‘You have been on that laptop all evening. Why don’t you come through and watch TV with me?’
Brendan was engrossed in finishing his application to St Cillian’s. He pressed his lips together but no sound came out in reply. Maura tried again, her voice saccharine with effort.
‘I could open a bottle and we could share some cheesy nibbles?’
Brendan read through his application, adjusted a word or two and pressed send with a mixture of disbelief and satisfaction. ‘What was that?’ he said.
‘Wine and nibbles, darling.’
She had been using new endearments throughout the week. Her eyes had taken on a kind of bovine hopefulness and her lashes fluttered, heavy with extra mascara.
‘In a minute.’ He thought about calling her a new tender name, ‘sweetheart’ or ‘honey’ perhaps, instead of the usual placatory ‘my love’, but it felt awkward. He picked up his mobile and found his mother’s number, pressed dial and waited. Nothing, again, except an empty voice requesting a message. He wondered if she had discovered how to pick up voicemail.
‘Brendan, will I start the film?’
A sudden thought occurred to him. He started to search for something on the internet, his brows together, his eyes reflecting the moving screen. She was behind him, looking over his shoulder. He pressed the keys and waited. A white page flipped up, a timetable. Maura put her arms around his neck, looking over his shoulder. Brendan made the screen whizz up and down: Cork to Roscoff, Roscoff to Cork.
She leaned against the back of his chair and rested her face against his head. He could hear her breathing, her mind processing the details.
‘Is it a little holiday we’re having? Are we going to France?’ She twirled her fingers in his hair and her voice was light and girlish. ‘Oh Brendan, I’d love to go to France. Just you and me. The food and the wine – just think, and the beaches. You’d have a chance to practise your French – you’d like that. And we could enjoy some culture, the churches, the history. You could do a bit of canoeing perhaps and I could sit in the sunshine and get a suntan. I’m so pale at the moment. It would do us both good.’
Brendan put the laptop down and turned around. She was wearing a flimsy dressing gown. It was loose and he could see she had little on underneath, if anything. Her damp hair trailed across her forehead. He became aware he was staring.
‘Ah.’ He turned back to the laptop. ‘Maura. I was thinking of going by myself.’
He swivelled around again and was surprised to see that she was upset. The smile slipped down from her face and her eyes became soft, almost tearful, then colder and hard.
‘I thought I would bring my mother home. I’d just be away a couple of days. Not long.’
Frozen disbelief stared back at him.
‘She’s written to the Lodge and said she doesn’t want her place there any more. I need to go and get her, Maura, find out what’s happening.’
Maura exhaled. The dressing gown gaped and she pulled it across her chest, tying the belt firmly. ‘Why don’t you just call her? Tell her to come home?’
Brendan held up his mobile. ‘I just tried. She’s not picking up.’
‘But we don’t need to go after her. She’s a grown woman. She can come back by herself.’
He frowned. ‘But what if she doesn’t want to come back?’
‘Then let her stay.’
Brendan glanced over her shoulder and back to his hand, which was squeezing the phone. He glanced at the wedding ring on his finger. He had imagined himself going alone to France. It would be an adventure. He would be a sleuth. He wouldn’t tell his mother what he was doing; he’d text her, then catch up with her. Eventually, he’d phone, tell her where he was, and they’d meet in a nice restaurant, over some moules marinières. She’d be surprised to see him, delighted, and he’d persuade her to come home. She’d say, ‘I’m glad you came, Brendan. I’m ready to come back. I missed Dublin too much. But most of all, I missed you.’
‘Ring her, Brendan.’ Maura nodded towards the phone. ‘Then we can see the film.’ She raised her eyebrows hopefully. ‘And have some nibbles.’
Brendan hung his head. He wondered if his mother was having a great time in Brittany. It occurred to him that she mightn’t be missing him at all, that she might not need him. The thought filled like a raincloud and dropped damply across his shoulders. He groaned. ‘I’m going to France, Maura.’
‘Then text her and tell her we’re coming.’
He shook his head, looked at his hands for a moment and then glanced around the room. ‘I don’t like sending Mammy texts. She probably won’t read them. Anyway, she might not want to come back. I’ll go and surprise her. Tell her we miss her. Tell her she should be back here, in Dublin, with us. Persuade her to come home.’
‘Then I’m coming with you.’ Her lips made a straight line. ‘Book the tickets, Brendan. I’m owed a few weeks off work. You sort out the ferry crossing. I’ll go and start packing the cases. There. That’s it, all settled.’
Evie walked up the hill, one arm crooked through Maddie’s and the other through Kat’s. The music was audible, the light playing of pipes lifted on the wind, and the three women were already dancing on skipping feet. Maddie leaned towards Evie. ‘You’ve seen nothing of Pentrez until you’ve seen some Breton dancers. They come here every Friday evening in the summer, in costume. You’ll love it, Evie.’
Kat smiled and Evie grinned back. She had never seen the young woman so happy as during this past week and the three of them had worked hard in the gîtes together, chatting all the time. Evie had pretended to be shocked by Kat’s raucous renditions of various so-called traditional Irish songs. ‘Paddy McGinty’s Goat’ had been particularly rude. They had been telling tales and drinking brandy. Evie had entertained them with stories of her mischief at St Aloysius’ School and the responses of the angry nuns, and she had made them cry when she sang ‘Danny Boy’ in her high quavering voice.
They caught sight of the little night market. The aroma of crêpes hung on the air and costumed dancers were already in full swing, arm in arm with local people who seemed to know every step. Evie grinned as Kat and Maddie pulled her through the throng. They found themselves in a circle of dancers and they linked arms, following the moves and laughing at their mistakes.
The man who turned to Evie moved lightly on his feet, despite his solidity. He held her waist easily, his other hand slipping into hers in a practised dance move. His face crinkled, his cheeks concertinas of charm. Evie allowed herself to be turned, puzzled by the unfamiliarity of a stranger’s hands, and she looked over his shoulder at the musicians in black and white, smart in their tasselled hats. They were singing, playing lusty pipes which blew bubbles of music into the air. Evie turned again on the whisk of a gavotte and Maddie and Kat were dancing together, their eyes glazed with happiness, Maddie’s plait swinging in an arc. Evie’s partner tightened his grip on her waist. His forearms were muscled and his puffed cheeks reminded her of Popeye the Sailor.
She swirled and the town square passed by in a blur, full of revellers and musicians and vans selling crêpes and couscous. The bars were crowded, drinkers laughed together in doorways with a glass in one hand trying to clap to the rhythms. Evie turned again and her new partner was Kat. They were lifted on the gurgle of the pipes.
Kat raised her voice above the music. ‘I can’t thank you enough. For everything.’
‘Ah, it was a pleasure.’ Evie thought of the piggery, now two gîtes, neatly painted over the last fortnight and homely with their crisp curtains and yellow walls. Adverts were already in place and bookings were being made for the rest of the holiday season.
‘I mean for being so sweet and patient with me. I was a real cow. I was making a mountain out of a silly little thing.’
Evie leaned into the swing and Kat clutched her hands tightly.
‘Please say you’ll stay with us for the summer, Evie. Maddie would love that and so would I.’
They turned in a spin and changed partners again.
Popeye was back and he claimed Evie in his grasp. He gave her his creased smile again and said ‘Charmante’ to her, pulling her into his body. She inhaled the smell of tobacco and thought of Jim, how he had held her lightly when they had danced together to music in the sixties. Jim had shuffled his feet awkwardly but she’d always loved dancing.
Popeye’s grip on her waist was determined. It was time to buy herself another glass of Pommeau, and she pulled away from him and walked over to a stall, ordering a small glass. The drink was thick syrup which clung to her tongue. It had a kick like a Saturday night in Dublin. She swallowed in gulps and it prickled her throat. Evie could see the beach down below the road. The day was draining away and a light rain began to nuzzle her face. No traffic passed except for the German in his campervan driving on his way elsewhere. He waved a hand in recognition and Evie waved back. She wondered where he was going, whether he would travel far, whether he would have adventures. His campervan was huge, like a small house, and she thought how nice it must be to point yourself in any direction and go where you choose. The campervan lumbered away and was gone and Evie had the sense of being left behind. She looked at the sea shining, sliced in half by the melting of the setting sun, and her eyes swept towards the arc of the coastline. She wondered what was beyond Brittany. The music and laughter warbled behind her. Evie looked towards the horizon again and felt her pulse quicken.
They were driving to Le Faou for a special treat. Kat and Maddie had told her there was a bakery patisserie that sold the best cakes on the presqu’isle, explaining with a grin that they’d sampled most of the cake shops across the peninsular, and, as Evie had worked in a bakery for over twenty years, she must visit, then they would have lunch. Iggy licked his chops and the van was light with laughter.
The cake shop sold macaroons, brightly coloured and crammed with cream. Evie ate three, telling the proprietor that the Dublin bakery wasn’t like this in the 1960s. Maddie and Kat held hands and talked of plans for the gîtes, themed evenings, parties, music, and Maddie grasped Evie’s hand. ‘We’d love it if you’d stay and help. As long as you’d like.’
Lunch was delicious, crêpes and salad and bread with a glass of wine, and Evie was in a warm haze as they walked back to the van, arms linked. Maddie chattered about plans for her visiting holidaymakers, barbecues, even Christmas festivities, but Evie’s thoughts slipped elsewhere. A sign on a wooden gate caught her eye and she stopped. ‘Could we take a look in there for a minute?’
Garage Lasnec sprawled behind open wooden gates, a mass of metal in various stages of repair. Georges Lasnec was languid, lifting the bonnet of a light green Peugeot. He was a tall man with a goatee smudge of oil on his chin. Evie asked him in simple English if he had any campervans for sale. Maddie translated and Evie was led around a path of vehicles in different stages of newness. She stopped.
‘Will you look at this lovely old campervan?’ she said. It was aqua blue and had a front like a rounded face. She paddled her fingers along the chrome of the little grille. ‘Ah, this is ancient and cheeky … It’s grand. I like it.’
Kat said something to the man and he gave her the keys.
‘Jump in, Evie. Do you want to test-drive?’
Evie slid into the driver’s seat. It was soft leather, comfortable. She glanced up at the roof, where a few rust spots had formed. It smelled musky, like a river bed, but sweet. Bright curtains hung at the windows, the edges frayed. There were some covers rolled up in the back, a wicker basket which looked like it would hold a picnic. She looked out through the windscreen, which was grimy apart from the lighter arc made by the wiper. It would need a good clean. Her hands slid smoothly around the steering wheel, then her fingers wiggled the gear stick. She smiled. ‘This needs some TLC.’
With Kat as her passenger and Maddie and Iggy left behind in the garage, Evie swung the campervan out of the gate and into the road. It jerked and stopped, then lurched forward again to join the traffic. Evie hit the kerb and the campervan ricocheted and bumped onto the road.
‘Keep it on the right-hand side. You’re not in Ireland now.’
‘Oh, right.’
Kat guided her around the town. Evie screwed her eyes and peered over the wheel, thumping the gear stick and jolting up onto the kerb and down again.
‘Brake.’
Evie slammed both feet down, just missing the bumper of the vehicle in front.
‘Shite.’
She swerved in front of a parked van, passing dangerously close to a cyclist, and she accelerated, remembering it was a while since she had driven the old Micra. It had been Jim who would drive them around Dublin, mostly. After his death, she had taken their car out, usually to the supermarket, several times to the graveyard. She didn’t enjoy the Dublin traffic, but here the roads were relatively calm. One driver raised his hand; let her out in front of him. With Kat’s guidance, she was able to negotiate a road island, and to overtake a slow car, putting her on the road back to Le Faou. She had driven exactly four kilometres: the campervan was clearly going to be lucky.
They returned to Garage Lasnec, turning sharply in front of a lorry, which sounded its horn. Maddie’s face was anxious and Iggy was straining at his lead. Georges Lasnec put his hands on his hips.
Evie slid out of the driver’s side and held up the keys. ‘I’ll buy it.’
‘Hang on a minute.’ Kat said something to Georges Lasnec who shrugged a laconic reply. Kat launched into fluent French, arguing, her words fast and energetic. Evie passed a hand over her head; the driving and the excitement were exhausting.
The garage owner paused, grumbled and lifted his palms in protest; Kat threw a word at him, a number, a knife in a game of stretch, and he folded his arms across his chest. He grumbled; he forced his hands deep into pockets, turned away and nodded. She had won.
‘OK, Evie, he’s reduced the price. It needs new tyres too so he’ll put those on for you. Three thousand euros all in. How’s that?’
Evie found her card in her bag, somewhere at the bottom.
‘That’s grand. Tell him we have a deal.’
Her case was loaded, with its wheel fixed. She’d packed boxes of provisions, summer clothes, CDs, bedding, water and too many books, including one she had just started reading, a translation of something by Simone de Beauvoir, which Maddie had given her. It was hot and sticky inside the campervan and the beach would have been an ideal place to go with a book, but Evie had a map with a route marked in pencil. She had decided to go south, to see for herself the vineyards and the mountains, and she’d worked out a route based on Maddie and Kat’s jaunt to Languedoc two years ago. She leaned forward and stretched out her arms. Iggy leaped up, round-eyed, and Kat and Maddie hugged her, all three gripped in a rugby scrum. When they pulled apart there were tears.
‘Please come back and visit us, Evie.’
‘Of course.’
‘And thank you for everything.’
Kat handed her two pieces of paper. One was an address and mobile number. The other was the cheque she had given them for rent. Evie protested but Maddie began to sniff, so she stopped.
‘You’re the best of girls. Like daughters. I’ll come back and see you both soon.’
They embraced again and Evie clambered into the campervan. As she drove away, the rear-view mirror showed two waving women, their arms linked, and a barking dog.
She leaned over the wheel, blinking, and swung onto the open road via the pavement. The sea was to her right and the highway ahead, shimmering with opportunity. A bend to the left took her up a hill, signposted ‘Menez-Hom’, which became steeper, a slope furred on either side with scrubby yellow and purple heather. She overtook a cyclist, moving to the far side of the road, and lugged the gears into second, making the campervan lurch forwards as if sprung. She pulled in at the top of the hill, parking between two large caravans, and clambered out. Evie clutched her bag and climbed the path to the top of Menez-Hom, the wind whistling hard in her ear drums.
She could see people rising from the hills into the skies, tied into colourful canopies, looming in front of her then sliding down, out of sight. How free and calm they appeared, these hang-gliders, lifted and held on the wind, then shifting away again. She could see model aeroplanes flying, rising and tumbling, and, to the right, in the distance, there was a clutch of wind turbines and a small town. To the left, she saw a bridge and a river and, as she turned around to look behind, the sea shone back at her, smooth as a mirror. The panorama was vast and generous and she felt surrounded by new choices. She shivered, a delicious feeling composed of cold and opportunity.
She scrambled back into the campervan. The cab was stifling and the air was thick; she started the engine and opened the windows, pushing the curtains apart to flutter in the breeze. The summit was far behind as she hurtled down the hill and saw the road open its arms to the left and the right.
‘Today is the lucky fourth of July. The world is my bloody oyster,’ she muttered as the gears champed together and she turned towards a sign which said ‘Ploeven’. She fiddled with the CD player and a familiar tune took to the air. Evie began to sing along, her voice warbling and light.
An hour away, a yellow Fiat Panda had left the port in Roscoff and was just turning onto the main road. The driver stared straight ahead while a woman gave him directions from the passenger seat, a map under her nose.