He was distracted from these thoughts by the jingle that announced the weather report. At precisely the same moment, he heard the familiar sound of Charles’s footsteps coming from the garage. George’s house had a lovely front door bordered by flowers and a rock garden, and even a little garden gnome. But ever since they had first become neighbours thirty years ago, Charles had always come in through the cluttered garage, picking his way, despite his bad hip, through the cardboard boxes, rakes, buckets and other assorted odds and ends that lined the walls, and in some places were piled up to the ceiling. That was just the way it was.
Charles walked in, his eyes fixed on the television, and in a gesture that had been repeated every time he had walked in here for the last thirty years, he held his hand out to George. George shook it without taking his eyes off the screen. The weather forecaster was waving her arms in front of a sun-studded map of France.
‘Oh, would you look at that! No rain tomorrow either!’ cried Charles, who had not worked as a farmer for several years now (unless a handful of chickens in the garden and his great-granddaughter’s pony in the old stables counted as farming) but had retained a healthy suspicion of dry weather.
‘It looks like beautiful weather all the way, and not too hot either, would you believe.’
‘You’re right. Except for Pau, it’s not looking so good down there. Still, plenty of time for that to change. We’re not there yet, are we?’
Charles went to fetch two mugs from the old dresser.
‘Stupid damned thing,’ he said, massaging his hip. That hip was giving him a lot of bother these days, and yet, George thought to himself, Charles was still young, barely seventy-six. He was short and stocky with a round, bald head, rosy farmer’s cheeks and large hands that had seen much hard labour. He wore sixties-style glasses and had the air of an honest man you could count on. And it was true: you could always count on Charles Lepensier.
George was reluctant to bring up Adèle. But he eventually took the plunge.
‘That’s just it, Charles. We’re not there yet. I don’t even know if we’ll ever get there. We’ve got a problem. You remember Adèle, my granddaughter who lives over in London? She called this evening.’
Of course Charles remembered Adèle. George only had one granddaughter and no grandson so there was no risk of confusing her with anyone else. When it came to his own extended tribe, on the other hand, he was always getting names mixed up. Thanks to the family tendency not to hang about with producing offspring, he could now count eighteen grandchildren and four great-grandchildren, and, God willing, there would be more to come.
‘Oh, really? Is everything alright in London?’ Charles asked anxiously.
‘Oh yes, everything’s fine, just fine. That’s not the problem … She’s worried,’ George said emphatically.
‘What do you mean, she’s worried … about you? What, just today? What’s she getting worried about you now for, all of a sudden?’
‘Yes, I was a bit taken aback as well. But I reckon it’s her mother who’s worried. So she must have asked the kid to, you know, keep tabs on me.’
‘Blast it. Your women don’t half choose their moments.’
‘You’re not wrong about that.’
‘She’s not going to come here though, is she?’
‘Oh no, that wouldn’t be like her. And even if she did decide to, I worked it out: it would take her at least thirteen hours to get here from London. No, what’s really bothering me is that she’ll call, you can bet on that. Probably not every day or anything, but it wouldn’t surprise me if her mother had asked her to call once a week. Think about it, if I don’t pick up the phone once or twice, all hell will break loose, and Françoise will come haring back from her Peruvian mountains. Just imagine what’ll happen if they can’t get hold of me for almost two months!’
‘We should have seen this coming,’ growled Charles, barely concealing his annoyance. ‘It was too good to be true that your daughter decided to disappear off to the middle of nowhere for two months, no phone calls or anything. I could barely believe it, to be quite honest. I guess we just forgot she had her daughter up her sleeve.’
They had spent many hours discussing George’s only daughter, Françoise. The woman who, since her divorce and the death of her mother five years earlier, had not let her father alone even for a moment, the woman who – rightly or wrongly – believed her father to be seriously ill, had suddenly decided to fly off to the depths of the Andes to take part in an endurance expedition. This in itself was not surprising as she was always signing up for marathons, treks and other such activities favoured by the moneyed classes. But on every trip, no matter the time difference, she would find a moment to call her father, every evening if she could. This time, however, she had promised two months of total radio silence. It was the chance they had been waiting for, and George and Charles had leapt at it. This was the moment to put their plan into action, or they never would. And now, with a week to go before their grand départ, they were back to square one.
George could feel himself being rapidly swept under a rising tide of dejection. If even Charles was losing faith in their plan, they were done for. The click of the kettle made Charles jump. He poured the tea in silence. Without looking up from the cups, he finally spoke.
‘I know we’ve already talked about this but, George … are you sure you can’t tell your daughter and granddaughter?’
‘No, no, definitely not, let’s not get into that again, for Pete’s sake! If Françoise found out … you’ve seen what she’s like, Charles. She’ll put me straight into an old people’s home where I’ll get needles stuck in me every fifteen minutes and be escorted to the loo to take a piss, you can be sure of that. She’d have me preserved in formaldehyde if she could. She ought to be halfway up a mountain as we speak and she promised me, y’see, promised me, she drummed it into me that she wouldn’t be able to call me at all for two months. So that’s that, and so much the better. Now Adèle, being the clever girl that she is … we mustn’t fool ourselves, she’ll find a way. And then, and then, with a couple of clicks on the internet, bam! I’ll find myself with a squadron of nurses on my tail. No, Françoise can’t find out about this, not from me, not from you, not from Adèle. And that’s that. Pass the tea.’
He lifted the cup to his lips and put it down again before continuing his rant.
‘You see, for you, it’s simple. None of this bothers your wife at all. She even encouraged you to do it, to go off for two months. I’ve got to tell you, Thérèse really surprised me there. Ah, Charles, I suppose we’ve only got ourselves to blame for the way our kids turn out!’
Charles smiled, but he looked deflated. The two men drank their tea in silence. The ticking of the clock became almost deafening in their ears. George was the first to speak.
‘Come on, show me what you’ve got.’
Shyly, like a child who had just been told off, Charles pulled out his leather satchel and retrieved the printouts and travel guides, spreading them over the wipe-clean tablecloth.
‘What’s all this, then?’ asked George. ‘Ah yes, of course, Sauveterre-de-Comminges, between Lannemezan and Foix. Stage eleven, that’s a good one, that.’
These were the undisputed highlights of the evening visits, when the tea-drinking ritual was enlivened with a sense of adventure. Poring over the guidebooks and running their fingers over the dog-eared atlas, the two men sat surrounded by hotel reservations and colourful brochures, going over their route again and again, suddenly feeling thirty years younger. In seven days, they would embark on the Tour de France.
Friday 19 September
Chanteloup (Deux-Sèvres)
‘The Tour de France?’ exclaimed the young postman, somewhat taken aback.
‘That’s right,’ George replied proudly.
‘Blimey … But, um … you know … with your bad knee and everything, isn’t that going to be a bit, um, you know, a bit of a challenge?’
‘What makes you think
that? Our feet are barely going to touch the ground!’
‘Well, exactly! That’s what’s worrying me! Three thousand five hundred kilometres on a bike, that takes some muscle!’
‘Oh, no, no, no … We’re doing it by car,’ replied George, disappointed that he had to correct this rather appealing misunderstanding so quickly.
‘Oh, I see! Gosh, you really scared me there!’ said the postman, laughing. ‘I get it now. You had me worried there for a moment. There was I thinking—’
‘Well, it’s still going to be a long trip. Twenty-one stages and forty-nine villages. It’s going to take us about two months, all in all.’
‘Yeah, but, well, it’s not like doing it on a bike, is it?’ The young postman seemed to have lost interest now and he was just about to change the subject when George said:
‘Yes, but even so, I can assure you it’s taken a hell of a lot of organising. See, me and Charles, we’ve been working on this for months. He’s been on the internet and everything.’
‘Oh right,’ said the postman politely. ‘Well in that case, let me know what you want me to do with your post.’
There was no point pushing it. It was not the first time this had happened. He could have explained that they would be going to far-flung places, some of them dangerous, or even downright foreign (Italy!). He had sometimes found himself regretting that they were not in fact going by bike, just to see the look on people’s faces. It got him down when people seemed to think his grand plan was worth peanuts. After all, even in a car it was still three thousand five hundred kilometres.
George sighed and got out his old orange notebook.
‘Yes, right, you can give my mail to Thérèse … from the twenty-fifth, so this coming Thursday until … wait, let me see … until 24 November. That’s a Monday. If we end up taking longer, Thérèse will tell you, alright? Well, you’ll work it out with her.’
‘Great, I’ll do that then. And the same with parcels? Oh that reminds me, one came for you earlier. Here you go.’ He held out a small package about the size of a shoebox that was covered in what looked like home-made wrapping paper. George had been waiting for this for quite some time; it had not been easy to come by.
He went home and put the package into his suitcase without opening it. He had even left a space for it. Just as he was closing his rather sad little case, he was overcome by the absurdity of the whole project. It now seemed ridiculous, far-fetched and pointless. He returned to his armchair, wedged a few cushions behind his back, picked up the remote control and switched on the television. As he had done every lunchtime for years. It was just so easy to stick to a familiar routine. And here he was getting ready to start the Tour de France. Madness.
Why had he agreed to go with Charles? He of all people, who had so rarely left the bocage, even when he had been in the peak of good health. Why, at the age of eighty-three, had he suddenly caught the travel bug? His last chance, that was probably what everyone was saying. Go on, Grandpa, have one last go at it for your pride, buck yourself up and make yourself feel invincible one last time, pretend you’re getting stronger, not weaker. ‘Realising a boyhood dream at his age, isn’t that great?’ they’d say. Oh, he’d be lying if he said he didn’t like the idea of getting people talking; he still had his pride, after all. But the whole thing made more sense for Charles, who was still young and healthy, relatively speaking, and had a large and happy family to boot. Things were so different for George. People were right, it was his last chance. It was his last chance to make a grand exit. It didn’t even need to be dramatic, his exit. Just dignified. Standing.
His patched-up body was holding up, admittedly with a little discomfort, but holding up all the same. But the man inside had been in bad shape for a long time. Having more or less admitted defeat, he had sat back and waited for the doctors’ prognoses to come true, for the statistics to be proved right and the odds to catch up with him. But they never did. So he had decided to go out and face the odds head on. Eighty-three years old, one set of aching limbs, three thousand five hundred kilometres and a two-month expedition. What it all added up to was so blindingly obvious that he had been surprised at Charles’s insistence he go with him. And yet he had to complete this epic circuit, before the army of paramedics descended upon him to unleash an assault of well-intentioned humiliation and take every last freedom away from him.
But all this was by the by. These were all things he had told himself before, when he was still feeling brave. In those mad moments of enthusiasm, bravado and unbridled determination. But in the last few minutes, that had all gone out the window. Enthusiasm, determination and bravado had all deserted him. All that was left were the voices in his head. Those damned voices.
No, he wasn’t losing the plot. The voices were of the common or garden variety. But this afternoon they really had him. They were the voices of his chair and the weather report, of his herbal tea and tomato plants, of all his familiar possessions and the house itself. They sang of the joys of everyday life, repeating a chorus we’ve all heard before: what’s the use in change? The voices were telling him it would be easier to let fate come to him, to let it cradle him gently, oh so gently. To let the days run into one another, until his time was up. The voices were even whispering a ready-made excuse: this unexpected phone call.
The more George thought about their plan, the more he found it deeply, painfully ridiculous. This wasn’t audacity, it was idiocy; not wisdom, but delusion. He looked at his suitcase sadly. It was neither Wednesday nor Saturday, so Charles would be coming over, and George would have to explain his change of heart. His knee was also playing up again, now that he came to think of it. And Charles would understand about that, what with his hip.
It was with a feeling of relief mixed with sadness that he turned his attention to the one o’clock news, and, avoiding the sight of his suitcase that was patiently waiting by the stove, he began to doze off. He had given in.
But on the other side of the garden, Charles had not given up. He was going to do this Tour de France, even if it meant dragging his friend along by the skin of his backside.
‘The Tour de France? In a Runner Speedit?’
Little Lucas looked up at his grandfather, his round eyes filled with admiration.
‘Granny, what’s a Runner Speedit?’
‘A Renault Scenic, Lucas. It’s a car,’ Thérèse answered calmly.
‘Yes, but it’s also got loads of gadgets inside it,’ Charles added quickly.
‘What gadgets, Grandpa?’
Charles was already regretting going down this rather slippery path. Discussing gadgets with a seven-year-old expert was a battle he was sure to lose.
‘Lots of options, if you catch my drift.’ There, that wasn’t a bad response.
‘And how many hours does it take?’
‘Oh no, Lucas, we’ll be doing our Tour de France over several weeks.’
‘Oh. So you’ll stop lots.’
‘Yes, we’re going to stop lots. Exactly,’ Charles replied, disappointed.
They were all sitting in the kitchen, Charles and Thérèse, their granddaughter Annie and her husband Franck and their two children, Lucas and seven-month-old Justine. The little kitchen, whose wallpaper had probably been rather fashionable at one time, smelled of leeks and Mr Muscle. A little vase of dahlias from the garden stood on the Formica table. Photos of the grandchildren were tacked all over the walls, and strings of last year’s tinsel were still hanging on the old grandfather clock. Everyone felt at home in this kitchen, especially Thérèse; this was her kingdom. Thérèse was small and round like a typical granny in a television show. She had no neck and small feet, neatly pressed blouses, bobbed grey hair worn with a brown clip, and an iron will. Charles and Thérèse had been married for fifty-nine years: they were happy and they knew it. Life had been kind to them, more or less, but the Lepensiers had learned to think positive long before the concept had become fashionable. Finding solutions to men’s problems was Thérèse’s are
a of expertise, and the women of the family had all inherited this talent.
Charles was now relying on his wife’s ingenuity, as he had so many times before. It was unthinkable that they would abandon the project now. He and Thérèse had put all their hopes into it. And he couldn’t do it alone, partly because George was financing the entire trip including the brand-new Renault Scenic, and partly because … well, he just couldn’t do it on his own.
‘You know, Thérèse, we’re not on the road yet. Even though we’ve been planning for ages … Now George has got a problem. His granddaughter.’
Thérèse, who was setting the table for lunch, stopped what she was doing and looked at Charles anxiously.
‘What kind of problem? You mean the granddaughter who lives in London and never calls?’
‘That’s the one. Except that now, she does call. Françoise must have asked her to. Well, I don’t know what goes on between those two but the point is, Adèle called and now George is panicking.’
Thérèse was staring down at the tablecloth. Charles went on.
‘Now George isn’t the kind to let people walk all over him. But when it comes to his daughter, it’s another story. He says she’ll have him put in a home if she finds out what he’s planning.’
Annie, with her baby on her knee, asked her grandfather:
‘Do you really think Françoise would do that?’
‘Well, I dunno … she isn’t exactly easy-going.’
‘I guess she gets that from her dad!’ interrupted Franck, who still had memories of one particular stormy encounter with George.
George's Grand Tour Page 2