Chapter 11
ELEVEN
A SURPRISE
Wendy: Hello?
Harry: Hey there, French eco-warrior girl. How goes?
W: I’m fine thanks. Actually, that’s not true. I don’t know why I even said that. I’m ill. I’ve caught a cold, but I’m OK. I’ll survive. Probably.
H: Oh, poor you! Everyone’s coming down with it here, as well. ’Tis the season to be fluey and all that. How ill are you? Do you need me to organise an airlift?
W: Nah, it’s just, you know: tired, fever, headache… I’ll be fine in a few days, I expect. I’ve been having weird dreams, too.
H: What kind of weird dreams?
W: Oh, you know… Just dreams. That are weird.
H: Right. So, um, you all ready for Christmas? I’m just about to head out for another load.
W: …
H: Hello?
W: I’m ready for nothing at all, Harry. I’m ill in bed with the flu.
H: Sure. I just mean, are you, like, staying over there this year?
W: Why, are you inviting me this year?
H: No, I…
W: Then what else would I be doing, Haz? Of course I’m bloody staying here.
H: Right. Sorry. Of course.
W: Is there an actual reason you’re calling me? I mean, other than to make me feel bad about being on my own for Christmas?
H: Do I need a reason to call my wife?
W: No. But it has to be said, you usually do have one.
H: Actually, there is something I need to talk to you about.
W: You see? I knew there would be.
H: And, as it happens, it’s about Christmas.
W: OK…
H: Specifically about Fifi’s Christmas present.
W: Christ, Harry… Really?
H: Jesus! What have I done now?
W: Don’t you think that’s a bit…?
H: A bit what?
W: A bit insensitive? Asking about Christmas presents… When you banished me last Christmas, and when this year you know I’m—
H: Nobody banished you, Wens.
W: Um, well… Except you kind of did.
H: OK. Maybe we did, a bit. But it was only because of Covid.
W: Yeah. Right.
H: Anyway, she’s told me what she wants – Fiona has. But I need to run it by you first. So don’t, you know, go off on one before you know what I’m going to say.
W: Go on then. What does she want this time?
H: She wants a flight. To France. She wants to come visit you. Though frankly, God knows why.
W: God! Really?
H: I know. Crazy, huh? I’m thinking of taking her to a shrink instead because she’s clearly losing her mind.
W: Harry…
H: Hey, I’m joking! She wants to spend Christmas with her mummy. You can’t be that shocked.
W: For Christmas, though? She wants to come for Christmas?
H: Yeah. I think she feels bad about last year. Well, we all do, actually. And she’s a bit worried about you, out there on your own. And … I don’t know… I think she thinks it might be nice. To reconnect with her mummy over mince pies or frogs’ legs or whatever it is the French eat.
W: Gosh.
H: Plus, if truth be told, she’s not Amanda’s biggest fan.
W: Amanda being Todd’s girlfriend?
H: Yeah. He’s bringing her to … mine ours …
to the house. Fifi thinks she’s snobby. Which she probably is, a bit.
So… Anyway. Lots of good reasons. Lots of perfectly reasonable reasons.
And the flights are doable – I’ve checked.
A bit pricey, but totally doable. But of course, in the end, it’s up to you.
Because you’re the one who will have to entertain her.
W: …
H: So?
W: …
H: Hello? Ground control to Wendy. Anyone home?
W: Sorry. I’m a bit stunned, actually.
H: But in a good way?
W: Yes. But gosh… Look… I don’t know what to say, Haz.
I… I don’t have a car. And I feel like shit right now.
And I’m living in a studio. And I don’t have a tree or decorations.
Or cake. And Fiona will hate it here anyway.
I have no idea how to organise any of this.
Plus Fiona hasn’t had a good word to say to me in ages. And what if we argue the whole time?
H: Look, if you don’t fancy it that’s perf—
W: No, of course I fancy it. I’d love that. Yes! Obviously, it’s a yes.
…
The phone call over, she lies back and stares at the ceiling and tries to catch her breath.
She checks the calendar on her phone. She has eight days to get better, organise a car, get food in and clean the place (and herself) up.
She probably needs a haircut. She’s starting to look a bit wild.
And the car part is going to be expensive, but it’s possible, she supposes.
It’s all just about possible. As long as it doesn’t snow again, it is, anyway.
She drags herself out of bed and takes an unpleasant lukewarm shower before wrapping herself warmly and stepping outside into the sunshine. She’s been feeling so ill that she hasn’t even noticed the weather until now.
The snow is all but gone this morning and there are only tiny patches remaining in the undergrowth to prove it wasn’t also a dream.
The walk to the bakery feels much farther today and by the time she gets there she’s soaked in sweat and her legs have gone all rubbery.
But the bakery, thank God, is open, so she buys pasta and sauces and instant noodles, fresh bread, chocolate and, to cheer herself up, a couple of bottles of that lovely Beaujolais, plus a croissant to eat en route.
‘You don’t want more?’ the baker asks, as she rings up Wendy’s limited purchases. ‘No delivery this time?’
Wendy just shakes her head and taps her card against the payment machine.
‘You are OK?’ the woman asks, one eyebrow arched. ‘You look… je ne sais pas… fatiguée ?’
‘Oui,’ Wendy says flatly. ‘Je suis fatiguée.’ And then she hikes her heavy backpack onto one shoulder and turns towards the door. She’s in no mood for small talk this morning. Not in any language.
She has to rest repeatedly along the way, and by the time she gets home she’s so exhausted that she considers it a result to have made it home at all.
But the sun is streaming into the warm cabin and after a Pot Noodle, a hefty serving of wine and an unplanned three-hour snooze on the sofa she wakes up feeling a bit better, though not really well enough to deal with what happens next: a tap, tap, tap on the window. A familiar face peering in.
‘Hello!’ Manon says brightly, the second Wendy opens the door. ‘It’s OK? We take our lesson?’
‘I… I didn’t think you were coming,’ Wendy says, blocking the doorway with her body, effectively keeping Manon on the doorstep.
‘Of course I come,’ Manon replies. ‘It was just so much snow.’ She gestures around her at where the snow was only yesterday. ‘I don’t even deliver post for three days because the road is closed. But if you don’t want…’
‘I’m ill, actually,’ Wendy tells her, faking a cough and wiping non-existent sweat from her brow.
‘OK,’ Manon says. ‘Maybe mercredi, then? Wednesday?’
Wendy shrugs. ‘Maybe.’ She’s feeling angry towards Manon, though having just woken up from her snooze, she’s struggling to remember quite why.
‘If you feel better,’ Manon says and Wendy sees her glance at the bottle on the coffee table, and remembers. Then with a wave, Manon turns and walks away. ‘à mercredi !’ she casts over her shoulder.
She tries not to think too much about Manon, but it’s hard. Specifically, every time she takes a sip of wine, her accusations come to mind. But as a sip of wine seems to be the only thing which momentarily clears the flu from her head she doesn’t feel like she has much choice.
She is efficient, though, despite her illness and these occasional sips of wine.
Between alternating waves of fever, nausea and general tipsiness, she manages to text Harry for Fiona’s flight details and book a ridiculously expensive car from Hertz for the three days Fiona will be here over Christmas, plus a taxi to get to the airport to pick the car up in the first place.
With all this sorted, she gives herself permission to finish the last of the bottle before crawling back upstairs to her bed.
She’s woken just after ten in the evening by her telephone, and through bleary vision she manages to see that it’s Fiona calling.
Fiona: I’m so excited. Thank you! Dad’s just told me!
Wendy: Well, I’m excited, too. I only hope you don’t hate it here. It’s very, very rural you know.
F: How could I, Mum? It’s France! For Christmas!
They discuss places Fiona might want to visit during her trip (Nice, Antibes and a perfume museum in Grasse) and items Wendy might like from home (mince pies, Christmas cake and crackers).
The conversation is unusual in that none of Fiona’s usual reproach leaks out. She genuinely does just sound excited.
The next morning, Wendy feels well enough to throw herself back into her routine. She hikes back up to the spaceship to take her photo, and then trudges back down and onward to the bakery where she picks up a few slightly more thoughtfully chosen supplies.
It’s a gorgeous sunny day and she ends up tying her jacket around her waist. It’s almost impossible to believe that only three days ago she was snowed in.
Back home, she feeds Mittens (he’s almost stroke-able now) empties the wood stove and neatly stacks a batch of logs beside it. She cleans the cabin from top to bottom and, noting that the water is now hot, even hand-washes a batch of laundry and hangs it out to dry.
Finally, feeling the particular joy one feels when an illness finally fades, she settles down to make a Christmas shopping list. Her daughter is coming for Christmas! Perhaps she still loves her old mum after all.
The weather continues to improve and by the time the twenty-third comes around it’s almost like an English summer day.
This is a massive relief for Wendy. After all, she’d far rather her daughter see her enjoying the Mediterranean sunshine than have her witness the misery of snow, cold and blackouts.
The Hertz office being rammed with Christmas travellers, picking up the car takes longer than planned, so despite her best efforts, she’s almost an hour late getting to arrivals.
‘I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry!’ she exclaims as she trots across the hall to where her daughter is seated, looking bored and a bit annoyed.