‘Yes, Mum. I got an infection. Collapsed. Spent two nights hooked up to a drip.’ It’s not her fault, she hadn’t known. But I can hear my own tone, hear the note of accusation.
Her hands fly up. ‘Well, how was I supposed to know? I’m not psychic, Sarah. If you don’t talk to me, what do you expect?’
‘Yes, OK. I just wanted you to know that this has hardly been an easy trip for me. And I’ve had to juggle work, and being ill. I’d love to spend more time on the French Riviera. Hell, who wouldn’t? But I can’t, Mum, because I live in the real world with real responsibilities and it just doesn’t work like that.’
Mum eyes me silently. She picks up a tea towel and begins drying one of the mugs. Conversation over.
But I can’t leave it like that. ‘Listen, I get that you’re lonely. But honestly Mum, what did you expect? The minute Dad was out of the picture, you left. It didn’t matter to you that I was grieving, that Louis was grieving. It didn’t seem to matter to you that you simply disappeared from our lives. If you wanted us to be with you, why did you move a thousand miles away? If you’re feeling lonely, it’s because of what you’ve done to yourself. It’s nothing to do with me!’
My eyes are stinging with tears and somewhere deep inside me a voice is telling me that it’s enough. To stop now. But I can’t. ‘Dad would never have left us like that,’ I tell her.
The cup slips from her hands in what seems like slow motion and hits the tile, shattering into a thousand pieces which scatter across the hard surface, under cabinets, onto one of her precious rugs; the handle skids across and hits the side of the breakfast bar. ‘Oh,’ she says, but it’s more of a sob than a word. ‘Oh.’
But I can’t stay. Feeling my ears burn, I turn from the room and make my way to my bedroom. There, I open a case and begin to stuff everything in as quickly as possible, crushing everything down before sitting on the case and zipping it closed. It bulges but the zip holds.
Then, when there’s nothing more to do, I sit down on the bed. And I cry. I cry because what I said to Mum was cruel. I cry because I don’t know where the words came from. And I cry because there’s no one here to comfort me or tell me everything is OK. Then I cry for my dad. My wonderful, jocular, kind, idiotic dad who was always the one to comfort me and formed a bridge between Mum and me that, without him, has become a chasm.
32
HAL
Luckily the mechanic speaks English. What’s more, he actually seems to love Betty. Rather than scratching his head or giving me a look that means either this is going to cost, or what are you doing in this rust-bucket, he’s genuinely excited when I drive onto his forecourt.
‘1972, yes?’ he asks me, walking around Betty, arms folded, as if inspecting a piece of art. He bends and inspects the wheel arch, opens her engine and gives a whistle. Not a typical mechanic’s whistle, meant to instil fear into the hearts of cash-poor customers, but a whistle that shows he is more than a little impressed.
‘You like VWs?’
‘Like them?’ he says in almost perfect English. ‘I love them! I have two at home. But Betty is one of the original models,non?’
‘And you think you can fix her? It’s something to do with the cooling system, I think.’
‘Of course. And it will be a pleasure. An honour, even,’ he tells me.
So I’m not only relieved, I’m feeling quite proud as I leave him to his work and make my way to the seafront. I’ve been toNice a couple of times over the years, but never to the quartier du port where Betty’s new biggest fan resides.
It’s hot and the heat feels more uncomfortable on the city streets, bouncing back at me from the hard pavement and making me sweat despite the fact it’s only nine in the morning and the day has yet to properly kick in. The plan is to find a café, sit with a couple of drinks, then meander back in the hope that Marcel has solved Betty’s problems and I can go back to Vivian’s and pack.
It’s farther than I thought, and my legs are aching a little by the time the road opens out onto a wide walkway that runs parallel with the road. Just beyond, there’s a fence-like structure made of concrete or stone and beyond that, the blue of the sea broken only by the sails and hulls of a variety of boats.
I cross the road and lean on the fence, taking in the sights and smells; the slap of the water against concrete, the buzz of conversation from passers-by. I watch a man cleaning the deck of his boat with a mop and bucket and wonder whether he’s a cleaner, or a proud boat owner shining up a prized asset. It occurs to me that I could one day get a boat. Betty mark two. Only maybe more seaworthy; something modern that isn’t full of rust.
By some miracle Marcel does manage to restore Betty to full working order. He assures me that we’ll easily make the nine hundred-mile trip and I decide to trust him, while handing over the best part of 2,000 euros. It strikes me that if he’s lying, I will be a few hundred miles away by the time I find out.
Back at Vivian’s, everything is still. I park Betty up and look out over the garden, marvelling at the life-changing event that took place there yesterday. The pool is empty but ripples tantalisingly in the midday heat. I’ve sweated down the back of my T-shirt and long for a moment to rip it off and dive into the blue of the waiting water.
Instead, I head to my room to retrieve my swimming shorts and slap on a bit of sun cream. I’ve learned from bitter experience not to go without either of these things.
I’m just grabbing my towel from the bathroom when I hear a sound from Sarah’s room. I knock and peek my head around; she’s sitting on the bed, reading something on her phone. Her eyes are red and it’s pretty clear she’s been crying.
‘What’s up?’ I ask.
‘Nothing.’ She wipes a hand across her face. ‘I’m fine, honestly.’
I step into her room and sit next to her. ‘Yeah, I’m not buying.’
She gives a deep sigh. ‘It’s silly. Just Mum and me. Having one of our arguments. You know.’
‘What about?’