Euro Tripped

by Sally Bryan

  Marriage to Freya? Aye, that would very well make Gable happy. The obvious problem being that the present was far from the right time and besides, what kind of man would succumb to such suggestions under pressure, from a father-in-law, no less. He may be happy Gable had ‘manned up’ but on some level, he’d always know that in doing so, he was less of a man simply for going along with it. Though in all honesty, such concerns weren’t even tertiary right now.

  Gable downed another dram. “Angus, it’s not just the workload and that we have residencies approaching. The type of wedding I’d love to give my future wife would cost more money than I have right now and over the last five years, I’ve accrued rather a lot of…”

  “Debt!” He cut Gable off by showing a large palm. “Money, ain’t an issue, so let’s not hear that idiot excuse again. I have it and you know it. And besides, it’s custom for the father of the bride to pay and so be it.”

  Gable found his voice rising in pitch. “That’s very kind of you, Mr Argyle, but wherever we end up at residency, we’d be sharing accommodation with other young professionals, out of necessity, which is hardly how Freya and I would envision beginning our married life.” Gable thought he detected the flicker of a smile on Mr Argyle, perhaps even admiration like there was a mutual, unspoken understanding that Gable was coming around to the idea and was even now indirectly hustling for as much as he could get. It was how his tone had sounded even to himself, unintentional as it was.

  Mr Argyle refilled the glass. “If you marry Freya, I’ll agree to buy you a house near whichever hospital you end up. No need to squat it out with other young’uns and certainly no living in some hospital provided basement.” He prodded the dram toward Gable who took it and began sipping, provoking a look of derision from the opposition.

  “A house?” Gable blew out air and pushed up his glasses. He was training to be a doctor, not a negotiator and took his time choosing the next words. “A place in the suburbs is always preferential to a city centre flat.”

  Mr Argyle leaned back and interlaced his fingers. “I’ll not have my daughter living in some English dung heap, so don’t you worry.”

  “And a car?”

  “I’ll get you a Land Rover, perfect for a large family but I want the proposal this summer and a quick wedding before you begin residency.”

  “I’ll propose this summer but we’ll have the wedding after our two-year residency but before we begin specialism.”

  “Very well but you’ll have to forego the vehicle and settle for a smaller place in the city.”

  “How about we just wait one year?”

  “Then you’ll have the house in the suburbs but no vehicle.”

  “We have the wedding this year and you pay off our student debts.”

  “Done! But I want you to start working out. It’s bad enough my first grandson will be short-sighted with your ridiculous hairline, I don’t want him also having your man tits.”

  Gable straightened but didn’t challenge him on it. He knew that last point would be the hardest to get Freya to agree to, she just wasn’t prone to whimsy short-term thinking like most women. Her agreeing to marry Gable was one thing but getting her to go along with a snap wedding before this coming October was another thing entirely and would require much thought about how to guide, twist and steer her into accepting, even if it was for her own good. But there’d be time to think about all that and Gable hoped he’d come up with something sufficiently persuasive.

  “And I want my first grandchild before you begin specialism, which gives you two years to get it done, otherwise my daughter will end up going through with it and knowing that girl it’ll be six years heads down, no break and we may as well just go home and not bother with this whole thing. Once you’ve had two then she can go back to work if she chooses.”

  Gable closed his eyes and squeezed at the flesh above his nose. He’d hoped kids wouldn’t come into it. Getting married was one thing, as it was only really an official seal on what he already had and, practically speaking, it wouldn’t really change all that much. Aye, the joke would have been on Mr Argyle for sure because marriage certainly wouldn’t have prevented Freya from continuing with her dreams but children would and Gable now felt foolish for underestimating her father. For the first time, Gable felt dirty about negotiating Freya’s future without her input or consent and hoped the feeling would pass after a few days.

  “One child and then she can return to work and we can think about the second after she completes her specialist training,” Gable implored.

  For a while, Mr Argyle rubbed at the bristles on his chin. “No.” He finally declared. “I want two before she returns.”

  Gable had to look on the bright side because at least the man wasn’t insisting on any son being named Angus, which was a stupid name if ever he’d heard one. “Very well. But I want ten thousand pounds transferred to my bank account by Monday morning.” Ah, the whisky was finally beginning to work its sweet magic.

  The skin wrinkled on the old man’s forehead. “Ten thousand pounds? What on earth for?”

  Gable tried to stand, in what he’d hoped to be a physical stamp of the upcoming point but only ended up slumping back into the wicker. “Because we’re off on a Euro trip.” Where apparently he would propose to the love of his life.

  And then Gable realised his mistake.

  Because he was too intoxicated to drive home.

  Which meant spending the night at the in-laws.

  Chapter One

  Dinan

  It’s not too late to turn back.” Gabe had said as the line of cars crept forward at the port.

  “I bet you’ve been waiting to say that since Edinburgh.” It was the closest I’d ever been to a ferry and couldn’t believe the sheer scale of the ugly thing, a marvel of engineering, a monster that seemed to enlarge as we approached. How such a craft stayed afloat was beyond me. “And, while technically it’s not too late to turn back, it would have made more sense before driving all the way down here.”

  The drive from Scotland’s capital to Poole in Dorset had taken eight hours, almost the entire length of the island of Britain, which I was about to leave for the first time in over five years. Why would I want to turn back?

  And then we’d rolled into the ferry and parked as though it was any ordinary, if slightly claustrophobic, carpark.

  My eyes fixed on Gabe as we exited the camper and it was that moment I’d always remember.

  He’d lovingly caressed his hand over the large round VW badge like he always did the curvature of my hips, the same pervy expression on his face as he watched for my reaction.

  “You imbecile,” I tutted.

  But it was exhilarating and I could feel something coursing through my veins. We were going on our Epic Euro Trip, me and my incredible boyfriend and it was the feeling of freedom because for the first time ever, we had no commitments, no cares and Europe was ours. We’d intentionally made no schedule so we could go wherever we chose and do whatever we desired, no constraints, and now I pulled him away from the van, grazing his hand with my thumb and dragged him towards the steps where the other passengers were filing.

  “And the camper, tell me again how?” I’d been astonished when, the night before, he’d rocked up in it, stopping outside our student house, honking the horn, revving the engine and generally causing a scene amongst our jealous peers.

  He pulled the same knowing grin of the night before. “Oh, you know, the trip of a lifetime, why not go all out and do it properly?”

  I didn’t necessarily disagree. It’s just that money was already a big enough concern for us. After years of comparatively frugal student living, we’d managed to save a reasonable wedge for the trip but still, we’d budgeted everything, had a strict daily spending limit and, apart from our final night on the continent, when we intended to splash on a four-star hotel somewhere, we’d be staying in hostels. I never nagged him and didn’t wish to put a downer on this wonderful feeling before we even step
ped foot on the ferry so I decided to let the subject go but now Gabe sensed my trepidation and gave my hand an encouraging squeeze.

  “It’s ok, trust me, the van’ll actually save us money. It’s called a camper van for a reason.”

  That was a fair point and it was reassuring to know that if some far off town only possessed the one dingy hostel and it was full of snorers, or worse, then all we needed to do was step outside and sleep in the vehicle.

  It was one of those bright orange Volkswagen camper vans, of the type you often saw in old movies where runaway teens drove off into the sunset with a bunch of rowdy friends and doubtless a copious supply of soft drugs. The stories it could probably tell, it had the full authentic look to it, like it better not require a part or two over the next few months and a tonne of rust around the skirts. I’d soon become accustomed to the unpleasant fust smell but more importantly, it was in good working order. I just worried about our finances, conscious as I was to the level of debt being massed by students of medicine.

  He saw my concern, “if we’re doing this…”

  “…We’re doing it right.” I’d finished for him then smiled because the steps had given way to the ferry atrium and the feeling of exhilaration intensified.

  Now, after seven and a half hours and a quick change on the Isle of Guernsey, we rumbled off the ferry and into the beautiful port town of St Malo, Brittany, in the middle of the afternoon.

  I buckled in. “I should probably have asked but you’ve driven on the right before, yeah?”

  His neck was probing forward, eyes squinting in that cute way he always did whenever he was giving something his full concentration. “Huh? Oh, no, I was sort of with you every single day for the last five years.”

  I flicked him on the arm and told him to find somewhere to park because, as it turned out, this town was incredible.

  St Malo was indeed beautiful, possessing star-shaped medieval defensive walls with cannons, a long pier and beaches. The July tourist flocks were dense and enforced a crawling pace on us as we explored the streets but that was no matter because I was in France and away from Edinburgh, responsibility. What stood out were the crêperies, evidently a Bretagne speciality and it seemed like every other storefront, as well as many of the street stalls, were making great exhibits of men pouring batter over hot grills, using giant ladles to spread out the mixture before flipping it over and adding all kinds of goodies, sweet and savoury before folding over the edges to trap the filling inside. Gabe bought a banana filled crêpe and I had Nutella and as the sun burned down, we enjoyed the treats sitting on a wall overlooking the English Channel from where we’d sailed.

  The two ports were only a hundred and eighty miles apart though the difference in mindset was huge. English port towns tended to be disgusting industrialised crap holes, like no consideration was required for the beauty of such places since they were merely transit points where people said hello and goodbye to the country. The French obviously had different ideas, like they were the first place a visitor would see, so best make a bloody good first impression.

  I rested my head on Gabe’s shoulder and watched the gulls dipping into the waves to pluck out fish. We were finally here, alone and together. We’d previously managed the occasional day trip and even a weekend away once but the workload was such that it could never be a regular occurrence. It wasn’t only that time was an issue but also money, as with most students, which was why after two years I’d been happy to take him to visit the family home in Inverness. Despite Gabe having a “wonderful time” with Dad, there were always reasons we could never spend subsequent Christmases at the family estate. Gabe was either too ill to travel or one of his grandparents was poorly.

  “This could be my final Christmas with Grandma Camilla,” he’d said, “but you go ahead and we’ll see each other at the start of term.” Which was why it was so awesome to finally have him to myself, all without study groups and insane deadlines and stress and anxiety. I’d enjoy this trip.

  “Your dad,” Gabe churned banana in his mouth whilst staring down into a tourist pamphlet, “you ever recall him hurting anyone?”

  I shot him a glare as my body went rigid. “What? Of course not. Why?”

  He flipped the page and squinted at something about a local arts and craft shop, hardly his thing. “Huh? Oh, nothing.”

  “Ok.” I turned back to the sea, crammed my mouth with Nutella and considered how that had hardly been the first odd question about my dad, pulled from nowhere, he’d asked since leaving Scotland.

  Gabe had first suggested an Epic Euro Trip three years before, though it was only the last few months we’d determined to actually go through with it. The stress and workload had beaten us both and he was right about now being the only convenient time there’d ever be because after this summer, if we thought the workload had been tough before, well then, that was nothing but a dress rehearsal compared to what was coming. I hoped that after recharging over this summer, we’d be ready for it.

  Of course, it never helps having your face stuck in a book when all your so-called friends are repeatedly posting images of their world travels. Never having been out of education, it was the one thing I’d missed and didn’t everybody like to rub it in. Gabe had one friend who’d been nearly everywhere, experienced everything, photographed it, lived it and had not been home in over two years. It was certainly one way of living though not quite for me, but it was hard to tell how much Gabe had been influenced over the months as the photos and stories gradually chipped away at his soul.

  “Where to then, my love?” I asked Gabe, who’d spent the last few minutes researching the local towns.

  “I’m thinking Dinan looks interesting.” He showed me a screenshot of a medieval cobbled street with timber-framed houses meandering up a hill, plants pots on every windowsill, not an imperfection in sight. “It looks like a scene from a calendar.”

  I nodded enthusiastically, humming my affirmation and within a few minutes we were back in the camper, making the twenty-mile drive south. I used the time to research the area. “Brittany is one of the six Celtic nations, along with Scotland, Ireland, the Isle of Man, Wales and Cornwall.”

  He shook his head and grinned. “Even now, you can’t help yourself.”

  “Oh, shut up. I suppose you were hoping to breeze through Europe without learning a single thing, Doctor? Well, that’s not how this MD operates.”

  “Sorry, Doctor,” he smirked, “ok, ok, so tell me this … does that make the Bretagne British or the British Bretagne?” He squinted, “hang on, isn’t that the same word?”

  That quandary went unanswered as we pulled into the auberge di jeunesse, or youth hostel - How much better it sounded in French. It was an old watermill set within woodland about a one-mile walk from the old town. The whole area was beautiful woodland and although we could have spent the night in the camper, I really wanted to stay in the incredible building.

  We checked in and then made the pleasant walk down the hill, reaching Dinan after ten minutes. It was our introduction to fairytale France.

  Dinan was built at the bottom of a valley on the River Rance, with the forest so close you could smell the leaves and hear the birds in the trees. The stone buildings were in that impeccable old French style as though every inch and detail was designed and planned with absolute love and care. Small boats were moored from the ancient stone bridge until the river bend took them out of sight. In the distance, a viaduct loomed over all like a lord.

  “Welcome to France.” I gasped whilst surveying the line of restaurants along the riverbank. It was a hard choice but we decided on a bistro.

  Gabe pulled out my seat and the waiter presented us with menus. My French was non-existent but the numbers beside each item were easy to understand. “These prices, Gabe?”

  His hand reached across the table to clasp my arm. “Aye but it’s our first night here so I think it’s all right to make an exception.”

  I hummed, knowing I’d inevitably or
der simple fish rather than the fillet steak.

  He was studying my expression. “I must say, I’ve always admired that about you.”

  “Admired?”

  “Yeah, well, you know, you’re frugal when you needn’t be.”

  I shrugged. “I do need be, I’m a student and a Scottish one at that. You ever hear the story of how copper wire was invented … two Scotsmen arguing over a penny?”

  He tutted, “you know full well what I mean, Miss Argyle.”

  And indeed I did. But just because my family came from wealth didn’t mean I should do what other people might and ask for endless handouts, only to waste it. Thinking about it, I’d most likely inherited my dad’s frugality. No, first I’d earn my own money and then if I wanted to blow the lot on sparkly trinkets then at least I’d only be harming myself.

  I kicked him beneath the table. “Anyway, Mr Scrimp, what happened to you?” I’d always known Gabe as a spendthrift. Not once in five years had he even bought me flowers and our anniversary usually meant a meal and bottle of wine in our student accommodation, not that I didn’t adore that kind of thing but right now I was a tiny bit concerned about the state of our budget and the fact we’d probably have to strangle our spending over the next few days just to make up for tonight.

  He folded his arms. “Nothing, nothing, I just wanted this to be the best trip ever, that’s all, and there’s no harm in having an expensive, real French meal on our first night here, is there?”

  I held up my hands, “hey, it’s ok, I was hardly being serious.”

  The waiter returned and we both ordered moules-frites, or mussels and fries which, we were told, was a popular Bretagne dish. Gabe added a bottle of Muscadet, a white wine made in the Loire Valley.

  “Gabe, you shouldn’t have, fifty Euros, for one bottle?”

  “Exactly. And you’re about to taste the best wine of your life.” He stretched out his legs beneath the table. “Relax, we’re having fun.”