As they chatted and ate their breakfast, Maggie began to look more relaxed and the flush of her complexion faded. Rose wondered if it was better not to talk about Maggie’s problems, but distract her away from them. Still, there was one question she had to ask. ‘Maggie, be honest – do you want to turn back now, and go home? I haven’t talked to Fran about this … but …’
‘That’s okay, Rose,’ Fran reassured her. ‘I understand.’
Maggie looked from one to the other and after a moment said, ‘The way I feel right now, I don’t want to go home at all. So, that’s a definite no. I want to go on. Just try and be patient with me, Rose.’
Half an hour later they were out in the street in their comfortable walking shoes. Maggie had made a big effort, her hair twisted into a roll, wearing a pair of dangly silver earrings she’d bought in London and fuchsia pink lipstick. She wore a stylish cream wool jacket, and Rose found it reassuring to see her looking more together.
They took the Metro to Anvers and walked up the hill to Montmartre, where they stood at the foot of the Sacré-Cœur Basilica and gazed out across the city. There were layers of dense grey cloud all the way to the horizon that parted occasionally, offering a glimpse of sun and the odd patch of blue, the promise of weather to come.
‘Paris looks pretty much like London from this perspective. Overwhelmingly grey,’ remarked Fran.
‘With more dog poo,’ added Maggie, with a quick glance at the soles of her shoes.
This gloomy perspective on everything was getting on Rose’s nerves. She’d had thirty-five years of it from Peter, who could always find the downside in any situation, and, before him, her parents. Peter was cautious and it was a way to save himself from disappointment. It wasn’t in Maggie’s nature to be a pain in the neck, but, so far, she was doing a stellar job, and now Fran was going the same way. Rose knew she could only be patient with this stuff for so long, then she would snap.
The basilica itself was closed, but they wandered around the streets of Montmartre with Rose providing an informed commentary on the fraternity of French artists who had lived there at the turn of the century when it was a bohemian village with vineyards and cheap wine. These days it seemed to be entirely populated by tourists, middle-aged couples and dozens of young Asian women in red-and-blue berets, as though they imagined it was a theme park. While Fran was attentive to the commentary, Maggie wandered along nodding but not really listening, her thoughts clearly elsewhere. From time to time, she checked her phone and seemed relieved by the lack of activity. Rose felt like chucking that phone away and pined for the days when they travelled without any ties to home or the rest of the world. She had loved the idea that no one knew where they were. That was true independence. Complete disconnection.
On that first trip, they couldn’t read newspapers or even talk to locals – English speakers were rare. Most cheap restaurants had an old television on a shelf and very often a nonna, dressed in black, sat watching it from the other side of the room. This was their only source of news: a confusion of images in a foreign language that meant very little. Now the problems of the world, and those of their own families, pursued them and it seemed there was no escape. There was no place left on earth that was far enough away.
Given that Montmartre had been Maggie’s choice, it was frustrating to Rose that she seemed so uninterested now they were here. Next was Fran’s choice – the Louvre. They caught the Metro there but arrived to discover it was closed due to a strike. The Jardin des Tuileries was nearby and the trees were dense with bright new leaves. It was a pleasant walk through the park, although it looked as if the rain could set in at any moment.
‘Apart from the Champs-Élysées, this is the only place I distinctly remember from that very first visit,’ said Rose. ‘I remember I was so impressed by the symmetry of it all.’
‘I have no memory of coming here,’ said Fran. ‘I only remember the main landmarks, like the Eiffel Tower and the Arc de Triomphe.’
‘I know people go on about memory loss when you get older,’ said Rose, ‘but my brain feels like it’s actually packed to the rafters with stuff. There’s so much archived in there I can never find what I want – when I want it. Then, sometimes, out of the blue, I’ll hear a fragment of a conversation with perfect recall from forty years ago.’
‘Is it perfect recall?’ asked Fran thoughtfully. ‘How can you know? Sometimes, I think we’ve forgotten the context and a “fragment” stands out on its own but it has a different meaning to what was intended at the time.’
Maggie agreed. ‘I know what you mean, like something that was meant to be a joke and, years later, feels like an insult.’
‘At the risk of bringing down the tone of this philosophical conversation,’ said Fran. ‘I don’t think I’ve ever told you this, Rose, but I have perfect recall of our first meeting and you farting into Miss Gordon’s office.’
Maggie burst out laughing. ‘Rose! That’s so disgusting! I’ve never heard about this.’
Rose had no memory of this incident but wasn’t surprised. ‘Well, you posh girls probably didn’t do things like that but I was a bit of a show-off at school.’
‘What were you showing off? Your ability to let one rip?’ asked Maggie.
‘I was really shocked and embarrassed,’ said Fran. ‘Probably why I’ve never brought it up before.’
‘I had a small repertoire of unladylike habits – burping five-syllable words, that sort of thing,’ admitted Rose.
‘Oh, yes, I remember that burping now,’ said Fran. ‘Can you still do it?’
‘I’m more focused on repressing my emissions these days.’
Maggie smiled. ‘Aren’t we all.’
‘Rose was a rebel when it was the only cool thing girls could be,’ said Fran. ‘There were pretty girls who were popular, but Rose was the coolest. She was fearless.’
‘Reckless more than fearless,’ corrected Rose. She would have liked to be a pretty, popular girl, but was nevertheless pleased by the description. ‘I did hold some kind of record for detentions.’
‘I didn’t envy you that,’ said Fran. ‘But I envied your refusal to compromise.’
Rose felt unexpectedly furious with herself. ‘If my young self could have looked into the future and seen the compromises I’ve made in my life, she’d throw up. It’s been just one compromise after another to make life easy. That’s not fearless. It’s gutless.’
Fran and Maggie fell silent and she was glad they weren’t trying to reassure her. That, at least, was honest. The truth was they too had expected more of her.
Fran linked arms with Rose. ‘I know life didn’t go quite as you planned. But no one’s does, and you have made the best of things. That’s brave.’
Maggie nodded. ‘You’re too hard on yourself, Rose.’
Rose didn’t agree but she said nothing.
It started to rain and they found themselves at the Place de la Concorde. It was busy with tourists and traffic, all miniaturised by majestic buildings, extravagant fountains and towering obelisks. In the distance, the Eiffel Tower had all but disappeared into the clouds. It had been a disappointing day and, as they hurried back across the Pont de la Concorde towards the hotel, Rose felt dispirited. Gloomy weather and bitter regret were hardly an auspicious start to the trip.
It was too early for dinner but they had missed lunch, so they bought some pizza slices and a bottle of red wine in the Latin Quarter, and smuggled them into the hotel. They gathered in Maggie’s room and sat in a row on the bed, drinking the wine out of their water tumblers and eating the slices of pizza, strings of hot cheese falling onto cardboard trays.
Rose had brought her iPad and they debated what to watch. Rose suggested one of her all-time favourites, When Harry Met Sally and Fran, an old-fashioned girl, elected Breakfast at Tiffany’s. They tossed a coin and eliminated Rose’s choice, then Fran’s, and settled on Maggie’s all-time favourite, Out of Africa.
It was like being on school camp, Rose thought, a
s they tucked themselves into Maggie’s bed. The movie was longer than Rose had remembered. Fran, who took up the least space on one side of the bed, was asleep before Meryl Streep had even met Robert Redford. Maggie, sitting in the middle, was gone before the romantic orange-peeling scene, which was her favourite bit. Rose took the iPad from her and soldiered on until it ran out of charge, leaving Meryl alone with her grief in her empty house at the foot of the Ngong Hills.
It was so warm and comfortable in Maggie’s bed, Rose was reluctant to go back to her room but it was far too squashy to sleep there. She slipped out of bed and woke Fran, who crept quietly back to her room.
Rose turned off the bedside lamp but, as she was about to leave, Maggie sat upright and stared wildly around the room, not seeming to know where she was. ‘It has to be done,’ she said in an agitated voice. ‘There’s not enough of them.’ She looked a bit mad with her eye-makeup smeared under her eyes, and still wearing her dangly earrings.
Rose settled her down and tucked her in, murmuring soothingly. She switched off Maggie’s phone, ignoring all the messages. She sat on the bed, her body just touching Maggie’s, thinking it would help her settle into sleep. That’s all she needed – rest and more rest – the poor dear was exhausted to her very core. Rose stayed with her until she began to gently snore.
Back in her room, Rose sat on her bed and wondered how she was going to manage the rest of this trip. She was blessed with a disposition that meant she was mostly upbeat. If she had become slightly more disgruntled in the last few years, it was mainly because Peter grated on her. Sometimes the sight of him walking into the room made her rigid with irritation. However much she tried to combat this tension, it crept back again. And yet she was grateful to him for everything they had together – the house, the boys, their life. But somehow gratitude just wasn’t cutting it any more.
She had so much to be grateful for. These friends, this trip, and being here in Paris. As a kid growing up on a farm where nothing of note happened from one year to the next, she couldn’t have even imagined she would ever come to Paris. When her parents broke the news that they would move to the city, she’d been beside herself with excitement. She was fourteen years old and desperate to be in the thick of life; Sydney was the most glamorous, beautiful place imaginable.
She and her sister, Chrissy, were living the high life working in the shop after school, selling cigarettes, magazines and newspapers and lottery tickets. They would sit on the bench behind the counter, chewing gum and painting their nails, flirting with the awkward boys from school who hung around. They would tease the boys, chasing them out of the shop and mock wrestling with them on the pavement outside. Sometimes customers complained to her parents and there would be a warning. But she and Chrissy never took that too seriously. Their parents both hated being in the shop, so their jobs were relatively secure.
They were allowed to take home any out-of-date magazines with the covers ripped off and kept a carton full of them in the bedroom they shared. They would lie on their beds reading at night. Rose mainly liked MAD Magazine and Archie comics. Chris loved Jackie and Seventeen – she was more romantically inclined. Occasionally they managed to sneak a Playboy or Penthouse out. These were hidden in the back of the wardrobe to be examined after dark. She and Chrissy both thought it peculiar that people were so interested in photos of women with their tops off, but the articles were highly informative. Rose experimented with taking her top off for small audiences but soon grew bored with that and moved on to the first of a series of boyfriends, most of whom never lasted more than a few weeks.
Fran didn’t approve of Rose’s ‘boy mad’ behaviour. She had old-fashioned notions about saving herself for marriage, and wanted a steady, reliable boyfriend. But Rose enjoyed wielding her power and the inevitable dramas that ensued. She was running her own version of Days of Our Lives, complete with jealous girlfriends and broken hearts. She enjoyed being the source of intrigue and gossip. Those days were long gone, and probably just as well. It made her laugh to think that working in the newsagents had seemed so glamorous. Back then, Paris was far beyond any dreams she had for herself. Not to be taken for granted.
As she prepared for bed, Rose wondered if she had been overambitious with this trip. She was struck by the horrible thought that this well-intentioned adventure could end up costing the three of them their friendship.
Chapter Ten
Fran loved every moment in Paris. The dark, brooding weather and even the museum strike were all part of the experience, although today was definitely more rewarding than yesterday. They managed to spend a few hours in the Musée d’Orsay, followed by a pleasant lunch in Le Marais, with time to mooch around in Shakespeare and Company. The list was all ticked off but in the late afternoon, while Rose and Maggie rested, Fran went out on her own. She wandered along the open-air bookshops, les bouquinistes, that lined the pavement beside the Seine, stopping to look at old postcards and maps and the antiquarian books. She leaned on the parapet beside the river to watch the passers-by and wished she had longer here. She could spend whole days doing nothing but this. She would happily become a flâneur; someone who wanders around simply observing people.
Standing there beside the Seine, she made a promise to herself that she would return to Paris sometime, alone if necessary. Having these last couple of days to familiarise herself with the city had made her feel more confident about the prospect of a solo trip. She tried to imagine herself going out in the evening alone, stopping at a bar and ordering an aperitif. It was a stretch. Perhaps she needed to learn French first and come for a longer period … Could she get a job in a bookshop here? She’d definitely need French for that. But how long would it take to learn the language at her age? How would she afford language classes?
She sighed, recognising that this habit of overthinking an idea until an insurmountable obstacle was reached was a more subtle form of what Louis did. A sneaky way of expanding the project to impossible proportions to avoid making a decision or taking a risk. She needed to hold on to her first thought. She would return and spend more time getting to know this city. That was her promise. And, with that settled, she turned and hurried back towards the hotel. It was almost time to meet Maggie and Rose for their final dinner in Paris. Tomorrow they would catch the early train to Berlin.
Watery light from the window fell across Maggie’s face as she slept. Behind her, the countryside rushed past, like time itself, sweeping her forward, asleep or awake. Fran thought that it must be beneficial for her to sleep so much. Rose had made the odd worried comment about Maggie’s weight and something about her thinning hair, but she was still a beauty to Fran’s eyes. Her face so strong and full of character. Rose, too, barely seemed to age. After so many years, Fran knew she had no objectivity. She could only see the two of them as composites of every phase of their life.
Rose was also oblivious to the passing scenery, completely immersed in a book. Fran couldn’t quite see the title and didn’t want to disturb her to ask. She was happy enough watching the landscape race past, her thoughts gliding from one subject to another. She had hardly given Louis a single thought in the last couple of days. Right now, she could clearly see that he wasn’t central to her life. But how would she feel when she arrived back in London and Maggie and Rose had gone home? She quickly pulled her thoughts from that subject, to the prospect of Berlin.
Fran had strong memories of them driving the Kombi across East Germany along the transit road from Hamburg in the West, to Berlin. Before they made that trip, she had always imagined the country itself was divided by the wall, when, in fact, West Berlin was encircled by it within communist East Germany.
Unaware that vehicles were not permitted to stop on the transit road, they had pulled over to the side and sat on the grass near some woods to boil the billy for tea. Four men in uniform arrived and indicated they would have to move on. Rose put up an argument for at least finishing their tea, without success. Looking back, Fran wondered that they weren’
t arrested or worse. They really had been very naive, with no concept of the possible repercussions.
They had stayed in a camping ground in West Berlin that was beside the border wall: a huge concrete structure with a roll top that made scaling it from the other side impossible. It was horrible to think that the Death Strip, patrolled by dogs and guards, was hidden behind that wall, but they’d all found it fascinating to be up close with this famous structure.
Apart from the wall, the camp itself was idyllic, surrounded by woods with a lake that had a manned watchtower and barbed-wire fence running across the middle of it. Their camp site was surrounded by large tents furnished with all the comforts of home. Outside each tent was an array of deckchairs, the occupants solid-looking old people exposing their white winter skin to the sun. Some tents had low picket fences and plastic flowers in pots to mark out their territory: camping suburbia.
The Kombi van had an awning attached to one side and at night they would pitch the pup tent beneath this and take turns sleeping in it. It was July, the weather was hot and the evenings long. It was boiling inside the van; they decided to drag the double mattress out and all sleep in the open.
In the site opposite, across a gravel driveway, was a large tent occupied by a group of young men who glanced over each time they passed, spending their time stocking up on beer. The bolder ones called out cheeky greetings in German. Rose was checking them out and rating them out of ten. Maggie was always guarded in these situations; if it wasn’t for her resistance, Rose would have invited them over.
As evening fell, the boy tent remained in darkness. The front of the tent was rolled up and Fran could see the boys lolling around inside like young lions. She caught the odd comment, followed by bursts of laughter, and realised the englische Mädchen – English girls – were the hot topic. She didn’t like the tone of what she heard. Emboldened by beer, they began to call out lyrics in English from pop songs but, as the night wore on, these degenerated into something more threatening.
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