car was not full: the only things in the boot were George’s little suitcase and Charles’s large one – twice as big as his companion’s, in fact, and much more modern, with wheels (when Charles went travelling, he did so in style) – as well as a whole box of tourist guides. The one for Southern Brittany had been put in the glove compartment, along with the GPS user manual and Charles’s Vichy pastilles. Thérèse had also provided them with a picnic set – they couldn’t go eating in restaurants every day, after all. She had even managed to sneak in a little crate of tomatoes from the garden and some ham won in a round of belote without them noticing.
George and Charles did not talk much in the car, which still smelled of new leather. Apart from the silky and monotonous tones of the GPS, it was a rather silent journey. There was an atmosphere of reflection, and contemplation. Autumn had barely arrived, the leaves were just starting to change colour, but it was still a beautiful sight. George, who had not left his small corner of the world for years, sat back and took it in.
On the route from Deux-Sèvres to the Vendée they passed through sleepy villages with geraniums in the windows, smart houses covered in Virginia creeper, and church steeples breaking through the clouds. Bit by bit, the landscape changed as they drove on. The green palette was flecked with a hint of yellow here, a touch of black there. The undulating forests flattened out into windswept plains. Now and then a windmill would come into view, or a thatched cottage hidden amongst the pine trees, or a sign towards a campsite or the salt flats. They were approaching the sea.
Notre-Dame-de-Monts was a clean, discreet seaside town. What was particularly charming about it was the lack of high-rise buildings. This part of the Vendée had suffered from a wave of construction in the 1970s that had left a number of towns in the area permanently scarred. The beautiful beach ten kilometres down the coast in Saint-Jean-de-Monts had been blighted by concrete monstrosities, fast-food chains and noisy arcades. Notre-Dame-de-Monts, on the other hand, had been miraculously spared, its houses set well back from the lovely seafront, screened by the long grass on the dunes. All of this was familiar to Charles, as he had often come to visit his sister, who lived here all year round. But this was George’s first time in the town, and he was enchanted by what he saw.
They arrived at 11.30 a.m. As they were not expected at their hostess’s until lunchtime and didn’t wish to impose, the travelling companions decided to go and admire the sea, which sparkled beyond the flags lining the esplanade. The sun, which had barely made an appearance all summer, was warming the sand on the beach and encouraging the last of the summer holidaymakers to linger. With their feet in the sand and their eyes gazing out over the Atlantic, George and Charles were happy, even if they didn’t yet dare express it to each other.
It was almost as if the two neighbours had become shy of one another. The fact was their friendship had played out against the same background for thirty years (almost forty, come to think of it). They shared cups of tea in front of the weather report. They celebrated birthdays and family events together. Initially they had been the kinds of neighbours who invited each other for the dessert and coffee courses until one day, about fifteen years ago, Charles had invited George and his wife – perhaps by accident, perhaps not – for the starter and main course as well, when the conversation was still serious, ties were still in place and sisters-in-law were still being polite. Their friendship had also sustained a lively trade in lettuces, screwdrivers, pokers, freezer bags, various types of string, cousins’ addresses and small favours. The same routine had suited them both for all this time; God knows why they had decided to play adventurers and give it all up now!
All of a sudden, there on the seafront at Notre-Dame-de-Monts, they no longer knew what to say to each other. Their friendship was breathing in new air; time would tell if it would survive the change.
George and Charles arrived at Ginette’s house at twelve-thirty on the dot. Kisses, did you have a good trip, well, a bit of traffic around Le Perrier as always, but otherwise yes, it was fine, the weather’s still nice, you’ve brought the sun with you, it was such bad weather this summer, yes fine, can’t complain. It was the same exchange they had every year, a game of question and answer that they knew off by heart, where everyone spoke at the same time as if joining in with the chorus of a song they knew and loved.
Ginette suggested eating on the patio, where the table was already set. Was it the Atlantic air or perhaps the sweet scent of the pine trees he could smell as they drank their coffee in the garden? George hadn’t felt this good in years. He had met Ginette a few times at family lunches, and he had always found her a little haughty. But seeing her in her own home she seemed very different. She scarcely looked seventy-three with her reddish hair, cropped trousers and orange plastic sandals. He had never before noticed her youthful energy – or perhaps widowhood suited her? Whatever it was, here in her own garden Ginette’s manner was much more playful and her natural authoritativeness was at once heightened and yet more agreeable, like the autumn wind that rustled the stone pines. And perhaps a little like this dangerously drinkable plum brandy.
Charles was keeping an eye on him. For George, having fallen for the charms of Ginette, or of her plum brandy, or perhaps both at once, was beginning to make a fool of himself. He suddenly remembered lyrics to songs he had not sung for sixty years. He recounted the numerous glories of the Tour that they were going to relive one by one, stories of the past told in the future tense. The shy neighbours had found their tongues again.
They moved from brandy to chocolate, from Petit Chinon to herbal tea. The afternoon turned to evening and the evening became night. After a dinner that was no less sumptuous than their lunch, it was time for a round of rummy.
Ginette got out her playing mat and the two decks of cards. George was already sitting at the table in the living room, hunched over his tea. It even looked as though he might already be sleeping off the plum brandy. As she dealt the cards, Ginette asked:
‘And George, your granddaughter, Adèle, how is she getting on over there, in London? She works in film, doesn’t she?’
‘Yes, but I don’t know what she actually does. Well, I suppose it was her decision … She never tells me anything, you see.’
George suddenly felt very low – no doubt a side effect of the drink – and Ginette was in turn overcome by a wave of melancholy.
‘That’s how it is with the young nowadays, they always leave …’
‘Oh Ginette, young people have always left home. Even we did.’
‘Yes, but we never went far,’ Ginette pointed out.
‘No, we didn’t go far,’ Charles interjected. ‘But we might as well have done. My parents were still in Bressuire when I left to move in with Thérèse in ’54. Before Chanteloup we were down in Pougne-Hérisson, near Parthenay. Now, travelling twenty-five kilometres to see the family doesn’t take long these days, but you’ve got to remember that in ’54, twenty-five kilometres on a bike was a real slog – it felt much further than it does today! It’s not like we were there every weekend, and we didn’t spend hours on the phone, or on the internet, or emailing each other or I don’t know what else. With young people today, the further away they are, the more they’re on your back all the time. Don’t get me wrong, I’m not complaining. But sometimes … George, it’s your turn.’
George looked distractedly at his hand, before continuing in the same vein.
‘Yes, yes, the telephone. Argh! They’re all glued to their telephones, like you wouldn’t believe! It was bad enough before, even if a phone came in handy now and again. But now with all these mobile phones—’
‘And it gets worse,’ Charles cut in. ‘Wait’til you hear this. My grandson from Parthenay, right, he comes to stay with us in the holidays. And he’s only reading his emails, that’s right, his internet emails on his mobile phone!’ To underline the absurdity of the thing he banged his fist on the table emphatically and leaned back in his chair. ‘I mean, I’ve seen that kind of thing on telly, but I just thought no, that’s for people who are in the know, who work in telecoms, or maybe even a couple of the big CEOs, but no! My grandson! A butcher in Parthenay!’
George