by Sue Limb
‘She says if you really want to help, come up to town and take us all out.’
‘Much as I’d love to do that, of course,’ said Dad hastily, as if he’d worked it out beforehand, ‘because the exhibition’s on for the whole fortnight of Edouard’s visit, it’s impossible … I have to be there, you see, all the time. It’s only a tiny little gallery.’
Dad’s glorious champagne-filled private view shrivelled, in Jess’s imagination, into a tiny feast in a shoebox involving three dormice and an acorn or two. She was too disappointed even to speak. There was a deep, dismal silence.
‘Cheer up,’ said Dad. ‘Talking to foreigners isn’t my strong point.’
‘That sounds more like a reason for you to be cheerful, not me,’ said Jess acidly. ‘OK, then, Dad. Love you. I’ll call again soon.’
She hung up before Dad even had time to reply. He could be so kind of deliberately, conveniently weak sometimes. Jess heaved such a huge sigh, she seemed to dislocate one of her ribs. After such a traumatic event, there was really only one thing which could cheer her up. She’d just have to pin Edouard’s photo up on her noticeboard and gaze at it all evening, while pigging out on Doritos and dips.
Next day there was a more gratifying scenario. She took the photo to school. A crowd gathered. Loads and loads of French exchange partners had now sent photos. Tom’s looked like a trout. Alice’s looked like a sniper. Henry’s looked like a gangster.
‘OK, here’s Edooooo-argh!’ announced Jess, holding up the photo.
‘Oh, he’s a babe!’
‘He’s adorable!’
‘He’s gorgeous!’
The girls would be all over him like a rash. Jess made rapid plans never to let her friends anywhere near him.
Then Jess sensed Fred standing behind her.
‘What do you think, Parsons?’ she asked, turning round. Fred grinned.
‘Now that’s what I call a love god,’ said Fred. ‘Has he received your photo yet? One can almost hear the sardonic French laughter. How are you going to deal with it? A paper bag over your head? A Hallowe’en mask? I think I have an old one in my garage. You’re welcome to borrow it if you think it’ll help.’
Jess pulled Fred’s hair extremely hard, and he pinched her earlobes with vicious panache. It was horrid of Fred to tease her on this most sensitive of subjects. He must know how terrified she was at the thought of Edouard looking at the photo of her, let alone her real, horrid, pasty face.
A couple of days later, there was another letter from Edouard. Or rather, it was a postcard, but contained in an envelope. The postcard was a picture of the French town hall, lit up at night. Dullsville, clearly. But Jess didn’t waste any time looking at the picture.
Dear Jess, I have receive you letter with photo, it said in Edouard’s cute loopy writing. You are very pritty. I am waiting to see you in England. I am counting the day. My mother send the respects to yours mother. See you on 21st, your friend Edouard. Bons Baisers. x
A kiss! A kiss! He’d put a shy little ‘x’ at the bottom of the card! And he’d said she was ‘very pritty’! He was clearly smitten! There was no sardonic French laughter at her hideousness, only a kiss!
Jess was somehow thrilled to bits, and yet, at the same time, scared to death. What was going to happen when they met face to face? When Edouard saw her real face, not the digitally-enhanced image? Oh well. She would soon find out.
Chapter 8
Edouard was due to arrive, rather excitingly, at midnight. Apparently it was an enormously long drive from France – hours and hours and hours. They would be shattered. All the English host families turned up in their cars, parked in the pitch-black school yard and waited. It was almost sinister.
‘It’s insane,’ grumbled Mum. ‘They’ll be totally exhausted. Why on earth couldn’t they come by plane?’
‘Well, don’t hassle me about it!’ said Jess. ‘Talk to Mrs Bailey. I’m sure she’ll be only too happy to explain.’
But where was Mrs Bailey? Where, indeed, was anybody? It was too dark to see, with only the headlights of cars occasionally silhouetting clumps of people talking.
‘I’m getting out,’ said Jess. ‘I’m going to look for Flora.’
Now the moment of truth had arrived, Jess felt sick with anxiety. But, on the other hand, the thought of meeting Edouard in person made her heart race. He had said she was ‘pritty’ and sent her a kiss! Jess had brought his postcard. It was in her pocket. By now it was very worn and dog-eared, but having it with her gave Jess a little bit of courage. It was proof that Edouard liked the way she looked. And, after all, he was, according to his photo, one of the fittest among the whole French gang.
Flora loomed out of the dark and grabbed Jess’s arm. Jess was glad it was dark. Once Edouard saw Flora in daylight, he would certainly lose interest in Jess.
‘I’m so scared!’ said Flora. ‘What if I don’t get on with her?’
‘Of course you’ll get on with her,’ said Jess. Marie-Louise looked sweet and friendly, and she had the tact not to be fabulously beautiful – what more could you want in a house guest?
Suddenly a large set of headlights swung in off the main road. The coach! Here it was! Flora and Jess clung to each other in excitement and dread.
‘Help!’ said Jess. ‘It’s the Norman Invasion all over again!’
They had done the Battle of Hastings in history and rooted for the English king, who was called (strangely) Harold Godwin. But Harold had received an arrow in his eye and William the Conqueror had conquered, big time.
‘Perhaps you’ll be conquered by Edouard,’ said Flora. ‘He will enslave you. I can see it all.’
‘I will not!’ retorted Jess. ‘If anything, he’s going to be my slave. Watch this space.’
The bus rolled up, stopped, and then did a stupid turning and reversing manoeuvre which seemed totally unnecessary. It only prolonged the agony and filled the whole area with carbon monoxide. Pale smudgy faces looked out of the bus’s dark windows, but it was impossible to see any details. It was impossible even to see what sex they were.
Eventually the bus driver parked, turned off the engine and opened the door. A French English teacher appeared. She seemed to be a woman, although it wasn’t totally certain, what with the darkness, her nerdy anorak and woolly hat. She climbed down and greeted Mrs Bailey, the English French teacher. They shook hands and kissed each other several times on each cheek. It took for ever. The French English teacher spoke in English to show off, and the English French teacher spoke in French to demonstrate that she, too, was a brilliant linguist. Everybody else just waited, wilted and yawned.
‘Right!’ Mrs Bailey climbed up the bus steps and called for attention. ‘As the French party get off the bus, I’ll call out the name of the English host. When you hear your name, please come forward and welcome your guest.’
A rather cute but tubby French boy was the first to appear. The French and English teachers coordinated their lists.
‘George Simpson!’ called Mrs Bailey.
‘Simpson’s is a porker, then,’ whispered Jess. ‘But I quite like him nonetheless.’
‘Yes,’ said Flora. ‘Cuddly. Something for the winter months, probably.’
A small blonde girl appeared, wrapped in a terrible pale pink padded jacket.
‘Nul points for the clothes,’ said Jess. ‘She looks like a prawn.’
Flora started laughing hysterically.
‘It’s going to take all night!’ she said. ‘I’m asleep already.’
‘We’re all asleep,’ said Jess. ‘This is just a terrible nightmare.’ Come on, come on, Edouard, she thought.
‘Er – Justine Barraclough!’ called Mrs Bailey. Justine fought her way through the crowd and took possession of the human prawn. A tall, dark, handsome boy appeared.
‘I bet that’s Edouard!’ hissed Flora. ‘He’s gorgeous!’
Jess’s heart started to race, and she got ready to claim her Prince Charming.
‘Jodie Gord
on!’ called Mrs Bailey. Oh no! It wasn’t Edouard – it was Gerard! Gerard whose photo had looked a bit weird, with sticking-out ears and thin lips!
‘How amazing!’ whispered Flora. ‘He’s nothing like his photo!’
‘He should definitely sack his PR department!’ said Jess. ‘That photo did him absolutely no favours. He’s such a babe!’
Jodie barged forward and grabbed the gorgeous Gerard. He grinned and kissed her on both cheeks. Wow! Jess felt a thrill of excitement. That’s what Edouard was going to do to her, any minute now, when it was his turn.
Several other kids got off, and the crowd started to thin. Once an English host had claimed their guest, of course, they drove off home to a hot chocolate and bed. A short dark girl appeared, blinking in the swirling headlights of departing cars.
‘I think that’s Marie-Louise!’ said Flora. The teachers consulted their lists. Mrs Bailey looked up.
‘Flora Barclay!’ she called.
‘Bingo!’ said Jess.
Flora left her side and went forward. Jess watched as Marie-Louise kissed Flora on both cheeks, smiled and started talking straight away. She hoped Edouard would be confident like that. She waited. Her mum joined her.
‘With any luck,’ murmured Mum, ‘they’ll have left him behind at a service station.’
There was hardly anybody left now. Jess began to panic. How embarrassing to be the last! And nobody would be able to see the magnificent Edouard and envy her. A small, scruffy, nerdy boy appeared in the bus doorway, wearing glasses. A kind of young French version of Harry Potter, only without the magical charisma. He must be the bus driver’s kid or something – come along for the ride, thought Jess with a grin.
‘Jess Jordan!’ called Mrs Bailey.
‘No!’ breathed Jess. ‘It can’t be! He’s just a kid.’ She didn’t move. Her mum pushed her forward.
‘Go on!’ she whispered. ‘Go and get him! The poor little thing looks shattered.’
Jess stumbled forward, as if in a dream. The French teacher placed a friendly hand on her arm and steered her towards the small boy. He’d climbed down the steps now, and he hardly came up to Jess’s nose. Forget Harry Potter! He was a Hobbit.
And what’s with the glasses? she thought. It was sort of cheating to take your glasses off for a photo. Though Jess’s mum did it all the time. In Mum’s case it was a pathetic attempt to appear young and trendy. In Edouard’s case it was treachery.
‘Jess!’ said Mrs Bailey. ‘This is Edouard, your French partner.’
‘Hello!’ said Jess. Edouard held out his hand in an awkward, formal kind of way.
‘Hello!’ he said. His voice was kind of squeaky.
Unbelievable, thought Jess. He’s a child, a mere child. I can forget all thoughts of flirting. Babysitting would be more appropriate.
At this point, Jess’s mum came forward, shook Edouard warmly by the hand and led him away to the car, talking away nineteen to the dozen in fluent French. Jess had been dreading the thought of her mum showing off her language skills, but as it had turned out, it had saved the day.
Jess followed them to the car, her heart sinking. Edouard was so small he could hardly carry his bag. Oh well. They needn’t have worried about the limited space available in the spare room. You could have accommodated a whole flock of little Edouards in there, like a kind of burrow full of meerkats.
Jess was already dreading taking him in to school tomorrow. Especially as everybody had seen his photo and was expecting a love god. Oh no! What if somebody actually laughed out loud? Jess made urgent plans to call in sick for the next fortnight.
Chapter 9
Once Jess got in the car, another major problem instantly became clear. There was a really terrible stink.
‘Don’t mention the whiff,’ said Mum, starting up the car.
‘Don’t just talk like that in front of him!’ said Jess, embarrassed.
‘Don’t worry,’ said Mum. ‘His command of our native tongue is tentative to the point of non-existent.’
‘Why are you talking in that weird way, like somebody out of a costume drama?’
‘Merely,’ said Mum, ‘to guard against the eventuality of our guest’s comprehension of certain little give-away phrases.’
‘Well, at least use language that I can understand!’ said Jess.
‘Don’t raise your voice to me,’ murmured Mum, turning out of the school drive and heading for home. ‘He’ll be very sensitive to tones of voice. Especially angry ones. And the poor little thing is totally shattered.’
‘We should have a code name for him,’ said Jess. ‘How about “the Queen”?’
‘Nice idea,’ said Mum. ‘Now try to be nice to the Queen. She’s had a terrible journey. At least look over your shoulder and smile at her.’
Jess looked over her shoulder and smiled encouragingly at Edouard. He looked at her and gave a kind of deranged nod.
‘We’ll soon be home!’ said Jess.
Edouard frowned and looked panicky. Surely he understood four words? One of which was ‘be’? Jess sighed – but tried to hide it.
‘Soon be home!’ she repeated, trying for a soothing tone of voice. ‘Only ten minutes!’
Edouard shrugged and looked as if he was going to cry. Jess forced a huge smile out of her emergency smile store and turned back.
‘The Queen didn’t understand a word of that,’ she reported. ‘I think she’s on the edge of a nervous breakdown.’
‘I’ve already told her it’s only ten minutes to the house,’ said Mum. ‘In French.’
‘Don’t use the F-word!’ said Jess. ‘Or the Queen will know we’re talking about her!’
‘OK, then,’ said Mum. ‘Urdu.’
‘What?’
‘Urdu – it’s an Indian language.’
‘I don’t like the sound of it,’ said Jess. ‘Sounds a bit like doo-doo.’
‘I told you not to mention the whiff,’ said Mum.
‘I’ve been trying to ignore it,’ Jess replied. ‘But I can’t help feeling majorly annoyed that the Queen is not only barely visible to the naked eye, but also smells of dog poo.’
‘For goodness’ sake, Jess,’ said Mum, in a relaxed, pleasant tone of voice which belied her vicious message, ‘if you don’t stop whingeing and start being pleasant about the poor little Queen, you won’t get any pocket money from now till Christmas.’
Nobody talked for the rest of the journey. Mum put a South African Gospel CD on to try and create a soothing atmosphere. They arrived, parked the car and went indoors. Soon they were standing awkwardly in the kitchen, blinking in the harsh fluorescent light.
‘I must get this light changed,’ said Mum. ‘It doesn’t do anybody any favours.’ Edouard’s eyes were red and his face was so pale, it was almost green.
In theory he was now able to see that Jess was not quite as ‘pritty’ as in the digitally-enhanced photo she had sent. However, he appeared to be avoiding looking at her. Jess didn’t care, obviously. So she had deceived him a bit by getting Fred to blot out a few spots and put a sparkle in her eye. Edouard had actually concealed the fact that he was a speccy nerd, smaller than the average teddy bear and stank like a dogs’ lavatory.
Mum got some bread out of the bread bin and flourished it, saying something in French, and Edouard answered, apparently in the negative.
‘Go and show Edouard up to his room, please, Jess,’ said Mum. Her voice sounded unreal. It was like bad acting.
‘No, you,’ said Jess. She couldn’t bear to be on her own with him for a split second. Not tonight.
‘Let’s all go, then,’ said Mum.
They trooped upstairs. Mum showed Edouard where the bathroom was – in French – and offered him the opportunity to take a bath, which he also declined. He clearly just wanted to be shut away in his own little burrow and cry himself to sleep.
‘Goodnight!’ said Jess with enthusiasm, waving absurdly as she turned away. The smile was very hard work indeed.
‘Goo’nigh
t!’ replied Edouard, but without a smile. It was awful, just awful.
Jess and Mum regrouped in the kitchen. Even the kitchen looked wrong and strange: it had been cleaned and tidied in honour of Edouard’s arrival. It looked uncomfortable, like somebody else’s place.
‘Let’s have a hot chocolate!’ Jess suggested.
‘I’m worried about him,’ said Mum, as she put the kettle on. ‘What a terrible journey for the poor little thing.’
‘If you call him a poor little thing one more time,’ said Jess, ‘I am going to be sick all over your nice clean floor. He’s fifteen, Mum!’
‘All the same,’ said Mum. ‘He brings out the mother hen in me.’
‘A shame I never managed that particular conjuring trick,’ said Jess acidly. She cut herself a huge doorstop of bread. It seemed ludicrous, but Jess was beginning to feel jealous of Edouard. It was as if her mum loved him more than she loved Jess. Though this feeling was plainly insane, it caused a heartache that could only be soothed by a huge cheese sandwich and a hot chocolate.
‘Doesn’t he stink, though?’ said Jess, more cheerfully after a couple of mouthfuls. ‘I can still smell it down here. What are my mates going to say? They won’t want anything to do with me.’
Mum suddenly got up from the table and crouched down on the floor. Jess was startled. This was no time for animal impersonations.
‘Mum! What are you doing?’ asked Jess. She felt her mum gingerly touch her left shoe. Mum re-emerged, looking triumphant but disgusted.
‘So much for Edouard smelling of dog poo,’ she said. ‘It’s on your shoe, as a matter of fact.’
Jess leapt to her feet in horror and examined her shoes. Mum was right! There was a horrid … well, never mind the details. This is what came of milling about in the dark, and not being able to see where you were going. Hastily Jess removed both shoes.
‘Clean it off! Clean it off?!’ she begged.
‘You’re perfectly capable of cleaning it off yourself,’ said Mum. ‘But I’ve got a deal. I’ll clean your shoes if you promise to be nice and friendly to Edouard for the next fortnight.’