George's Grand Tour (7 page)

Tuesday 30 September

Guémené-sur-Scorff–Plumelec (Morbihan)

The second part of this first stage of the Tour was just as pleasant, interesting and exhausting. They stopped for a picnic of
andouille
and cider by the cemetery in Guern, next to the village fountain, where the music of the falling water inspired another text to Adèle, which also went unanswered, but George understood that his granddaughter was very busy.

They reached Plumelec, where a charming bed and breakfast awaited them. This time Charles and George would have to share a bedroom, which was furnished with twin beds with white crochet bedcovers and a cushion with a yellow knitted cover embroidered with flowers.

For dinner they opted, like teenagers, for a takeaway pizza from a pizza van that came to the town's church square every Tuesday. Charles, who had been put in charge of ordering,
chose one pizza for them to share, as they were not very hungry – perhaps because of their excessive sausage consumption earlier that afternoon. When Charles came to choosing toppings, the pizza man began to miss his teenage customers. Charles didn't garnish his pizza so much as pile it high with every possible ingredient. Most of the available toppings were heaped onto the poor thing, which inevitably crumbled under the great weight. They needed an extra box just to catch the excess spilling over the sides. The pizza man would not forget these two granddads; as for George and Charles, they were delighted with the result.

Before going to bed, George sent a last text to Adèle:

We r in Plumelec, in Chouan country. Pizza 4 dinr, Charles snds his luv, me 2. Gd nite Adl.

(We are in Plumelec, in Chouan country. Pizza for dinner, Charles sends his love and me too. Goodnight Adèle.)

Charles was leaning on the sunflower-yellow cushion and concentrating hard on his
Sudoku – Holiday Special
, his knife-sharpened pencil in hand. George was impressed; he was so tired he hadn't even had the energy to pick up his book. They started chatting, and continued their conversation after they had turned the lights out like the boys in boarding-house dormitories they had once been.

And neither he nor Charles woke up when the phone played the little jingle signalling the arrival of a text message, just before eleven. A text that was not from Adèle.

Meanwhile, around nine o'clock, Adèle was coming to the end
of a long day that had begun at six in the morning. She hadn't had time to respond to the last text from her grandfather as there had just been some bad news that had cast a dark cloud over the whole crew, and turned the shooting schedule on its head. His agent had called the producer late that afternoon: Irving Ferns was dead. The actor who had played Aristide Leonides, the murdered grandfather, had passed away in the night at the age of eighty-one. The producers were now tearing their hair out because even though they had already shot the opening scene with him, he had been supposed to reappear in a flashback that was scheduled to be shot next week. So they not only had to find a replacement for the scenes still to be shot, but also for the ones in which he had already appeared. For the production manager, this was catastrophic: there was no budget for this, blah blah blah, they would have to recreate the scene and décor exactly, blah blah blah, costumes made to measure, blah blah blah, moustache continuity, blah blah blah … For Adèle, and for most of the crew, this meant a few extra days of shooting. And she had thought she would have a day off on her birthday … Not any more! But above all, the actor's death had deeply upset her.

She was the last person to collect her things in the crooked house. The place was quite eerie when it was empty, with dark walls and a creaking floor. She had to lock the front door and give the key to the porter down the road. She couldn't stop thinking about Irving Ferns. Would she send flowers? She had only known him for two days, but she had been shocked by his death. She had sensed that he had felt alone and that he would have liked to continue their conversation, open up more. But Adèle had not wanted to confide in him. He had been the reason she had called
her grandfather for the first time in years. Contrary to what her grandpa seemed to think, her mother had never asked her to do anything. But Irving Ferns had.

She looked at her phone. So many messages from her grandfather! At least five a day. He told her all about the trip, the villages he passed through and the countryside he was seeing. He was going way beyond the daily update she had asked for; this was more like a travel diary. She read his texts as if they were the logbook of an explorer. It gave her a chance to escape a little.

But Irving Ferns' death helped her see these little text messages for what they really were. They weren't a travel diary, written for her, the reader, with the sole purpose of keeping her entertained. They were an invitation to start a dialogue between a distant grandfather and an absent granddaughter. Up until now, Adèle had always unknowingly refused this invitation. And this was probably her last chance to accept.

She reread all of the texts, which she now saw in a different light, more faded and melancholy. Because most of them had not been replied to, they now seemed to contain a sadness that she hadn't noticed before. She was struck by her own selfishness, the egotism of youth, just as she had been after her conversation with the ageing actor.

And so, once again, she decided to try to make up for lost time.

A few hundred kilometres away, in Brittany, George was also wide awake. The night had begun well but his bladder had woken him up, as it always did, around four in the morning. It was then that he realised he had forgotten to pack an essential item in his suitcase: a torch. It was pitch-black in the room and he didn't
want to switch on the bedside light and wake up Charles. In a flash of inspiration he remembered that the mobile phone lit up when the buttons were pressed. Feeling his way, he found the phone and pressed a few buttons so he could make his way to the bathroom without stirring Charles. He paid no attention to the distant ringing noise he could hear. He thought it was probably the plumbing. It was only when he put the phone back on the bedside table and was about to pull the cover over him that he heard: ‘Hello? Hello, George?' George grabbed his phone and was horrified to see ‘Ginette Bruneau' on the screen. He had obviously woken her up. Mortified, he pressed as many of the buttons as he could until finally the talking stopped. He was relieved for a moment until the panic returned: if he knew it was Ginette he had called, then Ginette must have known it was him who had hung up on her in the middle of the night. This would worry her, no doubt about that. How had the blasted thing managed to find Ginette's number of all things? Stupid blasted machine.

He went back into the bathroom to call Ginette back to reassure her, but before he dialled the number, he saw that he had received a text. From Ginette.

Ginette Bruneau 30/09/2008 22:49

Dear George, I am thinking of you both on your journey. I won a lovely begonia in the dance contest for the Charleston; it was a lot of fun. Maybe one day you'll be able to come to one of the dances. I hope you are doing well. Yours, Ginette.

George did not call her back. This was an extremely delicate
situation. He had to think about it, and not rush into anything. And most importantly, he mustn't say a word of this to Charles. For even if it had been sent at a perfectly reasonable hour, Ginette's message gave cause for secrecy.

Wednesday 1 October

Plumelec–Auray (Morbihan)

The next day was a one-off: they drove all the way to the next destination without stopping. They arrived before lunchtime. The hotel, which was situated in a clearing on the outskirts of Auray, was magnificent. It was refined without being pretentious, with discreet service, antique décor and plush carpets. Guests watched the rain battering the trees from the comfort of the winter garden. Their lunch was utterly delicious. It was the most beautiful place they had stayed yet.

George was overcome with the desire to relax, to collapse into one of the great wicker sofas that looked so inviting, a perfect place for contemplation and reflection, but Charles was not to be persuaded. They had left the afternoon free to visit the world-famous Carnac site. Charles had been saying since the beginning of the trip that what he really wanted to see in Brittany was Carnac, with the Louison Bobet Cycling Museum a close second.
No matter the weather, Charles was determined to get out there. George also wanted to see the Carnac standing stones, of course, but the driving rain was enough to make his rheumatism play up just thinking about it. In the end, Charles's determination won out against George's rheumatism, and George pulled on the red fleece that Françoise had given him. They got back into the Scenic and set off for Carnac.

From the car they could already see some of the stone alignments but they would have to walk much further to take in the sheer scale of the three thousand menhirs, dolmens and tumulus that Charles had heard so much about. But the rain had turned into a deluge, and leaving the car now was out of the question. So they waited in the car park by the town hall, and waited some more, for at least an hour, but the water continued to flood the windscreen. George had to bite his tongue not to mention Ginette, which he did for so long that he fell asleep. After a while Charles shook George awake and suggested they go and visit the Museum of Prehistory on the square. From the car, they could see the large white classical stone building with its impressive doorway and a palm tree in the courtyard that was being pulled here and there by the wind.

George had always found museums rather boring. Not that he wasn't interested in culture or history. He had an excellent memory for facts, and his general knowledge was superb. But there was something profoundly, fundamentally, soporific about museums. He felt bored to death just at the thought of dragging himself down dimly lit corridors and pressing his head against the glass to read the Lilliputian print on the information panels. The first thing he did, as he had done every other time he was
made to visit a museum, was to find a bench to sit down on. There were always benches in museums, and they always had old people lined up on them, like sparrows on a wire. There were always clusters of teenagers as well, hanging around in their trainers and talking loudly. George watched them. He knew these snot-nosed kids on a class trip, who couldn't care less about prehistory, found it pathetic how old people did nothing but wait around on benches. But what the sniggering youths didn't know was that the old man in the red fleece was planning what to write in a text to his new girl. That would have knocked them for six! George chuckled to himself on his bench.

Charles returned, having enjoyed the exhibition, and bought at least five books on the stone rows at the museum shop. George asked the woman at the till if it was possible to buy a torch here but she patiently replied that no, surprisingly enough, the Museum of Prehistory gift shop did not sell flashlights. They went back to the hotel where, finally, George was able to collapse onto a wicker sofa.

Thursday 2 October

Auray (Morbihan)–Mûr-de-Bretagne (Côtes-d'Armor)

Things became difficult when Charles saw the bill for their stay. Never had the question ‘What's the damage?' been so appropriate. What he had thought was the total price at the time of booking turned out to be the price per person without breakfast. With taxes, all the other extras and the two lunches, the total cost was staggering and he was in a black mood by the time it came to paying. Or rather, by the time it came to asking George to pay, as George was this Tour's sole sponsor, and while he had been incredibly generous when it came to the main expenses, for anything that might be considered an ‘extra' he kept his purse strings drawn rather tight. By some miracle he was in an excellent mood that day and paid the full amount without hesitation, and even gave the receptionist a big smile as he did so.

Admittedly, he had just been pleasantly surprised by a text from Adèle on his screen:

Adèle 01/10/2008 22:36

Alwys wnted 2 c Carnac. If u giv me the name of htel, mayb ill go 1 day, u nvr no! Spk 2moro.

(Always wanted to see Carnac. If you give me the name of the hotel, maybe I'll go one day, you never know! Speak tomorrow.)

If the family was going to come back here, it was probably a good idea to smile at the receptionist.

Charles was eager to visit Auray, where he had been with Thérèse many years earlier. The summer tourists had all left and this little corner of Brittany was just as beautiful as he remembered. The town sat majestically on top of a hill, with the old port, Saint-Goustan, at the foot of it. Charles and George walked down Rue du Belvédère, with its terraced gardens and medieval houses, until they reached the banks of the Loch. They stopped in the shade of some large trees to take in the stunning view of the port. They could even see the watchtower that saw the ships in every day. They walked for a long time, panting as they climbed the steep streets and uneven steps that led to the church, totally forgetting to buy a torch for George, even though he had kept going on about it. Finally, the exhausted visitors were grateful to sit down on the terrace of a restaurant with purple walls and striped sofas. By now they should have been in Baud, or even in Pontivy, about sixty kilometres from where they were, but never mind.

George started to compose another text to Adèle. Ever the ‘text
message minstrel' (Charles's expression), he sang the praises of Auray, and recommended various attractions for her potential holiday in the region. A few passers-by smiled at the sight of the granddad frantically texting on the terrace of a hip restaurant.

Adèle responded soon afterwards; filming was going well, but she was tired. George read the message aloud to Charles, not without a surge of pride, and said that she worked too hard. They had a large lunch and took their time over it. They would head straight for the next hotel after lunch, which was in Mûr-de-Bretagne, eighty kilometres away. After a starter, main, dessert, coffee, and post-coffee liqueur, they walked slowly back to the car and left Auray.

Just after they had left the town, and Charles was calmly driving onwards, comforted by the soothing sounds of the GPS, George suddenly yelled:

‘There! TURN!'

Charles yanked the wheel, narrowly missing the flower barrow in the middle of the roundabout, almost crushing the car on his left, scraping the one on his right, knocking over a signpost and driving into a trolley that had been left at the side of the road. Miraculously they came away more shaken than actually hurt, but at least three cars honked furiously at them. Charles in turn yelled at George.

‘What in God's name was that for?'

‘I just saw a supermarket! The torch!'

‘What? You almost made us crash because of a bloody torch? This torch thing is becoming an obsession, it's really getting on my nerves now!'

‘But I need one by this evening! It might be the only supermarket for miles!'

George was getting worked up too; this was the first time in thirty years that he had been told off by his neighbour.

‘But why do you need it right now, can't it wait?'

‘No, it can't wait! Because I'm telling you now, I'm fed up of calling your sister every time I need to take a piss!'

‘Huh?'

George had slammed the door of the Scenic and was already running towards the shopping centre. Utterly perplexed, Charles stayed in the car, both hands gripping the steering wheel.

The atmosphere was strained when George returned to the car; they were like a young couple after their first spat. George did not deign to offer an explanation of the link between Ginette, his bladder and the torch, but Charles wisely decided it was best to leave it.

At 5 p.m. they were still only in Baud, about halfway. The Scenic was parked three hundred metres from the village's only tourist attraction, the Fountain of Clarity, with its old washbowl. But the fountain and washbowl were not destined to go down amongst the glorious memories of the Tour: Charles and George were fast asleep in the car. The meal in Auray and the incident in the supermarket car park had caught up with them.

They got back on the road in the late afternoon and drove all the way to Mûr-de-Bretagne without stopping in Pontivy, although they could make out the two sides to the city as they passed through it: the imperial part, dominated by geometric lines and elegant structures, and the medieval heart of the city,
characterised by narrow winding streets lined with timber-framed houses. They passed the dead-straight canal, and then they were out in the countryside again, as the sun was setting.

Just before reaching Mûr-de-Bretagne, they stopped at a service station. George bought a battery for his torch in the shop – it was shameful that the torch hadn't come with any, and what was more, he knew he had some at home. When he came out of the shop, George saw that something wasn't right. Charles was standing exactly where he had left him five minutes earlier, staring at the petrol pump.

‘So did you fill it up, then?'

Charles said he hadn't. He looked at George with a dazed expression and got back into the car. Annoyed, George seized the pump and filled the tank. They drove to the next bed and breakfast in complete silence.

It was a large stone house typical of the area, which would later be described by George in a text to Adèle: there was a skylight in the steep slate roof, three walls without any windows, just small openings, a chimney in every gable, an outdoor staircase with worn steps, and finally, in the courtyard amid the rose bushes, a clay bread oven.

They had a light supper in the spacious living area and then retired to the room they were sharing. They were both aware that close proximity encourages confidences, and that at some point they were going to have to talk about the link between the torch and Ginette.

Just as they were about to turn off their bedside lights, Charles broke the silence that was weighing heavily in the air:

‘OK, George, this thing about my sister, well …'

‘Oh yes, your sister. I'd forgotten about that.'

‘I mean … why did you need to buy the torch?'

George summed up the Guémené incident, and then read him Ginette's text message.

‘And that's all?' asked Charles.

‘Yes, that's all.'

‘Oh, that's alright then. Because I've got to say, I wasn't quite sure what to make of what you said at the supermarket.'

‘It just came out like that, I was in shock, we'd just had an accident, or as good as.'

‘Yes, thanks for reminding me! And whose fault was that? Anyway, never mind. So how are you going to reply to that?'

‘Dunno. I've been thinking about it for two days, but I don't know what to say.'

‘Want my opinion?'

‘Yes,' lied George.

‘Reply to the text when you've got something to say.' He paused for emphasis and then carried on:

‘Believe me. Talking to women when really you've got nothing to say to them never did anyone any good. And I'm not saying that just because she's my sister.'

‘You know, that's not bad advice,' said George, actually quite impressed.

‘Well, there you go.'

‘But she's not going to be offended or anything?'

‘Oh!' exclaimed Charles. ‘I can't help you at all there. Psychology's not really my strong point.'

Now that everything was out in the open, the mood lightened considerably. Charles got out his Sudoku and George began
writing a text to Adèle describing the house. He got a reply a few minutes later:

Adèle 02/10/2008 22:46

Luky u, id rther b in brttany thn in ldn. we r shooting crooked house by Agatha Christie in a v old, dark crooked house + v bad wthr here. Heres 2 brttany!

(Lucky you, I'd rather be in Brittany than in London. We are shooting
Crooked House
by Agatha Christie in a very old, dark and crooked house and very bad weather here. Here's to Brittany!)

George smiled and made a note to buy a copy of the book the next day. He felt excited about the day to come, just as he had always done as a young boy.