And that is what happened.
The second weekend without Ed was easier. I spent the time researching the Le Mans 24-Hour and Classic races. I wanted to be prepared, not just so I could hold my own in a conversation, but also so I knew what I would need in the way of clothing, camping equipment and so on.
The twenty-four-hour race looked exciting but confusing to say the least, with so many cars, split into categories depending on the type of car and type of driver, all taking part in the same race. I was not sure how you were meant to know who was where in the race. I asked Ed when we spoke later that day.
“Well, it’s easy to tell the first three cars in each category because they will have lights lit on the side of the car to show their position, so the first car has one light, the second has two, the third-placed car has three. Beyond that it’s a little harder to know, which is where the race radio and TV coverage comes in handy. It’s a long course and a longer race. Cars can be lots of laps down and then something happens to the car ahead and everything changes. It’s not just about the race, it’s about the camping, the holiday, the sights and sounds and smells. And of course the beer,” Ed informed me.
Having read up on the race I spent Sunday buying the essentials – hot-weather clothes, sun tops and shorts, as well as wet-weather gear, just in case. Good trainers and socks – Ed had told me there was a lot of walking in excessive heat and I was renowned for getting blisters on a walk into town. Then there was the equipment. Ed had arranged for an erected tent and had an inflatable bed, bedding and fold-out chairs, but there were still things I needed. A good light so I could find the tent in the dark. A powerful torch if I needed to cross the campsite in the dark. Plastic wine glasses, tropical-strength bug spray, suntan lotion, after-sun, painkillers, first aid kit, to name but a few. It was little surprise then, whilst in France, the lads would nickname me ‘Mum’.
Being busy, writing lists, getting organised had kept my mind off the ache I felt in not seeing Ed. It wouldn’t be long.
It did occur to me that this would be a big test so early in our relationship, but we wouldn’t know unless we gave it a go and it did sound like it would be a laugh, even if the only person I would know in the group was Ed. And of course, it was sort of a pre-runner to us living together. If we could manage to share a tent in excessive heat, then we could manage to share a cottage in middle England.
ten.
Racing to the race
The next few weeks flew by in a similar pattern of highs and lows as the excitement built towards the road trip to Le Mans.
Ed, true to his word, arrived early on the Wednesday morning, and after our usual method of greeting and a spell catching up I finished packing my bags and we loaded Ed’s car ahead of the ridiculously early start the next morning.
That evening we were both sensible, avoiding alcohol and opting for an early night without the usual bedroom antics.
I had checked and rechecked my rucksack to make sure I had my medication and the all-important tickets, passport and money which Ed had handed over to me, as the passenger, for safe-keeping and so I could present them at the appropriate moments.
As I lay in bed listening to Ed’s snoring, wishing I could drop off as easily as he did, I couldn’t quite make out if I was nervous, excited or both. Luckily sleep fell upon me before I could overthink the situation and work myself into a sleepless night.
The alarm brought me back to the world at 5am. I was awake but could quite easily have turned over and gone back to sleep if it had not been for Ed’s beaming face beside me. Clearly he could be awake as quickly as he could be asleep.
“Morning, gorgeous,” he said. “You ready for an adventure?”
I snuggled into his warm, bare chest. “Yes,” I whispered, “although it might take me a moment to wake up.”
A couple of minutes later I stole myself out of my happiness cocoon and hit the shower, hoping it might revive my mind as well as my body and above all hoping it wouldn’t be the last shower I had before returning home the following week.
After Ed had been through his ablutions I put all the wash stuff into the bag I had already prepared, with dry towels already rolled tight and secured inside.
We made our way to Ed’s car in the early morning light. Makeup, wash stuff, handbag and us – the last additions to the car.
As Ed started up the engine he reached over and squeezed my knee. “Let’s go!” he roared. He was like a little kid in a sweet shop. I hadn’t seen him this excited before. I liked it. I liked it a lot.
We had arranged… well, I say ‘we’, really it was Ed who had made all the arrangements. I will start that again. Ed had arranged to meet the others in the car park at Eurotunnel. The rest of the group lived all over the south of England so it was the only sensible and logical choice.
We had a pleasant journey down, Radio 2 blaring out some classic hits, Ed singing along, me mouthing the words to show I knew them, but without waking the living dead through my toneless warbling.
Every so often Ed squeezed my knee, making me jump and scream when I didn’t see it coming, possibly guessing I would be nervous at meeting so many of his friends in one go. Maybe nervous himself at his friends meeting me and what they might make of me.
Oh dear, I thought, I really didn’t think this through. Why did I say yes? There are too many ‘firsts’ for our first trip: the first time I will meet his friends, my first time at a race, first uninterrupted week together. I was staring out of the window and the car had grown quiet over the last few miles. The reassuring squeeze again.
“It’ll be great,” he said in the most reassuring tone he could muster. “They’ll love you.” He smiled over at me, I smiled back.
“I know it will,” I said, resting my hand on his thigh. “I’m looking forward to meeting them. I just hope they like me.”
“Of course they will.” Ed was looking straight ahead focusing on the road. “They’ll love you as much as I do.” He glanced at me sideways then returned his gaze forwards. I didn’t know how to respond. I felt the glow of happiness burn my face up.
What if he is now regretting letting that slip? I thought. But I need not have worried. The knee squeezes again. When I looked up at him he smiled. “I meant that, you know. That I love you.”
My face nearly exploded with the pressure of my smile. “I love you too.”
The gulf between us evaporated and seeped out the windows. He was smiling now.
“That was not really how I intended to tell you that,” he admitted sheepishly. “I was hoping for a more romantic moment when I was holding you in my arms rather than as we sit next to each other, driving down a motorway, while I’m unable to look at you.”
I turned in my seat so I could see him better. “That’s okay. These things rarely happen how we hope or even plan they will, life or fate has a strange way of interfering in that.”
“I don’t suppose I can get you to forget I said it and then when a more appropriate time comes up I can spring it on you?” he asked in the same light-hearted manner.
“Not a chance. Well, you can tell me as often as you like, but I can’t forget that you told me. If you like I can pretend I don’t know and try to act all surprised. I’m no actress but I could throw my arms in the air for some dramatic expression of shock and wonder.”
“That sounds ideal. Let’s do that.”
I felt a lot better about meeting Ed’s friends now that I knew how he felt about me. I had the reassurance that if they didn’t like me, I knew Ed was deep enough into the relationship to not let any negative comments sway him. At least so I hoped.
As we pulled into the Eurotunnel car park an entire hour ahead of our schedule, Ed’s phone pinged.
“We’ve set up a WhatsApp group for the trip,” he told me. “A couple of the guys are already here and parked at the far side, near the exit, so we can all park together
.” Ed reversed out of the space he had pulled into and we quickly found the other early arrivals.
“They must have gone into the terminal for breakfast. Let’s join them, I’m starving,” Ed suggested, getting out of the car and waiting for me to join him at the boot.
“Yes, me too,” I confirmed as we made our way across rows and rows of waiting travellers. I was unsure whether the pains in my stomach were hunger pangs or indeed nerves, but either way it would be good to meet the lads in smaller numbers. If nothing else it might help me to remember names. I was, and am, notoriously bad at that, finding creative ways around actually having to mention someone’s name.
Well, I thought, here goes everything. Yes, ‘everything’ is right, I have too much to lose now.
Apparently there were to be ten cars in total, each with two people, a driver and a navigator, although in this day and age, with the help of Sat Navs the passengers were almost redundant.
The first four arrivals, two brothers and two friends, were already tucking into huge full English breakfasts when we closed in on their table. They were all chatting animatedly, obviously just as excited as Ed. As we approached, one of them spotted us and leapt to his feet, followed by the others in quick succession, their breakfasts forgotten temporarily.
They all half shook hands, half hugged Ed and then turned to me for introductions and the usual pleasantries.
That wasn’t so hard, I thought as we lined up to order some food. I desperately needed caffeine. We decided against the full English, instead opting for a more continental coffee and pastries. I had already told myself that carbs were okay for the next week. With all the walking and the limited food options it would be hard to avoid them, so I might as well make the most of it and embrace them.
We found a spot next to each other at the end of the table and the, ‘So what do you do?’ followed. There was a headhunter (not literally, but in the recruitment field), a car salesman, an architect and an engineer. They all came across as intelligent, successful men, but right now they were just excited boys. Let loose from work and their families they clearly intended to make the most of their week away.
Our table grew bigger as more and more arrived. In the end, just as our train was called to embark, there were twenty of us, taking up half the tables in the cafe. When I say twenty, I should be more specific at this point. That is, there were nineteen men and me. This certainly was going to be an interesting few days.
I had been in the Eurotunnel just once before, but that was many, many years ago in another lifetime and in very different circumstances.
The first time, there had been just four of us in the group, all in one car: my fiancé, my soon-to-be mother- and father-in-law, and of course me.
My fiancé, Fred 2, was never to be my husband, but on that day we were very much in love and heading to France for a celebratory engagement lunch. The day had been glorious. We had eaten in the garden of a rustic restaurant in a small town in northern France and on the journey home picked up champagne and wine from a supermarché near the terminal. I had no idea at that point what a whirlwind and how tumultuous the next year would be.
Back to the present
I was equally excited, but for very different reasons as all twenty of us got back in our respective cars, and one by one lined up behind each other as we left the car park. We managed to stick together as we filed onto the train, the barriers between the compartments breaking up the convoy, but we went through the heavy airlock doors and met in the middle carriage. It was hot, but as we leant against the side of the train with the cars positioned between us, we joked and laughed and I finally began to relax.
It was a quick journey and soon the train was speeding out into the bright French sunshine. High fencing surrounded the track marking where the refugee camp, The Jungle as it was called, had once stood and where so many had tried to access transport to carry them under or over the sea to safety. Now disbanded and the refugees moved on, it was still a stark reminder of the desperate and dangerous measures refugees will take in order to find sanctuary. Somewhere peaceful. Somewhere where they could be safe, find work or for the young, unaccompanied children to engage in education. Lord only knows what those young, impressionable eyes, ears and minds had seen or been subjected to on their journey to, and in, this place.
The train slowed down as it approached the terminal so we made our way back to the correct compartments and climbed into our respective cars. The heavy compartment doors swung back and rolled up out of the way. Soon we were rolling off the train and into the brilliant French sunshine.
While we had been on the train the organiser had given us all instructions. We were heading straight down to Le Mans, the quickest way possible, which meant toll roads and motorways. The plan was to try to stay in convoy and pull off the road somewhere near Rouen for lunch.
“It shouldn’t be too hard to stick together on the motorway, as long as no one decides to floor it and leave the others behind. Each driver should keep an eye on the car behind and if he slows, you slow and we all stay together.” These simple instructions, should, in theory, work, but with nineteen men in ten cars on their way to a race it didn’t sound very likely to me.
We had programmed the Sat Nav. I was glad to realise that the likelihood of our arriving at the destination was not solely down to my map-reading skills. My degree in Geography would stand me in good stead for the task, but my knowledge of, or ability to, measure distance and my limited French were distinct disadvantages. I was not sure our young relationship could have stood that particular test so early on.
We nearly lost half the convoy at the first roundabout. Luckily they caught us up soon after we joined the motorway and were soon trundling through the French countryside. Signs for familiar places like Le Havre and Dieppe sped by but we never actually saw any of them, as the motorway skirted them all. The exception, as with every rule, was Rouen, where the motorway slowly descended down into the heart of the town. A succession of junctions and traffic lights played havoc with the convoy and soon we were one of two cars. The organiser clearly knew this would happen and had arranged for us to stop for lunch just the other side of the city, giving us the opportunity to regroup.
It was a peaceful, sleepy French town, at least it was until ten British cars came roaring into the main street. Parking up on either side of the road, we perused a few of the menus displayed on the outside of the cafes and restaurants. In the end, the availability of a lot of tables in the shade along the outside of the cafe nearest to our cars swung our decision. After the early start, I’m not sure anyone had the energy or enthusiasm to explore much further.
I have only rudimentary French, enough to order a couple of beers, coffee, ask for the bill, secure a room for the night and of course say please and thank you. To my relief one of our travelling companions was an accomplished and fluent speaker, and soon we were pulling tables together, drinking ice-cold beer and water, and trying to find something I understood on the menu. I decided on a ham omelette, foregoing the frites.
The food took some time to appear and when it did it came two plates at a time. Clearly the kitchen was not used to such a large group but it was entertaining as a Julie Walters-type Mrs Overall from Acorn Antiques brought out the plates, walking slowly, purposefully and carefully placing one foot in front of the other, bent at the middle in a semi-permanent bow. However, after slowly laying each plate in front of the hungry recipient she spun on her heels, and as she walked away she straightened up to her full height and sped back to the kitchen.
By the time the last plates were delivered the first two or three had already been finished. We were in no rush. We were over halfway to our destination and were making good time. Plus it enabled us to relax, get to know each other and enjoy our surroundings.
The buildings around us were fairly modern, and not of any architectural style or note, but nearby was a tall, simple building named
‘Fromage’. My French was good enough to know that it meant ‘cheese’. However, it generated a debate as to whether it housed a cheese market, the local cheese producers’ association, was just the name of the building which provided a central meeting place for the townsfolk, or a combination of the above. Who knew, and to be honest, none of us cared enough to wander over and make enquiries, it was just a means to keep us entertained whilst the last of the lunch plates were polished off.
I was glad of the air conditioning in the car when we clambered back into the hot leather seats which had been baking in the sun for the last couple of hours. The air was hot and thick, the heat of the seat quickly penetrating our thin summer clothes and turning my legs and back to a sweaty mess. The car quickly cooled and the seats became bearable as we made our way back to the motorway and on to Le Mans.
*
It was early evening when we arrived at our destination. Despite it having been dry all the way down, there had clearly been rain in the town, as the roads were wet and the air felt clearer than it had all day. As we drove along a wide boulevard, Ed excitedly exclaimed, “We are on the race track, we’re actually driving along the race track.” He went on to explain that the majority of the track is in fact everyday streets and they are just closed off on practice and race days. There is only a short section of dedicated race track centred around the grandstands and pit lane.
Arriving early, as we were, the roads were open and it was quite exciting to think we were travelling on the very tarmac that would soon by subjected to the roar of hundreds of engines, whilst tyres squealed their way round the track in hot pursuit of their nearest competitor.
We had to go through some tight security to get into the general camping area, in which our private site was located. I was not entirely sure what they were searching for but they had a good root through our belongings before releasing us.
Loves Lost and Found Page 13