I was, by now, leaning on the metal fence that separated the campsite from the racetrack. Ed put an arm either side of me, pinning me to the fence. We smiled at each other momentarily while I put my arms around the back of his neck and then we simultaneously pulled each other in close and kissed passionately, only pulling apart when a voice shouted, “Oi, get a tent,” followed by laughter.
We pulled apart and turned sheepishly to find most of the group laughing at us. We joined in.
After breakfast we packed our bags, deflated the mattress, re-bagged that and the bedding and loaded it all into the car. Apart from a couple of plastic beer glasses and two flags we were going home with what we came with, but it seemed to have grown over the weekend and the car was laden down.
It had been hot work but with the cars all packed we had time to watch some more racing. We knew we’d have some distance to travel through congested streets before we were back on the open road, so had decided to set off just before the racing ended to avoid the worst of the traffic.
As we pulled up to the gate, our convoy reassembled, we thanked the staff, all of whom had been amazing and who really made us feel so welcome and so well looked after. I felt a little sad as we headed out onto the dusty track, back towards the tarmac roads that would lead us home. I had made some great new friends on this trip, and despite the heat and the camping our relationship had stood the test. If anything we were even stronger for it. Now, on top of everything else, we had this amazing shared experience too.
We had been given the postcode of where we were staying that night – a château, we were led to believe, a bed and en suite. I couldn’t wait. It was in a small town roughly halfway between Le Mans and Calais, all back roads, which meant the convoy had no chance of sticking together as it soon turned out. Before we even got to the limits of Le Mans we had split and split again at every junction and every roundabout and now there were just two cars.
We drove at pace along the quiet roads, through rolling countryside bathed in sunshine, through beautiful medieval town centres with Communist-Bloc-type apartments on the outskirts, through dark woods and farmland. Ed and I had the radio on but it made no sense to us and we were not listening anyway, recounting, as we were, the last few days, laughing at the jokes, regaling tall stories and antics and of course the racing itself.
Ed looked several times in the rear-view mirror as we were leaving a hamlet, nothing more than a row of houses on either side of a short stretch of road.
“Is everything okay?” I asked.
“I hope so,” Ed replied, “but Jon in the car behind is flashing his lights.”
A short distance further we pulled onto the dried, dusty earth at the side of the road. I stayed in the car whilst Ed went to find out what was wrong.
After a few moments he returned.
“It’s okay, they suggested we find somewhere for lunch, which seems like a good plan, so keep your eyes peeled for somewhere suitable,” he instructed me.
Twenty minutes later, as we were driving through a wood, we could see up ahead a clearing, and a building with a number of cars parked out front.
“There on the right,” I pointed with my hand as Ed followed its direction, indicated and slowed as we approached.
“Great, that’ll do,” Ed confirmed and a few minutes later pulled in to a packed car park. To our surprise and delight we recognised a couple of the cars. Four of the group had stopped ahead of us and were just finishing their lunch as we joined them.
They gave us instructions on how it worked and then got back in their cars and roared off up the road.
The four of us remaining entered the slightly strange cafe. It may well have been a petrol station at some point, the shop converted into a counter displaying cold drinks but with little information on what food was available. The tiled floors and walls seemed clean, though the toilets left a little to be desired. One was out of order, the other strewn with loo roll, but in these circumstances, beggars cannot be choosers.
We ordered four ham and cheese baguettes and a combination of soft drinks then found a spot outside the front of the cafe where we could keep an eye on the cars and waited for our lunch to appear. That took some time, but it was good to be out of the car for a while at least.
Fed and watered we climbed back into our baking hot cars and got the last leg of that day’s journey underway.
As we approached our destination we saw the four guys from lunch now quaffing lager outside a bar and noted its location.
The ‘château’, it turned out, was more of a large house than the typical romantic view of a castle with turrets and moats, but what do you expect in the middle of a town? Of more concern was that it appeared to be very much shut. The large wooden arched doors that gave way into an inner courtyard were locked and no one answered the door. It didn’t bode well, so we decided to make our way through the bustling town centre to find the guys who had set up a forward command at the pub.
We pulled some tables and chairs together and ordered more lager from a passing waitress, again my basic French achieving the desired outcome. It was quite a spot that the guys had found. We were bathed in sunshine, sitting on a bridge that spanned a pretty river. Although there was no evidence of waterfowl or fish, the steep walls down to the sparkling and fast-flowing river were adorned with flowers.
“So, what’s up with the château?” Ed asked once our drinks had arrived and we were tucking into the thirst-quenching amber nectar.
“Not sure,” one of the guys confessed. “There was no sign of the person we made the booking with and the two boys who answered the door didn’t seem to know anything about us. Their English was about as good as our French so it was hard to be sure, but I don’t think they were expecting us and none of the rooms are ready. They said it will take them an hour or so to get them ready so we thought we’d wait here.”
“Good plan,” we all agreed and sat back to enjoy the atmosphere, people-watching, relaxing and waiting, not just for our rooms but also for the rest of the convoy to catch us up. The spot was ideal for the last of those, as all cars would pass over the bridge to get to the destination, giving us the chance to shout directions and then wait for their return.
The later arrivals had found the gates open and their rooms ready, they told us after taking longer than expected to arrive back, having opted to decamp and have a shower before joining us. Once this was confirmed we dashed back to move our cars into the safe sanctity of the inner courtyard and were directed to rooms by the young boys who were now standing on guard at the main entrance. The inside of the house was dark and foreboding, with strange net curtains transecting the hallways and a collection of pianos arranged around the bottom of the dark oak staircase which became more spindly and twisted the higher we climbed.
The only rooms left by this point were at the top of the house, but it had all we needed: an en suite bathroom and a large double bed. Having dumped our bags, we forewent the showers. The lagers and the sunshine were too much to resist and we retraced our steps back to the bridge.
We whiled away a few hours, reminiscing about how great the trip had been and the escapades the various parts of the convoy had got up to since we saw them last. Eventually we realised that the bar owner had been discreetly packing up all the tables, chairs and umbrellas around us, shutting the bi-fold doors to the street and the open windows on the side of the building that faced the river. Now he was less than subtly looking at us, sitting in our island of furniture and half-finished drinks on an otherwise deserted bridge.
Deciding it was time for dinner, it was slightly disappointing to discover that the town pretty much closed on a Sunday evening and the only place open and able to accommodate us was a Chinese restaurant a short walk from the bar.
Our group took up over half of the small dining area, but our hostess was most accommodating. Between our French speakers we managed to order a feast,
washed down by red wine and laughter. Every part of the trip was turning into a story to be recounted many more times over the coming months.
Full of food and happiness we wended our way back to the ‘château’, which we had, during the course of the evening, renamed the ‘murder château’, convinced as we were of some terrible goings-on within its old and crumbling walls.
No one was ready for sleep despite the late hour and no one was ready to stop drinking despite the amount we had already consumed. So the party atmosphere continued around a large wooden table on the first-floor terrace.
Ed and I had bought a box of wine before we left the UK and fetched it from the car. Others had purchased wine at a supermarket in Le Mans and that was also brought to the table. Someone found the kitchen and produced glasses of every shape and size but none that matched, not that it mattered.
Mobile phones were produced and we took it in turns to play songs loud enough for those of us on the terrace to hear but not so loud as to disturb the two strange boys or any of their neighbours.
I finally crashed at 1am and made my way to bed alone, leaving Ed and the others to continue the revelry. It was the first time since we had been together that we had not gone to bed together, but as that would be the last time he would see some of his friends for a while I didn’t mind.
I woke the next morning to the sounds of car doors slamming and shouts between members of our group. Ed was still out cold beside me, so I sat in the open window watching the others pack up and carefully reverse out of the courtyard, clearly now desperate to get back to their homes and their families.
Ed and I were with our family, each other, and had no need to rush. I climbed back into bed and snuggled up behind him. We were no longer in a tent and there were very few of our party left in the house. Now, I thought, will be the first time we make love on our holiday, and I made sure we made the most of the opportunity.
We set off a couple of hours after everyone else, for the first time alone and not in even the tiniest of convoys. We made our way to the motorway and headed to the Eurotunnel. We were booked on an evening train, but arriving at lunchtime we decided to pay the extra money to get the next train with space for us rather than waste the afternoon in the terminal.
As we were being loaded onto the train Ed’s phone began to ping. He read the message and laughed. “You’ll never guess what,” he said, “the others have stopped for lunch. We must have overtaken them somewhere along the road. It looks like we’ll be the first back to Blighty, not the last.”
The rest of the journey passed too quickly. I was glad to be home, in my own bed, with a shower and toilet just steps away and a kitchen nearby, but I had felt so close to Ed during the last few days and couldn’t stand the thought that soon it would come to an end, even if that was only temporarily whilst he served the last of his notice period and then moved in with me.
Luckily neither of us were back to work straight away. Knowing we would be camping by a race track we had anticipated the exhaustion we would feel on returning home and had booked two extra days off. Two extra, blissful days, where we hardly left each other’s arms, let alone the house.
I have to confess there were tears after Ed left me to complete the last leg of his journey home. Of course I didn’t let him see them, but as I shut the door behind him I sank to the floor and cried silent, sad and tired tears. I had held them back not only because I didn’t want him to think me foolish, but also because I didn’t want him driving all that way worrying about me and distracting him from the road ahead.
The tears, I realised, were not just because we would be apart or the fact that it would be over a week until I saw him again. It might have been partly due to the exhaustion I still felt from the trip and the comedown from the exhilaration. The truth was I felt empty, truly hollow. I almost felt despair, ridiculous given that it wouldn’t be for long, but after so much intimacy, in that moment it felt like a lifetime. I sank further into the dark, allowing the moroseness to take hold.
I waited up until Ed’s text assured me he was home safe and I had acknowledged it. Then I crashed into bed for a night of fitful sleep.
eleven.
History often repeats itself
It was a good working week. Being only a couple of days, it gave me time to catch up on what I had missed, respond to urgent queries and plan out my next week.
I returned home on Friday night exhausted despite the short week.
That evening the rain came, giant drops of cold rain thundering down on the roof just a few feet above my head. The room lit up as lightning flashed and I lay in bed counting the miles before the thunder rumbled overhead, reverberating around the room. The weather mirrored my mood. I knew I would feel lonely. Due to Ed’s shifts I would only be getting a few texts here and there, a strange contrast to the closeness we’d just had. There was something else though. I couldn’t work out what but something was not right. I was afraid but I didn’t know what of, what about or why.
The next week I was run ragged at work, preparing for the next launch event and all that entailed. The calls and texts from Ed became less frequent but I hadn’t noticed, as I was working long hours and returning home exhausted, falling into bed after a quick supper. I fell asleep quickly but woke every night between 3am and 4am, tossing and turning, unable to get back to sleep as ideas and thoughts crashed and tumbled through my mind, stressing about work and how much I needed to achieve in an unrealistically short time. I had been turning the issues over, repeating and recycling them, trying to ensure I didn’t forget any of it, which resulted in sleepless nights. On a couple of nights I ended up turning on the bedside light and dragging my tired body upright, reaching for a pen and paper waiting in anticipation on the table next to the bed and writing down all that occupied my conscious mind.
Soon the weekend was upon me and I climbed into bed after a few glasses of wine, ready for sleep and a chance to rest my weary mind. Physically fit but mentally exhausted I slept long and well.
The next morning I woke with a jump and a sudden realisation that when we had parted the week before Ed and I had not specified when we would be together again, and I had just assumed we would talk and make arrangements. I had hoped that I would see him again that weekend. After that thought there was to be no more sleep as the doubts crept into my mind. The fact that we had barely spoken all week, the texts had dried up. I had not paid much attention to it as I was so busy and had dismissed it as being the shifts that had kept him so quiet. But now it was the weekend and I finally had plenty of time to overthink the situation.
The shower refreshed my body but not my mind, other than a decision to send a text. Maybe he was working on another shift, but that was no excuse not to let me know what was going on. I’d had uncommunicative boyfriends before who just vanished, leaving me unsure of whether to plan my own day and do my own thing or wait for them to return. Those relationships had damaged my self-confidence. Somehow a lack of communication played havoc with my trust, always wondering where they were, what they were up to, who they were with and I was damned if I was going to let that happen again.
I felt those old familiar palpitations spread across my chest and reverberate around my tense body. I would send a text and see what happened. And that is what I did. I sent a light-hearted, noncommittal message, not that I felt that way. ‘Hey you. I hope you’re ok? Would be great to chat if you get a break. Miss you. Xx’
I deliberated over the kisses, but if I hadn’t been worried I would have put kisses, so in the end I decided to keep them. I held my breath. Pressed send. I put my phone back to sleep and laid it on the table, only seconds later picking it back up, returning to the text and checking its status which had been updated to ‘delivered’. Well, at least I know he’s received it even if he hasn’t read it yet, I thought.
Deciding to keep myself busy I walked into town after running around the house getting my chores d
one: clothes washed and hung out to dry on the racks in my spare room; kitchen, bathroom and living room cleaned and tidied; and finally putting the dishwasher on before leaving the house.
It was overcast, but humid, the worst of both worlds in my opinion. I walked the short distance into town, past the new build on what used to be the local police station before it was moved into the council offices, carefully crossing the small roundabout and past the takeaway shops that had for some reason all positioned themselves in a row – a pizza chain, independent pizza shop, Indonesian and Chinese.
I didn’t need to get anything, but I needed a change of scenery. I had decided I would go for a walk first, a large loop around the town like I had done on the day I bumped into Ed. But now I realised that would give me far too much thinking space and I didn’t want to dwell on the situation. For all I knew everything was fine and as always I was making a mountain out of a molehill. I pulled my phone out of my bag and for the tenth time checked the status of the text. ‘Read’ came the glaring, heart-stopping revelation.
‘Read’. I stopped walking, staring at the phone. ‘Read’, yes it definitely said ‘Read’ and yet no reply, no pulsing dots to show he was typing a reply, just a cold, emotionless ‘Read’.
My blood ran cold. This is not good, I thought. This was more than just me being paranoid, he would never just ‘Read’ and not reply, even to say he was tied up and would be in touch soon. No, just ‘Read’.
I closed the text and my phone and zipped up my bag, my hand across it, hoping to feel the buzz of a new text or the vibration of a ringing phone. But nothing came.
I was on the way to nowhere, unsure where I was going or what I was doing. I felt empty. I saw nothing, heard nothing. I drifted onwards.
I passed the bike cafe, a small independent bike shop and cafe combo, on the route of the Tour de France when it passed through the town centre a few years before. Lined up outside were racks for bicycles, and small red metal fold-up chairs and tables.
Loves Lost and Found Page 15