Sixty Summers

by Amanda Hampson

  It was dark when they left the restaurant. Outside, the street lighting was soft, blurring any distinguishing features. Maggie hesitated. She was normally confident with directions. ‘Is this the same entrance we came in? Nothing really looks familiar.’

  ‘I think I remember that patisserie opposite,’ offered Fran.

  Disoriented, Maggie peered down the street. ‘I thought we came from that way. I didn’t bring my distance glasses and now my phone is out of charge. Let’s walk along and find the street name.’

  Rose rifled through her daypack and produced her phone. ‘Hang on. I need to find my glasses,’ she said, diving back into the depths of her bag.

  Maggie found her own reading glasses and put them on.

  Fran didn’t wear glasses and watched them, evidently mesmerised by this exercise. After a moment she said, ‘There’s some glasses on your head, Maggie.’

  Rose looked up. ‘No wonder! They’re mine.’

  Maggie passed them over. ‘Sorry. I must have picked them up off the table by mistake.’

  ‘Okay, all good.’ Rose popped her glasses on and held her phone in front of her like a water diviner. ‘Hold it – what street was the hotel on?’

  ‘Just get us back to Notre Dame and we’ll remember from there,’ suggested Maggie.

  Rose tapped in their destination and set off down the street with Fran and Maggie following. At the intersection, she stopped dead, staring at her phone. She turned around. ‘Oh, the arrow is pointing the other way now.’

  ‘You’ve got to point the phone in the direction you’re going,’ said Maggie. ‘Not swing it around, confusing the thing.’ She took the phone from Rose, put her reading glasses back on and stared at it, turning it this way and that. ‘I wish we had a proper map,’ she said after a moment. She looked up at the street sign to get her bearings but the white lettering on the blue background, so clear in daylight, was indecipherable in the gloom. ‘Can either of you read that sign?’

  ‘So much for the city of bloody lights!’ cried Rose.

  Maggie hushed her. ‘Keep your voice down before you get us arrested.’

  Fran was concentrating on the street sign. ‘I thought my eyesight was quite good. It’s very indistinct … hmm … a long name like “Rue Something Something” starting with D or could be O. It’s like the optometrist’s chart when they switch it to blurry.’

  ‘Let’s go back to Mother Google. She knows where we are at all times,’ said Rose, taking the phone back from Maggie. ‘How do you put the audio on?’

  ‘No idea,’ said Maggie. ‘It should come on automatically. Just put in the destination again.’

  ‘I’m sorry I’m no help,’ said Fran. ‘My phone’s so old I didn’t bother bringing it …’

  ‘If we can’t get our shit together with two phones, a third one wouldn’t help,’ said Rose. She fiddled around for a while and finally the audio instructed them to head north-east on Rue Beauregard. ‘Dear God, which way is north-east? We’ll be here all night.’

  ‘Well, at least we know it starts with a B now,’ said Fran helpfully.

  A man came towards them, walking briskly with his head down. Maggie stepped out in front of him, ‘Pardon, monsieur, où est la Notre Dame?’ Without looking up or breaking his stride, the man pointed back over his shoulder and kept walking.

  ‘I said it was this way, didn’t I?’ said Rose, marching off ahead of them along the narrow pavement. She was easy to follow; they could see the blue light reflecting off her hair and she was singing ‘I Love Paris’ – loudly. She was like an out-of-control juke box. Maggie began to wonder if she could spend another day with Rose, let alone more than three weeks.

  Back in her room, Maggie found the power converter in her suitcase and plugged in her phone. As it came to life, she stared at the screen with a growing sense of alarm. Three missed calls from Nico. Something must have happened to Kristo. Her hand trembled as she returned the call. It rang over and over and she was about to hang up when Nico answered.

  ‘What’s happened?’ asked Maggie.

  ‘Nothing’s happened. I wanted to speak to you.’

  ‘What? Why? You shouldn’t ring me. I’ve asked you not to do that,’ said Maggie, knowing she sounded flustered. She needed to stay in control.

  ‘I need to talk to you. Kristo told me you’re unhappy. Is it because of me?’

  ‘Nico, I don’t want to have this conversation. It’s late and I’m tired.’ She desperately wanted to lie down but the power point was under the window so she was tethered there. She tried to marshal her thoughts. The last thing she wanted to do was wind him up.

  ‘Maggie, think about it. I reckon it is. I think it’s time to talk to Kristo.’

  Maggie’s whole body started to tremble. She held on to the window frame for support. She needed to focus, try to second-guess what else he might do, but wine and fatigue were getting in the way. ‘Where’s Effie? She can’t hear you, can she?’

  Nico sighed. ‘Let me find out.’ There was a pause and he called out his wife’s name several times. ‘No, it’s fine.’

  ‘Is she there? Please don’t do this.’ Her legs felt so weak. She wanted to fall to her knees and beg him but she knew it wouldn’t work.

  Nico laughed. ‘I’m in the car. She’s at work.’

  He was playing her. She felt like shouting at him, but that would be unwise.

  ‘You know I care about you more than Kristo does.’

  Maggie kept her breath quiet and slow. ‘Please. Don’t do anything for the moment. Leave everything as it is.’ She stopped short of begging.

  As often happened, he suddenly capitulated and said he had to go. The line went dead. Maggie felt the bile rise up in her throat. She rushed into the bathroom, dropped to her knees over the toilet and emptied her stomach into the bowl.

  Chapter Nine

  Rose found Paris as divine as ever, despite the cool, windy weather. There were a few tourists, even this early in the season, but they tended to huddle together, looking like clusters of well-fed crows in their dark puffer jackets. Later in the summer, there would be an infestation of them, roosting in every café and restaurant, screeching down every tiny laneway, defending their territory with selfie sticks. If you were ever going to feel like a real Parisian, now was the time to be here.

  The cool snap was unfortunate but Paris was still Paris. Rose loved its grand and generous buildings and narrow cobblestone streets, and thrilled at the sheer ambition of its Napoleonic boulevards. To see the thread of lights swooping up the Champs-Élysées to the Arc de Triomphe and the golden light pouring through the arch at sunset made her heart flutter.

  She was fascinated by the secret lives of Parisians. The courtyards and hidden mansions tucked away from prying eyes behind enormous gates and doors. Everywhere she looked there was something of interest. She even admired the indifference that Parisians showed towards tourists, their ability to render these invaders invisible.

  Coming out of the restaurant after dinner last night and getting a tiny bit lost was the most fun they’d had so far. They needed more of this crazy random stuff, unexpected incidents to shake them out of the torpor of their boring lives. All three of them were like limpets clinging to the known, to the predictable and comfortable. They’d been trained over the years to steady any rocking boats; never to rock them.

  Rose had just woken up when a call came through from Peter, which was highly unusual as he loathed talking on the phone.

  ‘How are you, dear?’ he asked. ‘Is Paris living up to your usual wildly unrealistic expectations?’

  ‘Exceeding them, actually.’ Rose glanced at the time. She’d slept later than she meant to but, with a bit of effort, she could probably get dressed while she was on the phone. There was no such thing as a quick conversation with Peter. She found her earbuds but they looked like her early attempts at macramé, and there was no way to untangle them with one hand.

  ‘This isn’t costing a fortune, is it? Roaming and all th
at?’ he asked anxiously.

  Rose debated whether it was wise to reveal it was part of her phone plan, in case it encouraged him to call more often but, in the end, honesty prevailed.

  ‘Oh, good,’ he said. ‘There’s a few things I wanted to talk to you about. I’ve been asked to do a presentation of some sort. Or, actually … is it more an interview? Perhaps it is. I need to prepare something, I think. The exact topic’s not quite clear. The woman is a friend of Craig’s, you remember him … he was a very bright student in my Politics of Western Europe last year. Or perhaps two years ago …’

  While Peter was warming up, Rose managed to drag her pyjama pants off with her free hand and guide her feet through the leg holes of her undies. She edged them up to her knees, only to discover that they were on backwards, which increased her irritation with Peter. ‘Thank you for all that, dear. Can you get to the point, please? I need my petit déjeuner.’

  ‘Am I not permitted to telephone my own wife to discuss something of importance? I didn’t realise this was a sabbatical sans communication. Is that what you’re implying?’

  ‘Peter, I know you want me to do something. Just tell me what it is.’

  ‘Well, as I said … something needs preparing for this interview. I suppose I need to clarify the topic, but I got the distinct impression that it’s up to me … so that leaves me the entire twentieth century to choose from. I’d much prefer they specified something … even limited it to a particular decade …’

  Rose decided on the wide-legged knit pants, as they slid on easily. But getting her socks on with one hand proved more difficult than she imagined. Either her legs were getting longer or her arms shorter, but her feet were definitely further away. ‘Who are they?’ she asked. ‘I’m not trying to be difficult, Peter. I genuinely have no idea what the heck you’re talking about.’

  ‘Well, the friend of Craig. I’ve got her card here somewhere. Do you want me to look?’

  ‘No. No. Just tell me what you want me to do.’ Rose put the phone on speaker and laid it beside her on the bed so she could concentrate on the socks. In less than a week, she had already forgotten how frustrating it was to get information from Peter. ‘Anyway, it doesn’t matter. I can’t help you. I don’t have the time. I don’t have a laptop. There is literally nothing I can do. You’re on your own. Go through the filing cabinet in the sunroom. Every lecture is in there filed under title and dates – just reuse something.’

  ‘It’s quite important. I don’t know why you had to choose right now to go away when I’m at this crossroad that could go either way. Now I’m stuck … and this opportunity will pass me by …’

  ‘What opportunity?!’ Rose picked up the phone, shook it with frustration and flung it back down on the bed. She stood up and tried to calm herself with the Ujjayi breathing they practised in her yoga class and was momentarily distracted by the realisation that this was called the ‘ocean breath’. She clearly did have an oceanic connection of some sort.

  ‘The friend of Craig’s, as I’ve just explained five times!’ said Peter.

  With a sigh of deep frustration, Rose sat down to put her shoes on.

  ‘Are you all right?’ The voice was thin and reedy, almost ethereal, and her first instinct was to look up. Then she realised she was sitting on Peter.

  ‘Listen,’ she said, extracting the phone from under her. ‘I can’t help you. If you need something specific written, dictate it to Max and he can write it for you. So, plan A, try the filing cabinet and, plan B, ask Max. Peter, it’s all in your head.’

  ‘You think I’m imagining it?’

  ‘No, no, no … for crying out loud, why are you so literal? You’ve been lecturing on twentieth-century history for more than thirty years. You know it inside out. If they haven’t specified anything, just pick something yourself … it’s not that difficult!’

  ‘I see what you’re driving at,’ he said ponderously. ‘I think people are a little weary of the world wars. The Cuban missile crisis is probably considered to be more specifically US history now, not as relevant as it once was …’

  Dear. God. Was he going to now list every major incident of the entire century?! ‘Okay, here’s another idea. Pick three. Ask Friend-of-Craig’s which one she prefers. Done.’

  There was a long silence on the other end and finally Peter said sulkily, ‘Thanks for your help.’

  ‘My pleasure,’ said Rose. They exchanged curt goodbyes and she pushed back a niggling guilt about her indifference to Peter’s plight, whatever it was. She couldn’t blame him for feeling abandoned.

  The hotel dining room was small, only half-a-dozen tables packed in close together. The day outside was dull and overcast but the room was made cheery by bright yellow walls and red-checked table cloths, the air infused with the smell of coffee and warm pastries.

  Only two tables were occupied, one by an elderly couple speaking quietly in German and the other by Fran, who looked up with a sweet smile when Rose walked in and said, ‘Bonjour!’

  ‘Bonjour to you too!’ said Rose, joining her at the table. ‘You look fresh and frisky.’

  ‘I’m just so excited to be here.’ Fran leaned in close and whispered, ‘Everything’s so French.’ She gave a shiver of excitement. Rose gave her a kiss on the cheek, pleased that she was enjoying herself. Fran looked five years younger already. If she kept this up, she’d be back to adolescence in three weeks’ time.

  They both looked up to see Maggie bump into a chair, knock her hip against a table and apologise to the German couple. She looked so dreadful, the first thing that crossed Rose’s mind was getting her to a hospital. Her hair was pulled back and Rose saw with dismay how thin and lank it was. Her face looked swollen and puffy, as though she’d been awake crying all night.

  Rose leapt up and took Maggie’s arm, helping her into the chair. Fran said she would get them all coffee and croissants and went over to the self-serve coffee machine.

  Maggie put her face in her hands, and Rose realised that she had absolutely no idea what to say, which almost never happened. She had run out of soothing comments and was feeling increasingly un equal to the task. She had thought it would simply be a matter of taking Maggie out of her environment and she would come good. Rose knew now that this was magical thinking, something she often subscribed to but seldom admitted. Now she thought that perhaps Kristo should be called. It may even be that he would need to come and get her. Or should Rose be taking her home? There was no way they could leave Maggie to get back to London and on a flight home on her own. And then there was Fran to consider, poor dear.

  ‘Mags, are you all right? You look … dreadful,’ said Rose.

  ‘I feel okay, actually, just a bit groggy,’ said Maggie. She looked around the dining room as if she had no idea where she was.

  ‘Did you sleep badly?’ asked Rose.

  ‘I thought we weren’t …’ said Maggie. ‘I don’t know. I took a sleeping tablet to knock myself out. It felt like I was hovering between sleeping and waking all night.’

  ‘You know, you shouldn’t take sleeping tablets when you’ve been drinking.’

  ‘I wasn’t “drinking”. You make it sound like I was on a bender.’

  Fran came back with the coffee and croissants and sat down.

  Rose was aware the German couple had paused their conversation to concentrate on eavesdropping.

  ‘Mag, you easily had half that bottle,’ whispered Rose. ‘Fran and I only had a glass each.’

  Maggie stared at her. ‘Half a bottle? Big bloody woop!’

  ‘How many tablets did you take? I need to know.’

  ‘Piss off. You’re not my doctor, you know,’ said Maggie.

  ‘I just want to know all the meds you’re on. Just in case something happens. We should all know that about each other,’ insisted Rose. ‘Fran, you go first.’

  Fran looked startled, as though she needed to make something up. ‘Ah, glucosamine. Vitamin E?’

  Maggie seemed amused by this admiss
ion. ‘Okay, Rose … off you go.’

  ‘Just a statin for cholesterol,’ said Rose. ‘And I have the occasional joint to sleep.’

  ‘So you’re knocking yourself out with pot and taking me to task for having a glass or two of wine?’ Maggie paused for Rose’s retort. When none was forthcoming, she continued, ‘Antidepressants, two types of blood pressure meds, statins for cholesterol … what else? No, that’s pretty much it. It’s pills holding me together. And yes, maybe I shouldn’t be having alcohol with antidepressants or sleeping tablets – but what the hell? I don’t need you bugging me, Rose!’

  The German couple got up and left hurriedly as though the real trouble was about to start. Fran sipped her coffee and watched them leave. ‘Well, this is a conversation we never had to have on the last trip,’ she observed.

  Maggie smiled; her eyes were bloodshot and watery. ‘We were so unworldly back then. Do you remember that first time we came to Paris and slept in the van, we went to a restaurant, thinking we were so sophisticated, and the waiter asked if we would like an aperitif?’

  Fran smiled. ‘And Rose said, “Maybe, what is it?”’

  ‘You didn’t know either, Mag. Admit it!’ Rose laughed.

  ‘I’d never been offered one before,’ said Maggie. ‘It was always sherry in our house. We were just kids, so clueless … Fran was the only sophisticate back then.’

  ‘Hardly. Mum and Oma might have seemed sophisticated by Australian standards, but only because they were Europeans,’ said Fran.

  ‘Educated Europeans, not peasants,’ said Rose. ‘I remember so clearly coming to your house and thinking it was all so cosmopolitan, with oriental rugs and real paintings on the walls. My parents had faded prints of early Australian artists, McCubbin and that lot, but mainly photos of kittens and puppies and horses that Mum had cut off the top of calendars.’