by Katie Penryn
The boys were still asleep when I left for work the next day. No need to wake anyone on the first day of their school holidays.
When I reached the chambers I shared with the four other barristers I toured their individual offices giving them in turn my unexpected news and asking them all to bid for my clients. Of course, they all thought I was off my head.
“What? After all that studying and all those exams, you’re throwing it away to lie on a beach in France?”
“France is all very well for a holiday, but I wouldn’t fancy living there full time.”
“What if Britain leaves the European Community?”
“Can we come and stay for free?”
Back in my own office, I phoned Jimbo’s headmistress and cancelled his place at her school, booked the dogs into the vet’s for their medical exams and, hopefully, their passports. I didn’t see any problem there as they were both inoculated and chipped. Booked us on the ferry crossing from Portsmouth on the south coast of England to Caen on the coast of Brittany in France for Saturday, a night crossing. Cancelled all the services. Arranged for a removal firm to come and pack up our furniture and belongings on the Friday. Any furniture we didn’t want when we arrived in Beaucoup-sur-mer we could sell in our soon-to-be thriving antiques business. The dogs and our personal items we would take with us in the car.
By tea-time my fellow barristers had made their decisions on my portfolio and so I wrote explanatory letters to my clients wishing them well and hoping that their legal problems would be resolved satisfactorily under the care of my colleagues. With business taken care of, we went down to the pub for a farewell round or three. I was going to miss the challenge of keeping up with my intellectual peers, but I couldn’t say I would miss the pub drinking.
*
The first thing I saw when I arrived home exhausted after my busy day was a For Sale sign in our front garden. Dad’s lawyers were wasting no time in boosting their fees along with our trust fund. I have to admit my stomach turned a few somersaults. I’d lived in that house in Notting Hill Gate for twenty-five years, played with the kids in the street, attended the primary school around the corner, visited the Portobello market every Saturday morning to buy vegetables and enjoyed walking the dogs in Hyde Park.
London had been good to me. I had read for my degree at the University College of London because of their special facilities for dyslexic students and their day nursery. Jimbo had been three, going on four, when I started at UCL. Attendance would have been impossible without their child care. Now life was changing, but we had to embrace the change and move on.
The week went as planned. The removal men came and made sense of our hoardings, loaded them up and shipped them out.
*
At last it was Saturday. We left early to allow for frequent pee-stops for the dogs not to mention Jimbo. I had been apprehensive about driving the car onto the ferry, scared I would somehow slip over the side of the ramp into the sea, but I handled it like a seasoned rally driver.
Jimbo jumped up and down in excitement to be spending the night in a cabin at sea. Zig and Zag wanted to explore every greasy nut and bolt along the way to the kennels on one of the decks.
Zig entered her kennel without any fuss but Zag hung back. His kennel was six away from Zig’s and it was obvious to me that he didn’t like being separated from her in such strange surroundings. Leaving Sam to hold Zag I found the kennel master.
“Please could we change the kennel for our male dog? He wants to be next to his sister.”
He looked up from the rope he was coiling. “Absolument non. All is arranged. We cannot change now.”
He turned back to his work.
I wasn’t having that so I’m ashamed to say I put on the damsel in distress act. I sagged on one foot and twisted my hair round my finger while gazing up at him with all the sex appeal I could manage.
I switched my plea from English to French. “Please monsieur, my dog feels protective. He’s worried about his sister in this strange place.”
The kennel master proved susceptible. He melted, gave a Gallic shrug and set about moving the dog out of the kennel next to Zig.
With our dogs settled for the night on their blankets and fresh water in each kennel, we made our way to our cabin with Jimbo hopping and skipping along the corridors like a four-year-old. A quick meal of delicious junk food and we fell into our bunks. Jimbo was still asking questions when I dropped off to sleep.
Neptune beamed on us. No fog. No rough seas. We awoke to brilliant sunshine with an hour to go before landing. A quick walk for the dogs around the deck and a full English breakfast and we were ready to disembark. Up on deck as the city drew nearer the change in our lives became more real. The architecture of the five-story buildings roofed in gray slate was unlike anything to be found in England.
Jimbo grabbed my hand. “It’s so exciting. Like a big adventure.”
I only hoped it was. I’d had misgivings but the road trip had gone well so far, the crossing had been smooth, the dogs were happy. What could possibly go wrong?
The call came to collect the dogs and make our way down to our car ready for disembarkation. We tucked Zig and Zag in their crates, crammed ourselves into the car between our personal belongings and sat waiting with all the other happy holidaymakers for our turn to drive down the ramp and away into our new life.
At last the conductor waved us forward. Wouldn’t you know it? I stalled the car. First time ever. The conductor was patient as were the cars lined up behind us. Neutral. Ignition. First gear. We were off. We edged our way out towards the ramp down into France. Halfway up the concrete slope a mighty bang and a crash erupted from beneath the car. I slammed on the handbrake. Needlessly. We weren’t going anywhere with half the car’s entrails dragging along the tarmac as I discovered when I bailed out and crouched down to look.
Nightmare was too mild a word for what I felt. We were five yards inside France on a steep slope with a defunct car, two teenagers and two German shepherds who had started howling when the chassis jerked beneath them.
Talk about embarrassed. Two ferry officials sprinted towards us. Our car blocked the usual orderly progress of the vehicles off the ferry. With a tight turnaround in peak holiday season and with an English number plate, we were the object of much French gesticulation and shrugging.
I gave up and sat back in the car while the chief ferryman phoned our breakdown service. Although early in the morning the sun was already bearing down on us promising a scorcher. The dogs whined. Jimbo was anxious. Only Sam kept his cool.
He offered to take the dogs for a walk with Jimbo while I waited for the breakdown service to arrive. They had to stay on this side of passport control but at least it took the tension away from me. I hoped with all my heart this was not a portent of what was to come.
A 4x4 arrived - port issue - to tow the car out of the way so they could load the outgoing cars for the next trip. The screeching of whatever was hanging about under the car was worse than a dentist’s drill. The boys came back with the dogs and still the breakdown service hadn’t arrived
With 240 miles to cover as the crow flies, there was no way we were going to make our new home in Beaucoup-sur-mer before nightfall even allowing for Summer Time.
Help turned up in the shape of a low loader at about eleven o’clock. The portly driver was surly with us until Sam and I replied to him in French and told him we were on our way to live in France. He winched the car up onto the back of the loader chaining it on at an angle of thirty degrees. Jimbo and I had the dogs half on half off our knees in the back seat of the cab while Sam sat up front with the driver. Minutes later we drove through passport control and we were on our way at last.
The start of the journey took us through Brittany. The roads were busy with holiday traffic, the sun burning down and the countryside beautiful with its spreading fields of golden wheat and bright yellow rapeseed.
Somewhere out there was my mother. I hoped she was happy among
the druids. It would be distressing if in spite of running off to find her dream it had eluded her, and she was miserable. No word from her for seven years. I couldn’t understand her behavior, but I had never been in her shoes. Perhaps being left alone with three children while her husband swanned off on his African adventures proved too provoking for her. I wondered if she had followed her plans to learn more magic.
“Penzi,” Jimbo broke into my thoughts. “I’ve been thinking. I don’t think you’re really a witch—”
“Shush,” said Sam, finger to mouth. “Remember our oath. Not in front of the driver.”
The driver caught my eye in the mirror. “No English,” he said.
“See,” said Jimbo. “He doesn’t understand.”
Nevertheless, knocking my knee against Jimbo’s, I whispered, “What were you going to say?”
He appraised me for a moment and stared deep into my eyes. “I don’t think you’re really a witch because—”
He hesitated.
“Because?”
“Because you haven’t got a cat,” he finished and burst into giggles.
“Cat or no cat, I am not a witch nor shall I ever be, if I have anything to say about it.”
“Famous last words,” said Sam closing the argument which had to end anyway as the driver pulled off the road at a trucking restaurant.
Throwing on the handbrake and cutting the engine he turned round to me and said, “Midday, it’s lunch time and it’s Sunday moreover.”
“How long will we be here?” I asked him, seeing our arrival at our destination receding further and further into the future.
“Two hours. You can eat and have a rest under that big tree over there,” he said pointing to an enormous horse chestnut at the side of the building.
Truth be told, the break was welcome. Our party was tired and fretful, dogs included. A good French meal with a couple of glasses of wine each for Sam and me, and a stroll for the dogs followed by a nap out on the grass was a godsend.
All too soon we had to load up and set off for the rest of the journey. Our conveyance travelled slowly, its bulk ponderous on the busy roads. At some point we all drifted off to sleep and woke to find it was growing dark. We had stopped outside a garage on the outskirts of Beaucoup-sur-mer.
It turned out that late Sunday evening in rural France was not a good time to expect the average person to be on duty. Our driver wrangled on the phone with the garage for ten minutes before he would agree to appear and take delivery of our car. When he deigned to arrive he and our driver unloaded the car to the accompaniment of much Gallic cursing and arm waving.
We rescued our overnight bags and climbed back into the cab. It was only a couple of miles to the town walls. There hadn’t been a photo of them in our album and so this was the first Jimbo knew about the pre-medieval walls that surrounded Beaucoup-sur-mer. The town was an old bastide built on a grid design with three sides protected by fifteen foot high walls of stone blocks, the fourth side being the sea. Towers stood on all four corners with two acting as sentinels for the main road into the town.
As we chugged through the town gate, single lane traffic only, Jimbo gasped and his eyes grew wide. “It’s like being in a film about knights and stuff,” he said.
The driver drove down a straight road to a hotel in the middle of the town and dropped us off. We straggled into the reception area to be met by a stocky woman who wagged her finger at us and called out, “No, no. Dog, no!” before we were through the front door.
Our mighty guard dogs, Zig and Zag, cowered back frightened by her unwelcoming tone.
Sam and I exchanged looks of weary helplessness. So near yet so far.
I asked her if she knew of a hotel that would take the dogs for one night, but she shook her head.
Jimbo ran up to her and asked, “What about if we put them in their crates for the night in your garage or somewhere?”
She raised her brows at me, “What is the little one saying?”
I translated.
She thought for a moment and then smiled. “Marvelous. That would be fine. Do you have the dog crates?”
Sam slapped his hand against his forehead. “We left them in the car, Penzi.”
Madame suggested we send Sam off in a taxi to fetch them while Jimbo and I and the dogs waited outside on the verandah as it was a warm evening.
Half an hour later Sam returned, the dogs were stowed away in the garage and we three had a quick wash and brush up followed by the most delicious French meal.
Jimbo scraped up the last teaspoon of ice cream. “I’m going to enjoy living in France, if the food is always like this.”
Sam gave me a searching look. “You do realize, Penzi, that if you weren’t so stubborn we wouldn’t have had to go through any of this.”
“What on earth do you mean?”
“If you had accepted that you are a witch, you could have magicked the car back on the road and none of this would have been necessary. We would be in our own house by now.”
“I can’t go against my gut feeling, Sam. Trust me. I am not cut out to be a witch.”
“We’ll see,” said Sam, always the one to have the last word.
Chapter 5
Nothing could keep Jimbo in bed the next morning. He bounced on mine to wake me up as soon as the sun appeared. Sam moaned at the noise and rolled over with his pillow over his head, but Jimbo wouldn’t allow him to go back to sleep.
“This is the first real day of our adventure. Yesterday was a mess, today’ll be wonderful. Up you get, you lazy bones.”
Once we were dressed, I sent the boys down to take the dogs out for a walk while I phoned the breakdown company to make sure they had arranged for a hire car to be sent round to the hotel for us. Jobs over, we entered the dining room for breakfast. We’d been so weary the night before I hadn’t taken notice of our surroundings. Now, the charm of the oak-beamed ceilings and the limestone flagged floors gave a hint of what we could expect in Beaucoup-sur-mer. We chose a table overlooking the back garden where Sam had tied up the dogs so we could keep an eye on them.
Jimbo took a look round the room. Only three tables were occupied. I supposed it was too early for the average tourist.
“I’m starving,” he said. “I could do with a full English breakfast.”
But it wasn’t to be. The fare was the standard continental breakfast, a diet-shattering offering of freshly baked croissants with butter and honey. I decided it wouldn’t hurt me to indulge for once, but I made a vow to avoid pastries in future or I’d end up with too many curves and all in the wrong places.
Sam laughed at me. “What’s the point of coming to live in France and not eating the best there is on offer here?”
“Do you want me to look like that woman over there?” I asked, discreetly indicating a plump woman reading alone at a table by the French windows.
My unkind remark rebounded on me when I realized there was something familiar about her. I couldn’t see her face, but there was something about the shape of her head and the way it sat on her shoulders. She was wearing a scarf turban style so I couldn’t strengthen my impression by checking out her hair.
From time to time I found my eyes drawn back to her. Perhaps I had met her last time we were here.
Jimbo noticed my interest. “Why do you keep looking at that woman?”
“Penzi wants a second croissant, so she’s reminding herself of the dangers,” scoffed Sam.
“Not so. I think we know her from last time we were here.”
“But that was seven years ago,” said Sam shaking his head. He passed me the basket of croissants. Of course, I helped myself to a second.
When I turned back to watch the mysterious woman a waiter stopped by her table. I don’t know if he startled her or knocked her elbow by mistake, but she jerked her arm sending her teacup over, spilling its contents on the cloth. As she tried to mop up the mess with her napkin, she nudged her side plate onto the floor where it shattered on the tiles.
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The waiter moved forward to help her, and she turned her head to speak to him. A stab of pain shot across my chest tightening it so I could hardly breathe. I did know her. In profile there was no doubt although it was seven years since I’d seen her last.
My body needed oxygen. I gulped down a few deep breaths while I tried to still the panic sweeping through me and turning my insides to jelly. Was it fear? If so, why was I afraid of her? I couldn’t be. I had no reason to be afraid. Scared, no. Nervous or anxious, yes.
Jimbo clutched my arm. “What’s wrong, Penzi? You’ve gone all white.”
Sam ran his eyes over my face. “You look as if you’ve seen a ghost.”
“I think I have.” I asked him again, “Are you sure you don’t recognize her?”
He glanced over at the conversation between the waiter and the mysterious woman. “Now, you mention it, there is something about her.”
“Sam, she’s our mother, I’m sure.”
“She couldn’t be. Mum lives in Brittany. That’s 200 miles away. And Mum was slim.”
Jimbo had been following our exchange with his mouth open. “Why don’t you go and ask her?”
I sank back down in my seat, shivers of trepidation paralyzing me. The waiter left her table. She collected her things together, putting a bookmark in her book and closing it. She was going to leave and when she did she would see us. Would she recognize us? Would she want to?
A sudden compulsion shot me to my feet. I wanted to be in a pro-active role and force a meeting in case she chose to ignore us as she passed. I tugged down my T-shirt and wet my lips; my mouth had dried up.
I reached her table as she pushed back her chair to stand up.
“Excuse me,” I began. “But I think I’ve seen you somewhere before.”
She looked up at me with those bright blue eyes I remembered so well, and a radiant smile broke across her face.