‘Caucasians, Brendan? What on earth do you mean?’
Brendan came out of the en suite, a towel round his waist. He’d been by himself for most of the day and he sat tiredly on the edge of the bed, where Maura had placed her bags of shopping from Angers. ‘That’s what she texted me. I asked her where she was staying in the south and she replied Caucasians. But it’s not on the map anywhere.’
‘It has to be.’
Brendan looked at Maura, at her serious face, and wondered when they had last exchanged smiles. They had been in France for well over two weeks. He recalled the night in the hotel in Brittany when they had been happy, at least for a while, and shrugged. ‘I can ask her again. But she said she was off to the south and was staying in Caucasians. Perhaps it’s a mountain pass. The Caucasians?’
Maura raised her eyebrows. ‘And the Panda?’
‘Should be ready for collection tomorrow afternoon. About two.’
‘So what will we do with ourselves tonight, Brendan?’ She looked at him hopefully and he thought for a moment.
‘I know a nice little café where they serve good food.’
Maura wriggled from the edge of the bed. It was late afternoon and the window was wide open, the sun spilling into the room, a deep yellow strip of heat. Dust danced on the air, little twirling specks hovering. Maura walked through the slice of light and over to the wardrobe, her back towards Brendan. ‘Right. If we’re going out, I’d better put on my glad rags.’
She seemed not to notice him as she pulled clothes from the wardrobe, her mouth twisted in indecision, and put them back. ‘I hope it’s not too far to walk. These country lanes are playing havoc with my feet.’
Brendan watched her struggle out of her jeans and T-shirt. She glanced at him, then turned her back to him. He watched her hoist a pretty emerald-green dress over her head and pull it down over her hips. He noticed the furtive way she dressed, quickly, her arm a shield across her body. Brendan turned away, looking at his fingernails. He glanced at her again, trying not to stare. Maura smoothed the material of her dress and scrutinised herself in the mirror. She combed her hair, leaned forward to put lipstick on her mouth and caught his eye. She smiled and Brendan saw the sweet, bubbly girl he knew years ago. He moved over to stand behind her and placed a hand on her shoulder. In the mirror, he noticed her eyes twitch towards him and she reached an arm round behind her, took his hand and pulled it around her waist. Brendan examined his reflection: an unhappy man whose cheeks had begun to sag, who had started to look like a hapless bloodhound, and a feeling of futility and guilt grasped at his throat. Their reflection looked back at them, a hopeful couple who were once happy, who could be happy again perhaps, but he had no idea how to achieve it.
The meal passed quietly. The woman in the blue dress was not there. The waiter was dark, his hair lank, and he wore heavy spectacles and a sombre face. They ordered the beef and shared a bottle of red wine. Afterwards, Brendan suggested they went for a walk by the river. Maura asked him jokingly if he was going to push her in, and he didn’t reply. They walked down to the bridge where he had seen the father and his children playing football. Brendan leaned against the same brickwork and Maura rested against the bridge and they stared into the river beneath. The air was cold and Maura shivered. Her arms were covered in pinpricks of goose-flesh and she hugged the thin fabric of her green dress close to her body. Brendan took off his jacket and put it around her shoulders. She continued to gaze at the river, into the depths. Brendan took her hand, which lay limp in his fingers, and turned towards the road winding away towards Angers. He would need to contact Evie again and find out where she was staying.
A line of cyclists went by in colourful tops and shorts and Brendan thought about a cycling holiday. It would do wonders for his muscle tone and he imagined his legs brown and strong in Lycra shorts, his bike loaded with a tent and cooking equipment. The hedgerows would be bursting with wild flowers and honeysuckle smells, the burr of bees, and the road would be wide and edged by fields of sunflowers raising tall yellow heads to the sky. He imagined his companion riding up to come alongside him, wearing her safety helmet, a smile on her face and a long ponytail twisting in the breeze behind her. It was Penny Wray.
Brendan pulled himself out of his daydream, back to Maura. He let go of her hand. ‘Shall we have a seat down there, on the riverbank? The grass is quite dry. We could watch the sun set.’
‘Don’t you think it’s a bit late for romantic gestures, Brendan?’
‘I thought it might be nice if we—’
‘Nice? Nothing’s nice at all.’ Her eyes glittered. ‘We’ve just eaten a meal together, a lovely meal, and you hardly said a word. I thought spending time together would make us feel happy again.’ Tears filled her eyes. ‘But it hasn’t worked, has it?’
‘I’m trying my best.’
‘But you won’t tell me what’s wrong.’
‘I just don’t know how I feel any more.’ They were silent, then he mumbled, ‘How do you feel, Maura?’
She shook her head. ‘Sometimes I’m afraid I’m going to lose you. Sometimes I just want to cry. It’s as if all the love we had has leaked away and we’re just going through the moves. The thing is, I still feel something for you, Brendan. But I’m not sure who you are any more. Or what you want. Then I think you must want something, but perhaps it isn’t me. So I feel angry and then I don’t know what I want either. It’s just not quite right between us, is it?’
Brendan shrugged. ‘What can we do?’
Maura slumped forwards. He thought about putting an arm around her shoulders but somehow his limbs wouldn’t move. The silence hung between them, a thick brick wall. The silence became brittle. Minutes passed.
‘Maura,’ he began. He saw her face was streaked with tears. He forgot what he was about to say.
‘Do you still love me?’
‘Yes,’ he began but the word filled in his mouth and he could say no more. She looked away and her shoulders were shaking. Brendan put a hand on her arm and he was aware that it was a hand of pity. He waited for the other feelings to follow: love, affection, a familiar caring that might still be there, the glue of their past. Brendan felt the cold wind blow through his shirt.
Maura stood up, wiping her tears from her cheeks and pulled his jacket tightly around her. Her face twisted, holding back another sob. She jolted her chin up but there was regret carved in the sadness of her face. ‘I’m going back to Clémence’s. I think I’ll have an early night, Brendan. We both have some thinking to do.’
‘I’ll stay here a little bit.’
‘Good idea.’ She turned to go. ‘I think we both know that things are not good at the moment. We need to decide if this marriage is important to us. Or if it isn’t.’
Brendan bit his lip.
She waited for him to speak, and when he said nothing, she whispered, ‘Shall I see you back at the bed and breakfast?’
He nodded. She hesitated then bent over and brushed her lips against his cheek. He shivered again. Her eyes lingered on his face and she was lost in her own thoughts.
‘I do care, Brendan. I know I don’t show it enough but I care more than you think.’
She walked away in her thin dress and his jacket and her silly sling-back heels, and he watched her with sadness. She became smaller in the distance, more fragile, and he thought about running after her, grabbing her in his arms, telling her that he’d try again to make her happy, even harder. He clutched his knees and leaned forward. A sob heaved in his chest, another, and he let out a cry and wept like a child.
The sun had almost gone; there were smudges of red on the horizon but the sky was dark blues and purples, streaked with scratches of orange. Brendan’s hands and fingers were becoming numb. The bells of a clock crashed in the distance. He remembered a time when he was younger, when he had been afraid to go home because he had broken a window. In one of his rare teenage moods he’d slammed a door and one of the panes had fallen out and shattered. Evie had swept it up with a broom and told him that it was his responsibility to sort it out with Jim when he came back from work. She had said, ‘Your da will be furious,’ and Brendan had run off with his football to the park and stayed there, brooding, until the bite of the cold was worse than any rocket he would get from his father. He’d dawdled home and Jim was mild and good-natured about it. They’d put in the new pane of glass together, Jim showing his son how to smooth the putty around the pane.
Brendan’s childhood had been a good one. His parents had loved him and encouraged him. Jim had watched him play football each week and Evie had clapped and smiled when he won the poetry prize at school. They were both pleased that he’d become a sports teacher and their wedding present had been sensible: money for a deposit on the house. They had been practical parents but Brendan needed some softness now. He wished he could ring Evie and tell her about Maura, but he would feel awkward asking for help. He envied his mother her capacity for fun; he and his father had been the quiet ones while she was the one for a song, a dance, a laugh. They both used to watch her in action as she chattered away, the same fondness in their eyes.
He and his father were made of similar stuff: words were more often thought than spoken. And now his father was gone, his mammy was far away and his marriage might be dissolving to dust. He had no-one to talk to. He took out the phone and found Evie’s number. He could text her and ask where she was. He could ring, but she’d know right away in his voice that something was wrong. He put his fingers through his hair. What was love? Was it just physical passion or romantic sentiment, or was it just a habit to keep the loneliness away? He would walk back to the bed and breakfast, slide his cold bones next to a slumbering Maura. Tomorrow they would have to sort it all out, the Panda, Evie, their marriage. Brendan pulled himself to his feet, put his hands in his pockets and turned in the direction of the shadows.
He woke up the next morning, warm and soft in the bed, and suddenly the remembrance of the troubles of the night before hit him. The bed was empty. When he went downstairs, Maura was sitting at the wooden farmhouse table eating croissants and drinking coffee. Her hair was piled up and fastened with a clip and she wore a bright yellow top and red earrings. Her face was flushed pink, a healthy glow. She smiled at Brendan and he noticed she was wearing pink lip gloss. ‘I didn’t wake you. You were fast asleep.’
He sat down and interlocked his fingers and she poured coffee from the metal jug and passed him a pain au chocolat. She stirred his coffee. ‘I have decided we need to get organised today. What time are we picking the Panda up?’
Brendan found his voice. ‘Two.’
‘OK, we’ll pack, then I’ll go and buy us some provisions for our journey and a little something for Clémence to say thank you. Then we can have lunch in that nice café again and be on the road for half two.’
‘What shall I do?’ Brendan was annoyed with himself, allowing her to make decisions. That would need to change if he had to make his way alone in life.
‘Find a map and work out our route,’ she told him. ‘Saying we’re going south just won’t cut it – who knows where the Caucasians are. Speak to your mother and ask her straight out where she is.’
‘OK.’ He pushed the plate and the bread away from him. ‘I don’t feel like food.’
Maura was surprised. She reached out and patted his hand. ‘We’ve a long day ahead of us. You’ll need a proper breakfast if we’re going to drive halfway across France.’
Brendan stood up. ‘I’m not a child,’ he said and walked towards the staircase, aware of her hurt expression. Once in the bedroom, he felt his head clear. He would ring his mother, find out where she was and arrange to meet her the following day. He took out his phone and pressed the button for Evie’s number. The phone rang a moment, then he heard her voice and he felt his heart lurch.
‘Mammy, it’s—’
‘Brendan. Oh it’s good to hear you. How are you? I’m having such a good time.’
‘That’s nice. Where …?’
‘I have a little campervan now but I am staying in an Irish bar at the minute in a lovely little town. Oh, it’s so nice here in France, the people are so friendly.’
Brendan’s mouth filled with cunning. ‘Irish bar? Sounds lovely, Mammy. Where is it?’
‘Between two towns, Saint-Girons and Foix.’ She pronounced it ‘Foykse’ and Brendan reached for a pen and wrote it down. ‘You’d love it. And the market, oh, it’s wonderful, Brendan, and the food is delicious, and do you know, they have free wine-tastings and …’
‘Sounds grand.’
‘Oh it is, it is. I’ll send you a postcard in a day or two. I might even be able to take a picture on my smartphone and mail it to you.’
‘That would be good.’
‘Brendan, I have to go now. Paulette is doing breakfast and I’m showing her how to do potato farls so I’ll have to get off and away. Is everything grand with you?’
Brendan hesitated. He thought about telling her where he was. His plan had been to meet tomorrow. He thought about Maura downstairs at the table, her cheerful face and smiling pink mouth, and about his mother, who was having such a good time on holiday that she didn’t need him at all to help her. His resolve weakened and he shrugged. He would tell her next time he rang, and suggest they meet. There was plenty of time. Perhaps he’d try to sort things out with Maura today, then everything would be back to normal when he reached his mother. He smiled at his plan.
‘Fine, Mammy – you enjoy your holiday.’
‘Oh I will, Brendan. I’m having such a good time. Now you take care.’
‘Bye, Mammy.’
‘Give my best to Maura and you take care of yourself.’
‘Yes, I will. Lots of love …’
She was gone and Brendan felt a pang of shame for his lies and lack of determination. He sat down on the bed and put his head in his hands. He didn’t know what to do about Maura; whether they had a future to rescue or whether they had grown apart. He didn’t know what to do about his mother, who had sounded so carefree and so distant from him that he was afraid to tell her he was coming to bring her home. Brendan looked around the room and scratched his head, feeling foolish. He delved within himself and decided he would take action. He stood up, breathed in and picked up the note he’d scribbled. He checked the two place names and opened the map, pen in his hand, and started to draw a line from Angers to Foix, his lips clamped together in concentration.