Chapter 11 #4
She’d quite like to roll over and cuddle her daughter now, but that, she knows, would seem weird…
It’s such a shame that happens, though, she thinks.
As she dozes in and out of sleep she wonders if it’s that way in all cultures or just ours, before sliding from the bed to creep downstairs where, as quietly as she can, she stokes the fire.
It’s eight thirty and the sun is still hiding behind the mountains lighting the landscape in a strange almost monochrome tint, but she can tell it’s going to be a lovely day.
She puts a bowl of food out for Mittens – it’s not even particularly cold this morning – and makes herself a mug of tea which she nurses as the fire starts to flicker, and then roar.
She thinks of Christmases past, remembers the obscene piles of gifts they used to wrap for the kids, gifts for which Father Christmas got all the credit.
Again she wonders how they went from that warm united family to here and now, and feels sad.
But then realising that she’s spoiling the moment, spoiling now by comparing it with the past, she forces herself to simply be grateful.
Because this – Christmas alone with her daughter in France – is as unexpected as it’s delightful.
She thinks how awful it would have been on her own and feels tearful with gratitude.
At ten, as the sun starts to creep across the floor of the cabin, Fiona wakes up and begs for tea, so Wendy makes a cup and takes it up to her. She sits on the edge of the bed and pushes her daughter’s hair from her face. ‘Merry Christmas, sleepy,’ she says.
‘Umh,’ Fiona says, rolling away. ‘Merry Crimbo to you too.’
By the time Fiona comes downstairs the cabin is bathed in sunlight and the sky is deepest blue. ‘Wow,’ she says. ‘Is every day sunny here?’
‘No, I told you, I got snowed in. It was dreadful. You’re one very lucky lass.’
‘Hard to believe, looking at that sky.’
‘It is hard to believe,’ Wendy says. ‘I know.’
They eat breakfast in the garden – eggs florentine, Fiona’s favourite – and then exchange gifts in front of the fire. There’s a pair of sneakily purchased supermarket earrings and a cheque in Fiona’s name, plus a selection of brightly wrapped Christmas staples from home.
‘Mince pies!’ Wendy says, feigning surprise as she opens them. ‘Christmas cake!’
‘More mince pies,’ Fiona says dryly. ‘More Christmas cake!’
But there’s also a tin of posh tea, a Union Jack tea towel and some fake vegetarian foie gras which they decide tastes halfway between Marmite and mushroom soup.
Having never tasted (nor wanted to taste) foie gras, neither of them have any idea how realistic the fake product is, but it’s certainly yummy on toast.
And then, showered and with a picnic lunch packed, they lock up the cabin and climb into the car.
‘This is great, actually, isn’t it?’ Fiona says, as Wendy pulls out onto the main road.
‘What’s that?’ Wendy asks.
‘That it’s just you and me,’ she says. ‘We haven’t done anything together for years. Not the two of us.’
‘No, you’re right,’ Wendy says. ‘And I feel quite bad about that. I should have made sure we did more.’
‘Don’t feel bad,’ Fiona says. ‘It’s like you were saying before. It takes two to tango, after all.’
‘Well, I’m really happy you came,’ Wendy says genuinely. ‘It’s the best Christmas gift you could have given me.’
As they drive towards the coast, they chat pleasantly, sporadically, about Christmases past before moving on to random memories of their various family holidays. The friction of yesterday seems forgotten.
The restaurants on La Plage de la Garoupe are all closed for Christmas Day with only a few vehicles peppering the car park.
‘It’s weird, really,’ Fiona says. ‘You’d think Christmas Day would be full-on rush hour.’
‘My French teacher says Christmas Eve is the main one. They’re probably all sleeping off hangovers.’
Once parked, Wendy pops the hatch and hauls her backpack onto her shoulders, and then they walk down to the beach where Wendy has to re-check the instructions on her phone.
‘So it’s over there, I reckon,’ she says, pointing. ‘I think we can just follow that couple with the dog.’
They decide to pick their way across the beach rather than walk behind all the restaurants. The sand is littered with driftwood and they pause to examine some of the prettier sea-worn branches.
‘Amanda would take this all home,’ Fiona says. ‘She’d make stupid mobiles out of it.’
‘Mobiles?’
‘Yeah… Actually, they’re not stupid at all. I’m being mean.’
‘What, you mean hanging mobiles?’
‘Yeah, she strings it all together with fishing line so it hangs nicely and sticks on bits of beach glass and what-have-you, and then flogs them all on Etsy.’
‘So she’s arty, then?’
‘She certainly thinks she is.’
‘You don’t sound keen.’
Fiona shrugs. ‘Oh, she’s OK. She’s just a bit… you know…’
‘Can’t say I do,’ Wendy says, with a laugh, ‘having never met her.’
‘She’s a bit up herself, is all,’ Fiona says. ‘She thinks she’s like some modern art genius, but she just sells driftwood on Etsy.’
‘Ah,’ Wendy says. ‘Yes, I think I see.’
‘But Todd thinks she’s amazing, so, hey, what do I know?’
‘It’s serious, then?’ Wendy asks, climbing up onto the walkway and holding one hand out for her daughter.
‘Yeah…’ Fiona says, frowning.
‘And?’ Wendy prompts. She’s convinced that Fiona’s about to say something important.
Instead, visibly changing her mind, Fiona merely adds, ‘Oh, you know what he’s like, Mum. It’s serious or it isn’t at all.’
They walk for a while along a narrow path until it reaches a wide promontory where the red volcanic rocks tumble into the sea.
To their left they can see two or three different coastal towns, and behind those the snow-capped Alps rising to meet fluffy clouds. The sea is deep indigo today – and is tipped with delicate whitecaps whipped up by the breeze.
‘This is gorgeous,’ Fiona says. ‘And look, there’s even a bench for lunch.’
Wendy snorts. ‘I kind of imagined we might walk a little, first?’
‘Oh, OK,’ Fiona says. ‘Sure. That’s fine with me.’
To the west, the path narrows, passing through a rusted steel gate and then weaving along in the shadow of a high, red-brick wall built to protect someone’s private property from passing plebs.
‘Who d’you think lives there?’ Fiona asks, peering through a locked gate.
‘Bill Gates, maybe?’ Wendy suggests. ‘Elon Musk? Sting?’
‘Must be worth a fortune,’ Fiona says. ‘God, imagine living here!’
They’ve reached the southernmost point where the path turns west cutting through red rocks, winding in and out to follow the coast, and up and down endless flights of steps as it hugs the profile of the land.
Sometimes the sea is tens of metres away, and others it splashes over the path so that they have to study the waves and then run, shrieking, to the other side. It’s beautiful and fun.
‘So how come you chose that particular place?’ Fiona asks after narrowly avoiding a wave. ‘I mean, it’s lovely and everything, but it did kind of surprise me. It’s not really you.’
‘No? What sort of place would be me?’
‘Dunno, really,’ Fiona says. ‘Maybe a little cottage in Cornwall with roses round the door.’
‘I quite like the idea of that, too,’ Wendy says. It’s funny how your kids see you, she thinks. You never really know.
‘So?’
‘Oh, well, it just sort of happened, really. The way these things do. I was looking at places in Norway on the net and—’
‘Yeah, Dad told me about that. But Norway’s freezing this time of year, right?’
‘I think it would have been dark most of the time, too. So, not one of my better ideas. But this one sort of popped up. And it looked nice. So here I am.’
They catch up with the couple with the dog. The woman, who is limping, has had to sit down for a rest.
Once they have petted the dog, exchanged ‘Bonjours’ and moved on, Fiona says, ‘That dog reminded me of Whitey.’
‘That’s exactly what I was thinking.’
‘I still miss him, you know.’
‘Well, he was a lovely dog.’
‘Best dog ever, you mean. You know, Todd wants a dog?’
‘Todd your schoolfriend?’ Wendy teases. ‘Or our Todd?’
‘Huh?’ Fiona asks, then, almost seamlessly, ‘Oh, no, Todd at school’s scared of dogs. He got bitten by an Alsatian when he was little. He’s got a massive scar right here.’ She hops and taps her left calf.
She’s good, Wendy thinks. Excellent attention to detail, but she doesn’t overdo it. She’ll go far.
Fiona has reached a fork in the path, so she pauses and looks back. ‘Left,’ she asks, ‘or right?’
‘Try left,’ Wendy says, but after less than a minute, it becomes clear that they’ve chosen a dead end.
‘Back?’ Fiona asks, pausing again. ‘Unless you want to picnic down there?’
Wendy squeezes in beside her and lets her eyes trace the path down to the sea. There’s a small flat area at the bottom, mere feet from the water’s edge. ‘That’s perfect,’ she says. ‘Well spotted!’
They unpack the picnic: baguette, smoked salmon, a tub of olives and another of hummus, plus crisps, cashew nuts and Coke.
‘It’s not very festive, I’m afraid,’ Wendy says, once the food is all laid out.
‘Nah!’ Fiona says, prising the top off the olives. ‘Best Christmas ever, this! Better than bloody turkey, anyway.’
The sip their drinks and dip into the crisps, and stare quietly out at all that blue. Far away on the horizon a gigantic container ship is sliding past, cutting a glittering line between sea and sky.
‘Did you ever think about living abroad, like, properly?’ Fiona asks. ‘You and Dad, I mean?’
‘No, not really,’ Wendy says. ‘I mean, we loved our holidays. Spain and Greece. Especially Greece. But it was never really an option. Not with kids and jobs and a mortgage… you know how it is.’
‘Amanda’s parents have got a house with a pool in Tuscany.’
‘Of course they have,’ Wendy says.
‘See, you’re getting the picture already.’
‘You used to go on about living in Europe,’ Wendy says. ‘You wanted to spend one year in each country. Do you remember that project you did in Geography?’