A Grand Old Time

by Judy Leigh

  He stared at her and took another swig. ‘You’re asking me about my profits?’ She was conscious again of the way he spoke English, the American lilt. Evie’s temper was rising and she tried to hold it back.

  ‘I wouldn’t be so presumptuous. I was simply commenting on how you manage to make a living here when the place is such a fecking mess.’

  His face was serious for a moment, then suddenly a smile filled his face and laughter bubbled from his lips.

  ‘You are too honest, Madame. It is very unusual to find someone who speaks their thoughts as you do. It is not a trait I have seen before in the English, and especially not in a woman.’

  ‘OK,’ she huffed and brought her drink down on the table with a bang. ‘First of all, I am Irish; I don’t give a shite for what you think about the English, but you shouldn’t be so sexist about women. Your Simone de Beauvoir would turn in her grave.’

  He swallowed his sparkling wine. His eyes developed a steady glow. ‘You amaze me, Madame, with your speech, but I find myself agreeing with you.’

  ‘Well, good,’ she said and thought for a moment. ‘My name is Evie Gallagher.’

  He held out his hand. ‘Jean-Luc Bonheur.’

  She took his hand and wondered if he would kiss it, being French and a gentleman, but he gave it a squeeze in his huge paw and then took it away and filled her glass and his own. She drank another mouthful. ‘This sparkling stuff is grand. I will buy a bottle. Maybe two.’

  ‘You are on holiday here.’ It was a statement, not a question.

  Evie took another gulp. ‘I am staying at O’Driscoll’s, but then you know that. I have a campervan,’ she added proudly. ‘I can go where I like and stay as long as I like.’

  She scrutinised his face, waiting for him to say something about her being a woman of a certain age, that it was foolish for her to be travelling alone.

  He thought for a moment. ‘Travelling is good for the soul, good therapy, good to spend one’s time meeting new people and visiting new places. A person can only grow spiritually from such an experience. I congratulate you.’

  Evie closed her mouth and took another swig. ‘Have you travelled much, Jean-Luc?’

  ‘I was born with the need to travel. Always.’

  She frowned. ‘How do you mean?’

  ‘My father was an Algerian sailor. I never met him. But I have inherited his hunger to see the world and enjoy nature and experience life.’

  ‘How can you not have met your own father?’

  Jean-Luc was thoughtful. ‘My mother knew him only once. I was born in Marseilles. It was 1941. I left home at fourteen to travel and by the age of twenty-three I was living in California.’

  Evie leaned forward. ‘What made you come back to France?’

  He shrugged. ‘What makes us do anything at all in our life? Love. Or the lack of love.’ He drained his glass and refilled both glasses again.

  ‘You must have had an exciting life,’ she said, swallowing the wine, which fizzed on her tongue; it felt refreshingly cool, and new warmth enveloped her. ‘Mine has been boring.’

  ‘I doubt that.’ He raised his glass. ‘You are a woman who is anything but ordinary. Tell me about your life in Ireland.’

  ‘Not much to say.’ Evie paused for a moment and then began to tell him about Jim and Brendan and Sheldon Lodge, Anaconda Man and the betting shop, Liverpool and Brittany. She talked about the luck of the Irish, her lucky number four; how she had been so fortunate to get a lift from two lovely girls in Roscoff when the wheel fell off her case, and how she had drunk brandy with a charming German student to escape the chilly atmosphere of Oradour.

  He listened, his dark eyes alert to her story, filling her glass again, sipping the wine to moisten his lips and lifting the bottle to replenish their glasses. She was relaxed, feeling warm and happy in his company. She drank again, the wine fizzing against the back of her throat, and she closed her eyes for a moment. The wine was sweet and Mr Grumpy was talking to her in his soft, gravelly voice, waving his hands and telling her about his passion for music.

  Chapter Thirty

  She blinked her eyes open. It was a struggle to remember where she was, but the dry taste in her mouth reminded her of all the sparkling wine she had drunk and how desperately she needed to yawn and yawn again. She rested her head on her arms for just a moment and let her heavy lids close as she listened to the murmur of a man’s voice.

  She was conscious of a thin, blue cover over her body and a hard mattress beneath her. She was in a dark room with pictures on the walls. The heavy wallpaper was covered in lantern shapes in burgundy on a background in shades of yellow. The curtains were closed to keep out the light but birds twittered outside. The red numbers on the little alarm clock showed seven thirty. It was early morning. Dust shifted and held still in the brightness between the curtains and she pulled them open and stared down on the courtyard below.

  Evie was in his bedroom and she was sure she had slept alone. She wondered where Jean-Luc had spent the night and where he was now. Her eyes were sluggish and stuck with sleep. The legs of her jeans twisted around her calves and her shirt felt clammy and slept-in. She recalled drinking three bottles of wine with Jean-Luc, and putting her head down on the wooden table to rest. The memory came straggling back to her: she must have fallen into a doze and he had lifted her up and brought her here to sleep.

  She slithered from the bed; her shoes were still on her feet and her handbag was placed on the flagstone floor. Besides the dark wooden double bed with its scant covers, there was an old-fashioned wardrobe with a huge mirror and a matching chest of drawers with brass handles. In one corner there was an acoustic guitar placed carefully against a wall, and an amplifier. There were lots of books, some on shelves and some piled on the floor. She picked one up, then another. They were in French; she glanced at the shelves and noticed a few of the books were in English and one was in a language which she recognised from school as Latin.

  The surface of the chest of drawers was scratched and there were deep rings made by wine glasses or coffee cups. There was a prescription bottle of tablets, a hip flask of brandy and an empty tumbler, and some framed Polaroid photos of Jean-Luc as a young man with long hair and a serious face and the same brooding eyes. There was a photo of him playing his guitar, wearing a T-shirt that advertised a music festival in California; another photo showed him, again serious, with a laughing blonde woman and a child, a little girl. A later picture, Jean-Luc, hair in a ponytail, with a dark woman who had a short haircut and strong features. There was a silver-framed, older photo of a woman in a brown dress, probably his mother. Evie recognised the sepia style; she had one of herself and her brothers and sisters, her own mammy and da, taken in the late 1940s.

  There was a photo of a fourth woman looking directly into the camera, a lively, cheerful woman in her fifties or sixties, a more modern photo taken in the courtyard. There was a signature on the bottom corner which read ‘Toujours, Hélène’. Evie chuckled: Jean-Luc seemed to have had a fair number of women in his life.

  She followed the stairs across the landing and opened several doors. There were three other bedrooms, one with a large double bed covered with a mattress and old pillows, the curtains drawn. The other two rooms contained junk: boxes, rolls of wallpaper, magazines in piles and books. There were stacks of vinyl records in a dark case. She pushed open the door to a bathroom equipped with a large white bath and a shower, the neck hanging down to a broken spout. The tiles were cracked and the floor was bare boards. One solitary thin towel hung from a rail. She crossed the landing and went down the stairs into a kitchen, where there was a large range and a wooden table. The wind puffed through an open window, making the thin curtains waft.

  There was a vast living room with an open fire, the remains of ash and coal spattered in the hearth. Again, there were more books, one of his jumpers left over the back of a chair, its arms hanging down. The door to the outside creaked when she opened it. The sunlight was still soft out
side, but the air had cooled. Cave Bonheur was quiet except for a few fast swallows, which dipped and lifted across the courtyard. Evie went into the little office and through to the barn where she had shared the sparkling wine, but the lights were off. She wondered whether she should take some bottles and leave money; she was uncomfortable about the amount she’d drunk, and resolved she would come back, just to buy some wine.

  The little campervan was parked where she had left it. The doors were locked. She fumbled in her bag and found the keys. As she slid into the driver’s seat she noticed two bottles of sparkling wine on the passenger seat, bearing the label ‘Cave Bonheur’. She scratched her head and started the engine. It was the fourteenth of July, and wasn’t four her lucky number? As she pulled out of the driveway, she took care to avoid the huge wooden wine-bottle sign which leaned, Pisa-like, to one side. She wondered whether the last wine-taster had hit it after a good session drinking sparkling wine. She turned onto the road and checked the time. She would be back at O’Driscoll’s for the breakfast Paulette would have ready at half eight.

  It was two days until she could drink alcohol again, and this time it was only one glass of red, during lunch with Caroline and Nige. The food was delicious and Evie was at ease in their house, which had been cleverly renovated and snuggled in the shoulder of a hill.

  ‘What is this stuff called again?’

  ‘Baba ganoush.’ Caroline offered her more of the dip and some crudités. ‘It’s Nige’s signature dish – well, one of them, anyway. He loves to make Lebanese food. He had a Lebanese girlfriend before I knew him. Or was she Turkish?’

  Nige started to collect the plates. ‘Israeli,’ he mumbled and disappeared into the kitchen, returning with strong coffee and some little cakes that looked like sugared shredded wheat. Evie nibbled one.

  ‘This is grand,’ she said. ‘They are so sweet and full of nuts.’

  ‘Pistachios,’ explained Nige, pouring thick coffee into ornate cups. Evie chewed for a minute. Something was on her mind.

  ‘You know the man in the bar who stopped the fight the other night in O’Driscoll’s?’

  Caroline gave her a look. ‘Jean-Luc Bonheur?’

  ‘I just wondered why he was so grumpy. Do you know him well?’

  Caroline shook her head. ‘No-one does. I mean, we’ve been here what – twenty years. He’s always been a bit aloof.’

  Nige was refilling the coffee cups. ‘He’s got worse over the years. I mean, his business wasn’t always as bad as it is now. I don’t know how he sells any wine.’

  ‘The kid from the village.’ Caroline pursed her lips and took a mouthful of coffee. ‘He’s a bit of a loner too, lives with his widowed mother. He goes up there every day and keeps the place going, I think.’

  Evie was about to say his name, Benji, but she thought better of it, and asked a question instead. ‘Why is his business so bad?’

  ‘Haven’t you noticed his place from the road?’ Caroline asked. ‘It’s practically falling down.’

  ‘No, I haven’t seen it.’ Evie wondered if her lie was convincing.

  Nige poured himself a coffee. ‘Since his girlfriend died, he’s not really kept it up.’

  Evie met his eyes. ‘What happened?’

  Caroline took over. ‘Sad, really. Long illness about five years ago. He nursed her through till the end.’

  ‘No wonder he is so grumpy.’ Evie picked up another cake.

  Caroline gave her another discerning look. ‘Why the questions, Evie?’

  The blood warmed her cheeks and she shrugged. ‘I just wondered. Is it a good place to buy wine?’

  Nige suggested she pop into Cave Bonheur and try it out for herself; the wine was good but the service was terrible. Caroline interrupted. ‘You probably won’t get a word out of the miserable sod. He doesn’t do sociable. I don’t know anyone who has a good thing to say about him.’

  Evie’s mouth was full of words of defence. She had found him funny, generous, good-natured, intelligent. But before that, in the Irish bar, hadn’t he been moody, disagreeable? Perhaps that was his natural state. But then she considered – first impressions aren’t always right. And he had been charming during their last encounter. Charming and elusive. She decided to say nothing. She ate more cake.

  It was six o’clock and Ray was filling up the bar with new bottles from the basement, ready for a busy evening. Paulette was out with the kids so Evie decided to stop for a chat. There was music playing on the jukebox: Ray’s favourite, Dropkick Murphys.

  ‘Hi Ray. Good music.’

  He smiled. ‘Can I get you a drink before we open, Evie?’

  ‘Oh, a sparkling water would be lovely. I’m trying to cut back on the wine.’

  ‘Why’s that?’

  Evie thought of the free tasting at Cave Bonheur and waking up in a strange bed. She smiled. ‘Not sure it’s doing me any good. Thought I might go on the wagon for a bit.’

  Ray laughed and handed her a glass and an opened bottle. ‘I don’t believe it,’ he told her. She took a mouthful of water, and then another. She was feeling cooler.

  Ray suddenly remembered. ‘Ah, you had a visitor today. I almost forgot to tell you.’

  Evie wrinkled her nose and shook her head in confusion.

  Ray was polishing the bar surface. ‘Jean-Luc Bonheur came in here, looking for you.’

  She tried a casual voice. ‘Oh? And what did he want?’

  ‘He said he’d pick you up tonight at seven thirty.’

  Her mouth dropped open. ‘What for?’

  ‘I thought you’d know. Dinner, apparently.’

  She was about to deny it; she was about to suggest the man was losing the plot. Caroline had said no-one had a good word to say about the man. She thought about the two bottles of sparkling wine on the passenger seat of the campervan. She thought again. ‘Oh. Grand. I’d better go and get myself ready then.’

  Ray grinned. ‘Hot date, is it?’

  Evie smiled back and brushed a hand through her hair. ‘More of a business meeting, I expect.’ And she was gone.

  Chapter Thirty-One

  In her room, Evie tried on the long, African-print dress she had bought in the market, and smiled into the mirror; she would never have worn such a dress in Sheldon Lodge. Mrs Lofthouse and the paradise pink lipstick loomed in her mind, and she grinned as she applied a bit of gloss to her mouth and brushed her hair. She was tanned now and her hair had grown a little, silver through the blonde. At the corners of her eyes were deep lines, skin the sun had not reached, which showed when she squinted or laughed, cream against brown. Evie’s reflection beamed back at her; laughter was always a great remedy. She wondered if Mr Grumpy would laugh that evening. It was time for her to leave.

  Jean-Luc was waiting outside in a battered red sports car; she’d seen it before when she first arrived at O’Driscoll’s. She had parked the campervan next to it. The soft top was folded down and Jean-Luc’s hair was now brushed out, a mass of grey curls. The collar to his denim jacket was turned up and he was wearing round sunglasses. Evie slid into the passenger seat and he asked her if she was cold, if she minded the top down. She said she didn’t mind at all, it was grand. They drove off, Jean-Luc revving the engine loudly.

  She’d expected a simple meal in his house, but they were sitting across a table in a chic restaurant. Evie saw the prices and decided that she would offer to pay. He explained the menu to her and bad-temperedly suggested that she should learn French.

  ‘I think I will,’ said Evie. ‘I’ll ask Ray or Paulette if they will teach me. I’m sure they’ll be good at it.’

  He looked stung and ordered their food, broodily sipping at the water the waiter brought to the table. The starter arrived and he began to eat, hardly looking at her. Evie asked the waiter for a bottle of red house wine in French and Jean-Luc shot her a sharp look.

  ‘Is that all right?’ she asked him.

  ‘I would have chosen a better wine. The one you have chosen is bad – overpriced
vinegar.’ He exhaled and began to dip bread in the garlic sauce on his plate.

  The main course arrived, beef in pastry, and a different sauce, probably mushrooms and cream. The waiter poured the wine into their glasses and she made a point of drinking enthusiastically. ‘This is grand,’ she said. It was overpriced vinegar.

  The silence was accompanied by chewing. Evie decided the atmosphere needed to change; she smiled at Jean-Luc. ‘It was kind of you to invite me to dinner.’

  He was surprised. ‘But it was your idea.’

  She put down her knife and fork. ‘My idea?’

  He munched for a few moments and then spoke. ‘After we drank three bottles of sparkling wine, before you passed out, you said to me that I should take you out to dinner.’

  Evie blushed. ‘And you always do what random women tell you, do you?’

  He shrugged carelessly and continued to eat. Then he said, ‘You told me that my business was … what did you say … “a fecking mess”. I wondered if you would have some great advice for me, being such an experienced businesswoman.’

  She decided he was an irritating rude man. She considered what to say, but Jean-Luc stopped eating and looked at her, his eyes dark embers.

  ‘That was before you told me you were an actor in a pornography film.’

  Evie put her face in her hands. ‘I said that?’

  He nodded.

  ‘And is that why you asked me to dinner? Because I told you to and because I said I was a pornography star?’

  He continued to eat, then took a deliberate mouthful of the bitter wine, before wiping his lips with the napkin.

  ‘No, I invited you because I like you. You make me smile. It is a long time since I have smiled like this.’

  Evie prodded her food. ‘Well, Jean-Luc, if it is advice you want, I have plenty for you. Your wine-tasting place is in need of a good scrub-down. It’s filthy. The cobwebs need to go and the walls need painting. The tables need some nice candles and a few little knick-knacks to make it feel like home, and … oh, yes – the sign you have outside is shite. No wonder no-one comes in; the place looks like a deserted cowshed and it smells like one. Your wine is good but you don’t market it properly while you are sitting on your arse playing your guitar and singing David Bowie songs. You need to smarten up your act and get out there and advertise yourself – run a proper shop, rather than leaving it to that poor little kid you boss about and treat like dirt while you mope around and drink away the profits.’