The Smallest Box of All
“Yeah, but why did you
bring that here?” The voice belonged to an elderly woman and was spitting like
fat from broiling meat.
“I didn’t get time to post
it. And it was raining. Rained every day. Don’t have a coat. Well, I do, but I
would’ve had to wash it.”
“You did wash it. I saw
it. On the line.”
“Ginny had filled the
pockets with nails. I don’t know why you let him borrow it, to be honest.”
“I don’t. He just takes it
when he’s working in the area.”
“Holes in the pockets. And
a smear of what looked like dog shit down the front. It’s my coat.”
“Yes, but why bring it
here?”
What the oversized woman
with damp looking straw hair was referring to was a small box, about an inch
deep and the size of a postcard. She had withdrawn it from a suitcase that had
been carelessly dumped on a rickety looking single bed, one of two that she was
planning to shove together to make a double.
Although it looked
doubtful it would be able to support her weight.
She waved the box at him.
“Why does it smell so bad?”
“I might have put too much
stool in it.”
“Did you read the
instructions?”
“Yes. Put some stool in
the box and post it.” The man, who seemed bad at lying, snatched at the small box. “Give
it here, I’ll walk down to reception and post it now.” He would’ve added
something along the lines of ‘since it offends you so much’, but had stopped
bothering to argue with his wife a decade ago. It was pointless, and he didn’t
care enough.
She was sixty next week,
and he spent that inky time between closing his eyes and plummeting into sleep
wondering how much longer.
“Grandad, Grandad! They got
two pools here.” A twelve year old, blonde boy had shoved his head through the
door of the static van.
“Have they?” Grandad
grinned, reached over and ruffled the blonde mop.
The boy pulled his head
back. “Don’t,” he protested.
“You never minded when you
was younger,” the older man replied.
Both walked down the steps
of the decking, erected so families could sit outside in the French sunshine
and get bitten by the evening wildlife that lurked in the bushes, waiting for
dusk.
Absently, Grandad reached
for the boy’s hand. The late afternoon sun was blinding. They were dodging electric vehicles and
bicycles, staffed by young attendants dressed garishly in pink who shouted
‘bonjour’ aimlessly as they passed from behind or in front and also there were cars stuffed with boxed in families, crawling at low speeds, blocking passage.
As before, the boy
grinned, snatching his hand back.
“You never used to mind
when…”
“What are you posting?”
The boy asked, ignoring him.
“Oh, it’s my stool sample.
In case I got bowel cancer.”
“What’s a stool sample?”
“Poo-poos.”
“That’s disgusting.”
“Yes, I suppose it is, in
a way. Smells a bit, too.”
“That’s why Grandma was
shouting.”
“Grandma’s always shouting,
Harry, if you hadn’t noticed. You get used to it.” They had reached reception
by now; a short walk. A blue sign proclaimed it so in French. But it looked a
bit like English, so that was all right. Underneath, also in French, a message
reminded the unwary that ‘reception closed at 7pm’.
Grandad pointed this out
to Harry. ‘Probably so the staff can drink cocktails and snog each other.’
Harry sniggered. “I don’t
think so, Grandad. It said they do entertainments in the evening.”
“Bollocks to entertainments.”
And the gate that allowed
cars to enter and exit was also locked at 11pm. So mote it be.
Grandad entered reception and was ticked off straight away that it was staffed by two very young looking,
trendy individuals, one of each gender. Neither was in a particular hurry to
offer assistance.
Eventually, the
pony-tailed male looked up from his phone, assessing Grandad with ennui whilst
Harry wandered around looking at various leaflets and flyers. “How may I help
you?” he asked, in reasonably good English but with a thick, French accent.
Grandad wondered how he'd guessed. To speak it. English, that is. “Je vouderay un poste la cadowe blonc avec
Angleterre.” he replied, in his very best French. “C’est un…er…stool sompul.”
“What?”
Grandad blinked. Harry
tittered, joining him at the desk.
The young man reached for
a biro and pad of paper. “Your name, sir?”
“Juh ma pel mon-shoo-er
Paul.”
“Mister Paul. And what is
the number of your accommodation, Mister Paul?”
Grandad couldn’t remember
the French for 105, so he waved his smelly box at the young man. “Juh aim-ay luh
bu-wat dans luh pohst.”
“I see. You want me to
post this box?”
“Ah-wee.”
Taking the box, the
attendant finger and thumbed it with distaste, no doubt noticing the unpleasant
stench, glanced at his colleague and said something rapid-fire in French, that
neither Grandad nor Harry could follow.
Paul did a pretty decent
mime of someone taking a box, and putting it into the slot of a letter box,
just to be on the safe side, while the receptionists watched impassively. “You
see, Harry? I should be on the bill for the entertainments tonight.”
“You should, Grandad.”
And, satisfied, both left
reception, ready to do a bit of exploring.
“Good French, Grandad.”
“Thank you, Harry.”
It was the next day. Paul
had spent some time in the toilet.
The previous evening,
Grandma and her daughter, Harry’s mother, had dragged them to the bar where
unadventurous types sat outside and munched on the overpriced food that the
young employees churned out from freezers – hot-dogs, burgers, pizzas, chips
with cheese on them, bags of warmed up Doritos with yet more cheese grated over
the top.
“This fare is not fair,”
remarked Grandad, upon receiving some congealing pasta, and waving the receipt
at Harry.
“Shut up, Paul.” Grandma had replied. "You're not funny."
“Sorry. I was worried it
might give me bowel cancer.”
The animateurs had stood
on a makeshift stage, dressed in pink and white, fronting them with a laptop,
speaker, microphones and had jumped up and down to Eurodisco hip-hop with a samba beat for
two hours, blowing whistles, whooping and hollering French into the night. It
had been ghastly.
Now, however, the sun was
only just rising above the tips of the pine forests and casting long splinters
of light across the dew soaked metal tables and chairs. The whole site was
asleep of course at this early hour, save for a tousle-faced old man pushing a
broom amongst the furniture, gathering up the previous night’s trash.
Paul had used tissue to
wipe wet from the chair he was sitting at, scribbling into a small notebook.
Occasionally he scored through some words or lines and rewrote them, sipping
cooling coffee from a tin mug he had prepared in the kitchen.
Once the coffee had
finished, he shook drips onto the floor, shouldered his rucksack, wandered back
to the static van, which was quiet, and left the mug on the steps.
Still early. Hours before
anybody would be stirring. What to do?
He walked reasonably
briskly to the locked gates by reception – he wasn’t getting any younger – and
read the French signage. One fingerboard pointed to ‘La Plage’, which he
remembered was beach and the sandy road led up a small hill towards a windsock
which hung limp.
As good a way as any.
Cresting the dune and
disliking the way the feel of sand was making his teeth itch, he lolloped down
the other side.
It was quite lovely, the
way the glassy Atlantic lapped the yellow bay,
stretching in crescent to the left and right as far as he could see. It was
only punctuated by occasional off-white apartment blocks on the tops of jutting
crests. In the very far distance, he could see two seaside towns – one left,
one right – which he was sure he would visit to look at markets. He found out
these were La Croix en Vie and St Jean de Monts.
But that was later. Once
he’d purchased a map.
Paul was summarily
interrupted. “Excuse me? Do you know the way to Bordeaux?”
A man, perhaps ten
years older than Paul, with an English accent and possessed of an embarrassed
tone, whose grey beard and draggled hair were missing scissors, was balancing on a
bicycle, possibly blushing.
“I seem to have come off the
coastal path,” he added, dragging out a weather-beaten map from his rucksack
that looked to be one of those given out free on ferries.
Taken aback, Paul rubbed
his stubbly chin, for it had been too early to shave as yet in fear of waking
Grandma and getting pelters. “Er…Bordeaux…well
it’s a bloody long way from here, I think.”
“I’m cycling there.”
The voice was familiar, as
was the posture. Paul looked more closely at the rucksack strapped to the old
fellah’s back. “I’ve got that very one.”
“I know.”
“How?”
“I can see it.” The
cyclist wobbled a little, stretching out with his left heel and toes.
“You should adjust the
seat.”
“Saddle.”
“Yeah, I know.”
“Well?”
“What?”
“Do you know the way to Bordeaux?”
Paul pointed to his left,
because that was towards the south. “That way, probably. Why do you want to go
there, anyway?”
“It’s for the adventure,
isn’t it?” He looked about to remount and set to, but before he did, he
remarked. “You know, I was here before. Nice place, this. There’s a bar over
there where they do cider. You sit outside and there’s some nice entertainment.
Sweet. The cider, I mean. See yah.” And with that, he was off.
Paul shrugged and set off
to the edge of the sea, determined to paddle in it.
It was almost completely
deserted, except for two or three dog walkers and a few people out for an early
morning jog. As he reached the water, he turned towards Bordeaux and began walking through the gentle
waves. It was cold, but welcoming after the initial shock, save for the sand
between his toes, which Paul had never liked. Reminded him of gritty
sandwiches. The bread soft, the butter melted, the cucumber warm, the texture
crunchy.
The thought made him
shudder, taking him back to a cold, grey Cleethorpes.
Or worse, a thin day at
Oxwich on The Gower, where he’d lost his bucket and spade, aged four. His
mother had made him stand at a gate for what seemed hours, asking every
stranger: ‘have you seen my bucket and spade?’ One said they had, was it red
and -- if so - it was just beyond the dune in a little stream, full of sticklebacks
that a crab was eating.
After half an hour, Paul
had remembered his bucket was blue.
Still, this beach was
unspoiled, and before long he had walked a mile or so. In fact, coming the
other way, a middle aged woman, of long grey-blonde hair and promising smile had
splashed past him, holding sandals in her left hand.
Paul smiled back: “Ah,
that’s it.” And he kicked off his own sandals and continued bare foot.
When he reached the first
outcropping of apartments, he turned left and walked back up the dunes. With
every step, his feet sunk into the sand and impeded progress; by the time he
had reached the top he was panting and then there was a 500 metre band of pine
forest to negotiate. The wide wooded path led him to the road, busier now – he
turned left again followed the cycle path back to where he had begun.
The road snaked its way
alongside and after twenty minutes he could see a queue outside the boulangerie
and could smell freshly baked croissant; buttery and seductive. Paul
realised he was quite hungry and checked his phone. 8.30 already.
A sharp bell made him
jump.
“Watch out.” A familiar
voice shouted. Wobbling towards him, the old man, still making his way to Bordeaux with steely
determination. Paul watched him ease past, noting that the more pronounced
instability could be because in his right hand he was holding a baguette,
wrapped in brown paper. Occasionally he would rip his teeth into the hard
crust.
After he had rounded the
corner and Paul could see him no more, he crossed the road and joined the
queue, feeling a pang of something – pity, envy, nostalgia?
“Cycling. That’s the
thing,” his brain muttered, then adding ‘that will catch the conscience of the
king’ without any reason to. Except it rhymed.
Those feelings didn’t last
long. Paul stuffed bread into his rucksack and made his way back to the static
van. It was still silent.
Maybe an hour later, there
was movement.
Harry had left his room –
or rather that portion of the van that was separated by thin walls into his - and
had sat on the L shaped couch against the external wall, thrown a blanket over
his head and was playing with an electronic game. He’d be there until ordered
to brush his teeth.
Paul didn’t say much aloud
because it always caused arguments and unpleasantness from either or both of
the two women and the defensive effort wasn’t worth the play. These days he
just let the goals in.
Instead, he jabbed the
heap under the blanket with his right hand approximately where Harry’s midrift
was, then, as quietly as was possible, given the creaking floors and decking,
started to lay the outside table for breakfast. Pretty decent, he thought.
Yoghurt, apple juice, French bread and jam, some strong smelling cured meat and
cheese.
Looked alright. Years ago,
in previous lives, he’d always enjoyed camping in France and knew the sorts of foods
to pick.
He wandered back inside
and switched the kettle on for a second coffee, thinking about the old man on
his way to Bordeaux.
“Bloody noise in there,”
snapped someone deep from within another space and time, “trying to sleep.”
Harry’s face appeared from
beneath his blanket. “Grandad, Grandad. What shall we do today?” He repeated
the name playfully, loudly, because that was how it had been growing up.
Grandad this, Grandad that.
Endless questions from the
backseat of the car during long, hopeful trips. But, no more. Paul guessed that
he’d answered most of Harry’s questions satisfactorily, for now. Treasure these
days, Grandad. Girlfriends were coming.
“Well, we’ll have a recce.
See what’s what.”
“Can we play football?”
“Of course. Definitely
football.” Paul wondered where, given all the traffic on the road outside the
van.
“Swimming?”
“That’s a fixture. There’s
a great beach, too.”
“Have you been to the beach?”
“Yeah. Had a walk this
morning while you were sleeping.”
“Why didn’t you wake me?”
“Because you never wake
up, tell me to push off and then your mother gives me pelters for making a
noise.”
“Yes.”
“I’ll be back in a bit.” He’d
heard stirrings. Not wishing to invade privacy, Paul took his coffee outside
and wandered the 100 yards or so to the bar area. There were a few more people
now and the sun had dried the seats – he sat down and sipped coffee for the
twenty minutes or so he supposed it would take, occasionally catching the eye
of other campers and offering a thin, neutral smile.
The old man was still
sweeping, collecting stuff on a shovel, transporting it to a sack. He didn’t
look too friendly and Paul didn’t blame him, wondering when the young
animateurs would put in an appearance to do less strenuous work like
aquafit class or kid’s club.
Who cared?
At breakfast, the two
women talked about the day ahead, tossing the odd barbed hook in Paul’s
direction which he dodged. They found the food acceptable which was a relief,
but, hadn’t slept at all.
“The bed is too small.”
“Did you hear that noise?
All bloody night.”
“Grandad’s snoring. It’s
atrocious.”
“I’ve been bitten. Bloody
mosquitos.”
Thoughtfully, Paul cleared
away the dishes. There was a dishwasher; he ignored it – they never did a good
job unless you washed to stuff before loading them – which rather defeated the
point.
“Why are you doing that, you
bloody idiot? There’s a dishwasher.”
“So there is.” Paul
finished rinsing the plates then loaded them into the machine. “Harry? You
understand these beasts. Work some magic – make it go.”
After which, both packed
rucksacks and escaped down the steps, into the wild, blue yonder.
“Where shall we go?”
“Did you put your trunks
on?”
“Of course I did,
Grandad.” Harry grinned and thrust a blue football in Paul’s face, making him flinch.
“Naughty boy.”
Harry bounced the ball and
trapped it with a nimble foot, tapping it sideways and behind so it reached
Paul’s left foot. He returned it, not quite so skillfully, and in this way they
ambled towards reception, cursing when it became trapped under cars.
The big pool, with all the
slides, rapids, spas and so forth, was opposite reception and parallel to the
road. In this way it could catch the attention of passing cars, working to
advertise pleasures of the site. However, all the competitors did the same and, driving
by, Paul’s vision was assaulted by various garish cartoon structures, rising
and twisting aloft alongside rickety looking metal steps like ladders that
Jacob might be careful to avoid.
“There’s the pool.” Harry
picked up the ball.
As they had walked the
very short distance from the van, they’d passed several families proceeding in
the same direction. There was generally a dominant male at the head, but sometimes
a female, whilst other members followed behind. You could tell the leaders by
the way they were pulling medium sized trucks on four wheels with their large
handles.
Inside these trucks were
piles of towels. Some inflatables, the occasional bag, but, by and large, huge
piles of towels. Stitch all these together and you’d have many coats of many
colours.
Paul groaned. The gate of
the pool was locked and, leading from it was an enormous line of people waiting
with their boxes on wheels. What was it with the trucks? Paul hadn’t done a
holiday for a couple of years and he thought this must be a new thing.
He noticed how, when trends
happened, they kind of exploded and everybody had to follow, then, like fireworks, they fizzled
out. In the 90s there’d been a run on those huge picnic boxes with collapsible
handles. Before that, everyone was taking candles to parks with spikes you
could drive into grass.
He doubted that
these trucks were a either a good thing or a sign of intelligence.
Instead of waiting, Paul shoved a truck aside, ignored the protests and marched to reception, Harry in tow. As it were.
As they entered the box, the
same pony-tailed young man was in attendance, not looking as if he’d had much
sleep. Possibly he’d been on stage whooping ‘wee-wee’ loudly, jumping up and
down and blowing whistles until midnight.
Paul rapped the desk with
a Euro, a little rudely. “Oo est lez…er…trucks?’ he snapped.
“Do you speak English?”
The young man sighed, clearly in no mood for negotiating very bad French,
spoken loudly.
“Of course he speaks
English,” replied Harry, “he's a chunky monkey.”
“Don’t call me that. This
is my Grandson.”
“Sir. What do you want?”
Paul could see the
receptionist was doing his very best to be patient, so decided to push him a
bit, realizing that his irritation and resentment towards the campsite was
building a little. “Do you know about these trucks?”
Shaking his head, the
young man admitted he didn’t.
Co-opting Harry into his play,
Paul lay on his back and put his arms and legs into the air. “Drag me around,
Harry.”
“But you don’t have
wheels.”
“True.” Paul stood up and
once more rapped the desk. “Do you have any?”
“What?”
“Wheels.” Paul started to
do his very best mime of someone dragging a truck full of towels around some
winding lanes, occasionally mopping his brow and looking up at the angry sun
overhead.
“Grandad is a drama
teacher.”
"Is he?"
“As well as other things.”
“What other things?”
Paul smiled winningly at
the receptionist, who looked about to explode, particularly as two or three
other punters had, by now, entered and were looking on in bemusement.
Turning to them, Paul
remarked. “Those trucks. They’re all over the place, getting in the way, the bloody things.”
The woman behind him
nodded unpromisingly. “Yes. Where do you get them?”
Paul glared, Harry
tittered and both turned back to the receptionist. “Why is the pool not open?”
“It opens at 11, sir.”
“No, no, no,” snapped
Paul.
Tapping him on the
shoulder, the woman asked, “Are you going to be much longer?”
“I’ll take as long as I
want,” Paul replied. “Thank you so very much.” He turned his attention back to
the young man. “Not when, why? The pool should be open early doors. What if I
want an early morning swim? You know, get some exercise before la pi-tee
de-journay.”
“If we open, there are
complaints. People put towels on all of the loungers.”
“What about my early
morning swim?”
“Go to the beach.” The
receptionist moved to the woman who seemed entirely content with the situation.
“How may I help you, madam?”
Thus dismissed, Paul
followed Harry back to the pool – or rather to the end of the line of trucks,
noting that it was only 10.30. He now noticed that the queue consisted of
leaders only. Other family members had dispersed themselves to tables, watching
the clock like vultures.
Paul could take no more.
He tapped the man in front of him on the shoulder. “What is all this?”
“Got to get here early,
son, if you want them sun-loungers for the day. I got to get these towels on
them. It’s a right scrap. Especially on a sunny day.”
Not waiting to see how
campers could get those trucks through the small gates that led into the pool or wanting to see a battle over deckchairs and swearing under his breath, Paul took Harry out of the gates.
They walked up the hill he had previously climbed that day.
The beach was mostly empty,
vast and expansive.
The day of Grandma’s
birthday dawned.
By this time, Paul had
settled into a routine. He had become a man of routine – perhaps he always had
been, he couldn’t remember now. It was one of many reasons he had resisted
holidays abroad.
There was a certain safety in routines,
however. It avoided conflict whilst being scrutinised by baleful eyes – as the
Martians had surveyed the Earth, before drawing their plans against us.
Just so.
Get up early –
for Golden Time – sunrise, a long walk, the notebook, the waves against the
beach and then back to the chores. His wife and daughter, once fed, tended to
stay in the static van, spreading themselves across cushions like pancake
batter, complaining as the sun crisped their edges. This left the rest of the
day for time with his Grandson, which they were making full use of.
Today, however, Grandma’s
birthday. A big one too. Bloody 60. Another reason why he’d paid for two weeks
in France.
At the outset of the
vacation, he’d bunged that permanently ireful and unhappy soul a heap of pocket
money as her present and put a birthday card between the leaves of his diary.
But he dare not risk it. Discretion is the better part of valour and all that.
So, taking sensible
precaution, he had whipped into the supermarket next door – that sold plenty of
‘Produits de Vendee’ – and bought a dozen or so of the best looking ones,
wrapping then in a none too cheap linen bag emblazoned with ‘J’aime La Plage’.
Thus armed, he had
prepared breakfast, offered cake and presented these with a gritty smile.
To his relief, they had
been received well. As had his plan to drive to La Croix En Vie and visit the
local market.
Her daughter had noted,
two or three days ago, that there was usually a market in one of the several
small towns within reach of the campsite. In different places on different
days. Paul supposed they were the same vendors but that they cunningly
relocated. After all, they had a living to make.
So, the morning had passed
without much of a hitch.
Paul watched the two women
hobble around for an hour, buying merchandise, walking a couple of paces behind,
in case one of them toppled over, but also to avoid upsetting either by doing
something deemed inappropriate – and getting shouted at.
In fact before lunch, he
had only been snapped at once. A pretty severe incident, but miraculous in its
way that it was one of a kind.
Harry had discovered some
stall or other. Paul shambled behind, singing to himself, a tune that had
lodged itself into his brain that morning on the beach. Something by Electric
Light Orchestra: ‘Mr Kingdom, help me please…’
”Look at this Grandad. Can
I have some Euros? Please, Grandad?”
“What the bloody hell is
this, Harry?”
In front of him? A shifty
looking bloke, wearing a beret and a table full of boxes wrapped in grey
plastic – next to which was an electronic weighing scale and a piece of
cardboard with ‘2 E’ scrawled in black marker. The man was almost doing a
roaring trade, too. Three or four punters had paid and carried away packages
with smiles.
It was a mystery, that’s
what it was. To Paul, anyway.
However, it appeared Harry
had been watching for some time and had got the gist of it.
“We have the same in England.”
“We do?”
“Sure. These are all
unclaimed packages from the Post Office. You pay money and take one. You never
know what’s going to be in them.”
“You don’t?” So it really
was a mystery.
“It’s great, isn’t it?”
“Possibly.”
“Yeah. Someone I know got
an I-Phone.”
“Indeed.”
“Oh, come on, Grandad.
Give us some money.”
“Well, if it’s only two
Euros, I suppose.” Paul reached deep into the back pocket of his jeans and
produced a few coins which he passed to Harry. There was a catch, however. The
weighing scales. It was two Euros per unit of weight.
Too late.
Harry raised his eyebrows winningly,
grinned and took a couple of notes from Paul, trousering the coins for good measure.
He took, from the table, a medium sized box, had it weighed, and, some time
later, was back with a pitiful handful of leftover coppers.
By this time, the two
wheezing women had caught them up. “What has he got there?”
“Yes, what are you wasting
money on, idiot?”
“Yes, what a load of crap
that looks.”
“Yes, can’t let you out of
sight for more than two minutes.”
“Yes, not more than two
minutes.”
“Yes. Time we went back to
the campsite.”
“Yes, before any more
money is wasted.”
Ignoring them both, Harry
eagerly tore open the plastic packaging, passing the trash to Paul, who hastily
scrunched it up in his fist as if in vain to hide evidence from plain sight.
The box was next. Divested
of all disguise, the inners were revealed. “What are these?” muttered Harry,
holding up the contents in ill-concealed disappointment. In his hand were
several pieces of plastic, coloured orange.
“I think they’re clamps,”
Paul replied, taking one and holding it up to the light, critically.
“Clamps?”
“Yes, clamps. The sort
that workmen use to hold pieces of wood in place on a workbench. Very useful,
actually.”
“If you’re a workman.”
Harry pouted. “I’m not a
workman.”
“No, he’s not, is he,
Grandad?”
“No, he’s not a workman,
is he?”
“No, neither of you are
workmen, are you?”
“No, neither of you are.
And you never will be. What a waste of money.”
“Yes, a complete waste of
money.”
“How could you be so
stupid?”
“Yes, how could you?”
“Go and get his money
back.”
“Yes, go over there and
demand his money back, idiot.”
But another sign,
previously unnoticed, in French, but readable, warned the unwary punter that
there never was or would be any money back. “Them’s the breaks,” Paul muttered,
in an uncertain tone.
They had travelled back to
the campsite shortly afterwards, nether of the women wanting the promised
lunch.
“She doesn’t want lunch.”
“No, she doesn’t want it.”
“Take us back, please.”
“You’ve ruined her
birthday, now.”
The short ride had been
mostly silent, save for barbed protests if he’d taken a road bump too quickly
or hadn’t shifted into fifth sufficiently well. It had been a relief to pull up
alongside the static van and unload the baggage.
Now, later that day, it
had been decided to have a barbecue.
Each van was equipped with
an adequate gas fired barbecue. Their version squatted in the corner on the
decking like an elongated, metal frog – the mouth of which was the shutter that
pulled back to reveal the cooking surface.
Harry and Paul had been,
therefore, ordered to Super U Express to buy the necessaries and had spent a
fun time choosing skewers of meat, beef burgers, chops – doing their best to
avoid pork.
“I can’t eat pork.”
“Yes, she can’t eat pork.”
“Brings me on in a rash.”
“Yes, a rash.”
“You wouldn’t like that,
would you?”
“No, you wouldn’t like
that.”
He certainly wouldn’t.
There was plenty of lamb, anyway and Harry had pulled out some decent looking
steaks. They bought salad to toss, oil for fries and a couple of bottles of
fizzy wine.
“What’s that like,
Grandad?”
“Don’t bother – it’s like
sucking lemons.”
Now, back at the static
van, evening was drawing on, mosquitos were waiting for a barbecue of their own
and scores of families had passed in the opposite direction to the morning,
dragging their trucks behind them. Amidst the noise of spoilt infants screaming
and protesting that their day was over, Paul was chopping salad and warming the
fat for chips.
Harry had been looking
forward to being in charge of the barbecue. A bit of a man treat. As such,
several of the meat skewers were already on the grill, hissing pleasantly.
However, it was not to be.
The two women had
reluctantly pulled themselves heavily off their respective beds and had
shuffled through the door, blinking before the setting sun.
“Don’t go near that
barbecue.”
Harry looked at them with
disappointment. “Grandad says it’s OK.”
“What does he know?”
“Yes. What does he know?”
Then, one of them yelled
in through the door.
“You idiot, do you want
him to get burned?”
“Don’t you dare let him
get burned.”
And when Paul looked out
from the van, having finished the salad, Harry was sitting on one of the
chairs, safely away from the grilling meat. He had his hand held computer game
switched on and was engrossed. “Who’s minding the meat?”
Grandma looked at him from
her chair. “You leave that barbecue alone. You’re not fit to go anywhere near
it. Leaving a 12 year old boy in charge. You should be ashamed of yourself.”
“Yes, you should be
ashamed.”
“Leave that barbecue
alone.”
“Yes, leave it alone.”
“Don’t touch it.”
“Leave it. You’ve done
enough damage.”
Later, after he’d finished
clearing the dishes - washing them, then putting them in the dishwasher to be
on the safe side – Paul was scrubbing the decking where meat and oils had
dripped underneath. He decided that this was the last time he would ever take a
holiday.
He turned to Harry. “Hey,
mate. Why don’t we go cycling tomorrow?”
It was going to be a hot
day.
Avoiding the queue of
towel laden trucks by reception, Paul and Harry scurried through the gates early
doors, onto the quiet road that led into Les Mouettes and turned sharp left.
Maybe one hundred yards further up the road, still on the left, was a small
complex of three shops linked together, named for the small village, ‘Les 3
Mouettes’.
Paul had investigated
these shops earlier on in the week – nothing exceptional – inside were
souvenirs, T Shirts, ciders, wines.
But outside the middle
shop were bicycles for hire. A good variety, too. Several of those
multi-cycling vehicles, tandems and some bicycles that might be suitable for
the older gentleman. Wide saddles to save sore buttocks, that sort or
requirement. And swift velos for the more dynamic types, like Harry.
To be honest, Paul had
wanted to cycle but was worried his body might not be up to it. However now he
did not care. Body be damned. If some ghost-faced senior citizen could find his
way to Bordeaux,
munching on an old baguette, then so could he.
“It’s not open, Grandad.”
Indeed it wasn’t. There
were no bicycles outside whatsoever. Not so much as a pump. Which was a bummer,
really.
But, as all seemed lost,
the door opened and a middle aged woman appeared. The breeze caught her greying
bangs, which briefly curtained the lines of her face and the sun glinted on the
rims of her glasses. As she saw them, she smiled, a warm smile, a smile Paul
knew he could never forget.
And at that very moment, he
realised he was going to miss her forever.
“Allo. Bonjour.” She
walked towards them briskly, her chest, her loose buttoned blouse, her ankles, her
everything and that smile. Was she going to touch him? Were her arms going to
caress his back?
No.
Paul cursed his bad
French, which he had ironically nursed all these years for comic effect, wished
he hadn’t, but then shrugged.
“Avez-vous un salopette?”
She frowned but then
laughed. It was a good laugh, too. Full of real humour. She switched to
reasonable English. “How can I help you? We don’t open until ten hours.”
Somehow, Paul knew he was
winning, but blushed. He persisted. “Oui. Oui. Noo voodray lay duh bee-cee-clet
poor avec lay juh-nee donz lee forest…er…what’s French for forest, Madame?”
“Foret.” She laughed
again. “If you return in minutes thirty, I will bring you the cycles. Les
velos.”
Minutes thirty couldn’t
pass quickly enough. Harry and Paul sauntered up and down the two or three
streets of the small village impatiently, the scent of early morning baking
filling the nostrils, the gritty sand and gravel between the toes, the sweat
trickling down the back.
They returned well before
the allotted hour was due.
By this time, a large grim
faced man was humping bicycles outside from within the opened doors, fixing
them to racks in anticipation of the trade to come. He registered them, said
nothing and continued his task.
Uncertain of what to do,
Paul lingered outside while Harry inspected the bicycles, looking for one he
preferred.
“Don’t kick the tyres,
Harry.”
The woman appeared at the
door, dazzled Paul with a smile and strolled towards them. “You prefer comfort
or speed, Monsieur?”
Paul took a sharp intake
of breath. What? Good grief. He blushed and before he could say anything,
Harry pointed at his backside.
“He’s a chunky monkey.”
The woman laughed again.
She was so happy. So bloody happy. Paul, unused to happy people, laughed too.
“And you, Harry, are a naughty little boy. I will punish you most severely for
such a thing as that.”
Her eyes twinkled. “Your
son?”
“Grandson.”
“Oui. Grand-fils.”
Looking at Harry and
sizing him up, the woman spent a little time choosing a cycle that was about
his size, adjusting the saddle, checking his toes could touch the ground and
making sure it was a good one. Satisfied, she kicked the stand down with her
foot and rested it in front of the boy. Then, with a grin, she turned her
attention to Paul.
Her gaze travelled to his
backside. “This one,” she pronounced, choosing a cycle with a wide saddle. “It
is not so fast, but it is comfortable. I choose this one myself.” And her eyes
teased him, just a little more. She helped him mount.
“It’s perfect. C’est
parfait,” Paul spluttered, feeling his blood tingle at her touch.
She grinned. “Ah, so you
do know to speak French.”
“Not well.”
“It is nice that you try.” Her eyes twinkled. And with that, she beckoned them into the office for payment, so both Harry and
Paul followed behind.
Once inside, she took a
pen and a book of printed forms, starting to fill in details, leaning forwards
over the desk in such a way that Paul had to try hard not to look. “Your name? Your
address? Phone number?” She scribbled details quickly and took the payment,
laughing as he answered.
Paul scratched his chin.
Harry would need a safety helmet. But what was the French for something so complicated?
He considered it deeply for a moment, looking at the tip of her tongue,
slightly wetted between mocking lips, wondering if she could read his mind.
“Avez-vous un chapeau de securite?” he asked.
The woman roared with
laughter. “Casque.”
“Casca,” repeated Paul,
transported to the assassination of Julius Caesar for an instant.
“Casque,” she emphasized,
retrieving one from the wall and passing it to Harry. “And you?”
“No, I don’t need one, I
am old.”
“That,” she teased, “is
not a good reason.” But she let it go whilst passing them bicycle pumps, tyre
repair kits and locks. “Here is a carte. It has all the good paths through the
forest and on the coast. You will have a wonderful time.” It looked as though
she wished she could come, just for a moment. “Have a great day. Bon journee.”
As they were leaving, Paul
turned back to her, wanting something desperately, some sort of connection, a
permanence. “I’ve seen you before. On the beach.”
“Yes, I know.”
“You were carrying your
sandals.”
“Have a good day, Mr
Paul.”
And they did, Harry
tearing on ahead with glee, Paul puffing behind, both consulting the map and
stopping for ice creams and drinks as the mood took them.
It was the best day of the
holiday by a forest mile. And all the time they were cycling coasts or
shuddering over the bumpy sandy paths, Paul’s thoughts were drawn between the
woman and that old man, the one on his way to Bordeaux.
Later they returned the
cycles, but were received by the large humping man.
Paul had already guessed
this would be the case. He knew he was never to see the woman again.
A couple of days later,
Harry and Paul were swimming.
The second pool was
smaller, had no features other than a deep and shallow end and was lined by a
wall of trees and concrete. The sun got to it mid-morning. It was an outlier,
ten minutes of walk from the bar area and toilets and the Wi-Fi signal wasn’t
as strong. There were sun-loungers, but less than by the main pool and it took
more effort to drag them into clumps – if you were into that sort of thing.
Paul, who wasn’t, supposed
that this was the reason it was less busy.
The water was cooler too,
being slightly deeper – but not so deep you were in any danger. In fact from
the middle upwards, it was very shallow indeed.
A sign proclaimed that
‘there were no lifeguards’. But both Harry and Paul were good swimmers, given
the chance, and cared less.
They had arrived at the
appointed hour, waited for the gate to be unlocked, dumped a couple of towels
on a lounger and jumped in.
“First in the pool!”
Harry had a small football
which he threw, arrow straight at his Grandad, or, if he was feeling more
malevolent, bounced on the surface just in front of his head, causing water to
splash into his eyes. This game they played for twenty minutes, until Paul’s
arm was aching and his drowning ears full of water.
In fact, Paul’s tinnitus
was bad. Last night, because the two weeks were winding up, they had recklessly
gone to the bar, had a drink and watched the animateurs do ‘Rainbow Rockshow’.
After an hour of his ears
being assaulted, Paul had left. Largely because ‘Rainbow Rockshow’ consisted of
five or six cross-dressed teenagers shouting ‘wee-wee’ or ‘woo-woo’ to a looped
eurodisco hip-hop tape and jumping up and down blowing whistles.
To be fair, it had been
quite well received by the majority of campers.
But the crappy samba beat
was still ringing in his ears, so Paul crawled out of the pool and flopped onto
the lounger whilst Harry hurled the ball at him. Occasionally he would have to
get up and retrieve it if it bounced against the edge. “Here, old son. Can you
not chuck the ball at me for a bit?”
“Well, come back in the
pool.”
“By and by. My head hurts
and my arm’s a bit stiff.”
“That’s because your
throwing is rubbish. You need the practice.”
Paul had to admit it was.
“But, I’m an old man.” It was a feeble protestation, even as he heard it. He closed
his eyes against the sun because it was peaceful, save for the tinnitus
pounding ‘tum-ti-tum-ti, tum-ti-tum-ti’ over and over.
But then there was a
disturbance. A large rattling at the gate to the pool, a scraping of concrete
like nails down a blackboard, a splashing of feet in a footbath.
“Pull it harder, mate.”
“Yeah, you push, I’ll
pull, we can get these through, no worries.”
“It’s scraping the walls.”
“Bollocks to the walls.”
After about five minutes,
the first of what turned out to be three trucks appeared. They had been pulled
like a wagon train through the narrow passaged footbaths but had survived
intact.
The first two were heavy
with towel, the third had one of those picnic hampers and several large
inflatables – a frog, a horse, a canoe and several insubstantial looking giant
tyres. They had been pumped all ready.
Also pumped, those in
charge had been three men, pushing, pulling and forcing passage. The first was
skinny and wore speedos, the second had a tufty squirrel ponytail sprouting
from the top of his head, like a coconut and the third was fat, his flaccid
belly tumbling over the top of his shorts.
All of them were pasty
looking and spoke in fluent Estuary. They clearly liked what they saw
“Sound. It’s empty.”
“Get them towels all
about.”
“Got yah.”
Fatbelly took armfuls and
carefully laid them on a dozen or so loungers that had not yet been claimed.
“That about right?”
“Yeah. Just put a couple
more, in case.”
And with that, they left,
having accomplished what they had set out to do.
Paul bristled and was
almost tempted to take the towels, toss them over the fence and puncture the
inflatables and wagon tyres. Instead, he returned to the pool to play ball. But
his mind wasn’t really on it. For no reason at all, he felt irritated and
invaded.
If Harry felt the same, he
wasn’t saying. He continued to throw the ball, challenge his Grandad to races
or swimming underwater, skilfully avoiding a handful of other swimmers who had
arrived before the wagon train.
Maybe an hour later,
Fatbelly, Coco-nut and Speedos were back. This time, they bought with them some
other stuff. Kids who screamed and bit each other over arguments about inflatables,
sour-faced wives in micro-bikinis who wore sunglasses, smeared sun-creams on
red flesh and stared oblivious into mobile phones and vapes.
Coco-nut and Speedos slumped back on loungers, sucked on vapes, exhaled
fruity-thick sickly fumes and began a long, interminable and loud discussion
about some other bloke ‘back ‘ome’ who they didn’t like and wasn’t present.
Never would be. Good thing, too. Arsehole. Of the first degree. And twat to boot.
Fatbelly had other ideas.
“Oy! Oy!” He had snatched one of the inflatable tyres off a kid, who protested
with a shrieking scream. “Bet you I can dive through the ‘ole in this tyre.”
None of his party was
interested, though. The two men continued vaping, the women continued staring
and tapping, the kids continued biting.
“Oy! Oy! Watch this. I bet
I can dive through this tyre. No problem.” And he slung the tyre onto the
surface of the pool, upwards of the middle.
Still nobody in the
lounger party looked.
Paul, however was vaguely
interested. He used a backstroke to push himself away from the centre, to the
deep end. Backed himself against the side of the pool. Pulled Harry with him.
Several others from the opposite ends of the pool were also watching curiously.
It was the sort of thing he'd have done himself, ten years ago. He could picture it like yesterday. But maybe not in the shallow end.
Fatbelly’s mates were
still oblivious.
“Oy! Oy! Watch me. I can
dive through the centre of this tyre. Piece of piss.”
Nothing from Speedos or
Coco-nut.
But Fatbelly was aware of
the other swimmers looking in his direction as he pranced up and down the edge
of the pool like a ballerina, his flesh undulating as a baggy trampoline with
loose springs might. “Watch this!”
With as much grace as he
could muster, Fatbelly plunged through the centre of the tyre, head first. The
dive was, it has to be said, pretty good, any splash being contained by the
tyre’s buoyancy. But then? Silence.
Paul screwed his eyes up
to peer from his distance into the heart of the pool. There was no
instantaneous surfacing. Just an eerie calm. Even his tinnitus was silenced.
But it probably seemed to
last longer than it actually did, before the storm came.
Fatbelly burst from
beneath the tyre, clutching his face, waist high in water. Blood was streaming over
his lips. “I’ve broken me fucking nose,” he screamed. “Me fucking nose. It’s
broken.”
The blood was quite
impressive, cascading into the water. Paul pulled Harry to the steps and they
clambered out. He gathered their things and didn’t wait to see what happened
next.
“Best we leave now, eh?”
“We could help.”
“There’s loads of them.
They’ll know what to do. We’ll only be in the way.”
“Yes you’re right, I
suppose.”
“Still, something for the
diary tonight, Harry.”
He could just imagine the
oncoming logjam of the three trucks in the footbaths, amidst towels,
inflatables, and flapping animateurs as some ambulance arrived. As well as the
cries of anger as Coco-nut and Speedos wondered how best they could sue the
campsite.
How to make sense of it
all? How could each splinter of ice be moved into correct positions and spell
out a word, a name?
Paul had been gifted one
quiet evening prior to departure whilst Harry had frolicked around inside one
of those arcades with slot machines and cuddly toys. He’d sat in Cave Des
Marines with a sweet cider that the large, friendly woman who ran the place had
recommended called ‘Cidre Doux’. Refreshing with only a little alcohol, he’d
sipped two and pushed a biro across his diary, watching the sunset streaking
the off-white buildings.
He’d wondered if this was
the very drink that the old man had recommended before continuing on his trek
south. He knew it was. And then his thoughts would drift to that woman who’d
struck his heart dumb – just for a moment.
His pen had scribbled
quickly. Recording how, that afternoon, Grandma and her daughter had required a
second visit to the market and Harry had been drawn to the man with his mystery
boxes.
Paul had scowled in his
general direction. He had still been wearing the grubby beret, the same sign, and
the same collection of grey packages.
“Come on Grandad.
Something to open on the ferry.”
“No. No more big ticket
items for you.”
“Just a small one, then.”
“Could be an I-phone.”
“Or ear pods.”
“Definitely ear pods.”
And with that in mind,
Paul had insisted that they buy the smallest box of all.
Now, he looked up, his
memories interrupted. Harry was pushing his way past a line of diners who were
queuing for breakfast on the ferry from Roscoff back to Plymouth. Having driven across North West
France, they’d had the good fortune of boarding early.
“The shop isn’t open yet.”
“Well, I told you it
wouldn’t be, didn’t I? They won’t open it until we sail, Harry. It’s to do with
customs and duty free. Where’s Grandma and your mother, anyway?”
“They’re queuing up for
breakfast.”
“Ah, of course they are.”
Harry threw himself down
on the sofa, beside his Grandad, grinning. “What shall we do, then?”
“You hungry?”
“No.”
“Not hungry. Well, you’ll
have to be a good boy, anyway. It’s quite a long trip.”
“Can we open that mystery
box now?”
The smallest box of all.
It was in Paul’s rucksack. A treat for when they were bored and could think of
nothing else. Obviously when Grandma’s attention was elsewhere, to avoid
unpleasantness. “No, I said we’ll open it once we’re halfway across, didn’t I?”
“Yes, but Grandma isn’t
here right now.”
This was true.
Paul, knowing he was
beaten, took out the grey wrapped box and passed it to Harry. “Go on, then.”
Harry snatched it and
ripped it open. His look of delight and anticipation switched itself off as
though there had been a power cut during the Miner’s Strike of 72. In disgust
he tossed the box at his Grandad.
Paul looked at it and all
those splinters suddenly fell into place. He knew what to do. The word was
spelt.
He held up the postcard
shaped box and shook it, gingerly. “You know what this means, don’t you,
Harry?”
His Grandson shook his
head.
“It means, my dear, that
I’m leaving France
with exactly the same shit I arrived with.”
