Читать книгу George's Grand Tour - Caroline Vermalle - Страница 8
ОглавлениеChanteloup (Deux-Sèvres)–Notre-Damede-Monts (Vendée)
Their epic journey in the Renault Scenic was to follow the itinerary of the 2008 Tour de France to the letter. This was made up of twenty-one stages (except that George and Charles’s Tour would leave out stage 4, as they had decided not to count the individual time trial in Cholet). They had given themselves two or three days to complete each stage, so that they could explore the surrounding area a little. But they were to change hotel almost every night. Their route was planned out as follows:
Stage 1: Brest–Plumelec
Stage 2: Auray–Saint-Brieuc
Stage 3: Saint-Malo–Nantes
Stage 5: Cholet–Châteauroux
Stage 6: Aigurande–Super-Besse
Stage 7: Brioude–Aurillac
Stage 8: Figeac–Toulouse
Stage 9: Toulouse–Bagnères-de-Bigorre
Stage 10: Pau–Hautacam
Stage 11: Lannemezan–Foix
Stage 12: Lavelanet–Narbonne
Stage 13: Narbonne–Nîmes
Stage 14: Nîmes–Digne-les-Bains
Stage 15: Embrun–Prato Nevoso
Stage 16: Cuneo–Jausiers
Stage 17: Embrun–L’Alpe-d’Huez
Stage 18: Le Bourg-d’Oisans–Saint-Étienne
Stage 19: Roanne–Montluçon
Stage 20: Cérilly–Saint-Amand-Montrond
Stage 21: Étampes–Paris Champs-Élysées
Three extra stages had been added to take them from Chanteloup to the official starting point at Brest – which, as Charles pointed out, was ‘a heck of a way away’. He had called them stage 0 (Chanteloup–Notre-Dame-de-Monts, staying with Charles’s sister, Ginette Bruneau), stage 0a (Notre-Dame-de-Monts–Gâvres, overnighting with Charles’s cousin Odette Fonteneau), and finally stage 0b (Gâvres–Brest).
They started by taking the first turn out of Chanteloup. As they went, the little roads with dandelions growing in the cracks were replaced by roads whose surface had been fixed so often it resembled a tarmac patchwork. They passed many familiar names on the rusty signposts: La Timarière, La Châtaigneraie, Le Bout du Monde. Then white strips started to appear on the road and all of a sudden they were driving alongside lorries and trucks. That’s when they knew they were really on their way.
The car was not full: the only things in the boot were George’s little suitcase and Charles’s large one – twice as big as his companion’s, in fact, and much more modern, with wheels (when Charles went travelling, he did so in style) – as well as a whole box of tourist guides. The one for Southern Brittany had been put in the glove compartment, along with the GPS user manual and Charles’s Vichy pastilles. Thérèse had also provided them with a picnic set – they couldn’t go eating in restaurants every day, after all. She had even managed to sneak in a little crate of tomatoes from the garden and some ham won in a round of belote without them noticing.
George and Charles did not talk much in the car, which still smelled of new leather. Apart from the silky and monotonous tones of the GPS, it was a rather silent journey. There was an atmosphere of reflection, and contemplation. Autumn had barely arrived, the leaves were just starting to change colour, but it was still a beautiful sight. George, who had not left his small corner of the world for years, sat back and took it in.
On the route from Deux-Sèvres to the Vendée they passed through sleepy villages with geraniums in the windows, smart houses covered in Virginia creeper, and church steeples breaking through the clouds. Bit by bit, the landscape changed as they drove on. The green palette was flecked with a hint of yellow here, a touch of black there. The undulating forests flattened out into windswept plains. Now and then a windmill would come into view, or a thatched cottage hidden amongst the pine trees, or a sign towards a campsite or the salt flats. They were approaching the sea.
Notre-Dame-de-Monts was a clean, discreet seaside town. What was particularly charming about it was the lack of high-rise buildings. This part of the Vendée had suffered from a wave of construction in the 1970s that had left a number of towns in the area permanently scarred. The beautiful beach ten kilometres down the coast in Saint-Jean-de-Monts had been blighted by concrete monstrosities, fast-food chains and noisy arcades. Notre-Dame-de-Monts, on the other hand, had been miraculously spared, its houses set well back from the lovely seafront, screened by the long grass on the dunes. All of this was familiar to Charles, as he had often come to visit his sister, who lived here all year round. But this was George’s first time in the town, and he was enchanted by what he saw.
They arrived at 11.30 a.m. As they were not expected at their hostess’s until lunchtime and didn’t wish to impose, the travelling companions decided to go and admire the sea, which sparkled beyond the flags lining the esplanade. The sun, which had barely made an appearance all summer, was warming the sand on the beach and encouraging the last of the summer holidaymakers to linger. With their feet in the sand and their eyes gazing out over the Atlantic, George and Charles were happy, even if they didn’t yet dare express it to each other.
It was almost as if the two neighbours had become shy of one another. The fact was their friendship had played out against the same background for thirty years (almost forty, come to think of it). They shared cups of tea in front of the weather report. They celebrated birthdays and family events together. Initially they had been the kinds of neighbours who invited each other for the dessert and coffee courses until one day, about fifteen years ago, Charles had invited George and his wife – perhaps by accident, perhaps not – for the starter and main course as well, when the conversation was still serious, ties were still in place and sisters-in-law were still being polite. Their friendship had also sustained a lively trade in lettuces, screwdrivers, pokers, freezer bags, various types of string, cousins’ addresses and small favours. The same routine had suited them both for all this time; God knows why they had decided to play adventurers and give it all up now!
All of a sudden, there on the seafront at Notre-Dame-de-Monts, they no longer knew what to say to each other. Their friendship was breathing in new air; time would tell if it would survive the change.
George and Charles arrived at Ginette’s house at twelve-thirty on the dot. Kisses, did you have a good trip, well, a bit of traffic around Le Perrier as always, but otherwise yes, it was fine, the weather’s still nice, you’ve brought the sun with you, it was such bad weather this summer, yes fine, can’t complain. It was the same exchange they had every year, a game of question and answer that they knew off by heart, where everyone spoke at the same time as if joining in with the chorus of a song they knew and loved.
Ginette suggested eating on the patio, where the table was already set. Was it the Atlantic air or perhaps the sweet scent of the pine trees he could smell as they drank their coffee in the garden? George hadn’t felt this good in years. He had met Ginette a few times at family lunches, and he had always found her a little haughty. But seeing her in her own home she seemed very different. She scarcely looked seventy-three with her reddish hair, cropped trousers and orange plastic sandals. He had never before noticed her youthful energy – or perhaps widowhood suited her? Whatever it was, here in her own garden Ginette’s manner was much more playful and her natural authoritativeness was at once heightened and yet more agreeable, like the autumn wind that rustled the stone pines. And perhaps a little like this dangerously drinkable plum brandy.
Charles was keeping an eye on him. For George, having fallen for the charms of Ginette, or of her plum brandy, or perhaps both at once, was beginning to make a fool of himself. He suddenly remembered lyrics to songs he had not sung for sixty years. He recounted the numerous glories of the Tour that they were going to relive one by one, stories of the past told in the future tense. The shy neighbours had found their tongues again.
They moved from brandy to chocolate, from Petit Chinon to herbal tea. The afternoon turned to evening and the evening became night. After a dinner that was no less sumptuous than their lunch, it was time for a round of rummy.
Ginette got out her playing mat and the two decks of cards. George was already sitting at the table in the living room, hunched over his tea. It even looked as though he might already be sleeping off the plum brandy. As she dealt the cards, Ginette asked:
‘And George, your granddaughter, Adèle, how is she getting on over there, in London? She works in film, doesn’t she?’
‘Yes, but I don’t know what she actually does. Well, I suppose it was her decision … She never tells me anything, you see.’
George suddenly felt very low – no doubt a side effect of the drink – and Ginette was in turn overcome by a wave of melancholy.
‘That’s how it is with the young nowadays, they always leave …’
‘Oh Ginette, young people have always left home. Even we did.’
‘Yes, but we never went far,’ Ginette pointed out.
‘No, we didn’t go far,’ Charles interjected. ‘But we might as well have done. My parents were still in Bressuire when I left to move in with Thérèse in ’54. Before Chanteloup we were down in Pougne-Hérisson, near Parthenay. Now, travelling twenty-five kilometres to see the family doesn’t take long these days, but you’ve got to remember that in ’54, twenty-five kilometres on a bike was a real slog – it felt much further than it does today! It’s not like we were there every weekend, and we didn’t spend hours on the phone, or on the internet, or emailing each other or I don’t know what else. With young people today, the further away they are, the more they’re on your back all the time. Don’t get me wrong, I’m not complaining. But sometimes … George, it’s your turn.’
George looked distractedly at his hand, before continuing in the same vein.
‘Yes, yes, the telephone. Argh! They’re all glued to their telephones, like you wouldn’t believe! It was bad enough before, even if a phone came in handy now and again. But now with all these mobile phones—’
‘And it gets worse,’ Charles cut in. ‘Wait’til you hear this. My grandson from Parthenay, right, he comes to stay with us in the holidays. And he’s only reading his emails, that’s right, his internet emails on his mobile phone!’ To underline the absurdity of the thing he banged his fist on the table emphatically and leaned back in his chair. ‘I mean, I’ve seen that kind of thing on telly, but I just thought no, that’s for people who are in the know, who work in telecoms, or maybe even a couple of the big CEOs, but no! My grandson! A butcher in Parthenay!’
George shook his head. ‘If even butchers need computers all over the place, what is the world coming to! Right, where were we? Wait, Ginette, what are you doing?’
‘Going out,’ announced Ginette proudly.
‘Already?’ exclaimed Charles. ‘With all of your cards?’
‘Yep, and without a joker!’
‘My, my … And there I was with nothing. Have a look at that hand, not even a face card, totally useless. We take more points without the joker as well, I think …’
‘No, no more points, just your admiration, gentlemen … So minus twenty for yours truly and two hundred points each for you two.’
‘Well, this is off to a good start … Right, who’s dealing?’
‘The idiot who asks who’s dealing,’ guffawed Charles, a regular at the belote table.
As George dealt out the cards, Ginette cautiously picked up the conversation.
‘But what you say about mobile phones, George … Well, I’ve got one and—’
George ceased dealing and stopped her there.
‘Me too, Ginette, me too, but I don’t use it!’
‘Well, actually you do use it, George,’ Charles pointed out. ‘You’re diverting all of your calls.’
‘Yes, but that’s different.’
‘George is using his phone to make everyone think he’s taking it easy in Chanteloup, when actually he’s doing the Tour de France,’ Charles explained with a wry smile.
‘But that’s just so they don’t get worried!’
‘And you can do that with mobile phones, can you?’ asked Ginette, impressed.
‘You certainly can!’ Charles answered proudly. ‘I’m the one who set it all up, give it a try if you like.’
‘Alright Charles,’ interrupted George, who had suddenly sobered up. ‘Are you playing cards or giving a lecture on technology? It would be great if we could start playing before sunrise.’
‘All I’m trying to say,’ Ginette began again, ‘is that I have a mobile and I think it’s great.’
‘There you go!’ exclaimed George. ‘Like I said, women can’t get away from their phones.’
‘Not at all, and I can prove it: I have a contract that allows me one hour of calls a month. A month!’
‘Psssh, that’s already too much.’
‘Well I think it gives you more freedom, in a way. I get out and about a lot more now I have my mobile.’
‘Oh right,’ laughed Charles, ‘because you were living like a nun before?’
‘No, I just think mobiles bring people closer.’
‘Closer?’ said George. ‘The reason I live in the country is so I don’t get pestered all the time, so I’m not sure that bringing people closer to me—’
‘George,’ Charles interrupted, ‘you’ve been living in the country for eighty-three years, it’s not like you chose to.’
‘No, but if I had been given the choice, I would have chosen to live exactly where I am. So that no one bothers me!’
Nobody had a good hand, and tiredness was starting to set in. The laying of cards had given way to wide yawns. Finally, Ginette was named winner and they put away the mat in the dresser covered in trinkets. It was time to unpack their bags and put on their well-ironed pyjamas.
Ginette’s house was large, although she only occupied a small part of it; the rest was rented out in the summer to two families who had come here for their holidays for years. There was no lack of spare rooms, and so George and Charles each had their own.
George brought his things into his new quarters, a small bedroom with a bolster (far better than those little pillow things), a brown chenille bedcover and a large wardrobe that smelled of mothballs. The mattress looked like a good one. And if he was honest, if there was one thing that really scared him about this mad trip, it was the beds they’d have to sleep in. He had brought earplugs for the noise and citronella for the mosquitoes, but bedding was anyone’s guess. After carrying out the briefest of ablutions in the small washroom he shared with Charles, he sat on the bed, pulled off his slippers and lay down carefully, breathing a sigh of relief as he did so. This bed would do just fine. He picked up his book, a thriller by Mary Higgins Clark, but found he could not concentrate on it. His head was spinning, buzzing, humming, restless and full of thoughts. It seemed like his mind was trying to tell him something. It had to be said, George was unfortunately prone to occasional rushes of optimism.
Good grief, he was feeling marvellous. It was as though the bed had been made for him, and around him it was as silent as it was in his own home, with nothing but a very quiet rustling if he really listened hard – was it the wind in the pine trees or the sound of the Atlantic? Perhaps he was imagining it. The geometric pattern of the wallpaper in varying shades of beige was soothing, almost hypnotic. The two meals had been delicious, yet unpretentious. George couldn’t stand pretentious cooking. Or pretentious anything else, for that matter. The meals had been simple, as if Ginette had not gone to any great pains to prepare them. But fifty years of married life had taught him that she had probably spent the whole morning cooking, and perhaps even the night before as well. Did she cook like that all the time, making simple dishes just how he liked them?
