The Panda, with a full tank and its new radiator, idled outside Clémence’s bed and breakfast and the sun was seething. Brendan was at the wheel and they were saying their goodbyes. Maura stood with her new friends and she was effusive, kissing Clémence and her husband and Olivier on both cheeks and handing Clémence flowers and saying what a good time she had shared with them. Brendan was conscious of the nagging ache in his chest. He glanced out of the window at the road in front of him. He stared at his hands on the steering wheel, at his wedding ring and up at Maura who still had her back to him.
‘We should be leaving, Maura. It’s past three.’
‘We have a map, Brendan.’ She spoke without turning, as if a map solved all their problems. He made a mental note of distances: it was seven hours to Foix and so he could do it in two days if they made an overnight stop. Bordeaux was halfway there, somewhere in the middle of the route, and there might be a nice hotel, although he dreaded the hours he would spend in the car with Maura, or the minutes they would spend sitting across a table. He waited quietly until she was in the passenger seat and he drove the car away, Maura trailing her waving hand through the window. The face she turned back to him lost its smile almost immediately.
‘Where are we staying tonight?’
His mouth searched for placatory words but those days were over and he needed to be clearer, tougher. ‘Bordeaux,’ he replied, thinking that a laconic answer would be safest.
‘How many hours to Bordeaux?’
‘Three, four. We can be in Foix tomorrow.’
‘Thank God for that.’ She delved into her bag, took out sunglasses and put them on, then found a CD of her choice and leaned back in her seat. Brendan swung the Panda onto a busy road and took his place in a line of traffic.
It was half past eight when they arrived on the outskirts of Bordeaux. Maura demanded a hotel with a restaurant and Brendan was happy to oblige her; it was her only conversation with him for the whole journey. They put their cases in the room, changed and shared a silent meal. Brendan yawned and made a move to go upstairs. Maura put a hand on his arm and her sudden touch made him jump.
‘Should we have a little walk outside and get some air before we go to sleep, Brendan? Just to take the air and have a look at Bordeaux at night? I expect we shall be off to Foix tomorrow straight after breakfast, to find your mother.’
She was trying her best. Brendan’s stomach lurched in anticipation and he left her in the foyer looking at the décor while he popped upstairs for a jacket for them both.
As they stepped out, she took his arm and he wondered if she was holding onto him for her own protection. He inhaled the strong cloud of perfume that surrounded her. They walked without speaking for a while, looking pointlessly in shop windows. A clock from a church chimed eleven; Brendan hoped the hotel doors would not be shut, and he suggested that they turn back soon. Maura was thinking; she was working out how to say something to him. He did not help her out – the silence was a better companion than anything she might say. He heard her breathe in.
‘Brendan …’
He waited.
‘Do you think … you know, when we find your mother and we go back to Dublin … Do you think …?’
He could hear her struggling to find the words.
‘Is there any chance that we might …?’
Brendan was quiet for a moment. He could feel her thoughts, but the memories of her, tender and twenty and clinging to his arm, resting her head against his shoulder, left him hollow. ‘A fresh start? I hope so. I don’t know, Maura.’
They walked on. She took another breath. ‘I’d like it if we could both try.’ He felt the tension in her body as her arm, looped through his, became stiffer. ‘Can I ask you something?’
‘Anything.’ He wondered if she would ask him if he had feelings for another woman, if he had feelings for anyone else. Or if he had any feelings left at all.
She was swallowing something painful. Perhaps it was pride, perhaps it was the softness of memories, but they clogged her throat. ‘In a perfect world … you know, Brendan, if everything was ideal … what sort of wife would you like me to be?’
Brendan didn’t reply. She went on. ‘I mean, what might make things better between us? How could I win you back?’
He winced. The word ‘win’ implied that Maura was prepared to make some kind of effort to make their marriage work again. He lurched for an answer and one didn’t come, then out of desperation, a sentence came out of his mouth.
‘We would share more things together.’
‘What sort of things?’
‘Activities.’
‘Oh, you mean sex?’
The muscles in his stomach contracted as he thought of her cold back, turned against him for the last few nights. Her fingernails gripped the flesh of his arm. He forced a smile. ‘Not necessarily, I mean other things too.’
‘What other things?’
He thought for a moment and it came to him. ‘White-water rafting.’ He tried again. ‘Cycling, maybe.’
Her placatory mood suddenly shifted and her eyes narrowed. ‘You want me to go white-water rafting, Brendan? Are you mad?’
He pulled his arm away. It was better to say nothing. She spoke again, more insistent.
‘You want me to ride a bike?’ Her nose wrinkled with the memory of Evie’s words about how she should share her husband’s hobbies, and she puffed air from her lungs, annoyed. ‘Me? On a bike?’
Brendan tried to keep his voice level. ‘No, Maura, I don’t want you to ride a bike. I don’t want you to go white-water rafting. You are right. It wouldn’t work. We don’t seem to be able to share anything.’ He put his head down, turned them around and they began the walk back to the hotel. When they arrived in the foyer, he wanted to go up to bed and Maura hesitated. She was quiet, thoughtful; she had something on her mind. Turning away from Brendan, she said she’d stay in the bar. She needed a coffee and some time to think.
He climbed the stairs feeling miserable. In the bedroom, he pulled on pyjamas and rolled onto the cold bed. His mind was crowded with images, he recalled some photographs of himself and Maura as they were five years ago, their arms around each other, smiling. He’d suggested a walking holiday in England and they’d visited the Lake District together. He’d bought her walking boots and they’d taken packed lunches and backpacks and set off to climb Great Gable. He’d found a steady rhythm in his legs and a repetitive pop song in his head, which had given his stride speed and purpose. Before long, Maura was lagging behind, and he’d turned to see her, red-faced and tired, holding out her hand to him. He’d pulled her along, helping her climb the scree section, which she managed on hands and knees. He’d been impressed by her humour then, and her gritty perseverance.
At the top, they’d stood, the wind in their faces, gaping at the greys and greens of the hills. Brendan had been exhilarated and Maura thrilled that she had made it to the summit. She’d hugged him and told him she felt on top of the world. He’d promised he’d get her the Death by Chocolate pudding in the hotel that night, with extra cream; she’d been so determined and they’d asked a passing hiker to take a photo of them, the lakes in the background. He remembered, he’d felt like his heart was singing and he could never be happier than he was with this spontaneous, lovely and affectionate woman, his own wife.
Brendan blamed himself, and he felt the blame crash down on him like a tall pile of toppling books. One after the other, he saw each reason why it was all his fault. He did not communicate well. He could not make a decision. He’d become critical, negative, inattentive. His mother had never liked Maura; she’d never thought her an equal partner for her golden boy, and Brendan worried that he had been influenced, made arrogant by his mother’s doting fondness. He had become detached, selfish, and he was entirely to blame.
He turned over in the bed and became aware of the emptiness of his arms. He picked up the pillow on Maura’s side, folded it, hugged it close. He put his lips against the cotton of the pillow case, breathed in the scent of her musky perfume and wondered how it would sound if he murmured her name, practised how it would feel to kiss her lips, a long lingering kiss. Brendan realised that he missed those days when everything was easy between him and his wife. The days they dreamed of the same things, hoped for the same future. It could have been so different. Conversation, laughter, love, children. He frowned and put a hand to his face. His cheek was damp.
He rolled over again and stared into the darkness. What would happen when he went back to Dublin? Would they still have a marriage? How could they repair the tattered shreds of what was once whole, warm and good? Brendan thought about his mother. She wasn’t far away. He could ring her, tell her where he was, ask her to help him. His brow creased. She was an old lady now. He was nearly forty himself and wasn’t he man enough to sort out his own marriage, to find his own mother and to take her home? He scratched his head. He wasn’t even sure now that his own mother would be pleased to see him. He wondered again what he was doing in France, intruding on her holiday, and he suddenly had no idea what he should do next. He felt alone, precariously dangling from a rope and he could not see what was above him or below. He squeezed his eyes closed and fell into erratic sleep.
Breakfast the next day was at eight thirty and Maura was humming a cheerful little tune. She was wearing jogging pants and one of Brendan’s T-shirts and pink trainers and was obviously hungry. Her crimson nails snatched at the fibrous softness of a baguette and Brendan thought of a dinosaur eating its prey as she ripped the bread apart and the jam stuck to her lips. He sipped coffee and looked worriedly out of the window. She continued to hum happily to herself, dabbed her mouth and then remarked about the weather.
Brendan noticed the flirtatious way she looked at him and away again, the smile which kept playing around her lips until she hid it coyly with the back of her hand. He felt nervous and refilled his cup. He was determined to try harder today, to give her attention. Perhaps things had started well.
‘What time are we leaving?’ Maura gave him her widest smile.
‘After breakfast. We can be on our way and in Foix for a late lunch and find the Irish bar. There can’t be too many of them over here.’ Brendan was pleased with his last remark and hoped she’d find him witty. He smiled, sure she’d like his plan: lunch together, quality time.
He stood up, but she did not move. Maura was looking at her nails, which she held curled inwards like a cat’s claw. She made a low noise in her throat and raised a provocative eyebrow in his direction.
He felt his pulse thump. ‘What’s the matter, Maura?’
‘Ah, I just thought we could …’ She made a movement with her head, as if she could cajole him from a distance. He frowned. ‘We could actually go to Foix tomorrow instead of today, couldn’t we?’
‘What did you have in mind?’
‘Well, I have booked us a secret surprise.’ She sat back in her seat and licked crumbs from her lips.
Brendan blinked, feeling suddenly that his plan was veering off course. ‘What sort of surprise?’
‘Well, I don’t want to spoil it—’
‘What sort of surprise, Maura?’
‘Right, OK, an hour or so away from here is a big lake in a town called Soustons. Well, it’s a town but it has lots of facilities. And a beach. I have booked us something special – a surprise, for us to do together.’
Brendan did not move. He eyed her suspiciously. ‘What are we doing on this lake?’
‘Ah, I have booked us some … activities, to share.’ She stroked his hand and Brendan’s shoulders lifted towards his ears. He saw the jogging pants and the T-shirt and at once he understood.
‘I booked it last night after you had gone to bed. It’s all arranged. It’ll be fun.’ Maura clasped her fingers and leaned forward, her eyes bright with hope.
Brendan pressed his lips together. Maura was still smiling. He shrugged. He’d give it his best shot. ‘Well, we’d better get ready then. Mammy will wait until tomorrow, I’m sure. I’ll ring her tonight and tell her we’re coming, will I?’
She scraped back her chair and threw her arms around him. ‘Come on then, Brendan. Oh, I am so looking forward to this!’
He followed her, leaving his breakfast untouched, pushing his hands deep in his pockets. He wondered what to do to make the day as successful as the ascent of Great Gable on their holiday years ago. He was at the bottom of a climb, looking up, and he felt his legs grow weak.