One Day in May

by Catherine Alliott

  ‘Yes, I agree, but it could have been an awful lot worse. Drugs, bullying… Getting caught with a girl isn’t so bad. Could have been a boy.’

  I swung round. ‘Ivan, this is not funny, and until you have a child of your own, you’ll never understand,’ I spat. ‘But then, you’re far too much of a child yourself, aren’t you?’

  He blanched. ‘Well, thanks for that.’

  ‘My pleasure.’

  I threw my passport in my bag.

  ‘You’re going?’

  ‘Of course I’m going. Ivan, my son has been sent home! Suspended!’

  ‘But the last fair’s today, in a couple of hours. You could get what you want and then go back. Surely Laura or your parents could collect him. What difference does a few hours make?’

  ‘The world of difference to me,’ I snarled through gritted teeth, zipping up my bag with a flourish. ‘If you think I can concentrate on Provençal china and bits of Luberon glass whilst Seffy—’ I broke off: covered my mouth and swallowed a sob.

  ‘What?’ Ivan peeled himself off the doorframe. Came languidly in and sat down on the bed. ‘Watches telly in Laura’s playroom? With a bacon sandwich? Waits a few hours for his mother to finish her business trip and get back tomorrow as planned? Doesn’t actually curtail her plans because he’s been out of order? You’ve at least got a booking on tomorrow’s crossing, unlike today, when you’ve got a sweltering ten-hour drive from here to Calais, and then how d’you know you’ll get on the ferry? And what are you going to do when you arrive back in the middle of the night anyway – wake him up? Remonstrate with him? For heaven’s sake stick to plan A and stop panicking.’

  ‘Ivan, I am not panicking.’ I swung around, fists clenched. ‘All I know is Seffy needs me, right now. I feel it here,’ I thumped my heart, ‘OK?’ I glared at him. ‘And don’t worry, I’ll pay our way out of here.’

  His face tautened with anger at this. That was uncalled for, unnecessary, and I knew I was lashing out, losing it, that I’d hurt him. But I’d snapped my moorings. I spotted a few bits of underwear under the bed, but my case was already zipped and overstuffed so I threw them in my handbag. I dragged my luggage to the door. Ivan watched in silence. Not, I noticed, offering to carry my bag out and downstairs to the lorry – no, he let me struggle on down on my own.

  I arrived in reception in a heap and rang the little bell on the counter violently, meanwhile rooting in my bag for my credit card.

  A beautifully coiffed madame appeared. She regarded me with interest, and I had the impression she’d been listening to the fracas on the first floor via her open reception window all along. Enviably chic, eyebrows raised, she attended to this stressed-out Englishwoman – crazy hair, crazy eyes, crazy clothes thrown on in a hurry, black pants showing through white linen trousers – who’d no doubt been jilted by her handsome young gigolo upstairs and was hurrying out to her lorry even now. Lorry! Alors, these English women, no style. She seemed to be trailing items of a personal nature too, as the zip on her overstuffed bag burst.

  ‘Madame, madame…’ She tripped elegantly after me in pencil skirt and kitten heels, offering dirty underwear, a man’s deodorant because these days I needed the extra protection it afforded. Taking them from her I glanced up and saw Ivan, leaning over the balcony, smoking a cigarette, calmly witnessing the scene.

  Muttering my thanks to madame, who, I felt, was off to wash her hands pronto, I climbed into the cab. Thank God the lorry started – it didn’t always – and thank God it was pointing in the right direction too, because a three-point turn in this vehicle was not easy. At least I could perform one, though, unlike Maggie, who, on one memorable occasion when I hadn’t been with her, had got lost in the Dordogne, and simply carried on until she found a roundabout – sixty miles – which unfortunately was a mini one on a council estate, so she’d ended up in someone’s sitting room.

  I pulled out into a stream of traffic amidst blaring horns, and drove off down the dusty road. There. Thank God. At least I was on my way. At least I was doing something.

  Five miles out of Valensole, though, I metaphorically hit my forehead with the heel of my hand. Madness. Complete and utter madness. Ivan had been right, of course he had. I shouldn’t panic. I should go later, on the crossing I’d prebooked, not turn up and hope for the best. And of course there was nothing I’d be able to do when I arrived at four in the morning and Seffy was fast asleep. I should conclude my business here, and go tomorrow. Damn. What had I been thinking of? Well, half of me, I knew, had been acting on impulse: on kneejerk, maternal reaction. The other half… what? Had been waiting for Ivan to take the lorry keys from me? Confiscate my passport? Some masterful gesture to force me into the Little Woman position? Was that what I wanted? I took a deep breath. Yes, sometimes, actually. Quite a lot, in fact.

  On I drove. I tried to calm down. But it seemed to me all the scents of a Provençal autumn were sweeping through the open window like a cosh. An over-heady, over-evocative mixture of orchards, rosemary and thyme assailed my senses, swelled my head. Had I really been testing Ivan back there? And why was I angry with him, as well as Seffy? Because, like Seffy, he was still in short trousers, and what I really wanted was a man? Why? Why was I so incapable of making my own, rational decisions these days, as I always had done?

  Suddenly I lunged impulsively – and dangerously – for my phone. Clicked it on. Battery low. In fact, battery non-existent. I glanced feverishly left and right for a handy turning place, getting hotter by the moment, hands damp on the wheel. But the road was long and narrow, and anyway, I couldn’t go back now, could I? What would I say? I glanced at my watch. Apart from anything else, he’d be on his way to the fair. With Ricard… Sylvie… My tummy flipped. Was that why I was so furious? Because yesterday… OK, yesterday his wallet had fallen out of his jeans, and when I’d picked it up and handed it back to him, a photo had slipped out. Just the corner, and all I saw was a girl’s arm, that’s all, but he’d stuffed it back in so quickly. He so obviously didn’t want me to see…

  I put the mobile slowly back on the dashboard. Replaced my hand on the wheel. Suddenly it buzzed as a text came through. I grabbed it. It was from Ivan. Some of it was missing, but it was the usual sexual innuendo. Something about it being ‘nice in back of lorry, kiss kiss.’ I tossed it aside in disgust. Did he really think I needed that right now?

  No, I did not. I set my jaw and drove on. What I needed was to pay attention to the road, which might be deserted, but was winding and bumpy, as French roads can be. And as so many other roads had been for me too. Suddenly I was back at the wheel of another lorry, my Bedford, in Croatia, rushing to the hospital, having heard that Ibby’s family were dead. I caught my breath, wondering why that had sprung to mind. I never went there. Never. I gave my head an impatient little shake, and headed north.

  Naturally the lorry had a puncture in a village just outside Normandy, and naturally it took hours at a local garage to get it fixed. Three men in overalls stood around shaking their heads, sucking their teeth, and muttering, ‘Catastrophe…’

  By now it was evening and I was practically crying with exhaustion. I’d been driving for nine solid hours, and it was almost with a sense of relief that I was told I’d have to stay overnight and get the lorry fixed in the morning. The tyre was kaput: needed to be replaced. I left the lorry with the posturing mechanics, who were enjoying themselves now, grumbling about having to jack it up with all the furniture within, and actually discussing the possibility that I might have to unload it. I did what I always do in extremis, and threw money at it. Bade them take whatever steps were necessary, and repaired to a hostelry just off the square. Miserable with exhaustion, I trudged upstairs with yet another hotel key in my hand, to yet another empty room, and thence, to a hot bath.

  Afterwards, wrapped in a towel, I rang Dad to tell him what had happened. That I’d be back tomorrow.

  ‘That’s fine, sweetheart, there’s no rush. Seffy’s here – we’re at Laura’s – he�
�s just had some supper. There’s nothing you can do, anyway. He needs to figure this out for himself.’

  ‘And he’s doing that?’

  ‘Who knows? I haven’t quizzed him. Just picked him up and brought him back here.’

  Whereas I, of course, would have bombarded him with questions. Shrieked reproaches. I nodded; a lump in my throat.

  ‘He used to be such a good boy,’ I whispered.

  I thought of all the prizes he’d won at prep school, all the glowing reports: ‘Seffy is a credit to the school, both in the classroom and in his general conduct.’ Up until a year ago or so, when it all seemed to go wrong.

  ‘He’s still a good boy,’ said Dad firmly. ‘He’s just doing some growing up, that’s all. It’s a phase.’ I nodded; couldn’t speak.

  ‘Oh, and Hugh’s postponed his shoot till next weekend, by the way, so you won’t be launched straight into that tomorrow.’

  ‘Well, that’s a relief. If I found a gun lying around I might be tempted to turn it on myself.’

  He chuckled. ‘Now that would be inordinately foolish. Relax, Hattie. All will be well.’

  I nodded and put the phone down. Encouraged, actually. For when my Dad said all would be well, I really and truly believed it. Believed he would make it so. As he always had done, ever since I was a little girl. But Dad wouldn’t be around for ever, I thought with a lurch. His steady hand on the tiller wouldn’t always be there. And neither, at my stage in life, should it be the one I looked for. As I stood at the window in my dressing gown, looking out at the cobbled square from the semi-darkness of the room, I felt a cold hand reach in and squeeze my heart. Loneliness. Oh, I recognized it all right. It was a feeling I’d had increasingly recently, and one I dismissed, always. With a shake of the head, or a quick call to Maggie or Laura, for a laugh. But as I got into bed, it seemed to me my legs looked heavier. A bit more like Mum’s. And as I pulled the covers over my shoulder and flicked back my hair, I knew one or two in the centre were grey now. Hardly any, the hairdresser assured me, you’ve got fantastic hair, but maybe a few highlights?

  I found myself considering Hal’s hair: quite grey at the temples, and he’d been so dark. But of course, it suited men. Made them distinguished. Added gravitas. And Hal had been quite gawky, as a youth. Well, he wasn’t gawky now. And then I found myself wondering what my life would have been like if I’d gone out with him, as he’d badly wanted: taken that path in life, the sensible one, the one I knew deep down I should have taken. What if I’d married him?

  Hal, with his half-amused, half-ironic smile. His watchful, clever eyes. I was amazed to find his younger self still precisely preserved in my mind, as if he’d been waiting there patiently all those years, for me to turn back the pages, and for him to step out. Yes, there he was at his desk in his room in hall, writing an essay. He had his back to me as I lay on his bed, chatting away to him, tossing a tennis ball up high, seeing if I could throw it so it didn’t quite hit the ceiling. On he wrote. I complained about his music: Albinoni, always classical, couldn’t we put something else on? The Jam? He’d say he couldn’t work to that and I’d say – well, why was he working anyway? Because, he told me, if he didn’t, he’d be up all night, as I would – why not do it now? Irritated, I’d throw the tennis ball at him, and with lightning reflexes he’d reach out and catch it, carry on writing, and oh my God, my God, it was so clear. Like a reel of film. And I’d felt so happy in those days, so carefree. I watched myself get languidly to my feet, saunter across to look at his books, wonder aloud how anyone could decipher those dry legal tomes: tease him. He’d grunted, failed to answer me, and then I’d been annoyed, I remembered: stomped out.

  But now, years later, I liked the memory. Liked his single-mindedness, his drive, his ambition, which at times, I’d felt, had been too directly focused on me. I hadn’t wanted to be under the same scrutiny he afforded his law books. Hadn’t wanted those steady dark eyes to pick me out quite so precisely as he walked into the union bar. I wanted to be with my mates, having a laugh, not just alone with him. I wanted to tell him a girl couldn’t withstand being made so significant, that it was suffocating. So when he came in, I’d get up and drag him across to join us at our jolly, beery table, even though I knew he wanted to sit alone with me, at a different table. Now, I realized, I’d like to be so significant. So cherished. And I’d like the classical music too. We could go to concerts, his arm gently guiding my back as we found our seats at the Wigmore Hall. Supper afterwards. I caught my breath in the dark, imagining this much, much safer place than the one I was in now. This dreary hotel room in northern France, waiting for my lorry to be fixed.

  And then I slipped right down the precipice and imagined a lovely home, a family, a big country house. Children, ponies in the paddock, dogs in the boot room, like Laura and all her friends. My husband, like their husbands, a successful lawyer. Dinner parties, a little job – yes, still a job, still the interior designer, but with backing from my husband. No pressure. Not a big disaster if it doesn’t work out, darling. No panic. That was it. That would be nice. Oh, and I’d shut for a month at Christmas while we went skiing, and in the summer too, while we were at our house in France. No, wouldn’t shut, because my partner, Maggie, would take over. Maggie, who had to work all year round, who didn’t have the option, the luxury, the cushion to break her fall. Wouldn’t that have been nice, I thought as I shut my eyes, which I realized were wide open and staring, even though I was exhausted. Would still be nice.

  Still my mind wouldn’t rest, and I was so tired. Because now I was wondering, feverishly, whether Céline would carry on working. After children. Would she go back to the office in Paris in her Armani suit, having efficiently popped a baby off the breast, or would she, in a few years’ time, be wandering around that glorious Seillans garden? Down there on those terraced lawns, beyond the olive grove, by the river, one hand holding a golden-haired toddler’s, the other, on her slightly swollen tummy, barefoot and pregnant? Tears of self-pity gathered in my throat, as I realized it was all I’d ever wanted to be. Barefoot and pregnant. I wanted someone to take my shoes away.

  20

  The following morning, however, sunglasses firmly in place, sharp little white shirt over three-quarter jeans, I was Hattie Carrington, chic West London antiques dealer again, not the snivelling, self-pitying wretch of that hotel bedroom. Bangles jangling up tanned arms, Chanel No. 19 wafting out through the window, I was at the wheel of my lorry, getting the usual admiring glances from the other truckers as I rumbled up the ramp aboard the ferry. Never mind that there’s more to life than getting admiring glances from six-bellied tattooed truckers. Never mind that I’d had to almost bribe the ferry port officials to let me on this boat, and not the one I was actually booked on, which sailed a mere two hours later. Oh, no, I couldn’t get that. Out of the question. Not with the rest of the antiques gang, the likes of Ivan, Ricard and Sylvie, who’d no doubt worked the Fréjus fair brilliantly, got heaps of bargains under their belts, enjoyed a jolly lunch in town before packing up and driving en masse to Reims for supper and a stop-over, before a sensible three-hour drive this morning. I had to save some face. Had to pretend my desperate, pitiful flee from the hotel bedroom had been in some way worth it.

  I sighed as I slammed the cab door and headed for the ship’s stairs and upper decks. Thank God I’d forgotten my phone charger: thank God, for once, Ivan couldn’t get in touch with me. For a woman who compulsively checked her inbox for text messages, rang 1471 to check her answer machine was working, and had been known to yell, ‘Ring, damn you!’ at her mobile, I was, for once, relieved to be incommunicado. Not to be answering awkward questions. Why, I wondered as I sat alone at the bar on the lurching ferry, watching my café au lait slop into its saucer. Why was my life like this?

  I finally achieved Laura’s house some hours later, via a circuitous route, that involved a stop at my house in London. There I’d had a quick wash and brush-up, and deposited the lorry, swapping my mode of trans
port for something more feminine. By the time, then, I eventually crunched up my sister’s drive, with its splendid pleached limes and its sylvan views, I’d driven eight hundred miles in two days and was, frankly, shattered. Cranky, too. The calm, the quiet, the other-worldliness, the wood pigeon cooing tastefully from the treetops didn’t soothe me as it usually would: in fact it’s fair to say that for once I found the whole deeply privileged way of life downright irritating.

  I parked at the front in the gravel sweep, got out and stretched my weary limbs, arms high over my head. Just then, I heard voices. I dropped my arms. Around the corner, I caught a glimpse of the tennis court, through the rhododendron bushes. Two boys in jeans, one of them Seffy, were knocking up. Oh, marvellous, I thought irritably as I shut my car door. Talk about the prodigal son. Bring him home to Auntie Laura’s plush pad, and then arrange for a local lad to pop over and play ball. No doubt they’d be taking a dip in the pool later.

  Maggie’s car was in the drive too, which for some reason, annoyed me further. Still here. When what I really wanted was to conduct a family row in private. A row? No, I wasn’t going to do that. Had vowed not to, remember? Something was undoubtedly bubbling up within me, though, and without troubling the house, I walked across the manicured lawn to the court to greet my son. Be nice, I told myself. Be calm. Smile. As I approached, the boys were picking up balls, their game clearly over, chatting amicably.

  ‘Seffy.’ My voice had unaccountably taken on a harsh, unattractive edge. Seffy glanced round, wary.

  ‘Oh, hi, Mum.’

  See? Again. That nonchalant: ‘Hi, Mum.’

  I opened the gate and walked in. ‘Seffy, can you leave your friend to finish up here, please. We need to have a word.’

  No, I would not be introduced, be made by Seffy to be polite and smiley: I would not be manipulated by the situation.