Chapter 7
Through the window of the ferry, vibrant colours zigzagged on the black water, a myriad reflections dancing on darkness.
Maxine thought it looked beautiful. She sipped her cognac and felt the ship’s engine shudder beneath her.
Lazily, eyes half closed, she gazed around the bar.
A group of young men were watching sport on one of the large televisions that hung from the wall.
Several bikers were laughing together, drinking beer in their leather jackets and boots, helmets on the floor like trophies.
Couples sat at other tables, drinks between them, heads close, probably discussing the holiday they were looking forward to.
Maxine felt alone and invisible.
She asked herself how that felt, the anonymity, the singleness. As opposed to how she used to be, with Russell, part of a couple.
It felt empowering and a little bit frightening at the same time.
What if, when she was in Brittany, no one spoke to her for the whole month?
Of course, there would be conversation in the baker’s shop, in the supermarket.
She’d say ‘Bonjour. ?a va?’ to the occasional hiker she passed on the cliff tops. But what if that was it?
Maxine took another mouthful of cognac and enjoyed the way it tasted, strong, bitter and sweet all at the same time. It was a metaphor for being single.
A man walked past her, wearing a fisherman’s loose-knit sweater and jeans. He was probably in his late fifties, lean, ruggedly handsome. A seven out of ten. He didn’t notice her.
Maxine shook her head. What was she doing, thinking about men she didn’t know? Ranking them out of ten? That was not the person she was.
Perhaps it was the person she was becoming. She hoped not. Being single at sixty-one was a novelty. A blank page she’d have to write herself.
Through the window there was blackness. The engine juddered, the ferry lurching slightly in the tossing waves.
It felt like being rocked in a cradle. Maxine decided it was time to go to her cabin and settle down.
Tomorrow would bring – what? Her life no longer had a routine.
She didn’t know what to expect any more.
But it would be fascinating finding out.
Maxine had slept through the alarm, a strange, repeated tune played through speakers. She’d been dreaming of France, of dancing to pipes and an accordion, wearing a lace bonnet and black shoes, tap, tap, tapping on the ground as she whirled.
There was a rap at the door as she lifted her head from the pillow and groaned; a cleaner from the aisle outside shouted, ‘Oh, désolée,’ and closed the door with a clunk.
Maxine staggered into the shower just as a voice in the speakers murmured some instructions containing the words Les passagers motorisés…
veuillez-vous… maintenant… les garages pour…
vos véhicules… attendez les instructions.
She’d have to get used to the French language. The instructions were that drivers should go to their vehicles now. Maxine immersed herself in scalding-hot water – she’d need to get a wriggle on.
Half an hour later, her hair still damp, she told herself she needn’t have panicked. She was still sitting below deck in a line of cars, many empty, all with engines switched off, waiting.
After what seemed like ages, the car in front of her began to edge forwards and Maxine followed, eventually emerging into the sharp, bright morning light. She was directed to a snaking queue for passport control by a humourless woman in a dark uniform, but Maxine couldn’t help smiling.
She was here in France, for the whole of May.
In a moment she’d be driving on the right-hand side of the road, on her way to the coast. The sun was shining. Her phone was set to direct her to Plouvannec-sur-Mer. She was singing along to a French tune on the radio and it didn’t matter that she had no idea what the words were.
After a couple of wrong turns and an accidental tour of Sizun, which was not supposed to be on her journey, Maxine decided to pause at a supermarket and buy a few groceries.
It would be a gentle way to ease herself into the language and culture, and she’d have a stock of food.
Briefly she imagined Clotilde’s Cottage to have a small larder, a tidy kitchen.
She couldn’t remember what the cooker was like in the photos Fliss Beaumont had sent.
She drove into a Super U, parking alongside so many Renaults and Peugeots, selecting a trolley with a euro she always kept in the car, before heading inside the cool, airy supermarket.
She felt immediately French, blending in, as she placed fresh vegetables in the trolley: artichokes, asparagus, beans, spinach, a mixture of mushrooms, plump tomatoes.
There were baguettes, fascinating cheeses such as Camembert, Brie, Roquefort, Reblochon, Pont l’évêque.
Maxine was imagining the most wonderful dishes she wanted to make, and in no time her trolley was filled with bottles of red wine, crémant, cassis, sparkling water.
For good measure, she added olive oil, rice, soap, pasta, butter, some chicken, a few other items, and she was on her way to check out.
Feeling pleased with herself, Maxine loaded the car with her shopping. She’d negotiated the till extremely well, saying ‘Bonne journée’ to the cashier as she’d paid with her card. She was virtually local! Her heart felt light as she set off towards Plouvannec.
She drove through the little town just after noon.
Everywhere was quiet: Brittany was having a siesta.
She noticed the beautiful old church, the town square, a few rough-feathered birds pecking in the dust. Beyond the boulangerie and the town hall, a sign pointed downhill to La Plage.
Maxine took the turning, her heartbeat accelerating, wondering if she would recognise the cottage that was to be her home for the next month.
The sea was to the right, and, next to it, miles of sand, the sun glistening on the waves.
There was no one to be seen except a solitary jogger and a seagull staring towards the horizon.
It was as if the beach could be hers and hers alone.
To the left was a restaurant, Le Shack, which looked as if it had been recently built.
Outside, there were tables and chairs beneath a canopy full of diners eating, shielded from the wind.
The restaurant itself had been built from solid wood, corrugated tin and large glass windows.
Maxine drove past, making a mental note to eat out one evening.
Beyond, the road twisted up towards the cliff top, where a majestic house perched.
Then she saw an open gate, the cottage set back a little from the road, the sign Clotilde’s in fresh white paint on wood, and she drove in, onto the gravel.
There were trees and bushes on either side and the little cottage faced the sea, surrounded by flowers in bright pots.
Maxine clambered out, took out her phone and checked Fliss’s message.
The key’s inside the snail.
The message made her smile: on the doorstep was a larger-than-life snail shell, nestled between various potted plants.
Maxine picked it up and turned it over. There was a small tube beneath; she flipped it open and a Yale key plopped into her hand.
She pushed it into the lock and the door opened easily.
Excitedly, she stepped inside, into the cool.
The cottage had been freshly decorated, so much bright paint, white beams, curtains, rugs; polished floorboards and furniture.
Maxine walked through a cosy living-room with a wooden dining table and a black cast-iron stove set on a pedestal, into the sweetest kitchen she had ever seen.
It wasn’t huge; the cabinets appeared to be made from recycled wood, painted white.
There was everything she’d need: Smeg kettle, toaster, fridge, Miele washing machine, a sparkling Belfast sink.
Cosy, homely, yet sophisticated. Through the window, there was the cutest cottage garden, with a tangle of early flowers and herbs.
Maxine hurried upstairs where she found a luxuriously appointed bathroom and two bedrooms leading off the landing.
She found the main bedroom immediately, a bright room with a huge bed with white covers that looked out of a triangular window onto the beach.
She put her hands on her hips and exhaled.
Which first? she asked herself. Unpack, eat or put her feet up?
She brought her cases in as far as the bottom of the stairs, dragged the shopping bags to the kitchen and filled the kettle. Minutes later, she was sitting in the back garden on a rocking chair, sipping green tea, eating fresh, crusty bread and Brie.
After a light lunch, Maxine put the shopping away, lugged her cases upstairs and flopped on the comfortable bed.
She checked her phone and found a message from Fliss, asking if everything was fine.
There were several messages from friends, Gráinne, a few people from The Hopeful Group, who were missing her already.
It occurred to her fleetingly that she’d hardly thought about work.
Oh, and there were three texts from Russell, who desperately wanted to call round to the flat this evening to talk. She replied briefly to them all, ending with a short message to Russell that simply said,
I’m in France.
It gave her satisfaction to imagine him reading the message. He’d be shocked. Astonished. But the new independence suited her. It suited who she was becoming. She smiled. Then she closed her eyes, breathed in the sea air and fell asleep.
The air was cool when Maxine opened her eyes.
She reached for her phone and realised that her back and legs were stiff from driving.
She stretched luxuriously and noticed the time; it was almost five o’clock.
A plan was already forming in her head: a walk on the beach to stretch her legs, then something light for supper, then she’d finish the day with a glass of wine, watching the sun go down, and have a relatively early night.
Perfection.
Tomorrow her holiday would begin.
Even through the material of a warm jacket, Maxine felt cold on the beach.
The wind from the ocean flattened her hair and blew it across her face.
She pushed her hands deep into her pockets and trudged along the hard, flat sand.
The rhythm of her feet was steady, and she noticed how her trainers made prints against others in the sand.
It felt good to have a connection with strangers who had trodden on the same sand, hours before.
The whole length of the beach was about two kilometres, and Maxine spotted several landmarks as she walked, including an old stone lookout post that must date back to World War II and the rocky path that led up to Le Shack. The beach was empty apart from a few walkers and a woman with a dog.
The journey back seemed quicker; Maxine had the wind behind her. It lifted her spirits, the whisper of the sea to her right. Chuchoter, the French verb to whisper, just like the soft murmurings of a lover.
As her phone buzzed, she leaned forward and trudged on. Russell was in the past. Beyond, the house on the cliff top was dark against the sky, a rambling old place with a mysterious tower. She wondered who lived there.
It felt strange to be alone in a different country. Maxine realised with a jolt that she’d hardly spoken to anyone all day. Solitude and time to think were what she’d wanted, but loneliness was another thing entirely. Too much solitude would hurt.
Then it occurred to her that, probably, she’d always felt alone.
She had almost reached the turning for Clotilde’s Cottage. Suddenly, she was hungry. She started moving more briskly. There would be opportunities to reach out to the world tomorrow. She was here now. To hell with worries.
Back at Clotilde’s Cottage, Maxine busied herself cooking, her phone playing édith Piaf for ambiance. She sang along. ‘Non, je ne regrette rien.’ It was empowering.
Dinner was perfect: a selection of French cheese, asparagus in butter, bread, salad, tomatoes. Each mouthful of food was the taste of independence.
She had drunk two glasses of chilled Sauvignon Blanc before she’d realised it.
Tired now, she stretched her legs and arms in a yawn and decided that, since she was on holiday, she’d take a small third glass to her bedroom and watch the sun sink into the ocean.
From nowhere, she heard her own voice rise in song. She meant every word.
‘Non, je ne regrette rien.’
Lying on her stomach on the bed with the curtains pulled back, Maxine could see the wide stretch of the beach. The sun was a blood orange in the sky, colours reflecting crimson in the water. It was truly beautiful. She rested her head on her arms, closed her eyes and breathed out.