‘Oh, but it’s not the same thing.’
‘I know, I hear you … OK, well I’ll have a look in your jacket anyway, where is it?’
‘Oh thank you! It’s there, in the left-hand pocket. Is it on?’
‘No, it’s off.’
‘Oh.’
‘I’ve got one too. My wife always says she doesn’t know how anyone ever managed without them. And I always say: just fine!’
‘Yes, exactly,’ lied George.
‘I had to get one when I was looking for work; at the job centre they told me it’d be much easier with a mobile. Oh, and of course, it’s perfect for calling my mistress.’
George wasn’t sure if he’d heard right. The man burst out laughing.
‘I really had you there, didn’t I!’ and he let out another high-pitched laugh. ‘You believed me, huh? Hehehehe! For calling my mistress, that’s a good one!’
And actually, it had made the patient forget about all the machines and tubes for a few moments.
‘Well, I don’t want to keep you here all evening with my problems,’ said George meekly.
‘Oh no, I’m done for the night. But I like to talk with my patients now and again.’
George thought it was a little strange that he was talking about the patients as though they were his own. He felt rather ashamed when the man said:
‘I was a doctor in Africa back in the day, well, a long time ago now …’
George thought to himself that it couldn’t have been easy to be cleaning floors if you were a qualified doctor.
But the man continued:
‘But I’m telling you, life’s much better over here – especially with your thirty-five hour weeks!’
‘And you’re from Loches?’ An African family would definitely have been something of a rarity in this area.
‘No, Chaumussay. We have a little house in Chaumussay, it’s a lovely place. Goes without saying that we’re the only black people in the village, but everyone’s used to that by now. Apart from the English, mind you; they always look so scared when they turn up on their bikes! Hehehe. But I’m originally from Cameroon.’
They carried on talking for a good quarter of an hour, and even though George was starting to feel exhausted, he was grateful to this man for keeping him company. And it wasn’t every day he got to speak to someone from Cameroon.
He finally plucked up the courage to ask the question that had been on his mind since they had started talking.
‘Listen, this might seem, well … I guess it’s complicated. I was wondering if … if … if you could possibly take my mobile phone with you when you leave and read my text messages in the car park, just to see if there’s anything urgent on there, you see. And then you can tell me what’s in them tomorrow, or whenever you have time. But only if it’s not too much trouble, of course.’
‘It’s no trouble at all! But if you’d prefer, I can go down to the car park now, and come back when I’ve read them. I’ll take notes if there are a lot of them. My memory’s not what it used to be.’
He put his large, wrinkled hand into his breast pocket and pulled out his reading glasses, a little orange notebook and a pencil that had been sharpened so much that it was nothing more than a little stub. George smiled; he had one just the same in his overalls at home.
George carefully explained to him how the phone worked and how to access his voicemails. The man took careful notes.
‘Alright, I’ll be back in five minutes.’
A few moments later, a nurse came in to prepare him for bed, and George was reminded of the injuries he had managed to forget. Five minutes later, the hospital worker reappeared, brandishing his notebook.
‘You’ve got mail!’ he said, chuckling.
He put his glasses on, opened his notebook and began to read very solemnly, like a parishioner reading a psalm at mass.
‘You got four texts. The first one is from Ginette Bruneau, it says: ‘The sun is out again, I had lunch out on the terrace with a friend and thought of your visit in September. I hope the weather will still be good when you come back. Love to both of you, take care of yourselves.’ The second and third ones are from Adèle, and I think it’s better if you just read what I’ve written down, because they’re in some kind of shorthand, and I don’t … Well, anyway I copied everything out word for word.’
1. Adèle
Shoot almst ova, we r workin even hrder now, even on w/e. im thinkin bout goin away in nov if i dnt get mor (paid!) wrk. But til then iv got no time. How was chato CelleG?
(Shooting almost over, we are working even harder now, even on the weekend. I am thinking about going away in November if I don’t get more (paid!) work. But until then I’ve got no time. How was Château La Celle-Guenand?)
2. Adèle
Hvnt hrd frm u. U OK?
(I haven’t heard from you. You OK?)
‘And in the fourth one, which was also from Ginette, there was no message, just a photo. An MMS I think you call it.’
‘A photo? I’ve never had one of them before. A photo of what?’
‘The sea.’
The two men said nothing for a while. George sighed. He didn’t know where Charles was, he didn’t know whether to tell Adèle or not. She had better things to do than to trek out to the middle of nowhere to see her grandfather. What should he reply? Could he ask this man to reply for him?
‘I can reply to your ladies, if you like,’ said the hospital worker before George had time to decide what he wanted. ‘When I go home.’
‘Oh, well if you could … But I’m not sure what I want to say to them.’
George explained to his new friend who these ladies were and told him all about the Tour de France.
‘The Tour de France?’
‘Yes, but not on a bike, right?’
‘Yeah, I’d guessed that much with your legs,’ he chuckled. ‘But even so, three thousand five hundred kilometres in a car? That’s some journey! You’ll be heading to the south then? My wife and I have always wanted to visit the south – Saint-Tropez, right? Actually no, Saint-Tropez probably isn’t as good as all that, and it’s not really for the likes of us, is it? But the Tour went through Nîmes, didn’t it?’
‘Stage thirteen, Narbonne–Nîmes.’
‘And then to Digne-les-Bains, I remember seeing them on telly.’
One thing led to another and before they knew it, the two men had been talking for over an hour.
‘So, have you decided what you’re going to say to these ladies?’
George’s face clouded over. After a moment’s reflection he made some careful notes in the notebook and handed it back to the hospital worker, who read them in silence before putting the pencil, notebook and phone in his pocket.
‘OK, so I’ll keep the phone for tonight, and if you never see me again, it’ll be ’cause I’ve sold it on eBay and run off to Saint-Tropez, right?’ He burst out laughing again. ‘Just kidding! Ask for George.’
‘That’s my name too,’ said George.
‘Well, there you go! Great minds think alike; no, great Georges think alike!’ Another peal of high-pitched laughter.
And he walked away laughing. A few minutes later the doctor walked in with bad news. They would have to operate in three days’ time. General anaesthetic.
Monday 13 October
Loches (Indre-et-Loire)
Charles gently opened the door, and George was hit by a wave of sadness. He couldn’t shake the feeling that by stopping now he was betraying his friend. He smiled weakly at him.
‘Charles.’
‘We came yesterday, but you were pretty out of it.’
‘Who’s we?’
‘Thérèse and I.’
‘Oh, Thérèse … So she came all the way here? She’s a good friend. But how are you doing, Charles?’
‘I’m fine.’
‘I’m sort of abandoning you, aren’t I?’
‘No, no, not at all.’
‘Yes, I am, and I don’t know
what I can do about it. You know I’d love to keep going, if only for your sake …’
George had tears in his eyes; Charles couldn’t meet his gaze. Instead, he made do with patting him on the arm.
‘They’re going to operate on me, so …’ said George in a whisper. ‘All those years we were neighbours … They were good years, you know.’
George stopped, unable to continue, but Charles knew what he was trying to say.
‘Of course, there were a few ups and downs along the way,’ George added.
‘Oh sure, but on the whole …’
‘Yes, on the whole …’ George nodded slowly. ‘So what are you going to do?’
‘Well, that’s actually why Thérèse is here. Quite a lot has happened over the last few days, so I might as well start at the beginning. Firstly, I’ve spoken to some of the doctors here. This whole Tour thing … I’m not saying it’s a miracle cure, but it really is helping, George, I can feel it. And the doctors agree. And Thérèse can see it as well. Nothing gets past her, you know. And she can tell it’s working. I mean, of course, when I told her you’d had an accident she didn’t think twice before coming here. We’ve been talking a lot, and we were thinking, if you’re not game any more …’
‘Oh,’ sighed George. ‘It’s not that I’m not game, old chap, it’s my body that’s given up … And then there’s that lot …’ He gestured towards the corridor, where the nurses were hurrying about their work.
‘Alright, well, we’ll see,’ Charles said. ‘But anyway … what was I going to say …? Oh yes! We were at the Volkswagen dealer this morning … and we’ve bought ourselves a camper van. It’s got everything we need in it. We’re going travelling!’
‘A camper van? Charles!’ exclaimed George, grinning. ‘And you’re really going to travel around in it? How long are you going away for?’
‘As long as it takes. We’ll probably put the house up for sale. And Marcel, you remember Marcel from Erquy, the guy who went swimming every day?’
‘Oh yes, of course, Marcel.’
‘Right, well, Marcel and his wife might come with us.’
George didn’t know what to say. He thought it was a marvellous idea. Finally, he asked:
‘And Thérèse is happy to come along? She won’t mind leaving her dahlias and chickens for such a long time?’
‘It was her idea, George.’
They fell silent again, each man smiling to himself. George felt his eyes welling up again, but this time they were not tears of sadness.
‘I’d better get going. Thérèse is off buying the provisions, but we’ll come back to see you tomorrow morning. I’ll bring the brochure for the camper van. When is your operation?’
‘The day after tomorrow.’
‘Have you called Françoise?’
‘I’ve asked the doctors to try to get hold of her, wherever she is at the moment.’
‘And you’re sure they’ll find her?’
‘Oh yes, they’ll track her down somehow. Email and all that. Right, Charles. Go and help Thérèse, and give her my love. You’re lucky, you know, Charles, to have a wife like that.’
‘I know, I know.’
Just as Charles was about to leave, George remembered something important:
‘Listen, if I do kick the bucket … I want you to write the inscription on my gravestone … in pig Latin!’
Charles smiled, told him not to be ridiculous, and left.
Once again, George was all alone in his room. He was still in pain, but he felt as though a weight had been lifted from his chest. Outside, the wind chased after the swirling autumn leaves. His room telephone rang. George let it ring a few times before he picked up.
‘Dad? It’s me.’
Tuesday 14 October
Loches (Indre-et-Loire)
In the corridor, Adèle passed a black hospital worker who smiled at her, but all her attention was fixed on the room numbers and she didn’t see him. She finally found number 412, gave a tiny knock on the door, and walked in as quietly as possible. She was afraid; afraid that she would not have the courage to face her grandfather’s suffering, afraid that she would not prove a worthy granddaughter to this man who might not survive the night. She saw her grandfather and was struck by how old he looked. And much thinner than in the photos her mother had shown her. But she also saw that he recognised her, and that his eyes had filled with tears.
She wished she could erase all the years she had been absent, and do something, anything useful and generous. But even stronger than that was the urge to flee, so she wouldn’t have to say any of the things she had prepared in her head. In the space of a few days, she had begun to get to know her grandfather; now long-buried memories were starting to float to the surface of her mind. Nothing tangible, nothing she could have put into words, no precise images, just outlines, just the vague feeling that she had once been a child, that she was no longer a child, and that she and her grandfather had had some good times together, once.
He was happy to see her; he seemed at peace. He took her hands in his, which were surprisingly soft.
‘How are you, how was the journey?’
‘Oh fine, it’s actually not that far, you know,’ lied Adèle.
‘That’s good,’ said George, holding her gaze. ‘I’m so glad you came, you didn’t have to – and your bosses weren’t angry with you for missing a few days?’
‘Oh no, I’ll go back this evening. But how are you, Grandpa?’
‘Fine, I’m fine. Don’t think I’ll be around for much longer, you know.’
Adèle didn’t know how to react to this.
‘You mustn’t say that, Grandpa, you’ll get better. I bet you’ll be up and about in no time.’
Her grandfather said nothing, and stared down at his hands. After a moment he looked up at her and said:
‘It really means a lot to me that you came, sweetheart. It really does.’
Neither of them knew what to say after this. Adèle, unable to bear the silence, said:
‘Oh, you have a television in your room, that’s good. Are you comfortable here?’
‘You know, Adèle … There’s something I’ve been thinking about a lot over the past few days.’ He paused for a moment, and looked around the room, before looking back down at his hands, clasped in his lap.
‘Do you remember the time when you, your grandmother and I went to see the nativity scene in Bressuire?’
Adèle could indeed picture the sight of the brightly lit manger that had seemed so huge and majestic that it had looked like a whole town to her, illuminated by thousands of tiny lights – it had been magical. This was a very old memory.
‘You know, I think about that day a lot.’
‘It was a lovely evening.’
‘When we all got home, you refused to go to sleep; the whole thing had made you far too overexcited. You must have been about eight or nine years old, no more than that. And at the time, we were more than a little worried about your grandmother’s health, and I wasn’t in great shape either. It wasn’t that we were unhappy, your grandmother and I, but … let’s just say it was a difficult patch. And your parents had their own things to be getting on with; it was the holidays and we were always happy to have you with us, sweetheart. But your grandmother and I were both exhausted. And you know I had an angry streak back then. Oh, these things fade with time, you know, that’s just the way life goes. But at the time it wasn’t a good idea to get on my bad side. Anyway, where was I …? Oh yes, on that day, we came home from the nativity and you were very overexcited. Do you remember, you just wouldn’t go to bed, jumping up and down on the bed? There was no stopping you. Your grandmother tried to get you down from the bed as you were jumping so you pulled her hair. And I just lost it.’
He paused again.
‘I grabbed you and smacked you so hard it left a red mark on your bottom.’
Adèle smiled. She could remember the nativity scene, but not the smack. She looked at her grandfather, laughing.
>
‘Well, I’m sure I deserved it, I know I was a little difficult at that age!’
She realised this was the end of the story. Her grandfather put his head in his hands.
‘Oh sweetheart, I was so angry with myself at the time. I was younger then, and I’d like to think I’ve changed since, but I never forgave myself. And the older I get, the more I regret that evening.’
‘But Grandpa, I can’t even remember it, I promise!’
‘After that you stopped coming so often, and then when you were a teenager you barely came to see us at all. And whenever I thought about it, I was reminded of that evening after the nativity. In our day, you see, we were always smacked when we’d been bad …’
He carried on; Adèle let him speak. He also clearly felt guilty about the long silence between them. He also blamed himself for it. How could she tell him that it had nothing to do with that unfortunate incident, which she couldn’t even remember? Still, it would have been a simple explanation for ten years of silence – a little thing that could be dated, analysed and categorised, where there was a perpetrator and a victim. It would have left nothing for the psychiatrists, everything could have been resolved, the angry blow forgiven and everyone would live happily ever after.
But was this true? No, of course it wasn’t. The real reason was much more difficult to express. Adèle finally interrupted him and took his hand.
‘Grandpa, I really don’t remember you smacking me, I promise I don’t. I remember the figures in the manger and twinkling lights everywhere, I remember being enchanted by the whole thing. But you smacking me …’
Her grandfather looked at her but did not reply.
He could have said, as Irving Ferns might have: ‘How time passes, my dear. We old people know how it goes. Time takes our friends from us, puts our grandchildren at a distance and plays tricks on our memories. And all the while you young people know nothing of time, you’re all invincible, always on the go, always out of reach.’ But this was no time for grievances. He had wanted to apologise for what he had done. And now he had.
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