The Folly of French Kissing

by Carla McKay

  Drawing closer, he could see that there was access to the barrier up a stony walkway which was expressly forbidden to the public but was there for dam workers only. To his horror, looking up and shading his eyes from the relentless sun, he could now make out what seemed to be a silhouette of a dog up on the barrier; what was less clear was another shape beside it. They were right in the middle, with a vast drop on either side, and from where he was standing he couldn’t make out if there was actually a walkway up there or just a ledge. Just then, the indeterminate shape stood up and Tim could see that it was a person – next to, he supposed, his dog. Christ, they could both fall at any moment. What the hell was going on?

  He began to run towards the stony path that led vertically up to the barrier, not daring to shout in case he startled the dog into falling. As he reached the top he saw to his relief that what he assumed was just a ledge was in fact a proper walkway with low railings either side. Now the figure, whom he could see was in fact a young man, bent down and stroked the dog who was unmistakably Piggy, before leaning over the low railing at a dangerous angle. Then he put a foot on the lowest rung of the railing and looked as though he was about to climb over. My god, thought Tim, now on the walkway himself, it’s a suicide.

  ‘Hey’, he cried, ‘stop – stop for god’s sake’. ‘What the hell are you doing? STOP!’ The young man, startled, turned towards him, jumped down on the walkway and slumped, sitting, against the rail. Piggy, recognising him, now ran up to greet Tim effusively and the young man – Tim could see he was only a teenager – turned to face him – a face so lost and stricken that Tim knew he had been right about the boy’s intention to jump.

  ‘I’m sorry’, the boy said. ‘Is this your dog? It followed me up here. Then it wouldn’t go back.’ Tim, struggling to catch his breath almost laughed with relief.

  ‘It doesn’t matter’, he said. ‘Are you all right? I thought you were going to jump….’ Thank god the kid was English – how extraordinary, but at least he could talk to him. The boy started to sob, holding his face in his hands and rocking.

  ‘I was’, he moaned. ‘I am… I would have done if the dog hadn’t been here; I didn’t want to leave her up here in case she fell… what’s her name?’

  ‘Piggy’ said Tim. ‘She’s a stray I found. Thank god, she found you. Hey, come here…,’ he put his arm round the boy. ‘Come down below and let’s talk about this… nothing can be so bad that you have to jump’.

  The boy, wiping his face now with his hand, picked up a small backpack that he had with him and looked for a minute as though he might run. Tim’s heart missed a beat. If the kid vaulted now over the railing, he might not be quick enough to stop him. Then, he seemed to think better of it, gave a little shrug and wiped his face again which was streaked with tears and grime. ‘OK’, he said. ‘Maybe it was a lame idea.’

  Vastly relieved, Tim led the three of them down the stony track to the grassy bank where he had left his things. ‘Listen’, he said, when they had sat down on the rug he bought, ‘you don’t have to tell me what’s wrong, but it might help to talk to a stranger. I’m a good listener and I also know how crap life can seem sometimes.’ Ben sniffed and his eyes welled with tears again. To mask it, he reached out to stroke Piggy who had sat beside him and tried to put her head in his lap.

  ‘Yeah,’ he said. ‘Maybe I should talk. Maybe that’s been the problem that I haven’t had anyone to talk to except my mum and I didn’t want to make her anxious about me.’ And then it all came out, the move from England, the loneliness, the unhappiness at school, the feeling that nothing would ever be right or fun again. It sounded so banal, Ben thought, the way he told it. It wasn’t exactly an unusual story and it wasn’t like he’d been tortured or something or lost all his family in a car crash, but it was a relief to talk and Tim, as the bloke had said his name was, seemed like a nice guy. He was nodding sympathetically and Piggy was now presenting him with sticks she had found so that he could throw them for her.

  At that moment, there was squeal of tyres on the stony path leading to the dam and a car appeared causing a huge cloud of dust. Out of it leapt his mother and Judith Hay. Oh God, how did they know to come and look for him up here? They hadn’t got his note yet because he’d only just written it up there on the bridge; it was in his bag. He stood up suddenly as Fern ran towards him with the surreal sense that he was in an action movie. She would embrace him and cry and demand explanations and he would… but at that point, his head swam and just like in the movie, the credits rolled and the screen went black. He passed out.

  22

  Much later when Tim finally got home, exhausted and shaken, he poured himself a drink and thought about the day that had started so promisingly. Ben, thank god, was fine. He had come round shortly after he fainted but Judith and Fern, took him to be checked out at the local hospital just in case he had taken an overdose of any kind. Tim hadn’t needed to explain what was going on with Ben as the two women seemed to have sussed it. Perhaps he had left them a note. His mother had been hysterical, partly with the relief of Ben still being alive, partly because of what he had intended to do; the other woman, Judith, had been the calm one, taking stock of the situation and making all the decisions. When they had finally got Ben in their car, he had come to but wasn’t making much sense. Tim had followed them in his own car to the hospital but had left soon afterwards since there was little he could do. He left his number with Judith and told them to call him to let him know how Ben was.

  Fern called him later that afternoon once they were back at home. Ben had recovered well and was now at home with them. Would he like to come round, Fern asked hesitantly. Ben had asked to see Tim in order to thank him for almost certainly saving his life. ‘Of course I’ll come over now,’ replied Tim. ‘But, Ben mustn’t think I saved him. I don’t think he wanted to jump really and Piggy provided him with a good excuse not to. Once he came down and talked to me, he seemed almost relieved. He told me how unhappy he’d been in France, especially at school, but I think even at that point, that he realised he’d got himself too worked up and lost touch with reality for a while.’

  ‘I know’, sniffed Fern who still couldn’t stop crying. Though I blame myself for not seeing how bad it was for him. He just couldn’t bear to talk to me about it all for fear of making me unhappy just when things were getting better. But of course now he doesn’t have to go back to that school if he doesn’t want to. That’s the last thing that matters. And if he really wants to, we’ll go back to England. I couldn’t bear for him to be so miserable again. I must have been blind. I’ve been so busy trying to make a go of things here that somehow I just didn’t notice how traumatic it’s been for poor Ben.

  But by the time Tim arrived and went to talk to him, Ben seemed almost cheerful. ‘I’m sorry I put you through that. It’s like I’ve been living in a nightmare for the past few weeks but I think it’ll be OK now,’ he told Tim. ‘I’ve given myself a terrible shock as well as everyone else… Poor mum. She had no idea. Somehow I let it all get to me and then I found this website on the net which kind of encouraged people to end it all. I got talking to some of the others and they all got comfort from thinking they could end it all whenever they wanted. Some of them even want to make suicide pacts with you – you know, meet up and do it together. Mind you, they were pretty weird, most of them,’ he added.

  ‘Listen’, said Tim, who now in some odd way felt responsible for Ben, ‘I’m just really, really glad that I was there and from now on I’m sure things will improve. Your mum says you don’t have to go back to that school and she’s willing to move back to England too if necessary. But maybe now this has happened, you’ll be able to cope better. Everything is more difficult in a foreign country and it takes much longer than you think to settle in. I haven’t been here long and whilst I already love most things about being here, I admit it’s been a bit lonely. I think you just need to make a few good friends and I’d like to be one of them if you let me. Just don’t do an
ything dramatic again, and lose that website will you? If things continue to get you down, talk to me, first. Promise?’

  Ben nodded. ‘Sure,’ he said. ‘You’ve been great, and I’d love to take Piggy for walks sometimes. I’ve always wanted a dog’.

  ‘You’re on’, said Tim. ‘She was the one who stopped you jumping, after all.’

  When he went downstairs, Fern, whom Tim desperately wanted to put his arms around, had finally stopped sobbing but still looked utterly stricken. Instead, being English, he left her his phone number and assured her that he would call the next day to see how things were and to help in any way he could.

  ‘I can’t thank you enough,’ said Fern, biting her lip. ‘I’m so sorry you had to spend your day this way. You were such a help. Please come round again – I know Ben would appreciate it.’

  ‘Of course, I will. Tim smiled ruefully. ‘I know today was horrendous for you, but for me it’s been an opportunity to get to know you both. I’ll do whatever I can for Ben – he’s a good kid.’

  ‘Don’t worry, I’ll stay with them tonight and look after them,’ Judith said, emerging from the kitchen, as he turned to leave. ‘But keep in touch. Ben clearly likes you and he needs some male companionship.’

  There was something about Judith that Tim couldn’t put his finger on. He hadn’t taken her in properly throughout the events of the day, but when she said goodbye to him he knew that there was something very familiar about her. Could she have worked on his newspaper, or was she a friend of Freya’s? She looked about her age. Or perhaps he’d seen her on telly? He must ask her when he saw her again. She had been brilliant today. Thank goodness Fern had her for a friend. It bugged him that he couldn’t remember where he’d seen her before but he was too bloody tired to think about it. It’ll come to me, he thought. The face he really wanted to dwell on, he realised with interest, was Fern’s.

  23

  The night that Lance and Roland chose to go to their ‘special interests club’ in Montpellier was particularly hot and oppressive. The city was heaving with tourists and students and every outside-bar and café was packed. In the main square, Place de la Comédie, impromptu bands of musicians vied with each other to produce the most offensive noise and the usual gangs of doped out crusties with their dogs on rope leads draped themselves over every available fountain edge and all the way up the steps leading to the theatre itself. In front of the cinema complex, a troupe of jugglers and trick cyclists had drawn an admiring crowd while the usual sad man covered from top to toe in gold paint, cat perched on his shoulder, stood statue-like on a plinth at the entrance to the shopping mall, his gold top hat displaying the wretchedly few copper coins he garnered there every day of the year for his trouble.

  Roland blagged his way to a table at the Café de la Paix facing the melee and immediately ordered two beers, the French waiters as usual pointedly ignoring the prior claims to tables or drinks of the foreigners who made up most of the clientele. ‘We can’t go to the club till ten,’ he told Lance, ‘so we may as well have a few beers first’.

  Lance glanced at his watch. It was only 8.30. His shirt was already sticking to him and he felt grubby and slightly nauseous. Montpellier invariably had that effect on him at night. It was too bloody noisy and squalid, especially here in the Comédie. He studied a group of Arabs loitering near their table arguing with a couple of western students while another student doubled over the gutter vomiting. Doubtless some bicker over drugs. Really, it was like Dante’s circle of hell here what with all these performing monkeys and low life prowling around. If it wasn’t for the delights that Roland had promised him that night, he’d go home right now. In a rare moment of nostalgia, he imagined himself back in London in the coolly civilised surroundings of his club, summoning George – they were all called George in Boodles – for a large scotch.

  Reluctantly, he turned his attention back to Roland who was sweating unattractively into his Hawaiian-style polyester shirt and exchanging shouted remarks with a man at a nearby table. Why couldn’t they keep the noise level down in France, Lance thought irritably, his head pounding.

  Just then he noticed a couple taking a table at the next door café. Well, well, if it wasn’t Miss goody two shoes Judith Hay with that surly bastard Gerald Thornton. Of course, they would have met through their shared love of ‘literature’. Lance saw the word in inverted commas because he was conscious that Gerald especially did not feel his own work was deserving of the term. Well, they deserved each other; each as pretentious as the other. Not that he’d be getting much joy from her – Tim Lavery had mentioned in the bar the other night that he had met Judith and finally recognised her from a newspaper story he had covered in England as being sacked from a girls’ school for suspected hanky panky with the headmistress.

  Lance had been so clearly thrilled with this spicy piece of news that Tim had quickly shut up about it, realising that his innocent indiscretion might be used by somebody as malicious as he now perceived Lance to be. In fact, when he saw how Lance had gloated, saying he knew there was ‘something fishy’ about her and that would make people think twice before befriending her, Tim had inwardly cursed himself. He liked what little he knew of Judith and she was a good friend to Fern; he was mortified to think how his careless remark might now affect her standing in the community.

  When Judith noticed Lance only feet away from her, she said something to Gerald and they quickly moved off before ordering. Good riddance, thought Lance. I don’t want them nosing around wondering what I’m doing here with Roland. Montpellier was a bit too small for his liking. You invariably bumped into somebody you knew sooner or later.

  After Judith had asked Gerald if they could move because of Lance, she felt she owed him an explanation. Finding a small bar in a backstreet, she ordered a pastis and lit up a cigarette feeling distinctly wobbly. She hadn’t seen the bastard since Rose had told her the shocking story of how Lance had attempted to rape Sophie. It was very much on her conscience and after agonising about what to do with this unwelcome information, she still hadn’t come to any conclusion. Sophie wasn’t there to talk to and it would be unpardonable, she felt, to tell Jean who was already in a dreadful state about Lance. In any case, it was, as yet, just unsubstantiated rumour and she knew all about that and the heartbreak it could cause.

  However, now she found she felt she could at least confide in Gerald. She had attended a few poetry events at Wuthering Heights since their first meeting and she had been pleased and flattered that he had suggested going for a meal after today’s book launch. She liked what she knew of him very much and was looking forward to getting to know him better. Instinctively, she felt he was a man she could trust with her dilemma. It was driving her crazy keeping the knowledge to herself.

  In the event, she didn’t have to bring the subject up. Gerald steered her to a chair and looked concerned. ‘What is the matter?’ he asked her. ‘You look so shaken. I can understand you not wanting to join that bore Lance Campion for a drink, but we didn’t have to flee in terror did we?’

  Judith stubbed out her cigarette and took a gulp of pastis. Funny how that warm, aniseed taste was so soothing here in France; it wouldn’t occur to you to drink the stuff in England. She took a deep breath and looking fixedly down at her glass told him what she knew of Lance from both his wife and from Rose. He didn’t interrupt. When she had finished, she raised her eyes to his dreading to see disbelief or contempt. He’ll think I’m just a hysterical gossip, she thought.

  But Gerald put his hand over her unsteady one and looked at her only with concern. ‘My God,’ he said. ‘You poor girl, carrying that around. I’m so glad you’ve been able to tell me about this. It’s absolutely appalling if it’s true. We must think what the best thing is to do. It’s such a serious allegation, and whilst I wouldn’t put anything past that pompous shit, it would be terrible to spread false rumours.’

  Meanwhile, in a scruffy alley near the railway station, the object of Gerald and Judith’s discus
sion, loitered outside a black metal door covered with graffiti in a largely boarded up building wondering what the hell he had got himself into. Roland had telephoned his contact Gilles on his mobile and they were waiting for him to open up ‘the club’. When Gilles, unbarred the door, looking comically like the North African gangster Lance supposed he was, he nodded offhandedly to Roland, ignored Lance, and led them up a crumbling wooden staircase littered with cigarette ends to another locked door which opened into an apartment. Once inside, he asked Roland for cash in advance and after counting the notes disappeared into a back room. ‘Some club’, said Lance to Roland. ‘What happens now? He legs it with our money and we find our own way out?’ Roland grinned.

  ‘Calm down, my friend. Now he goes to find our new friends and then he leaves us. There are other rooms here where we make ourselves comfortable and have very good time. You wanted this, no?’

  Lance didn’t have time to answer before Gilles returned with two dark-haired girls who didn’t look much over twelve who smiled at the men shyly and shook hands. ‘Anya,’ said Gilles in French, ‘and Brita. They are from Slovakia. They will entertain you here. I will return at 12.00. There is beer and wine in the fridge. Offer the girls a drink.’