The doctor’s comments were still buzzing in Evie’s head the next day. She picked up her handbag as the doctor dismissed her with the stern words: ‘Remember my advice, Madame. You are no longer a young woman.’
Evie muttered ‘Shite’ to herself inside the hospital, and several times as she walked the kilometre to the car park, the word banishing her bad mood for a few seconds before she felt cross again and said it once more, a mantra against capitulation. This morning the bandage had been removed from her head but the swelling was still visible, although it did not hurt as much as her knees, which ached constantly. They must have been jarred by the fall.
By the time she reached the campervan, she was exhausted. Evie checked that everything was still in its place. She opened all the windows and smoothed the pages of the map, then she was ready to start on the drive, which would take the rest of the day. She would drive to a supermarché – she was glad it was nearly the same word as in English – and buy herself some treats for the journey. She was about to start the engine when her mobile sounded from her bag. She read Brendan’s message: he wanted to know where she was going. She smiled. He was a good son and was clearly interested in the trip she was making. She imagined him at home, a map of France on the coffee table or on his laptop, tracing her journey proudly. Brendan would be impressed with her choice of a historic city. She typed in Carcassonne quickly with her thumb and pressed send, putting the phone back in her bag without checking the screen. Her knees hurt as she pushed the pedals down, in particular the one she was using for the clutch. She pulled out of the car park and into the town traffic, peering over the dashboard to find a signpost.
She yawned: she had been driving for a few hours. The sunshine streamed through the windscreen as through a magnifying glass and her head began to hurt over one eye, pulsating steadily where the bump was. There was little traffic in the town, so her attention was on signposts and she glanced from her map on the passenger seat to the signs, searching for Carcassonne, negotiating a roundabout and several sets of traffic lights, then she turned onto a main road, a straight avenue flanked with trees. Her mouth was dry and her tongue thick, so she resolved to stop at the next lay-by and have some orange juice and maybe some fruit. A thought was rattling in her head: she might even take a nap and rest her knees. A car passed her closely, obviously in a hurry, and Evie wondered if the driver was annoyed that she was only travelling at forty kilometres an hour. She clutched the wheel tightly and peered over the dashboard at the road. There was a low shimmering of heat haze on the tarmac and hills were rising to the left.
A police car passed her with its blue light flashing and a gendarme waved Evie to pull over. She saw his little cap and smiled and waved back. He overtook her and an arm came from the window, a strong finger indicating a lay-by to the right. Evie exhaled and followed him, braking steadily so that she did not stop too close to his bumper.
The little man in the blue shirt was marching towards her, a frown on his face, and Evie glanced at his smart uniform. She was about to grin at him but she wound down the window and proffered a solemn expression. He spoke to her and she had no clue what he was saying but his face looked serious. Perhaps there was a killer on the loose. She shrugged and he spoke again but it was still no clearer. She leaned out of the window and raised her voice so that he could hear her over the noise of the passing traffic.
‘Hello to you. I don’t know what you’re talking about though, Officer. I don’t speak French very well. I am here on holiday.’
The policeman gesticulated over his shoulder; the other policeman came to join him, and they spoke together in hurried voices. The other officer couldn’t have been more than twenty-two. He was obviously the junior partner.
‘How can I help you?’ she asked, smiling as widely as she could.
‘English?’ the young officer asked, his face sombre.
‘Irish,’ she replied. ‘I am here on holiday.’
‘Where are you going?’
‘Carcassonne.’
‘May I see your driver’s licence? Passport?’
Evie took them from her bag and handed them over. The police officer studied them for a moment, then made a curious expression, wrinkling his nose, and handed the documents back.
‘You are Evelyn Gall-agg-her?’
‘Evie,’ she smiled. ‘Officer,’ she added as an afterthought.
‘This vehicle is French.’
‘Well done,’ she said, congratulating the young man on his skills of deduction. ‘I bought it in France.’
‘The vehicle belongs to you?’
‘Oh yes,’ said Evie. ‘I certainly haven’t stolen it. I paid with my winnings. I put a bet on a horse and it came in at a hundred to one. I had a streak of good luck. Four’s my lucky number.’
The young gendarme did not understand. He spoke to his surly companion, who replied in a low voice, and then the younger one spoke again.
‘Back there in the town you drove through a red light.’
Evie didn’t remember doing it.
‘Are you alone? No-one else is with you?’
‘Oh for God’s sake, can’t a lady travel by herself?’ Evie decided her tone was a bit rude and then gave the young officer a winning smile. ‘Yes, I am on my own, Officer.’ She thought for a few seconds. ‘But when I reach Carcassonne there will be a whole bunch of us. Twenty old people, all from Ireland. An old folks’ bucket list club – we’re all on holiday together. It’s our last holiday. Ever. You see, we’re all very ill with a terrible disease and we only have about six weeks to live, Officer. That is why this holiday is so important. It’s our last holiday. Before we die a very painful and terrible death.’ She gave a little sniff to prove that she was telling the truth and wiped at her eye with the crook of her finger.
The gendarmes had a conversation. Evie listened closely but could make nothing of their words. The young man put his hand out and laid it on Evie’s arm, which was resting on the open window frame. He patted her twice and nodded his head up and down before he spoke.
‘I see you have an injury on your head. I understand now. You are a brave woman and we wish you a good holiday with your friends.’
Evie was about to ask what friends, but then she remembered and said, ‘Oui, Monsieur,’ twice. She put a hand to her head as if she had a serious and painful wound and then she gave the officer a heroic smile as she imagined Joan of Arc might have smiled before she was taken to the stake. She put on her humble face. ‘Merci, Officer.’
‘Drive safely, Madame. Look out for the red lights next time.’
‘Oh I will, Officer. You can be sure of that. If there is a next time, of course. Time being so short and all. Yes, indeed I will. Thank you.’
The young policeman was grave. ‘I wish you good luck.’
The other gendarme, the older miserable one, reached out and took her hand and said something in French, as if bestowing a blessing. Evie thought they were both charming.
‘You take care now, Officer. You’re doing a grand job.’ She thought for a moment and then waved to them through the window. ‘Have a nice day.’
The two gendarmes saluted her politely as they made their way back to the police car and drove away. Evie breathed out. ‘Bollocks.’
She rummaged in her bag for the orange juice. It was warm and the top was sticky but she took a swig, then another. She looked over her shoulder to the back of the campervan and decided a snooze was in order.