‘You can phone me to tell me the Panda is ready, Brendan. Clémence and I will be back sometime later. We are going to treat ourselves this afternoon.’
Maura was chirpy as she spoke through the window of Clémence’s car; they had dropped Brendan off outside the garage and were off to Angers to do some shopping. Clémence had become Maura’s new best friend over the last two days; they watched television together in the evening in Clémence’s lounge, while her husband checked on the animals for the night. They had shared a bottle of white wine late into the early hours and Brendan heard them chortling together when he was in bed, their voices whispering and scratching in his head as his mind drifted into sluggish sleep. Bad dreams came, which seemed to last the whole night, and he woke at dawn to hear the birds chirruping, feeling the coldness of Maura’s shoulder turned against him as she lay across most of the bed, a snore purring in her nose.
And now the women were off to explore the shops and have lunch in Angers. Brendan’s job was to make sure the car was fixed and that they were ready to leave tomorrow morning first thing. He watched the car turn the corner. Maura was gone for the day.
He walked into the garage yard, his hands in his pockets. The yellow Panda was where it was when he left it. Olivier came from the office; when he saw Brendan, he smiled and held out his hand. Brendan asked about the car and, in particular, the new radiator. Olivier’s face was bright with optimism, as he explained that the radiator had arrived the previous afternoon, but when he’d tried to fit it, it was the wrong one and he had sent it back again.
‘Maybe tomorrow or the day after, then you will be on your journey. You are comfortable at Aunt Clémence?’
Brendan replied that Clémence was the perfect hostess, and yes, he would be happy to stay another day or two. He took out his phone to ring Maura. He thought for a moment, and put the phone in his pocket. It would keep.
Brendan walked down to the river and leaned against the brickwork of a bridge. The water was green-tinged and still. He wondered if Maura would enjoy hiring a canoe and spending a few hours on the river. Perhaps there was somewhere locally where they could rent a raft or just have a swim. Brendan enjoyed the water, although his memory was a little soured by supervising swimming lessons at school. He’d stood helplessly by the pool and listened to countless stories of why one of his students couldn’t go in the water but had no note from home; at the other end of the spectrum, there was the splashing and pushing and tomfoolery of the bigger boys, roaring and swearing and bullying, which he punished with detentions.
Brendan wondered if Maura might bring him a new pair of swimming-trunks back from Angers. He had left his on the bed in the hotel in Brittany. He took out his phone; there were no messages so he put it back in his pocket again. He imagined his body lifted and supported by water, the pushing strength of his arms as he moved forwards, the sense of propelling himself forward against pressure. He thought of water lapping around his ears, the coldness tingling against his chest, the droplets filling his eyes. He wondered for a moment if Maura would agree to go swimming with him in a lake. She wasn’t a strong swimmer, but he could teach her. He imagined them both together in a lac, clear cool water lifting them. In the image Maura’s hair was damp, little strands across her face, and her head was back, laughing. His arms were around her and he imagined her leaning back into his grasp, trusting him, closing her eyes as he and the water carried her along. He wondered if they would kiss, and he’d gaze at her wet face, slide his hands over the smooth texture of her swimsuit and her strong body beneath. He breathed out and wondered if Penny Wray was snorkelling in Mexico. His daydream shifted to himself in mask and flippers beside a young woman, her blonde hair streaming behind her; they were both surrounded by gleaming light and shoals of vivid fishes. Brendan opened his eyes.
He found somewhere to sit where the grass was dry and straw-like, and he stretched out his legs. The river was glass-smooth, reflecting trees and bushes and a small house upside down. Brendan felt his heartbeat begin to slow down.
Two children and a man were approaching from the road. They were on bicycles; the girl was a teenager and the boy a few years younger, maybe nine or ten. The man had a dark beard and wore cycle shorts and a top advertising soya yogurt. They stopped on the bridge and wheeled their bikes down to the riverside. They were talking together in French. They laid their bicycles down and the man began to point something out in the river to the children. The girl made a quiet reply and sat down. The boy pulled a ball from a backpack; it was a small football and he and his father started to pass the ball. The girl joined in and the three were running and giggling. The man called his son’s name. Alexandre certainly had a good kick on him. Brendan watched them as a sports teacher scouting for potential talent; both children were skilful and competitive and the girl could head the ball well.
Their dad’s encouragement was gentle and humorous; there was no sense of disappointment if a kick was missed or went in the wrong direction. Brendan thought how nice it would be to have a kick-about on a day like this, next to the river with such a breathtaking backdrop; how good it would be to share ice-creams afterwards and then get back on the bikes and have a ride home, the children chattering and laughing. He wondered where the mother was. Perhaps she was working, perhaps the parents were divorced, but the man had two fine children who clearly enjoyed their time with him. Perhaps the mother was like Maura and didn’t enjoy cycling, but was waiting at home with a smile, maybe with cinema tickets, ice-cream. Perhaps he was a widower, and something tragic had happened. The children wore clean clothes and their game was carefree.
Alexandre booted the ball high. It came down with a thud, bobbled over towards Brendan and came to a stop near where he was sitting. He leapt up and returned it on his right foot. His kick was confident but not too hard. The boy was appreciative with his ‘Merci, Monsieur’ and there was admiration in the child’s tone. The father looked over and smiled his gratitude. Brendan waved back, half hopeful that they might invite him to join in or at least ask him to go in goal.
But the family finished their game and packed up their belongings; the father pulled on the backpack and they pushed their bikes back to the road where they mounted, and were off, the girl first, then Alexandre, who turned and waved before the father ushered them safely on their way. Brendan was sad to see them go. His hand was still in the air when they were out of sight. He lowered his arm and wondered where everything had all gone wrong.
An hour later, he was sitting inside a little café where betting was being shown on a large monitor. The racehorses were out and they were being led up and down, their names flashing on the screen. Brendan drank the dregs of his bière blonde, then he ordered a second beer and a plate of côte d’agneau. He was served by a pretty woman in a blue dress, her hair cut in a dark bob, her lips a vivid red. She told him he spoke French well and asked him if he was Belgian. He told her no, he was Irish, and she put a hand to her mouth and said how she loved Ireland and had visited County Kerry once many years ago and did he live near there. Two men in the café were looking at him. One of them was sitting on a stool at the bar, his back turned, reading a paper and occasionally looking over and frowning. He wondered if that was her husband but the man looked considerably older.
The side of lamb was pleasant and the gravy was plentiful, so Brendan decided to stay a little longer. He had nowhere else to go. He ordered a third beer and a crème brûlée lavande, which the woman told him was a speciality of the house. It was displayed in a lilac glass bowl, looking professional with its moat of sweet sauce, a crunchy sugar topping giving way to a delicate lavender cream. He wished the portion had been larger.
He ordered a coffee, and the waitress asked him where he was staying and for how long. He told her and she replied enthusiastically that Clémence was a friend of her cousin, Jeanne, and that it was a nice place to stay. She glanced at his wedding ring as he paid the bill and she made him promise to come back for lunch again, perhaps with his wife. Brendan made an unequivocal humming sound between his lips, thanked her for the lovely meal and walked into the sunshine. The beers made his head feel fuzzy and blurred his vision; his mood lightened. He took out his phone. There were no messages and he did not intend to ring Maura. Stubbornness was stiffening his jaw. He found his mother’s number and texted her. Where are you going in the South? Send an address, Mammy.
He put the phone back in his pocket with a smile. Action was what was required and, as he sauntered back to Clémence’s for an afternoon snooze, he was a man of action, decisive and capable. Tomorrow he would buy himself some brightly coloured swim shorts. He began to whistle a little tune.