She bought two novels at Lime Street station and, by the time the train arrived in Plymouth, Evie knew Emma Bovary quite well. She had never been one for novels, but she had to find something to pass the time between stations and a bubbly woman in her thirties with spiky hair and round glasses had recommended that she read the Flaubert if she was going to France, and a Brontë, if she’d never read it before. Evie laughed; she’d never read anything much before, except turgid stories about saints and sinners at St Aloysius and rubbishy romances at the Lodge.
Evie decided that Emma Bovary shouldn’t have bothered with any of the men in the story. Had she won some money while placing a bet on a lucky horse, she would have done much better for herself. Evie started on the Brontë. She would read the rest of Wuthering Heights after the crossing to Roscoff. The ticket she bought in Liverpool had a two-berth cabin and, by the time Evie had found her way to number 8215 and let herself in with the cardboard key, it was almost midnight and she wanted to sleep.
She thought the cabin was like the black hole of Calcutta. She had never been to the black hole of Calcutta, but once the lights were out, the cabin swum with darkness and swayed with the motion of the sea. Evie closed her eyes and felt alone. France was a long way away and she wasn’t sure what she’d do when she got there. She’d find a hotel in Roscoff, like she had in Liverpool, do some shopping, eat some French food and drink some nice wine, then come home. She had money and she would be independent – treat herself to a little break. She could do it, an adventure, by herself. She’d use her lucky number again. Yes, she’d stay for four days. Then she’d know what to do.
She shuddered. Home was a puzzle she did not want to solve yet. She needed time to think. But one thing was certain: she was not going back to Sheldon Lodge. That was a certainty. She said out loud, ‘Bollocks if I’m going back there. I’ll go to my grave first.’
Silence gave no answer from the blackness around her. The cabin was too warm. She rolled over and took the duvet with her. It was like being in a womb, surrounded by water. Or it was like a grave, the grains of darkness like stifling soil. Sleep would not come and Jim’s face appeared in her head. Jim as he was when she first saw him, when he came into the baker’s shop and asked for a macaroon. He had been shy, looking at her, and she had liked him for his gentleness. He had returned each day; it was weeks before he’d asked her name and months before he’d asked her to accompany him to the pictures.
The starchiness of her wedding gown scratched at Evie’s memory; a white lace dress that predicted what was to come: it had been uncomfortable, worn once for tradition, then put away in the cupboard, like hope, like love. The reality had come to her on her wedding night, Jim awkward, taking off his tie and shirt and watching her, his eyes waiting for her to speak. She’d stared at his bare shoulders, noticing a rash of spots against pale skin. What had followed was the beginning of marriage, a tacit compliance, a warm respect for a kind man, each detail on the wallpaper, a routine, a habit. She had lain meekly beside him, stroking his hair. She had encouraged him, soothed him. But it wasn’t love, thought Evie. She had never felt what Emma Bovary felt. Nor had Jim been a Heathcliff, a passion to be ridden and never assuaged. He was just a nice man with whom she had spent her married life; he had been the reason she kept the house comfortable and the food hot and filling.
He had given her Brendan, all those years later when they had lost all hope of having children. Those first few brittle months of pregnancy, when her waking thought was for the baby and Jim had been a breath beside her ear, placing cushions and raising her feet. He had marvelled as the baby blossomed into a hard mound of belly, a hidden miracle and finally a wide-mouthed cry in her arms. Jim had stared at them both from a distance, his face twisted in pride. Perhaps that was when they truly bonded, when the mild husband became a playful father and the quiet house was filled with sound. But that was all in the past now, she had laid Jim in the earth and he was gone. She would make her own way in life now, but she would never know what real love was. That opportunity was liquid; it had slipped through her fingers, drained away and dried out.
Evie was in a boat which was bucking and twisting. Water was leaking through a porthole, huge lapping tongues of water, seeping around her ankles. She pulled at a door which would not open and the sea rose high, soaking her white nightgown, making it a dark grey and pulling her down with its weight. She struggled; she looked around but there was no means of escape and no-one to help her. She cried out and held out her arms to no-one. Strange taunting music began to play and a demonic voice sounded in her ears, mocking her. Evie opened her eyes and turned on the light. The lilting music told her it was time to wake up. The French voice heralded the arrival in Roscoff and requested that foot passengers made their way to the foyer. She picked up Wuthering Heights and looked at the bleak picture on the cover, the small figure bent against the wind, struggling towards the future, the elements against her. Evie gave a grim laugh and started to collect her things.
She was dragging her case. Her handbag and coat were over her arm and she was heaving along as lorries rumbled by. There was a four-by-four towing a caravan with stacks of bicycles on the back and then a lovely little campervan with floral curtains. There was no taxi rank, bus stop, or anyone to ask the way, nothing but the dawn wind for company. An articulated lorry juddered past and Evie felt the vibrations. ‘Roscoff’ was the same in French as it was in English, so Evie felt confident of finding a nice hotel. There must be somewhere close to the port, but she’d already walked far enough and her knees were hurting. She pulled the case up onto the kerb and tugged it along the pavement, each movement sending a shock of pain up her bruised arm.
A white lorry with some black writing in French came by very close to her and she raised a shoulder against the shudder, as something twisted beneath her and she felt the clunk like a cracking bone. At first she thought she had broken her ankle, but realised the case was twisted, hump-backed under her grip, and the wheel had come free and rolled away from her. Evie dropped the coat on the case and chased after the wheel, which fell on its side. She picked it up and her hands were immediately grimy. A jutting piece of metal stuck out, but Evie could not make the wheel fit. She turned the case, offered the wheel to the metal, pushed against the fitting and decided another piece must be missing. She hunted around on the pavement.
Evie swore, invoked the Lord and swore again. She looked up for a friendly face but there was no-one around. She considered the French words for ‘please help’, realising that ‘please’ was as far as she could go. Someone would understand once they saw the missing wheel, and she imagined a scenario where a nice man put it back together for her and offered breakfast. With determination, she tugged at the handle and tried to drag the case along on its one wheel. It was heavy, reluctant, and the metal made a slow grinding sound as it scored the pavement. She swore again.
A voice came from over her shoulder and she could hear an engine idling.
‘Hello. Do you have a problem?’
A young woman in sunglasses was leaning out of the window of an old Renault Espace. Evie exhaled and closed her eyes for a moment. They were British, English probably: they certainly spoke English. Pop music was playing from inside the van. She was about to speak to Evie again, then she turned to her companion who was making a comment in a low monotone. The woman turned back to Evie.
‘Have you had an accident?’
Evie nodded. ‘The bloody wheel’s broken on the case.’
‘Can we offer you a lift?’
The woman’s companion mumbled something again from the passenger seat. Evie couldn’t make out the words but the tone was distinctly hostile.
‘Jump in the back.’
Evie heaved her case and coat into the van. As she wriggled in her seat, she was assaulted by a loud flurry of barking and a huge yellow Labrador leaped towards her.
‘Get down, Iggy!’ the passenger shouted and the dog obeyed. Evie’s shoulders tensed, although she wasn’t sure whether it was the dog’s bark or the passenger’s that had set her on edge. She wasn’t fond of dogs, but the passenger seemed even more difficult to placate.
The driver turned around, took off her sunglasses and smiled. She was a pleasant-faced woman in her twenties or thirties wearing a skimpy vest, her light brown hair in a loose plait. It was hard to tell people’s ages these days, Evie thought, when everyone seemed to dress the same, whatever their age.
‘Where shall we drop you?’
Evie surveyed the back of the van; behind her, there were cardboard boxes and a sink with taps. She turned back and looked at the woman.
‘Where are you going?’
‘To the Crozon peninsula, close to Pentrez beach. Is that on your way?’
Evie didn’t stop to think. The words ‘peninsula’ and ‘beach’ were enough, and the words came into her mouth before she had time to consider her options. ‘Oh, the beach, yes. That is where I am going, too. That’s grand.’ She thought and then added: ‘What a coincidence.’
The woman in the front passenger seat did not turn; she had dark hair cut short and spiky, and wore long bright earrings. She offered Evie a cold shoulder, which was visible to one side of her seat. She wore a pale T-shirt, and her lean arms were tanned. Evie thought she made a little grunting noise. She tried to make conversation with the unfriendly girl. ‘You have a sink in the back?’
The driver turned over her shoulder to reply. ‘It’s for the gîte. We are renovating it.’ She swung the Espace onto the main road. ‘I am Maddie.’
‘Evie.’ She smiled at the friendly girl with the long plait, whose eyes smiled back in the rear-view mirror. Flicking her blonde fringe, her grin broadened. ‘Evie Gallagher.’
The other passenger went on looking out of the window. Maddie said, ‘This is Katherine.’
‘Kat,’ said the irritated voice.
‘Pleased to meet you,’ Evie began.
Kat turned the pop music up louder, a pumping beat and woman’s voice repeating the word ‘umbrella’. Evie looked through the window at places she could not pronounce as the van pitched through one village after another. She thought about the Crozon peninsula, and wondered if it would be like the pictures in the travel agent’s window. Her phone sounded and she fumbled and found a message. It was Brendan. He had written Come home, Mammy. The dog was watching her with eager eyes, his tongue hanging from his mouth like a soft pink sock, and she wondered what she would do next.