Ooh La La! Connie Pickles

by Sabine Durrant

  The garden, 3 p.m.

  The boys made a pact on the way home that they wouldn’t tell Pascale or their father about the meeting with their mother. They don’t want to upset Pascale and they’re scared of what their father might do. They think there is more pleading to be done.

  When we got back, Pascale had made lunch – lamb cutlets and salad – and had laid the table in the garden. Valérie had gone out to collect a consignment of Moroccan tea lights.

  While we were eating, Monsieur Blanc kept telling Pascale how delicious the meal was and how clever a little cook she was, which was nice. ‘Of course, you get it from your mother,’ he said. ‘She is a fantastic cook.’ And then he launched into a long reminiscence about how they first met: how she had been going out with a friend of his and they had got together at a picnic in the Bois de Boulogne and she had made this wild-boar pâté: ‘…the deliciousness, the freshness, oh, to meet a girl who made her own wild-boar pâté…’

  Didier and I exchanged several glances through this until finally he said: ‘Papa, I don’t think Mother realizes how much you love and appreciate her. I wonder if – when – she comes back, you should not be angry with her, but tell her all the things you’ve been telling us.’

  Monsieur Blanc seemed to recover himself at this point and made some gruff noises, which prompted the rest of us to clear the table and do the washing-up.

  I was doing the glasses when the phone went and everybody jumped. Monsieur Blanc got there first. His face crumpled. ‘Constance!’ he called irritably. ‘For you.’

  It was Mr Spence, calling to finalize arrangements for the weekend. Mother doesn’t have a clue where she’s going. He’s told her it’s romantic. ‘And no bikini required! Ha, ha.’

  ‘Yes, all right,’ I said.

  We agreed that I’ll pick them up from the station and spend a bit of time with them tomorrow. And then we’ll meet for lunch, with grandparents, on Sunday.

  I rang my grandmother, who is giddy with excitement and obsessed with getting the place right. She ran through several brasseries – this one too crowded, this one too smoky, this one too booked up. In the end, we agreed on somewhere at the top of the Pompidou Centre. ‘Are you sure we shouldn’t tell Bernadette that we will be there?’ she asked anxiously. ‘Wouldn’t it be better if she was prepared?’

  I told her forewarned was forearmed and we didn’t want that.

  I’m going to write to William now. Unaccountably, despite all that’s happening, I miss him.

  Chapter Nineteen

  New vocab: une famille française typique (a typical French family)

  Friday 11 April

  Under the bedclothes, 9.30 a.m.

  It’s Good Friday, the day you should spend contemplating your sins, looking deeply into the darkness of your soul etc., etc. We’re going to church this evening, but I’m not going to confession because I can’t handle it in French. So, I’ll take a moment here to unburden.

  1. Technically I am still coveting someone else’s property, i.e. William.

  2. Unpure thoughts, i.e. Philippe.

  3. Deceitful actions. Mother is, even as I write, on the Eurostar. No panicked phone call from Mr Spence, so he obviously persuaded her on to it. The real sin is arranging Sunday lunch, but I’m sure the Lord knows it is all for her own good.

  I’d better go downstairs and see what the mood is today.

  Kitchen, 10 a.m.

  Monsieur Blanc is wearing the dark blue suit he wears for work, with a pale yellow tie. He hasn’t done anything about his beard, so he looks like one of those games Marie used to like so much – when you can flick a page and put a different body on the wrong face. He’s Monsieur Businessman underneath, the Old Man of the Sea on top.

  Valérie has got him helping her with her accounts – they are laid out over the table and he is sitting at the head, tapping on a calculator. She keeps sidling up to tell him how clever he is. It’s all a bit care in the community for my liking.

  Philippe is at the front door with Pascale and Eric. I went out to see what they were up to. The sky was blue with heavy white clouds. The sun was going in and out. Eric was trying to persuade Pascale to go for a ride with him on his bike. Pascale, who was wearing black eyeliner and a dressing gown, was telling him she couldn’t leave her father. Philippe, in long baggy shorts and a vest T-shirt, said, ‘I’ll come,’ and wrapped his arms round Eric from behind and made a slightly obscene hip movement. Eric pulled away and pretended to clobber him and then Pascale started shouting at Philippe. Valérie came out of the house and told them to quieten down. And then Monsieur Blanc emerged and said, ‘My daughter, come and quench your poor deserted father’s loneliness,’ (or something) and Pascale, throwing a defiant look in the direction of her brother and beau, went back into the house with him. Valérie followed.

  Eric, who hasn’t said a word to me in the fortnight I’ve been here, flicked his fringe behind his ears and said, ‘Do you want to come for a ride?’ I didn’t really fancy all that grease in my face so I said no and he roared off, leaving me – alone, at last! – with Philippe.

  Oh. Oh. Oh.

  We sat on the wall and talked! He was so sweet. He said, ‘So, you’ve been here seven whole days now.’

  ‘Fourteen,’ I said.

  And he said, ‘Oh yes, I was away when you came. And how have you found your time with a typical French family?’

  Monsieur Blanc’s sobs filled the cul-de-sac. I said, ‘Errr…’ and we both laughed. A pause followed. ‘I’ve really liked getting to know Pascale,’ I said. ‘And Didier, of course, and… and you.’

  I was pulling the leaves off the plant I was sitting next to and rolling them between my fingers. When I looked up, he was checking his watch. He said, ‘I’d better… er…’

  ‘Where’s Didier now?’ I said.

  ‘He’s gone to talk to our mother. I wanted to go, but he thought he would be better at it.’ He stood up.

  I stood up too. I was trying not to feel disappointed. I blurted, ‘There’s a party tomorrow. Are you going to come?’

  ‘A party? Where?’

  ‘At Mimi’s. You met her when she spent the night. She lives on the Île de la Cité. It’s a fantastic apartment. Her parents are away.’

  ‘Oh, are they?’ he said, and then, setting my heart racing again, ‘Well, maybe I’ll be there.’

  Kitchen, 11.50 a.m.

  Didier is back. I don’t think from the setness of his expression that the conversation with his mother went well. I’ll have to wait until later to find out because I have to leave RIGHT NOW to meet Mother and Mr Spence.

  RER, between Châtelet-Les Halles and Nation, 4.30 p.m.

  I thought they’d missed the train. I was a little bit late and I got to the Gare du Nord as the Eurostar was pulling in. I ran to the right platform and watched as gaggle after gaggle of weekenders wheeled their suitcases past. A large American woman in turquoise slacks and a baseball cap with ‘I’ve Been To The Planetarium’ on it stopped to ask if I could tell her where ‘you gotta cab’. I didn’t know, but I showed her the picture of a taxi with an arrow above her head and she waddled off. Two teenage girls passed me with their parents. ‘Let’s do shopping then lunch,’ the mother said. ‘No, let’s do shopping then shopping,’ the elder girl said.

  No sign of Mother and Mr Spence. The only people still coming off were very old or had masses of luggage, but then, suddenly, behind a couple pushing a trolley laden with suitcases, I saw what I thought was the top of Mother’s head, and then to one side of it, a bare hairy leg that looked like it must belong to Mr Spence. And then the couple with the trolley was past the pillar and there they were, behind them, the two of them, coming towards me. Mother, who was in her nicest black suit and her work heels, was beaming from one side of her face to the other, although as she got closer I saw tears were also pouring down her cheeks. Mr Spence, a bag in each hand, stood back while we hugged.

  ‘You’re not cross?’ I kept saying. ‘Promise yo
u’re not cross. Or sad? Tell me you’re happy.’

  She was, she said, still weeping, very happy.

  ‘Your hair!’ she said.

  ‘Do you like it?’

  ‘Yes!’

  Mr Spence – John – stepped forward and handed her a huge striped handkerchief to wipe her eyes. ‘Go on,’ he said. ‘Have a good blow. You know you want to.’

  She blew and then she wiped again. I said, ‘Is she OK? Was it all right? She didn’t try and run away when you got to Waterloo?’

  ‘No,’ she said from behind the handkerchief. ‘I didn’t.’

  ‘She wanted to see her big girl, didn’t you, Bern?’

  I said, ‘Bern?’

  Mother, always known as Bernadette, gave me a warning look. ‘Let’s go and find the hotel.’

  Mr Spence insisted we got a taxi. We had to queue. The fat Planetarium woman was way ahead of us, but there were lots of taxis and it didn’t take long. Mr Spence read out the address of the hotel in such a terrible French accent, the driver – Algerian, I think – looked blank until Mother took the itinerary from him and read it out herself. ‘Best Western Étoile!’ she repeated, raising her eyebrows and giving a little squeal of excitement.

  Mr Spence looked back at me from the passenger seat and winked.

  It was heaven travelling through Paris in a taxi. Mother said, ‘I expect this isn’t what you’ve been used to!’ and I was about to say, ‘No, that’s right. The only other time I was in a taxi in Paris I wasn’t concentrating on the scenery as I’d been caught shoplifting and just met my grandmother for the first time,’ but luckily I stopped myself and told her about the taxi ride through Brussels instead. She said she’d seen the statue of the boy weeing and that it looked nothing like Cyril. She tapped me on the head with her passport and then gave me another big hug.

  I wanted to know how everyone was at home. Cyril, a retiring soul who is only happy tucked up on the sofa with a plate of peanut-butter sandwiches watching Pokémon, had been invited to a football party by a boy at school. He’d gone reluctantly, dragging his trainered toes all the way across the playing field, casting reproachful glances over his shoulder at Mother. When she’d returned to pick him up: a changed boy! He had scored three goals, was charging up and down, red, muddy and sweaty, with a gang of other boys and could hardly be dragged away. ‘Ah,’ Mother and I said in unison, as we flashed past the Gare Saint-Lazare.

  She said Marie was her usual bumptious self, had thrown herself to the floor, sobbing and renting her bosom, at the news that Mother was leaving for two days, but had cheered up the moment Jack arrived to take her and C to LEGOLAND. ‘Hardly had time to kiss me goodbye,’ Mother added.

  ‘And Jack?’ I said. ‘I hear…’

  ‘New girlfriend in telesales.’

  ‘Yes, and…’

  ‘New job. Yes. Fruit bowls. Hmm.’

  She looked at me and we both laughed. Mother is so over Jack it’s not true.

  Mr Spence leant over and said, ‘I hope you don’t laugh at me like that when you’ve chucked me out.’

  Mother began to pout and go coy (she is all kitten as far as men are concerned) so I said, ‘She can’t chuck you out. You own the house.’ And Mother and I fell about laughing again.

  ‘Women,’ Mr Spence said. ‘Save me from them.’

  The Best Western was not as naff as I’d imagined. It was all red and gold carpet and roses in vases. An American family was drinking champagne in the foyer. But the lift creaked and smelt of damp, and there was a mattress leaning against the wall outside their room.

  In the bedroom, a fantasy in peach and white, Mother lay down on the bed, bounced up and down a couple of times and rested her head on the pillow. She tapped the mattress next to her and called, ‘Chéri!’ Mr Spence, who’d just emerged from the bathroom thrilling to the news that the lavatory was hygiene-sealed, went to lie down. I’m still not ready to witness my mother’s public displays of affection (with him – yuck) so I made sure I got there first. He had to sit on the stool with thick straps instead of a seat. (What’s that about? Is it a special stool especially for luggage? Is that necessary?)

  ‘Now, Constance. Tell me everything. Are you having a lovely, lovely, lovely time?’

  It’s funny that thing people do: ask you a question with the answer built into it. Mother does it a lot. It’s a way of ensuring the world is comfortable around her, a way of keeping the bad out. You can’t really reply, ‘Um, well, not exactly lovely…’ without sounding churlish. There’s no room for disagreement. You either have to agree, or go further in the same direction. As in, not just lovely, FANTASTIC.

  ‘Not just lovely, Mother. FANTASTIC,’ I said.

  ‘And is Pascale super, super, super?’

  ‘Um.’ I thought for a moment and then laughed to myself. ‘Yes,’ I said. ‘She is. She’s very interesting.’

  ‘And Paris, chérie? Is it what you imagined?’

  ‘Yes, Mother,’ I said. ‘It is. It’s – it’s lovely.’

  ‘And what have you been doing? Have you been to Sacré Cœur?’

  ‘No. Not Sacré Cœur.’

  ‘Les Tuileries?’

  ‘No, not yet, but… ‘

  ‘Montmartre?’

  I shook my head.

  ‘Le Louvre? Le Jeu de Paume?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘The Eiffel Tower? Chérie, Cyril, he is so excited to hear about the Eiffel Tower.’

  ‘No,’ I said, surprised. ‘I haven’t been up the Eiffel Tower. I was going to, but…’

  ‘So, Constance. What have you been doing?’

  ‘Well…’ I couldn’t tell her about meeting my grandmother or Pascale’s brush with the law. I couldn’t tell her that. I couldn’t tell her about being kissed by François, or the Crying Girl, or falling in love with Philippe. And, apart from that, what had I been doing?

  ‘I’ve seen Delilah a few times,’ I said. ‘That’s been nice. And Julie. I’ve met up with her.’

  ‘Delilah and Julie! You can see them at home!’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘And les Blancs, have they been nice to my little Constance? Are they a good family?’

  ‘Oh, Mother,’ I began. Then stopped. I really wanted to tell her about Madame Blanc and her obsessive cleaning and Monsieur Blanc and his bullying and then the crisis of the last few days – the terrible tension, the emotions flying everywhere, the trauma, the embarrassment – but she was looking at me so expectantly and happily, I didn’t want to disappoint her.

  So, I started making up stories about them. I should have just said, ‘They’re very nice.’ But I said, ‘Thérèse – that’s Madame Blanc, but she won’t let me call her that, in fact the moment I got off the bus, she said, “I’m Thérèse and I’ll hear no more about it” – and we wander down to the market together every day. She didn’t speak any English when I first arrived, but I’ve taught her loads. She used to be a ballet dancer and every night, after supper, we all sit round the table and she dances and Monsieur Blanc – Jean – sings. He’s got a deep baritone. Didier, that’s the elder brother, plays the piano. And Philippe and Pascale and I clap hands and call out, “More, more,” until everyone falls to the ground, exhausted.’

  ‘Oh,’ said Mother. ‘Gosh.’

  Mr Spence said, ‘Sounds a bit full-on.’

  ‘No, it isn’t, it isn’t. And then we play Monopoly.’

  ‘In French?’ asked Mr Spence.

  ‘Um… yeah.’

  ‘So, what’s Mayfair?’ he laughed.

  I thought quickly. ‘The Champs Elysées.’

  ‘Of course,’ Mother said, smiling.

  ‘And there’s this lovely Bohemian aunt who comes to visit and we go for long family walks after church on Sundays, stopping off for bread and cakes –’

  ‘I can see you’ve been enjoying the cakes.’

  ‘And then we go home and they take it in turns to cook. Sometimes Monsieur Blanc – I mean, Jean – throws steak on the barbecue and Di
dier and Philippe toss up a salad and –’

  ‘You’ve had better weather than we have then,’ said Mr Spence.

  ‘It’s just nice to be part of such a nice, conventional family,’ I said.

  Mother looked for a moment as if she was going to burst into tears. It’s only now, as I sit here on the train, that I think maybe I went too far. But in fact she smiled and said, ‘Oh, chérie. I am so glad because staying with a family you do not know could be an unsettling experience. I was worried that it might be so, but I was wrong. It is all wonderful.’

  ‘Yes,’ I said. ‘It is.’

  Mr Spence was standing up by this time, at the double-glazed windows, peering out. He said, ‘Bern. Shower. Then hit the town? What do you say?’

  ‘John, I am in your hands.’

  She stood up, sighed deeply and then stretched, and while she was doing so, Mr Spence sidled up and put his arms round her – a bit higher than her waist – as if he was going to lift her off the ground. He isn’t that much taller than her when she’s got her heels on. Then… urgh. ‘You’re in my hands now,’ he said. She smiled into his face. Then he kissed her – not a snog, but longer than necessary, thank you very much.

  ‘Er – hum,’ I said. ‘Minors present.’

  ‘Sorry.’ Mr Spence cleared his throat and stepped back. ‘It’s just your mother… grrrr… miaow!’

  I made my excuses and left.

  Chapter Twenty

  New vocab: un pouf (a pouffe); les coussinets de soie (silk scatter cushions); les tea lights (tea lights)

  Still Friday 11 April

  Living room chez les Blancs, 5.30 p.m.

  An atmosphere.

  Valérie has rearranged the living-room furniture by putting the dining table at a different angle and switching the sofa so that it faces the window rather than the fireplace. She has brought a pouffe into the house. Currently she is upstairs in the master bedroom, scattering Moroccan silk cushions. Monsieur Blanc is making himself a sandwich in the kitchen – I’ve only seen his back, but it looks troubled – and the Blanc children are sulking in the garden.