1
No matter which way I turn, or how I express or present myself, I remain restless, despite the busy family life. Perhaps turning 60 scratches at my tranquillity.I make the most of the time, though. I finish preparing the food for Maria’s return from an afternoon out with the grandchildren. We take it in turns, so that we each have some alone time to do whatever we want, without anyone else around, precious time for both of us, and I’m sure the grandchildren benefit too. I turn to my notebook and my jar of sharpened pencils, previously the home of some Confiture Bonne Maman. I taste that thick, flavoursome strawberry jam as I reach for one of the pencils. Just that, just that thought, that memory, that aroma of strawberry jam on the crisp French bread reaches out and squeezes my throat. I am too slow to move the notebook and I fail to prevent a soggy page. I move the book out of the way as the tears tumble on down my cheeks. I grab the tissues and wipe the memory away, or not quite, as I continue to sob and snivel. I get up from the desk. There won’t be any writing now, but I am not finished wallowing. I take the old wooden box down from on top of the tall cupboard in the corner. I place it on the desk, and open the dusty lid.
2
I have come via Poitiers on my tour around France, and I have now arrived at La Rochelle. I smell the sea before I see it, but soon it lies still and peaceful before me, the major port facing on to the challenging Bay of Biscay. The Limestone buildings are glinting and reflecting the bright sunlight, giving truth to the name of White City. Its position on the coast ensured La Rochelle’s prominence as a thriving harbour town for centuries, the imposing entrance to the harbour built as a defensive position as well as a gateway, at a time when both were essential to flourishing trade.
My interest developed around the eventful history, given the constant change of hands, switching governance back and forth between England and France, from the 12th to 14th century. My research funding from the University of Bristol will enable me to conduct some local research on Eleanor of Aquitaine, one of the most powerful women in medieval history. Georges Simenon and Jean Paul Sartre lived in the town at points in their lives, too, and I hope to find evidence of their activity during their respective stays.
I stop to ask for directions to the Gîte in my faltering French. Soon, I am heading in the right direction, eventually driving up a dirt track, almost into the woods.
3
Pierre put the phone down. He loved his country, but sometimes he felt that city bureaucracy was strangling France. His work as an architect was blighted by that same bureaucracy. He could never get used to it, and it infuriated him that the European Union, which had promised so much, added ten times as much red tape to the equation.
He was glad that Marie-Claire had called him earlier to say that she and Jeanne were abducting him for the afternoon. He knew, really, that his beautiful sisters had been recruited by his parents, to find out what he was up to these days. He didn’t mind really, despite their complete parental rejection of him, simply on the grounds of his sexual orientation. He kept hoping for some form of reconciliation, but it had not come so far, and it seemed unlikely that it was on offer today from his sisters. They, of course, loved him to bits and had steadfastly ignored their very conservative parents, to maintain regular contact with him, despite the distance between La Rochelle and Poitiers, where they continued their existence as wild and extravagant young things, fully funded by wealthy parents. He loved them too, and he would have been devastated if they had followed the path of their parents, but neither had shown any inclination to do that, or to put pressure on him to change anything about himself. He loved them for that most of all.
La Rochelle enlivened him like a breath of fresh air, and there was nothing he enjoyed more than a picnic in the parc, and although his sisters always protested, he repeatedly persuaded them into that option when they visited, and today promised no exception. It helped that he thrived as a self-employed businessman and worked on a Freelance basis, so he could just abscond when he wanted, to make all the necessary preparations.
4
Maria took a few deep breaths before hustling the children into bed, succeeding with her earnest desire to have a bedtime without screaming. Danny was working late more and more often, leaving her to essentially deliver all the childcare. Mostly, nowadays she wanted to scream and scream and scream. She never would, of course, but living in Glasgow was lovely before the children, when Danny was around more often, but now she could really do with being back with her mum in Bristol, and with having all the support that could have gone with that. But it was just fallacy as her mum had died 2 years previously, and Jeremy had taken over the running of that house in Bristol. He had been devastated, of course, as mum and he were thick as thieves. She thought that maybe her mum had loved him more than her. She wasn’t jealous. She was glad, as it gave her the distance she needed when growing up.
She really loved her brother, and the kids thought he was great too, especially Tina for some reason, but he had disappeared off to France for 3 months on some weird historical thing or another, so he wasn’t much use right now. She might try phoning him later, anyway. It would be great to hear his voice, but expensive international dialling rates meant she would need to wait until after 8pm to call him. Communication between countries seemed quite limited, given that they were living in the 1980’s.
5
I have been in La Rochelle for 4 weeks, working hard on the research. Today, I am all for a day off, and I am now making my way along the long path in the parc through the avenue of trees, that have all been pruned in a way that makes the foliage look like it has been squared off in some way. There is something weirdly stylish about it, and the sun playing about the greenery casts a strange light that sets it off perfectly.
Through this avenue, approaching me, coming from the opposite direction, is a man and two women, one on either side, with their arms hooked through his. I see them chatting and laughing as they are walking, despite the heavy backpack carried by the man, and the bag each that the women have. I am aware of the young man grinning as they pass, and I return a sheepish smile too.
A few minutes later, I hear the two women exclaim: “Pierre!” and “Oh for goodness sake!”. I turn to see the young man, presumably Pierre, come striding towards me, maintaining the huge grin he had a few minutes ago. I am not so much wondering what is going on as noticing how beautiful he is, with his bronzed skin and sparkling blue eyes.
6
I live that day over and over again, when Pierre turned around, grinning in what I now know as his characteristic way. And even now, in bed with him, that playful grin is somehow ever present on his face, even when sleeping. I want to caress his long, athletic body so much, but I don’t want to wake him. His touch, when he traces the lines of my body with his fingers is so gentle, when we explore the reality of each other. And when we make love, it is such an expression of graceful beauty and gentility.
Following the picnic in the parc, when he had insisted I join them, we saw each other every day. Lunch, dinner, breakfast, beach, parc, bistro, cosy nights in. I was glad to do so as I found myself falling head over heels for him, something that had never happened for me beyond school boy crushes. University had been a series of casual sexual encounters, as seemed to be the case for most in our position, but this is incredibly, really different.
Pierre tries to persuade me, with his love-making, and his entreaties, and with his beautiful grinning visage, that I should move in with him. So far, I resist, because it has all seemed so rushed between us, and yet I have known him forever, too.
I feel guilty about the idea of letting go the Bristol house, but then maybe I can let it out or something. I also want to be there for Maria, as she is having an increasingly hard time with Danny, and remains stuck in the wilds of Scotland in my mind, although Glasgow hardly counts as “the wilds”, despite some of the Saturday nights I have had there.
I am, however, talking my way into it, principally because I am really excited about the idea of it. I already feel certain that I could sub-let the house in Bristol, and I could just fly to Glasgow from La Rochelle instead of from Bristol, to visit Maria and the gang. My last thread of resistance is about how I would contribute financially to this relationship. My research has been on the back shelf for the last weeks, and although I know that I have to pick that up again soon, I need to support myself until I am ready for publication, and I need to also fulfil teaching requirements in Bristol until then, given the research funding expectations.
7
Pierre pushes a piece of crisp baguette in my direction, overflowing with Confiture Bonne Maman aux Fraise.
“Darling, I know you seem to exist on next to nothing, but you have to eat.”
I stop resisting, and bite into the luscious strawberry jam, thinking that it is hardly the healthiest of eating, but it is definitely the tastiest.
Despite the attraction, I have to abandon it as I have a flight to catch to Bristol, to present my findings to the ethics committee.
I kiss Pierre, covering his face in jam and crumbs from his enforced feeding, then wash and dry my face whilst rushing out of the flat, with both of us laughing.
I gave-up resisting the calls to move in with Pierre. Maria’s marriage to Danny imploded, as all those late nights at work had actually been spent in the arms of another woman. Maria moved out with kids and possessions, and she headed straight for Bristol. She now lives in the house in Bristol, and finding a new life with a whole lot less stress. A few rooms are set aside for myself, either alone or with Pierre whenever we arrive in Bristol, and I love that I didn’t have to sub-let the house; and I am delighted that I can continue to share with Maria, on the odd occasion when I am there, with her now managing the house — after all, it was left to both of us. Keeping in touch with her and her children is suddenly a whole lot simpler too.
Life is perfect.
8
When Jeremy returned from France, life was bloody awful for me as I was raising Jack and Tina on my own, having left Danny behind to get on with it with his new partner. I didn’t really care about the new partner. In fact, I was quite pragmatic about it, but was annoyed when it took him so long to pay for his share of childcare, and to sort out the finances generally. Then, Jeremy returns in a mess. I felt really very sorry for him. Pierre was a great guy, and he was very good for Jeremy.
Eventually, Jeremy sorted himself out, but it took long enough. It was like having a third child in the house, but he got there in the end. From then on, it was much better. He helped as equal partner with the childcare, and he didn’t need to do that. I am so glad he did, though, as it meant that I could return to university to complete my doctorate, and now we are both able to work in an academic environment, him in the History department, and me in the English department.
9
I cry for months. I am inconsolable. Lord knows Maria tries. At first, she is patient and gentle. She even puts up with me snapping at her, but when I start to snap at Jack and Tina too, she loses all patience with me, and drags me to bereavement counselling services.
Gradually, things get better. The University has patiently kept my job open for me. I contribute to the family life, and help Maria raise Jack and Tina. We are a bit of a weird family, but there are plenty of those in the nineties and noughties. Maria tries dating for a while, but gradually gives that up, whilst I take my pleasure where I can find it, with a long series of partners (none of whom are invited back to the house) before I give up on that too.
10
And now that I am approaching sixty, with Maria a few years behind, we both find ourselves slimmer and feeling older, but looking after Tina’s children as substitute parents. Tina had found her way down a dreadful path of drugs that had killed first her partner, and then her, both long before their time. I had expected Maria to be as desolate as I was, but we had both seen it coming and it was like being unable to do anything about a train crash happening in slow motion, as every rehab journey ended in disaster. So, Maria and I threw ourselves into substitute parenting straight away, almost as a way of making-up time for Dotty and Jim, given the dreadful parenting they had been subjected to so far in their young lives.
11
I catch the flight back to La Rochelle feeling relieved to have had my findings passed by the ethics committee.
I am tired as it is late, but excited, and want to celebrate with Pierre as soon as I get back. I know he will want us to do that too, although I haven’t been able to get hold of him, despite phoning ahead a number of times. I guess that he has had to face a busy day with his work, when he often lets the answering machine take the call. But it is strange, as he had specifically asked me to call ahead to let him know how I had got on. I think he wanted to know in advance whether it would be celebration or commiseration.
The plane lands and eventually, I come through the gate, looking for him. I can’t see him, but my scanning finds my own name instead. On a placard. Being held by a very straight looking older man. My heart rushes into my throat and starts choking me. I know straight away that something is wrong. I push forward harder to get to this strange looking man in a suit. He sees me coming, and he pushes an envelope in my direction, which I grasp immediately. He leads me to a seat, and I just follow the unstated demand to sit, waiting for him to talk.
“Monsieur, I regret to inform you that your friend, Pierre, has been involved in a fatal accident this morning in the rush hour traffic and he died at 1:10pm. I am very sorry for your loss. The papers I have given you……”
“Stop! What are you saying? What are you saying? Is this some kind of sick joke? Who put you up to this? Leave me alone, I need to get home now.”
“Monsieur! Please! I am trying to explain to you. You have no home to go to in La Rochelle. These papers explain everything to you.”
I push him out of the way, and I head for the taxi rank. I have to get home to Pierre, away from this nonsense. Something has happened, obviously, but not this.
On the way, in the taxi, I realise that I am still gripping the envelope given to me at the airport. I open it and start to read. What I read is from a firm of faceless lawyers, and it tells me that Pierre died as a result of road traffic injuries at 1:10pm, but further, his family have taken several immediate legal steps to deny my existence. They have removed all trace of me from the apartment, changed the locks and arranged for everything that wasn’t Pierre’s to be put into storage within the space of a very few hours, to be collected by me at my convenience.
This isn’t Pierre’s family. This is Pierre’s powerful and wealthy parents. They don’t want me to be anywhere near Pierre’s death, and they can do something about it now where they couldn’t before. They ask me not to call them, Marie-Claire or Jeanne, and warn me that an injunction has been taken out against me to prevent me from attending any funeral or memorial service that might be held.
I know what the papers say is true, so I read further, and take note of the hotel room that has been arranged for me, with the bill taken care of in advance. I go there instead as I am exhausted.
By the next morning, I am even more exhausted, having not slept, but I try to get information from the hospital, visit the apartment and find out where they have taken the body, but I am thwarted on every count. I don’t have contact details for Marie-Claire or Jeanne, so I am completely stuck. I try consulting a lawyer to see whether there is any way around any of this, but they are unable to help.
Two exhausting days later, I contact the storage place, and arrange for my possessions to be forwarded to the Bristol house. I go ahead, and bury myself in my room, until I am finally levered out by Maria about a week later.
12
Inside the box are remnants of a relationship long gone, snatched away by death, these items being the only ones not taken by his parents, when they emptied his apartment. Not taken because Pierre left them in Bristol on the occasions he came with me, and I eventually put them in a box, unable to throw any of them away. Apart from my photographs and memories of him, this is all I have. Pierre’s parents had made sure of that, and Pierre hadn’t left a will. Who does in their twenties? The items have no value to anyone, being a broken and dusty radio, a curled business card for a gay masseur, a tarnished locket with an inscription from Pierre’s mother, a bottle of herbal remedy for insomnia, some auburn hair dye (that makes me smile as I remember when I had applied it disastrously to Pierre’s hair, and it had come out bright orange), and some ripped and faded fortune-telling cards, which I had dismissed, whilst Pierre had insisted on using them with every curious visitor to his apartment.I put it all in the box, and I place it back on the top of the cupboard. Whilst there, I take down the withered poinsettia, that had somehow been dumped up there, to throw away. Some things are easy to toss.I am ready now, and don’t bother with the notebook. I reach straight for my laptop, and start to type, for the first time able to recognise, and write about, the love of my life. I hear her come through the front door with the grandchildren. They are back early. I hope they will leave me alone to write for a bit.
Fraser
August 2023