The way back to you, p.15
The Way Back to You, page 15
‘Yes. I have glass of wine. You join.’
I’m not sure if it’s her English, but it sounds more like an order than an invitation.
‘Thank you, that’s very nice of you. But I think we’re going to look around the city,’ I say, accompanying my words with a variety of hand gestures, and pointing to the map.
She nods her head, but I’m not sure she understands what I am saying.
‘Do you need, euh, directions?’
‘No, I think we’re OK, thank you.’
She takes the map anyway and unfolds it.
‘We. Here.’ She starts pointing to places. ‘Here. Bon. Here. Bon.’ She curls up her mouth. ‘Here. Non. N’y allez pas.’
‘We don’t go there, OK. Thank you.’
I now wonder what is wrong with where she’s pointing.
‘Here is key. For principal door. And for chambre,’ she hands over two keys.
‘Thank you.’
She stands there smiling for a few more moments until she eventually walks out.
‘À plus tard!’ she says, as she closes the door, leaving us alone for the first time in our dark room.
I wait for a couple of seconds to check that she’s actually gone, and then I immediately turn to face Ian.
‘Can I ask what your criteria were for booking these places?’ I whisper, raising my eyebrows.
‘It had good reviews! It said she was very friendly.’
‘That’s one way of describing her!’
*
‘We can’t ring the doorbell, she’ll be asleep. I expect she goes to bed about 6 p.m.,’ I say, as we fumble around with the door key trying to re-enter the house, having ventured out to have dinner, see the famous half-timbered houses, and watch the impressive son et lumiere show projected on to the Parliament building.
We are relying on the glare from the nearby street light so we can see what we’re doing, but neither key seems to fit in the lock.
‘This is the right house, yes?’
‘It’s the only one without any lights on, so yes!’
A man walks past along the pavement, and stares at us suspiciously. To be fair, it does look like we’re trying to break in.
‘We’re in!’ Ian says, more excited than I am to re-enter the chaos.
We tiptoe back into the front room which is now fully submerged in darkness. It is impossible to see where to go, and I don’t want to send the piles of mess crashing to the floor.
‘OK, there’s being eco-friendly, and then there’s just being ridiculous. She could have at least given us torches, or a candle,’ Ian complains.
‘I really don’t think a flame would be a good idea here,’ I whisper back.
‘Can you turn the torch on your phone on?’
Neither of us knows how to turn on our phone torches, so we resort to using the glare of the screen.
I hold it up in front of me, and I jump into the air in shock as it casts a light ahead of us.
The old lady is sitting in the darkness, with a glass of wine, presumably waiting for us to join her.
‘Oh God. I didn’t see you there,’ I say as my heart thumps from the surprise.
It would be ironic if I died of a heart attack now, rather than on the bike.
After making awkward small talk for fifteen minutes, we eventually make it back into our room with the remainder of the wine bottle, and close the door behind us.
‘Did you unpack our bags?’ Ian asks as he opens his, reliant on the glare from the street lights outside to illuminate the room.
‘No, when would I have done that?’
‘I don’t know, but where are all of our clothes?’ He looks up confused. I immediately worry that we’ve misplaced the urn again.
I open up my bag and notice that my clothes have vanished too.
‘They’re hanging up!’ Ian says as he opens the wardrobe.
‘That’s a bit weird, isn’t it?’
‘I’m not sure if that’s really good service, or just weird.’
‘She’s unpacked all our toiletries too, and laid out our toothbrushes,’ I say as I walk into the near-pitch-black bathroom.
I return to the room and make a face at Ian.
He is still looking for something. He lifts the pillows up on his bed.
‘She’s put our pyjamas under the pillows!’
‘OK, I’m now swaying towards thinking she might murder us in the middle of the night,’ I say, as for the first time on the trip, I am glad to be sharing a room.
‘Have you checked the door is locked?’ he asks.
‘She’s obviously got a key so what difference does it make!’
We stare at the door, waiting for the handle to turn.
Whilst it is scary that some octogenarian French woman may break into our room in the middle of the night, I am more scared by the thought that this may be me in a few years’ time.
Still working, still alone.
I fall asleep feeling sorry for her, and worrying about what I may become.
I appreciate that she is simply looking for company.
From: Sylvie, To: Simon
Morning Simon,
Oh, don’t get me started on online dating. It’s horrendous. In France, dating comes very much from your social circles, but we do have these new sites now, like which you speak of, which are becoming more popular. I should probably put myself out there more. I’ve dated a few men since my divorce but nothing has lasted very long. I’ve not found someone I share things with. I’ve certainly not yet met ‘Mr Right’, or l’homme idéal, as we’d say. I’ve decided I should sneak a few French expressions into our communications so you can start learning!
It sounds like you’ve found yourself some company in Ian at least! Where have you gone on your spontaneous trip? This sounds very exciting. I hope you’re having a good time. Don’t worry about the slow responses, this is still much quicker than waiting for those letters to be delivered. I still vividly remember rushing to meet the postman to see if he had a letter for me.
I’m jealous of your trip as I’m currently very busy with work. The publishers are trying to rush out a new book so they want the translation quickly.
Cambodia was amazing. When I was there, I tried grasshoppers and tarantulas so I think a cream tea sounds delicious!
Yes, I’ve been to England a few times. To London, York and Oxford. I’ve also been to Edinburgh. I’m sorry to say I’ve never made it to Bristol though, despite all your recommendations. I wonder if it still looks like the postcards you sent me?
I don’t have any immediate travel plans. I’m hoping to get away later in the year, all being well, but we’ll see. If you could go anywhere, where would you go?
P.S. A book about your life running a B&B – and all the curious guests – sounds like a great idea. You should absolutely write it!
From: Simon, To: Sylvie
Hi Sylvie,
We’re actually in France, in Rennes! The weather is glorious. Keep adding a few French expressions and I’ll do my best to finally learn. That’s a promise! Maybe I’ll even try them out whilst I’m here.
I remember doing the very same, running down from our dorm room, to check the pigeonholes where our post was left. I used to run down every day to check if there were any letters, and I’d always be excited to see your flowery handwriting, and the French stamps.
That’s a tough question about my preferred destination. I read the travel section in the papers every week, and there are so many places I always think it would be nice to visit one day. It’s a bit clichéd but I’ve always wanted to see the pyramids, maybe take a cruise down the Nile. I haven’t been back to Bristol much myself in recent years. We drove through the other day for Raj’s memorial, and it looked very different than I remember from my schooldays. Anna and Ollie have been regularly and enjoy it, so maybe I will have to spend more time there when I have a chance. Likewise there are loads of places I’ve not seen in the UK. Is it bad that I’ve never been to York myself? Edinburgh and Oxford are lovely though.
I hope your translating is going well. I’ve always been curious how that works, it must be difficult trying to translate accurately between languages – do you have to change some parts?
Maybe when I eventually have some time, I’ll pen some notes!
I’m intrigued to know what grasshoppers and tarantulas taste like … I’m not sure we’ll add them to our menu!
Best wishes,
Simon
33
‘It’s not my fault that my mobile has died!’ Ian shouts through the thunderous downpour.
‘It was your fault that you booked a B&B which didn’t have any electricity to charge our phones though!’
‘If you hadn’t been on your phone writing to Sylvie all morning we could have used yours!’
Our mutual annoyance about getting lost in the middle of nowhere, somewhere between Rennes and Redon is not helped by the weather. The clouds have suddenly burst, as if they’ve been saving up the water for the past month, and a deluge floods down from the skies.
‘I don’t know what was wrong with paper maps,’ Ian shrugs his shoulders, scrunching his face up in disgust at the torrid weather. ‘And I don’t know why they call these stupid things smartphones when they run out of battery so quickly. Pretty dumb phones if you ask me.’
Ian was meant to be guiding us today, yet his mobile has died halfway through our ride, and mine died this morning, meaning we don’t have a working phone between us, and we seem to have somehow got lost following a river.
This morning, the sunny riverbank was packed with crowds of other cyclists and walkers. Now, the path alongside it is dark, muddy and rocky, the people all long gone. We’ve raced the weather, desperate to get to our destination before nightfall, yet the storm has fast-tracked the night, and amidst the settling fog, we’ve found no town, no directions, no people. Just a disappearing, slippery path. The mud splashes up over our legs, and the torrential rain loudly beats down on our helmets, soaking both our bodies and our bags.
‘So we have no idea where we are? Or where we’re going? And we can’t even call a taxi?’ I have to shout to be heard, as the low growling rumble of thunder competes with me.
We climb off our bikes, venture off the river path, and hug into the side of the country road, seeking shelter under a tree, which doesn’t have many branches, and is putting us more at danger from any passing cars.
‘Since when did we become so reliant on phones? We managed OK last time without one,’ he says, clearly having forgotten everything that happened on our last trip.
As we stand still, both frustrated by the situation, and neither of us having any idea of what we should do about it, a rare car speeds past, but before we can flag it down, it splashes an ever-growing puddle over us and leaves us in its wake.
‘Oh great. Thanks very much for that,’ Ian calls out after the car, not that we could get any wetter.
My feet are now squelching around in the puddles inside my shoes.
‘What was it you said to Anna about us being older and wiser?’
‘What do you think we should do?’ Ian asks, ignoring my retort, and unwilling to take responsibility for any choices.
‘I don’t think it’s safe to carry on like this, it’s so slippery. And I don’t think we’re that close to Redon, so I guess we will just have to stop at the first place we can and stay there for the night.’
‘The next town could still be miles away though.’
‘Well, what else do you suggest? We sleep under this tree?’ I shout louder, as much due to my frustration with the situation as the sound of the thunder this time.
‘You live in the countryside …’
‘In a house, not a tent. Living in the countryside doesn’t automatically make you Bear Grylls!’
‘It looks like there is a church in the distance.’ He points to the silhouette of a spire which appears through the fog, towering above the trees in the distance. Everything looks dark, dingy and sinister in these conditions.
After twenty minutes of battling the elements we reach the spire, but the few houses nearby are all barricaded up for the night. There is certainly no hotel, or B&B for us to check into.
‘The church might be open? We could shelter in there?’ Ian suggests.
‘Is that allowed?’
‘I don’t know. Isn’t the church meant to look after people?’ Ian says, as if that’s the only message he took from us attending Sunday services every week at school.
‘I don’t remember the parable about helping the two idiots who got lost on their bikes and forgot to charge their phones!’
‘Oh, come on, we may as well try.’ The rainwater now drips out of Ian’s mouth as he speaks. He continues anyway through the entrance to the churchyard and we tip-toe around the masses of tombstones. I’m not sure how such a rural place can have so many dead bodies.
‘It’s bound to be locked.’ I twist the large metallic handle one way and then the other, trying to unlatch and push the main door open, but it’s too stiff and my hands are frozen.
Ian, of course, knows best, and he pushes me out the way to yank at the handle. Eventually the door creaks open.
‘There we go,’ he says, too smugly.
We slowly creep inside the pitch-black church, the large stained-glass windows not letting in much light from the darkness outside, and the faces of the engraved figures in the windows staring down at us as we tread over the stone slabs.
‘Come on, it’s a church, what’s going to happen?’ Ian says, sensing my trepidation.
As if on cue, thunder and lightning crash outside.
We both look at each other.
‘We’ll just light some candles, and it’ll be fine,’ he smiles, as the water continues to drip from both our faces.
I’m just pleased to have a moment of shelter from the downfall, and we immediately rest our bikes behind the door and pull off our soaking outer layers.
‘Everything in our bags is soaked too … how much did we pay for these bags? I thought they were meant to be waterproof!’
‘I’m not sure we should have trusted anything Glenn had to say.’
As Ian goes to light the candles, I can just make out the noise of the gate opening and closing, over the sound of the continuing rainfall.
‘Shhh. I think someone’s coming,’ I whisper.
Given the fact we probably shouldn’t be here and that we definitely don’t want to be kicked out, we decide to quickly hide, shoving our bags away, and ducking down underneath the pews. Luckily the bikes are hidden by the darkness, behind the doors. The footsteps from outside pitter patter quickly, the sound growing louder, the wooden latch rises, and then the church door bursts open.
‘Who is it?’ Ian mouths to me, as I hide in the opposite side of the aisle, with a view of the door.
In the dim light I can just make out a pair of shoes entering the church. The feet stop, and pause for a second, before carrying on along the side of the church. I quickly bob my head up.
‘It’s the vicar!’ I mouth back.
We continue lying there in silence, as the footsteps wander around the church, the violent rain outside masking the sound of our heavy breathing.
I can hear the footsteps getting louder again. I try to stay still, but the dust from the stone floor and the old kneeling cushions fills my nose. I can feel myself about to sneeze.
I try and stop myself, but I can’t.
Aachoo.
Fortunately, just as I sneeze the thunder rumbles.
That’s divine intervention for you.
The vicar’s shoes pause again, before the door creaks open again, closes, and then we hear the sound of a key turning.
‘I guess we’re definitely staying here for the night then!’
34
THEN
May 1975
‘In the beginning was the Word, and the Word was with God, and the Word was God.’ The ancient chaplain – who looks old enough to have been at The Last Supper himself – reads the same passage of the Bible that he repeats every single Sunday morning.
For such a big book, Simon can never understand why he can’t switch the passages up occasionally. The service in the church near school marks the end of the week – the boys who board part-time are greeted by their families and allowed home for the night, whereas Simon, Ian and Raj are given a few hours of freedom before they have to be back in school.
Simon knows the service verbatim, so instead of listening, he usually risks the wrath of Mr Montgomery by playing noughts and crosses against Raj on a blank page in the hymn books.
Today though, he’s too focused on his new letter from Sylvie which he holds in his hands. He reads the line over and over again about her applying for the exchange, and of her excitement at the two of them getting to spend the summer together.
She doesn’t know yet about the bad news, and now he’s got to reply saying that none of it will be happening. He’s got to tell her to pull out of the exchange. He’s got to let her down.
As he sits there, listening to the chaplain ramble on, he decides that he can’t do that. He decides that he’s got to see her.
He’s so preoccupied by his thoughts that he doesn’t try to put Ian off as he sings in the choir, or even look up as he comes bounding over to his pew after the service.
He continues staring at Sylvie’s words, lost in his thoughts.
‘Did you see Julian’s sister today?’ Ian asks, raising his eyebrows to Simon and Raj, who are left sitting alone after the other boys have been reunited with their families.
‘He’s still only interested in Mademoiselle Sylvie,’ Raj replies.
‘I thought we decided that since you couldn’t go on the exchange, we’d try and find you someone else?’
‘We never decided that!’ Simon shakes his head. ‘Anyway I’ve actually been thinking this last week … well, I’ve got an idea.’
‘Go on.’
Simon waits for the chaplain to walk past, and leave the three of them in complete privacy.
‘I think I should forget all about the stupid exchange, and go myself.’
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