Chapter Five
The train for Paris left London’s St. Pancras International, a brick paragon of Victorian engineering with a majestic clock tower that stood at the southern end of the London borough of Camden. It was a beautiful morning in late June with a magnificent blue sky marred only by the trail of a single passing plane. The city of London was pulling out all the stops for its goodbye; it made Patrick even more sorry to leave. Maisie kept pace with her uncle, who moved at a purposeful clip, but placed a small distance between them, as if annoyed by his very presence. Grant trailed behind, pulling an overstuffed suitcase, which he struggled to get up on the curb.
“Can I have my own bed in Paris? I don’t want to sleep with the underbutler,” he complained.
“On the underbutler,” Patrick corrected, referring to his Claridge’s room’s fainting couch. Not that that sounded any better.
As Grant gave his suitcase one last tug, he spotted neighboring King’s Cross station, which had been erected across Pancras Road.
“Look! King’s Cross station!”
“What?” Patrick pressed. It sounded like the boy said crustacean, as if His Majesty had a pet crab.
“That’s where you get the train to Hogwarts!”
Patrick pulled Grant forward to St. Pancras. “What did I say about Hogwarts?”
It had already been a morning; Patrick not only had to pack his own bags after an extended stay, but bags for two kids who’d somehow made more of a mess in four days than he did in six weeks. He would have been impressed if he hadn’t also been horrified. He quickly organized their belongings in two piles, keep and toss—toss was by far the bigger of the two.
“We need those things!” Maisie had protested.
“No you don’t.”
“Yes we do!” Grant concurred.
Patrick held strong. “We’re going to Paris, which is, with all apologies to Milan, the fashion capital of the world. We’ll get new things. We can’t go with suitcases that are already stuffed to the gills. That’s offensive to...” Patrick hesitated, not quite sure what it was offensive to. He grasped for straws. “Shopping.”
Maisie made the biggest fuss about her books and Patrick allowed her to keep three and then paid the hotel to ship the rest on ahead to Lake Como. “It’s quite possible you read too much,” Patrick told her. Maisie scowled and said the problem with adults is that they read too little.
Just as Grant finally had his suitcase up onto the curb, a red double-decker plowed by. Patrick made a sweeping gesture.
“You see that? It’s like right out of a postcard.”
“Grant getting pancaked?” Maisie asked with growing frustration.
“No, the double-decker— Look around, would you?”
“You look around!” Maisie yelled. “Grant was almost hit by a bus!”
Patrick seemed unfazed. “That’s only because they drive on the left. Don’t worry, the French are civilized and drive on the right.”
Maisie was at her wit’s end. “Maybe it would have been easier if you had just sent us a postcard. Instead of dragging us all the way here.”
Patrick stopped in his tracks, stood his suitcase up on four wheels, and lowered the handle. “You kids don’t know how lucky you are.”
Maisie pushed her hair out of her face and gave him a defiant look, like she spent her days on her hands and knees scrubbing Miss Hannigan’s floors. Patrick realized perhaps lucky was ripe for misinterpretation, but they were, in certain regards.
“I know, it’s a hard-knock life. I hear you, Pepper—”
“—my name is Maisie.”
“But you hear me. You kids are about to see and experience so much. Certainly more than I ever had the opportunity to do and see at your age. Which was probably more the economic realities of my upbringing in the nineteen—” Patrick covered his mouth as he garbled a decade. “—than it was being raised by boors.”
“What are boors?” Grant asked.
“Boars are tusked pigs,” Maisie explained.
“That’s B-O-A-R,” Patrick corrected, quickly becoming B-O-R-E-D.
“Then what did you say?”
“IT DOESN’T MATTER.” When purchasing their rail tickets and charting their trip, Patrick had read that St. Pancras was a Roman boy who converted to Christianity, then was beheaded for his unwavering faith in the persecution of Christians by the emperor Diocletian in the year 303. It seemed an extreme punishment for a boy of only fourteen, but Patrick had newfound sympathy for the emperor; teens could test one’s resolve. “Now can we please focus on catching our train?” Patrick extended the handle of his suitcase once again and spun dramatically toward the station entrance, praying his niece and nephew would follow.
The St. Pancras main hall was an impressive construction of steel and glass, with shops, pubs, and some departures on the lower level, topped with an impressive champagne bar and further tracks above. Almost as if to prove Patrick’s point, Maisie and Grant stopped in their own tracks at the center of the hall to marvel at the size of the station and the bustle of people around them. They’d rode into New York plenty of times to visit their uncle, but this far surpassed in grandeur the size of either Penn or Grand Central Station, and the quavering sounds of travel sent their imaginations buzzing.
“See?” Patrick asked if the spectacle of this single train station justified his plans to drag them all over Europe. “Now hurry along so that we can split a gimlet. The pub is meant to be a world-class establishment.” He looped behind and nudged them forward like an Australian cattle dog.
“We’re going to share a gimlet?” Maisie asked skeptically.
“More or less,” Patrick replied. “I’ll have the gin, and you two can squabble over the Rose’s lime.”
They walked the Eurostar premier-class car’s rich burgundy carpet like they’d arrived at a movie premiere dragging luggage. The car was quiet and calming, upholstered in a two-tone taupe, and had sliding glass partitions every few aisles; it felt like a lovely place to spend a few hours. Patrick thought it a shame the US never invested in trains like these, he would have considered taking the kids to see national parks. They found a free cluster of four seats, and Patrick sat on one side of a small table, while Maisie and Grant slid into seats on the other. Across the aisle, an older couple in dusty overcoats sat in a two-seater and griped at each other in French, looking like extras from a film by Godard or Truffaut. Soon they were underway.
“Why are you both on that side of the table?” Patrick pressed after the train had been moving for half an hour. “You look like you’re interviewing me for a job.”
Maisie exchanged a look with her brother like they’d been busted. Then she studied her uncle and said, “You looked better with sideburns.”
Patrick slammed his head against the back of the seat and exhaled. He’d shaved them as soon as filming had wrapped.
Grant folded his hands on the table like a cog on the wrong side of forty who’d never risen above middle management. “Look. We hate to ask you this.”
Patrick glanced over his shoulder to see if he could spot the café car. “It’s not too late to stop yourselves.”
The kids were undeterred and Maisie picked right up where her brother left off. “We need you to talk to Dad.”
“Talk some sense into him,” Grant explained.
Patrick turned back to his niece and nephew and frowned. There were times when they looked incredibly big and there were times, like now, when they looked very small. He sighed, wondering how on earth he’d ever explain. “Your father’s in love. It’s been my experience there’s no talking sense into people in love.”
“Why not?”
“Because they’re properly unhinged! Temporarily, at least, but unhinged nonetheless.”
“He wasn’t with Mom!” Maisie protested.
Patrick scoffed. “Oh, really. Were you there?”
“Yes.”
“Not at the beginning!” Greg had absolutely lost his mind when Patrick had introduced him to Sara, and it was indeed upsetting for Patrick to witness. Overnight he had gone from being Greg’s brother and Sara’s best friend to being an unwelcome third wheel in their presence. To make matters worse, Greg called him at all hours wanting to talk about Sara as if she were a long-held prized possession of Patrick’s, one he was intent on stealing, and asking him to betray the confidentiality of close friendship. That whole time was a mess; for a while he lost them both. “When you grow up you’ll see.”
Maisie disagreed. “We don’t have that kind of time.”
“Let’s talk about something else,” Patrick said, scrambling for a topic. “You guys were on a real film set. What did you think of moviemaking?” He’d wondered with the kids seeing his career back in full swing if one of them might express an interest in acting or working on set. So far he had no takers.
Grant squirmed as he tried his best to get comfortable. “It’s a lot of waiting around.”
“Yeah, but pretty good crafty.”
“What’s crafty?”
“Craft services. Food. Snacks.”
“Lunch was okay,” Maisie offered.
“No, lunch is catering. Crafty is the table where—”
Suddenly everything went pitch-black and lights came on in their car. The gentle rocking of the train continued unabated.
“What’s happening?” Grant pressed himself against the window to peer at the darkness, only to see his own concerned face reflected back. “Was there an eclipse?” he asked, but the only shadow was that of his former lisp.
“That’s not how eclipses work. We entered the Chunnel.”
“The what?” Grant’s eyes filled with horror.
“The Channel Tunnel,” Patrick overpronounced. “It goes under the English Channel, connecting the island of Great Britain with France.”
Maisie began to panic. “We’re underwater?”
Patrick nodded. Hello darkness, my old friend.
“Like, the ocean?” Grant covered his mouth in horror.
“Under the Channel, which I suppose is part of the ocean, sure.” Patrick directed his gaze over his shoulder again.
“How deep?”
“Twenty thousand leagues under the sea.” Patrick had no idea, but the least he could do was amuse himself.
Grant swallowed hard. “How deep is that?”
“I don’t know. I couldn’t fathom it.” Patrick bit the inside of his cheek to keep from laughing at his own little joke. He again looked toward the back of the car.
Maisie crossed her arms. “Why do you keep looking over your shoulder?”
“I wonder if the café car has champagne.”
“Dad is sober.”
“So am I, which is why I was wondering about champagne.”
“No, sober sober. He doesn’t like for you to drink so much when you’re taking care of us.”
Patrick turned his attention back. “We’ll tell him you drove me to it.”
“I don’t like this,” Grant said, cautiously taking in their surroundings. His uncle knew him well enough to know he was imagining sharks and whales and giant squid swimming all around them.
Patrick leaned toward the older couple seated across the aisle. The man was trying to peel the skin off a peach with a plastic knife and not getting very far; the woman looked at her husband with disdain. “Excusez-moi,” Patrick interrupted. “Quelle est la profondeur du tunnel?”
The man looked at the woman as if she might know. “Soixante-quinze mètres, plus ou moins?” The woman agreed.
“Merci. Mon neveu voulait savoir.” Patrick turned to Grant. “Seventy-five meters. Give or take.” Grant leaned forward and opened his mouth to speak, but Patrick didn’t give him the chance to ask his question. “Like two hundred and fifty feet, since you Americans insist on clinging to the imperial system.” Grant whipped out his notebook to write that down.
“You’re American,” Maisie replied. Patrick turned to the couple across from them and shook his head. She stared at her uncle with bemused skepticism. “What just happened?”
“How do you mean?”
“You were speaking in tongues.”
“I wasn’t speaking in tongues, I was speaking in French. You should know some French, it’s one of the Romance languages.” And then, to get a rise out of them, he added, “Tongues are exclusively for French kissing.” Sure enough, both of them squirmed with disgust, with Grant going so far as grabbing his throat with both hands and pretending to vomit.
Patrick wondered if that wasn’t in part how Livia had Greg under her spell, given that Italian was a Romance language, too.
“How do you know French?”
“How does anyone know anything? I learned in school. In New England they used to make you take French to speak with the Québécois.”
“The who?”
“My god. Don’t they teach anything anymore? Canadians. Or at least the ones from Quebec. But you should probably take Spanish.”
Maisie glanced heavenward, as if her mother might give her strength.
“One or both of you should think about continuing your education in Europe. It’s very chic to be schooled abroad. Oxford. The Sorbonne. RADA.”
“What’s RADA?”
“The Royal Academy of Dramatic Art. Although, that one’s very hard to get into.”
Maisie pulled out her phone and twisted her mouth to one side. “I need the Wi-Fi.”
As if it were old hat, Patrick pulled a brochure from a pocket next to the seat, slapped it on the table, and pointed to the network name and password. “Wi-Fi,” he said, but used the French pronunciation wee-fee.
Seeing that Grant was obviously still stressed about their surroundings, Patrick thought a change of subject was in order. “You remember the first time you spent the summer with me. Right after your mom died. We flew to California together.”
Maisie and Grant nodded.
“You freaked out on me then, too. Remember, Grant? On the plane. You screamed when you lost a tooth.”
“Oh, yeah,” he recalled. “I was only six.”
“That’s right.”
“You were only forty-four.”
Patrick closed his eyes for a second. That was uncalled for. He turned once again to the couple across from them in case they were eavesdropping. “J’avais quarante-trois ans.” They dipped their heads politely and the man’s peach slipped out of his bony hands and onto his lap. “My point is,” Patrick continued as he looked at the kids, “I got you through it. And I’ll get you through this tunnel. And when we come out the other side we’ll be in France.”
“And you’ll also help with this thing with Dad?”
Patrick closed his eyes to center himself. He would get them through that, too. “Look, I’ll make you a deal. Europe is the perfect place to learn about love. Are you familiar with the five love languages?”
“Yeah, one of them is French.”
“No.”
Maisie looked at her uncle as if he’d just been hit in the head with a mallet. “You just said!”
“I said it was a Romance language. That’s very different. The five love languages are words of affirmation, gifts, acts of service, quality time, and physical touch.”
Grant retched again at the mention of physical touch.
“Those aren’t languages.”
“Sure they are. Unspoken ones. Except, I suppose, the affirmation one. They are different ways people can express love, and different ways people can ask to receive it.”
“What’s yours?” Grant asked, finally sitting still in his seat.
“I don’t know if we subscribe to those five exactly. You and I travel to the beat of a different drum.” He then added, “Linda Ronstadt,” to attribute the lyric.
“Mine’s gifts,” Grant said. It was the only one that made logical sense.
“You don’t even know what you’re talking about,” Maisie said; she could have been directing her observation to either of them. But Grant took the bait.
“Yes, I do. I like gifts!” He lunged for his sister and they descended into a shoving match.
Patrick reached across the table to separate them. “My point is, we’re about to do and see and eat and experience so many incredible things. Things that I consider my love languages. Guncle Love Languages. Okay? Similar to Guncle Rules. They will make you understand love, and maybe even appreciate it, too, and if at the end of all that, if we arrive in Italy and you still object to your father marrying Livia, I’ll talk to him. Okay? I don’t know if it will do any good, but I’ll talk to him and I’ll plead your case and we’ll see what comes of it. Do we have a deal?”
Maisie and Grant looked at each other. They’d done enough wheeling and dealing with their uncle over the years to know when the offer was best and final. “Okay, deal,” Grant said, spitting into his hand and offering it for Patrick to shake.
“That’s disgusting.”
Grant squealed with delight.
“Maisie?”
Maisie clutched her phone and slumped down in her chair so far that Patrick was concerned she was going to slide under the table and onto the floor.
“What are you doing?”
“Downloading SayHi.”
“Hi,” Patrick obeyed, though somewhat befuddled.
“No, SayHi is a language-translation app for my phone.”
“Why do you need a language-translation app when you have me?” Patrick asked, and the look Maisie gave him was withering. He snatched her phone in retaliation and slipped it into his shirt pocket. “No more screens until Paris.”
Maisie didn’t protest; instead she opened her backpack and pulled out a book. “Of course it’s a deal. All we have to do is hold our ground and you will talk to Dad.” She held her book in front of her face: Murder on the Orient Express. Perfect. Patrick laughed.
“You’re reading Agatha Christie?”
“You made me ship all my Stephen King!”
“That I did.” Patrick drummed his fingers on the window. “Okay, then. We have a deal. But you’ll see.” That was the thing about love; even its harshest critics were not immune, love finding its way into even the darkest spaces.
“Now, Guncle Love Language number one.” Patrick decided in the moment to name all of his love languages after songs, starting with one from Tori Amos. “Silent All These Years.”
They rode without another word as they waited for the light at the end of this Chunnel.