' sighed George.

Charles did likewise for form. Truth be told, he didn't have much of an opinion on the matter.

‘That's an interesting point, though,' said George. ‘Take pig Latin, for example – or
louchébem
, as we butchers called it. That had rules. And say what you like, it had a kind of poetry as well. I'm not saying it was great art or anything … but at least it had a bit of style, a bit of panache. And it was a good laugh. Sorry, but
verlan
isn't half as much fun.'

‘Ah yes, they called it the “butchers' slang” … My uncle could speak it, but I never really got the hang of it.'

‘Well of course, you weren't a butcher.'

‘Neither was my uncle. He was a greengrocer.'

‘The thing about pig Latin was that it was democratic, anyone could speak it, all you had to do was learn the rules and it was a piece of cake.'

‘I don't remember it being as simple as all that.'

‘Oh come on, Charles!' said George indignantly. ‘It was perfectly simple. Right. Take
igpay
. As you know, that means pig. All you do is move the
p
to the end of the word, and tack on the syllable “ay”. And there you go.'

‘OK, I see,' said Charles. ‘When you put it like that, it sounds easy. So, for example, egg would be …
ggeay
.'

‘Actually, no, because it's too difficult to pronounce. For words starting with vowels, you just add “way” to the end. And that's where the real poetry comes in. You have to judge it by the sound of the word.'

‘Judge it by the sound of the word.'

‘Exactly. It has to flow. So I would say …
eggway
!'

‘
Eggway
,' repeated Charles, looking thoughtful. ‘You're right,
you can't say it isn't poetic. But I still don't think it's “a piece of cake”.'

‘But it is! Of course, you have to get used to it, but anyone can speak pig Latin.'

George saw the head waiter approaching their table and looked at Charles with a mischievous glint in his eye.

‘OK, now you can speak pig Latin. Yes you can, don't be shy, you can do it. So, ask the
aiterway
if we can order some
alettegays
with
eglay
of
orkpay
.'

He slapped the table and burst out laughing.

‘Stop messing around, George, you know perfectly well the
waiter
doesn't have any
galettes
with
leg of pork
.'

That shut George up. He stared at Charles in surprise. Charles liked the idea of pig Latin, it made his brain work hard, and that was no bad thing these days.

The waiter started to laugh as well.

‘What kind of language is that you're speaking? If you like, we can speak Breton!'

‘No thanks, I think we've had enough for now. Right, we'll take two
galettes
, a
fermière
and a
Chavignol
, please.'

‘But while we're on the subject of foreign languages, Monsieur—' George cut in.

‘Oh, because Breton is a foreign language, is it?' said the waiter, outraged. ‘And in Brest, of all places!'

‘Sorry, sorry! My apologies. But might there be some young person here who can speak text language?'

‘Oh yes, we've got an expert here, Alexandre. If you'll wait a moment, I'll get him for you. Alexandre!'

‘Alexandre, send through an order for two
galettes
, a
fermière
and a
Chavignol
, and then would you kindly explain to these gentlemen – as quickly as possible, mind, you've got other things to be getting on with – how to use text language?'

Young Alexandre, a blond boy of about twenty with a whisper of a moustache, stiffly gelled hair and a piercing in one ear, answered shyly:

‘Well, you don't have to know text language to—'

‘Yes, yes, I know,' interrupted George, ‘but if you write it the way you're meant to, you know, swoosh.' He gestured vaguely with his arms. ‘We want to learn, so show us.'

The young waiter perched on the end of the banquette and took hold of the biro hanging around his neck.

‘So, the point of the whole thing is to shorten words as much as possible. So, like, “How are you?” would be “hw r u”, you see?'

He wrote ‘hw r u' on the paper tablecloth.

‘So, in a text, you'd know that means “How are you?”.'

‘You mean, the point is to leave out vowels?' said George.

Alexandre thought for a moment.

‘Actually, not always. You've just got to shorten the word as much as possible. So, um, OK, you can leave out letters, or you can write with numbers. For example, the “one” sound can be written with a figure “1” and the “to” sound with a figure “2”, and so on.'

‘OK, let me give it a go,' said George. ‘Let's see … “I've gone to a restaurant in Brest”.' Then he wrote on the tablecloth: ‘Iv gon 2 a restaurant in Brest'.

‘I would have put
a Brest restaurant
,' Charles pointed out. ‘Then it's even shorter.'

George shot his friend a disapproving glare. Alexandre seemed more enthusiastic now, and grabbed the pen from George to correct the sentence.

‘But you can make it even shorter.'

He crossed out George's words and wrote:

‘iv gon 2 a rstrnt in Brest.'

Another waiter appeared.

‘What are you all doing?'

‘We're writing text messages,' George replied.

‘On a tablecloth? I'm not sure they'll get very far! Ha!'

Ignoring the joke, George studied the sentence, frowning.

‘OK, I see. Well, “rstrnt” doesn't sound as nice as “rest-
aurrant
”, but OK, if it works better …'

‘So, the most important thing,' said Alexandre, ‘is that you now have more space to write other things. You're always trying to save on each word so you can put as many as possible in the text.'

‘That's just where you're wrong, young man. I save for the sake of saving!' George exclaimed.

‘Alexandre,' Charles interrupted. ‘Show us another example, so we're sure we know how to do it. We don't want to make any mistakes!'

So Alexandre carried on the lesson.

‘OK, let's say: “I'm going to have dessert at the restaurant”.'

‘No,' said Charles. ‘Why don't you say: “I'm going to have dessert here”. Because we already know how to write “restaurant”.'

Alexandre leaned over the tablecloth, which by this point was
covered in scribbles, and started writing. When he sat up again, George and Charles saw: ‘Im goin 2 hav dessert here.'

‘It doesn't look that much shorter than the normal version,' Charles said, suspiciously.

‘Isn't there a text word for “dessert”?'

‘Not that I can think of, off the top of my head.'

Alexandre crossed out the word several times on the tablecloth, adding and taking away letters, before finally admitting defeat: ‘dessert' was just ‘dessert'.

‘OK, so “dessert” doesn't really work. But you probably won't use that word very much anyway; I mean, how often do you write texts about dessert? But there are loads of words that we use all the time that you can make much shorter.'

‘For example?' asked Charles.

Alexandre thought again.

‘I know! “Speak tomorrow”. You write that all the time.'

‘Yes!' exclaimed George. ‘I'm going to use that one every day!'

Alexandre wrote ‘spk 2moro' and looked at the two pensioners with an air of satisfaction.

‘Look, I saved five characters just like that! OK, it doesn't sound like that much, but—'

‘Yes, it does, you've saved almost fifty per cent! Bravo, young man! Let's have another one.'

‘Hmm, I don't know … Oh wait, that's perfect! “I don't know”.'

He wrote ‘I dno'.

‘Hmm, I'm not sure how much we're going to be needing that one,' objected Charles. ‘Especially as we'll be following the map
all the way.'

‘OK, I've got a better one! “Want to”. You use that all the time, right?'

‘Ah yes,' agreed George. ‘One of the modal verbs, very common.'

‘OK, check this out: “wan2”.'

‘Waan two?'

‘No! “Wan” plus “2” makes “want to”!'

This time, George and Charles were really impressed. Alexandre felt pleased with himself.

‘And I saved three characters, including a space, which isn't bad either.'

‘Well, would you look at that! Right, Charles old chap, we'd better get started … And that's all very well, young Alexandre, but have you ever heard someone speak pig Latin?'

Alexandre had not, but by the end of the evening, with the help of some local cider, he could speak it fluently, along with the rest of the kitchen staff and quite a few of the other diners, and the restaurant resounded with all kinds of
onsensenay
. At around one in the morning, they ran out of Breton songs to sing, so George brought out some of the classics: Maurice Chevalier, Ouvrard, Milton … But when he was the only one left singing, everyone decided it was time to go home.

Adèle was bored. She spent all her time waiting around. Whether on her own or with the crew, day or night, she waited. There was no way she could leave this musty old house and go and stretch her legs in Brick Lane. If someone shouted her name, it was her
job to appear instantly. It was impossible for her to read, or start a crossword, or anything; she just had to wait around and try her best to look interested.

Once again she found herself sitting in a corridor with a few other crew members. It was a different corridor this time, one that led to the large drawing room, but it was just as gloomy, with the same velvet curtains cloaked in dust and the same old windows that let in draughts.