George's Grand Tour

by Caroline Vermalle

  The sound of the phone ringing made him jump.

  ‘Grandpa?’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘OK, good, you’ve got your phone on you.’

  ‘Yes, yes,’ said George wearily.

  ‘Do you know how to write texts?’

  ‘Erm …’

  ‘You know, the messages people send with mobile phones.’

  ‘Oh yes, I know what you mean, but sending them … well, that’s another story …’

  ‘OK, ask Charles, or at the hotel reception, they’ll show you how.’

  ‘But why do you want me to write texts?’

  ‘Because you’re going to send me one every day,’ said Adèle firmly, a hint of mischief in her voice.

  George was beginning to feel hopeful. She hadn’t said anything about Françoise.

  ‘Every evening, Grandpa, you’re going to send me a text. One, to let me know how you are, and two, to let me know where you are.’

  ‘How I am and where I am. Got it.’

  ‘Every evening, OK? If a night goes by without one, I’m coming to find you and I’m telling Mum. OK?’

  ‘OK, it’s a deal. No need to worry, I’ll send you one every evening. Right. Even this evening?’

  ‘Yes, even this evening, as a test run. You can send them whenever, I work nights.’

  ‘OK, fine. Was there … anything else?’

  ‘No, but take care of yourself, Grandpa, OK?’

  ‘Will do, sweetheart. OK, bye now.’

  He hung up before Adèle had the chance to answer, and hurried over to Charles’s room.

  ‘Charles, my friend, the Tour needs you!’

  Adèle stood alone in the middle of the cluttered, dimly lit set, trying to get to grips with what she had just found out. That he’d diverted his calls. His rather feeble attempt to pull the wool over her eyes. That he’d been in an accident. And now the Tour de France. When all this time she had imagined him comfortably ensconced in his armchair! Was his heart going to be able to cope with all this? Ought she just to have told him to go back home and contacted her mother? Françoise had been quite clear: she didn’t wish to be troubled for the next two months except in a real emergency. Did her grandfather gallivanting up and down the roads of France count as a real emergency? No, probably not. Adèle had memories of him obsessively following the Tour de France on television. She had been little at the time, but she remembered the men talking loudly around the TV set. Yes, he was old and ill, but he was still responsible for his own actions. He wasn’t a child. And yet she had just treated him like one, a child who has to call his parents every five minutes to reassure them everything is fine. It was complicated, and Adèle regretted getting involved in the first place. She of all people, who had taken so little notice of her grandparents for so long …

  The familiar sounds of the film set brought her back to reality – if you could call it that. This crooked house, which was the setting, the stage and the main character of the film, had been her whole life for the last eleven days. The actors were sitting on the black wooden steps in their post-war costumes, devouring their dinner from plastic plates and chatting with the technicians, who were dressed in jeans. It was time Adèle made her own visit to the canteen, which had been set up on the ground floor.

  She felt less stressed than she had during the first few days, but also much less enthused. She was beginning to get to know the team not only in professional terms (who did what, who answered to whom), but also on a personal level, and those she connected with were few and far between. She did her best to avoid everyone else. It wasn’t that Adèle was antisocial; in fact she had a lot of friends. Two hundred and nineteen on Facebook at last count. But, to use her grandfather’s expression, sometimes she just wanted to be left the hell alone, especially in a job she wasn’t being paid to do. So she kept her distance, even from those whose company she found perfectly pleasant. In a place where excessive familiarity was the norm, she stuck to polite and strictly professional exchanges. She had spent enough time on film sets to know that friendships formed there were as fake as the actors’ moustaches. People became friends for life after three takes, and forgot each other before the wrap party hangover had lifted. It was better not to make friends at all, in order to avoid disappointment.

  When she had filled her plate with whatever unappetising dish was on offer that day, she went back up the three flights of stairs to have her meal in peace in the production office. Unfortunately, there were two other girls already eating there and she couldn’t refuse their invitation to join them. Michelle and Sophie, second production assistant and assistant make-up artist respectively, were very similar: they were both almost thirty, pretty in a bland sort of a way, obviously came from privileged backgrounds, spoke very quickly, and tried hard to hide their posh accents. It was nothing like the conversations she once imagined took place on film sets: on shoots where everyone was paid fairly for the work they did, where people’s individual talents were allowed to shine, people would talk about the influence of the Nouvelle Vague, the films of Wong Kar-wai or the remastered versions of Cassavetes’ classics, all in between two perfect takes. In reality, Michelle and Sophie were talking about Steve, the sound engineer, who had cheated on his wife with Sally, the continuity girl, in the toilets of the Swan pub, and about the big booze-up on Tuesday night, which apparently had been even bigger than the one on Monday night.

  At times like this, Adèle seriously considered packing it all in. Her job was ridiculous. She fetched the actors’ coffees and anything else they required, made the extras wait around when shooting was delayed by five hours, recharged the walkie-talkies, and roamed the streets to find the owner of the car whose alarm was holding up shooting. She worked fifteen hours a day, six days a week, for no pay. It would have been different if she were learning something! But she wasn’t learning anything, apart from knowledge of the sexual exploits of Sally the continuity girl. Most of the time she was nowhere near the set, or there was no space in the room where a scene was being shot, especially not for a runner. She never got to see any of the things she was interested in and dreamed of one day making a Hollywood career out of: the cinematography, directing the actors – in essence, the creative process.

  And on top of that, she had to put up with the most vulgar conversations. If only Irving Ferns was still here! He had been on set for the first two days of filming, playing the role of the grandfather killed at the beginning of the story. She had spent more time with the eighty-one-year-old actor than with anyone in the crew, and she had enjoyed his company a good deal more than that of any of the empty-headed assistants. He would be back towards the end of the schedule to shoot a couple of flashback scenes. But would he remember her? Friendships were short-lived here, and he had seemed in a strange mood when he left.

  She was distracted from these gloomy thoughts by the sound of her phone – she had got a text. She couldn’t help smiling as she read it:

  Grandpa 27/09/2008 23:35

  Hotl du Cntr, Brest. All gd.

  (Hôtel du Centre, Brest. All good.)

  And then almost immediately after:

  Grandpa, 27/09/2008 23:36

  Hotl du Cntr, Brest, Fnstr. All gd.

  (Hôtel du Centre, Brest, Finistère. All good.)

  It was a good excuse to slip out of the cramped office. She raced down the stairs, went out into the street, threw her plate of barely touched food into the nearest bin and texted back:

  OK

  She stood out in the cool evening air for a little while, but no reply came. Having been rattled by her grandfather’s accident and a growing sense of disillusionment, she realised that this exchange had lifted her spirits. Where had her grandfather learned text language? He had never sent a text message in his life. It was funny to think of her grandfather, who rarely ventured beyond his vegetable patch, starting to write like that! Come to think of it, it was quite brave, what he was doing. Mad, bonkers even, but brave. ‘Because that’s what we wanted to
do.’ She smiled again. At that age … You had to admire him.

  He must have spent months planning the expedition; must have gone over the route a thousand times in his head. He must have had moments of doubt, told himself it was too ambitious. She hoped it would live up to his expectations. And she understood better than most about dreams that end in disappointment.

  Well, that’s one thing off my list! George thought to himself. The text had been sent, the text had been received, and so his granddaughter would leave him alone for the moment. But the bizarre spelling that was clearly required to write the things was totally perplexing. Adèle hadn’t warned him about this. It was going to be a problem: he was certain that it would not always be as easy to find someone to write his texts for him as it had been here.

  The story of how these texts came to be sent went like this: Charles had not been any help at all, so George had had to go and ask at reception, which was very quiet at that time of night. He had to interrupt the receptionist, most likely an intern of no more than twenty who was deep in discussion with another girl, probably a friend who had come to keep her company. He explained the problem. The two girls seemed to find the request rather amusing and asked excitedly what they were supposed to write.

  ‘Hôtel du Centre, comma, Brest, full stop. All good, full stop.’

  The girls got him to enter Adèle’s number into his phone and then showed him how to type a message and send it. And with three clicks the message was on its way – to London! He then asked them to send it again because he had forgotten to write ‘Finistère’ after ‘Brest’. It was a chance to go over everything he had just learned. But he was not convinced. What he saw on the screen resembled only vaguely what he was trying to say: ‘Hôtel du Centre, comma, Brest, comma, Finistère, full stop.’ Most of the vowels were missing; the word ‘Finistère’ didn’t have any vowels at all. George was almost ashamed to send it to Adèle: he was very strict about spelling and had told his granddaughter countless times when she was little that flawless spelling was the key to success. She had always made him proud by coming first in class dictations.

  He plucked up the courage to point out:

  ‘But young lady … I mean … the spelling is a little …’

  ‘Yes, but you see texts have their own spelling. Text language is a bit odd, but it’s cool, you’ll see.’

  ‘Ah, OK, it’s got its own spelling has it? But why can’t you just write normally?’

  The young girl thought for a moment, and it was her friend who finally answered him:

  ‘It works better if you write them in text language. It’s, like, quicker.’

  George nodded as if he understood. He would have liked to learn more but three English tourists had just arrived with all their suitcases and it was time for him to go up to his room.

  On his way back upstairs, he received a reply from Adèle. ‘OK.’ This text language was rather annoying but it had helped take his mind off other things. Adèle’s little message had made him happy. He looked at it several times, but then it was gone, lost in his phone, and he couldn’t get it back. At least he knew it was in there somewhere. It was like getting a little postcard. That would really make the girls downstairs laugh, an old fogey saying that text messages were like postcards. But still, it had made him happy.

  Sunday 28 September

  Brest (Finistère)

  George and Charles spent the day exploring the town. George remembered photographs of Brest’s proud arsenal as it stood before the war, with its castle and beautiful ships. But as he kept saying to Charles, the Germans had blown everything up. Wide, dead-straight roads, concrete high-rises and depressing architecture had risen from the rubble. On the receptionist’s advice, the two friends headed for the harbour, which was more authentic and had more going on than the centre of town.

  By the time they arrived, they had worked up a thirst, but all the café terraces were overrun with teenagers with funny haircuts. In search of a café ‘like the ones back home’, they walked along the docks amid cranes and green and red buoys, disused railway lines and rusted grain carts, and soon forgot what it was they had set out to look for. It was a nice day and the sea air was refreshing, even if it did smell slightly of petrol. Their stroll took them right up to the marina at the far end of the harbour. Down a side street, they happened upon Chez Odile, where they settled down to a steak and chips, followed by cheese and coffee. They made slow progress back to the car: they needed time to digest. George managed to take a nap during the ten-minute drive back to the hotel, where they had a well-earned siesta.

  It was 6.30 p.m., and Charles had been banging on about one thing all day: he had come to Brittany to eat galettes bretonnes. The hotel reception recommended Crêperie Saint-Malo, just around the corner. At quarter to seven, they were the first diners in the restaurant. Charles was in a great mood, but his travelling companion was squirming in his seat. Eventually, when he couldn’t keep quiet any longer, George took the bull by the horns.

  ‘So, just to be clear, you have no idea how to write texts?’

  ‘Not a clue.’

  ‘Right, because … I have to send one to Adèle this evening. Which is a nice idea, but I don’t know how to write them.’

  ‘What do you mean, you don’t know how? You sent one last night, didn’t you?’

  ‘Well, as far as the technology goes, I’ve got it. It’s not actually that complicated, you know. But anyway, the point is, there’s a special language. You can’t just write a text like you’d write … I dunno, a postcard. You see, it doesn’t pack the same punch if it’s written normally,’ said George sagely, as if this were a universally acknowledged truth.

  ‘No, no, of course not,’ agreed Charles, not wanting to seem out of touch.

  ‘But I’m no expert when it comes to text language.’

  ‘So how did Adèle write her text, then?’

  ‘Well, she didn’t exactly reply in detail … It’s hard to tell from just one word.’

  ‘Of course.’

  Charles wasn’t sure what to make of this. Everyone wrote text messages. Even his friends in the senior citizens’ club did it. They were no sharper than him – quite the opposite in fact – and he found it hard to believe you had to go to the lengths of learning a foreign language (well not strictly foreign, but as good as) just to send a little text message. Then again, if it was true, he was the one who was going to look stupid and all things considered, it was better not to seem daft. ‘You should have told me earlier,’ said Charles. ‘I would have asked my grandson Jonathan, in Niort. He’d know for sure, he spends his whole day sending text messages.’

  ‘You couldn’t give him a ring, could you?’

  ‘I don’t think it can really be explained over the phone … I’m sure we can find someone here to show us the ropes.’

  The two men ordered some cider. Wearily, George went on.

  ‘It could even be that there aren’t any rules. You know how they just make up words these days, and even worse, they do it in Franglais, you know,’ he said, throwing up his hands in despair.

  ‘It’s not that slang verlan, is it? At least with verlan there are proper rules, and it’s not even that complicated. You just switch the syllables around.’

  ‘There are rules alright, but it’s not exactly poetry, is it?’ sighed George.

  Charles did likewise for form. Truth be told, he didn’t have much of an opinion on the matter.

  ‘That’s an interesting point, though,’ said George. ‘Take pig Latin, for example – or louchébem, as we butchers called it. That had rules. And say what you like, it had a kind of poetry as well. I’m not saying it was great art or anything … but at least it had a bit of style, a bit of panache. And it was a good laugh. Sorry, but verlan isn’t half as much fun.’

  ‘Ah yes, they called it the “butchers’ slang” … My uncle could speak it, but I never really got the hang of it.’

  ‘Well of course, you weren’t a butcher.’

&n
bsp; ‘Neither was my uncle. He was a greengrocer.’

  ‘The thing about pig Latin was that it was democratic, anyone could speak it, all you had to do was learn the rules and it was a piece of cake.’

  ‘I don’t remember it being as simple as all that.’

  ‘Oh come on, Charles!’ said George indignantly. ‘It was perfectly simple. Right. Take igpay. As you know, that means pig. All you do is move the p to the end of the word, and tack on the syllable “ay”. And there you go.’

  ‘OK, I see,’ said Charles. ‘When you put it like that, it sounds easy. So, for example, egg would be … ggeay.’

  ‘Actually, no, because it’s too difficult to pronounce. For words starting with vowels, you just add “way” to the end. And that’s where the real poetry comes in. You have to judge it by the sound of the word.’

  ‘Judge it by the sound of the word.’

  ‘Exactly. It has to flow. So I would say … eggway!’

  ‘Eggway,’ repeated Charles, looking thoughtful. ‘You’re right, you can’t say it isn’t poetic. But I still don’t think it’s “a piece of cake”.’

  ‘But it is! Of course, you have to get used to it, but anyone can speak pig Latin.’

  George saw the head waiter approaching their table and looked at Charles with a mischievous glint in his eye.