Chapter 15
Mom insisted on booking me into this place, saying pensiones were traditional in France and were better value for long stays than a hotel.
And, she liked the fact that pensiones were run by families, usually in their family home.
She didn’t voice the hope that I knew was integral to her decision: a family would keep a friendly eye on me during my stay.
I read through ‘The Rules of the House’ sitting on the bed.
No smoking anywhere in the house. One bath a week – to be booked in advance.
No male visitors. Front door locked at ten o’clock.
Lights out at ten-thirty. Breakfast served at seven o’clock until eight.
Lunch not available. Dinner at seven-thirty – guests should not be late.
And underneath all the rules were the words: Madame Dupont does not speak English or American.
I laughed out loud at the last sentence.
So much for pensiones being friendlier than hotels.
Were there any actual hotels in Antibes open now the Riviera had been liberated?
I was sure going to look when I was out exploring.
I was also going to look for a hairdresser.
The thought of washing my hair in the antiquated bathroom did not appeal.
My room is, let’s call it, functional. A wooden bed with a thin mattress, two blankets and a cover, a dressing table with a tarnished mirror and a china jug and basin standing on it, a wardrobe, a small table and chair by the window, two scatter rugs on the floor and a boarded-up fireplace.
Oh, I nearly forgot there’s a crucifix above the bed – the only ornament in the room.
I found out last night just how uncomfortable the bed is and as for the only pillow available – a hard cylinder shape – useless.
I ventured downstairs at about seven-thirty this morning and found the dining room after opening a few random doors in the hallway.
Two men and a woman were sat at a long table covered in a hessian-backed oilcloth, cups and plates in front of them.
I smiled at the woman and said a tentative ‘Bonjour’.
The men merely glanced at me and nodded.
I saw the woman’s lips form the word ‘Bonjour’ but no actual sound was made.
I hesitated before pulling out a chair and sitting down in front of the last place setting.
Madame Dupont appeared at that moment carrying a large coffee pot and a basket containing a good amount of bread and a pot of jam.
She poured us each a coffee, gestured towards the bread saying, ‘Bon appétit’ before disappearing back into the kitchen at the end of the dining room.
And that was breakfast. Although I have to say the bread and the jam were both delicious.
The least said about the coffee, the better.
Afterwards, I went back to my room for a jacket and my purse and set off to explore Antibes.
I know artists have been coming here to the French Riviera forever, extolling the magical light of the area, but honestly, the light really is different down here.
It’s amazing. Wandering along the ramparts with the sun shining in a brilliant blue sky and the Mediterranean lapping at the foot of walls that had been built centuries past, it is easy to forget that a mere six months ago there had been an uprising on these very streets.
Shops, albeit with limited supplies and still needing to see a ration book for certain items, are open, pavement cafés are serving coffee, people are greeting friends, and yet there is a restrained manner around the people, as if they can’t quite believe they are free.
That the strolling French gendarmes have replaced German soldiers.
The small harbour, with its demolished lighthouse and damaged walls, is a daily reminder that rebuilding the town will take time.
But it is early January in a new year, and people will surely be inwardly full of hope and belief that everything will be good again now the occupation is over.
Café Felix just yards away from the harbour, under the marine arch, was open, and I stopped to see if I could buy a coffee.
Several people were already sipping their demi-tasse cups and there was a strong smell of cigarette smoke in the air.
A group of Allied soldiers strolled past laughing and joking with each other.
The coffee was delicious and I resolved to never drink Madame Dupont’s inferior coffee at breakfast again.
The waiter was friendly and spoke a little English, so as I got up to leave, I asked him where I would be able to buy lunch without a ration book.
‘Here, of course. I reserve you a table for 12.30. Oui?’
I smiled my thanks. ‘Merci. See you then.’
As I turned away to walk along Boulevard Aguillon, past what appeared to be barracks of some kind, my heart skipped a beat.
Surely that was Stéphane striding down towards the arch and making for the road that ran alongside the harbour?
But before I could be certain, he’d jumped into a waiting car which sped off.
* * *
Evie closed the journal, thrilled to think unknowingly she’d had a coffee in Café Felix just like GeeGee – she’d have lunch there too one day.
That was an intriguing possible glimpse of Stéphane too.
If only she could tell GeeGee that the old barracks were now thriving, transformed as a centre for artists and sculptors amongst other creatives.
She’d followed in GeeGee’s footsteps too when she’d walked by the old harbour, restored but without a replacement lighthouse.
GeeGee would no doubt be amazed at the size of Port Vauban Marina, the largest in Europe.
It must have had a huge influence on Antibes’ growth and expansion after the war.
It was a theme she was going to explore for one of her freelance features, which she needed to get busy on, and she pulled her open laptop towards her.