Nine Summers Page 8

  As we stepped on board, I swiped the basil. It did its trick and released a wave of scent. The geranium had sprouted three bright red blooms in the past two days. Our plants were happy. I opened the hatches to let a draft through, popped my head out and waved to Georges, who stood at the upstairs window of the capitainerie. He beamed, pointed to our car and made a ‘vee for victory’ sign. Felix put on Pavarotti, Carreras and Domingo full volume to drown out the noise outside.

  ‘Come back to Sorrento,’ they sang à trois.

  ‘Wait till we get there, kid. Wait till we get there!’

  Felix was cheerful. For the first time he could get up the stairs to the capitainerie showers for an unrationed supply of hot water.

  ‘Don’t forget the number you must press on the keypad to get in,’ Georges had called out to him. ‘Yes, I’ve written it down,’ Felix assured him.

  ‘I’ll have a shower too, and then wait for you here at the top of the stairs,’ I said.

  There were two showers in the women’s bathroom — A and B. It was after 6, the time to get ready pour la promenade et le dîner. There were four ahead of me, and we waited patiently. Suddenly the entrance door buzzed open, and in rushed an almost nude young man with a miniscule towel wrapped carelessly round his waist. Stunned by this apparition, I blurted ‘Hello? Hello?’ whereupon he gave me a broad smile and flew past to knock on shower door A, exclaiming, ‘C’est toi, Monique?’ The response was instant, loud and clear: ‘Oui, chéri, entres…come in!’

  Others in the queue didn’t react to the mirth and giggles in cubicle A. But I felt more Anglo than I had ever felt. When I’d previously had a shower in cubicle A, I’d noticed a full-length mirror with two of its corner hinges missing. There was no bench or screen to keep a towel or clothes dry, and when I bent to pick up my towel from the floor, I almost knocked off that mirror. How French! Just a full-length mirror! How many people would want to look at themselves in a steamy full-length mirror? I had visions of Monique and her chéri banging on the mirror, followed by a loud crash and splinters of glass everywhere.

  Meanwhile, three people had been in and out of the other shower, and there was still no sign of an end to the shenanigans in cubicle A. When I’d had my shower and came out of cubicle B, they were still frolicking, and I couldn’t wait for the crash. As I went out, I saw Felix emerge from the men’s showers.

  ‘Guess what goes on in the men’s showers?’ he said.

  ‘Not in the men’s showers too?’

  ‘There’s no end to the things we’re learning about French culture!’

  When I returned from the baker with our breakfast baguette the following morning, Felix looked close to tears. Stooped over the navigation table, his brow furrowed, a tremor in his hands, he sat trying to focus on a book propped in front of him. Mornings were always bad, no matter how hard he tried.

  ‘Puss, don’t try so hard. Your eyes will take time to go back to normal.’

  ‘No! I must go on trying, otherwise we won’t get anywhere.’

  ‘They told you at the hospital that it may take months for things to get back to normal.’ I tried to console him, gave him a hug, then added, ‘I’ll make coffee, and we’ll have breakfast outside. Bacon and eggs. I can smell the bacon and hear the sizzle even before I’ve taken them out of the fridge.’ He didn’t hear, wasn’t listening.

  ‘What if it has nothing to do with the stroke — if it’s lymphoma, another recurrence?’

  The shock stopped me in my tracks. I didn’t know what to say. ‘If that’s what you’re thinking, Puss, then we’d better fly to London.’

  He thought for a while, then replied, ‘I guess so. If it’s not a recurrence, there’ll be no treatment, and we’ll be back in a few days. I’ll get used to the eyes, and hope they’ll improve.’ After a long pause, he added, ‘There’s not much chance of getting to Corsica or Sardinia this year, but we could sail a short way along the coast if the Professor in Montpellier says it’s OK to go. You can read the charts, you’re the navigator.’

  ‘Yes, that’s a good idea,’ I tried to sound enthusiastic. ‘We can phone London after breakfast, and see what they say.’

  We were deep in thought as we walked to the Telecom office. I tried not to think about our future. Sometimes I wondered whether Felix did. He was pushing himself so hard and I couldn’t bear to watch it. The girl at the telephone exchange knew us well by now, and treated us like favoured customers. With bright red lips, short, curly dark hair and lively green eyes, she had a dazzling array of clothes that looked as if they’d come from Aladdin’s cave.

  ‘Alors, calling Australia again?’ she asked. ‘It is such fun to hear the telephone ring in Australia.’

  ‘No, it’s London this time.’ Felix gave her the number.

  ‘Oh!’ she laughed, pretending to be disappointed.

  ‘Numéro cinq.’

  We walked to booth 5. Felix picked up the receiver, smiled reassuringly at me and squeezed my hand. I heard the ring at the other end. I looked at Felix. He was composed, with no visible trace of nervousness. ‘Hello, I’m calling from France, can you put me through to Dr Hunt please?…I see, well then can I speak to his offsider…thank you.’

  I walked away, my heart pounding. I waited, I didn’t want to hear the conversation, then I turned back. Felix was nodding into the receiver. ‘Yes, all right then, I’ll book a flight for next Wednesday, and I’ll see Dr Hunt at 9 o’clock on Thursday… thank you very much.’

  He hung up the phone and walked towards me. I was struck by the dark rings round his eyes, his lined face. How much he’d aged in the past weeks!

  ‘What did they say?’

  ‘Most people are still on holidays. Mike Hunt will be back next week, so we’ll need to book a flight for Wednesday. His offsider doesn’t think it’s likely to be lymphoma, but you can never tell, and he agrees that it ought to be checked. So that’s it, we’ll need to get ourselves organised to leave in a week!’

  As we walked back, I wondered — what complications next? Radiotherapy, chemotherapy, stroke, now the eyes…

  Felix looked at me, noticed my concern. ‘Sweetie, don’t look so upset, this may be nothing. In any case, you know us. We do whatever we can to solve our problems. Then we live around them and get on with life as best we can.’

  ‘You’re right, Puss. Meanwhile, we have a few days up our sleeves. How about we drive to Aigues-Mortes tomorrow. There are lots of interesting places not far from here.’

  ‘That’s a good idea,’ he said, but he sounded so tired. I knew we had to do something to get away from the excruciating heat of the marina and Galatea, especially as people were walking on and off our deck all day long to get to the capitainerie. I wasn’t happy driving, but I had to. And so, for the following days we went on excursions.

  Aigues-Mortes, a few kilometres inland from La Grande Motte, is an ancient town built 700 years ago by Saint Louis as a base for his crusade to Jerusalem. Its massive stone ramparts and walls, towers and gates had once been surrounded by a moat, now filled and used as a car park. As we parked, the walls of the town glowed dull gold. We walked through a gate into a quiet, stone world. Patterns of light and shade danced along the meandering lanes and alleys. Ornate pots of geraniums flanked front doors. But the place was deserted. It was lunchtime, and the heat was stifling. Even the two restaurants we passed were almost empty. We were there because this was the time of day when Felix’s eyes felt better, when they irritated him less. He was, however, too tired to continue walking.

  ‘Let’s go into that restaurant, it has a couple of fans,’ he said. We had a salad, cold vin de la maison, and rested. After a while it was still too hot to go sightseeing so we decided to go home. On the way back to La Grande Motte we stopped to book the flight from Montpellier to London.

  ‘We’ll be back within a week and spend the rest of the summer sailing along the coast to Marseilles and the Iles d’Hyères, Pomègues and Cassis, and then we’ll go on trips inland…’ Felix tri
ed hard to reassure me.

  When Georges came on board to have a drink with us, we told him our latest woes. ‘We’ll be going to London for tests to find out what the problem is with my eyes,’ Felix said. ‘If I need treatment, we could be away for four to six weeks. If I don’t, then we’ll be back within a week. We’re wondering where we could leave Galatea.’

  ‘That’s no problem,’ Georges assured us. ‘You leave her right here and we’ll look after her, like we did before. I’m sure the Captain will agree.’

  ‘You are all so wonderful! We don’t know how we can ever thank you, but this time what should we do with the car? Is there a garage near here?’

  ‘Under the window on the other side over there,’ he pointed to the side of the capitainerie.

  ‘But that has a big “No Parking” sign.’

  ‘Don’t worry, you will have no problem, we will arrange it.’

  We couldn’t believe our luck.

  ‘Where shall we stay in London?’ I asked Felix as we stepped on board.

  ‘I’m sure we can stay with friends for a few days. But if we have to stay for several weeks, then we’ll have to rent a place.’

  ‘It’s OK for us to rent a place each year for the winter months, but if we have to return to London unexpectedly, we’ll have to get a tiny pad. A place where we can stay at any time,’ I said.

  ‘We’ll see.’

  ****

  We were subdued when we arrived in London. For several months now, we hadn’t seen friends or spoken English without mentally translating into French. The few English friends we had were away on holidays, but three Australian couples, all old friends, were visiting London at the time. Finding them there was a breath of home. They gave us the support we badly needed at a time when we were both close to the edge of what we could endure.

  London Underground in August, the crush of people, sweaty bodies making for the summer sales, unconditioned air; we were no longer used to a city atmosphere.

  The first time we’d gone along this route to the hospital, the trees had been autumnal, the lawns a carpet of golden leaves. Now this well trodden path along Sumner Place and Onslow Square was in the grip of high summer. Cinerarias, petunias, phlox and pelargoniums spilled over window boxes. Tubs of azaleas, cumquats and daisy bushes flanked front doors. In the midst of traffic turmoil, some chose to sunbake in the squares. This was summer in London.

  When we reached the entrance to the Marsden, we felt like old customers. We made for our usual corner seats next to a coffee table piled high with old magazines. Even where one chooses to sit can become a habit.

  ‘Dr Huber, Dr Hunt will see you now.’

  ‘Well, so what’s been happening?’

  As Felix started to tell Dr Hunt the story of the stroke, the rescue and Montpellier Hospital, I switched off. Dr Hunt listened, and finally said, ‘Well, Felix, it doesn’t sound to me as if it’s going to have anything to do with lymphoma, but we can’t exclude it. We’ve all had our surprises. I’d like some X-rays, blood tests, an MRI. I think it’d also be a good idea for you to see an ophthalmologist. When you’ve had all these tests done, I’d like to see you again, and we’ll take it from there.’

  For four days Felix had an endless array of blood tests, X-rays and an MRI. Two days later, we had another appointment with Dr Hunt to discuss the final results. Felix was composed, but I knew from the slight tremor of his lip that he was nervous.

  ‘You may come in now, Dr Huber,’ the nurse said.

  We followed her. The door to the consulting room was open. I saw Dr Hunt’s face. He was smiling broadly. ‘Thank God,’ I said under my breath as we walked in. ‘Thank God,’ I turned to Felix, and both of us beamed.

  The next day the ophthalmologist confirmed that the eyes were rotating.

  ‘This happens with strokes sometimes. It takes time, but eventually it will improve. It’s a great nuisance, but it’s nothing to worry about.’

  We were exuberant as we stepped out of the taxi at the airport.

  ‘I think people are looking at us as if we’re nuts or on our honeymoon.’

  We had one suitcase between us. Was that a dare that all would be well, that we’d be back on Galatea within one week, although we had been prepared for six weeks of radiotherapy?

  ‘It’s all clear, Puss!’ I squeezed Felix’s arm and wanted to shout to the world that life was beautiful.

  We stood in a long queue to luggage control. We worked our way through passport and customs, then ambled into the passenger lounge. We had a lot of time.

  ‘Let’s look for the fanciest breakfast place.’

  ‘Over there,’ Felix suggested. ‘The one with that kitsch.’ Posters of green Swiss meadows with satisfied Nestlé cows grazing among alpine flora, balloons in a blue sky and children walking hand in hand along a vanishing path hung on the walls.

  ‘Muesli! They must have muesli here!’ I was ecstatic. I smelt coffee, bacon and eggs, and said, ‘Look, Danish pastries.’

  After breakfast Felix spotted a chocolate shop. ‘Swiss chocolates. Just what we need on Galatea!’ We beamed as we walked in. Felix made for the counter while I went to the other side and admired a merry-go-round made of chocolate animals. As I looked up over the display, I saw a face staring at me from a vast wall mirror. Was that me? I shuddered. Owl rings around the eyes. A haggard face in need of sleep. Hair in need of a cut. Was this really me? I turned away, my heart raced. Meanwhile, Felix’s eyes were locked onto trays of chocolates in every shape along the counter. I saw a girl with impeccable looks behind it, waiting for Felix to make his selection. I heard her answer Felix’s questions.

  ‘This one, sir? This is crunchy nougatine and dark chocolate, this one is marzipan.’

  ‘I’d like four of each of these please.’

  A young couple walked in and admired the merry-go-round. The woman was casually dressed in a light grey suit and a pink blouse. She carried a leather handbag that matched her expensive shoes. Sunglasses sat on her dark, shiny hair. She pointed with manicured nails and Georg Jensen rings to the chocolate merry-go-round.

  ‘Ist das nicht süss? Isn’t that cute?’ She was enchanted. I wanted to run away, to hide in my faded-from-washing jeans and shapeless T-shirt, toting my antique model overnight bag and computer. What was wrong with me? I was being oversensitive. Only minutes earlier I’d been deliriously happy. Now I wanted to disappear. I was jealous! That wasn’t like me. What was happening to me?

  At last, thank God, the girl was wrapping the box in gold paper and a red bow. Felix looked delighted with himself. I went outside to check the flight board.

  ‘Come on Puss, we’re boarding, Gate 5.’

  He locked his arm into mine. I started to cry.

  The plane took off. ‘Why am I so edgy?’ I wondered. ‘Why did I lose my cool in the chocolate shop? Pull yourself together, kid,’ I said to myself. ‘Felix is all clear. Think of sailing the South of France. All you need is a haircut, a tint, a new T-shirt, a pair of sandals. Sit in the sun, get some colour.’

  We boarded the plane. I looked at Felix. He looked so happy.

  ‘I think this is the time to get stuck into the chocolates,’ he said as he started to untie the red bow on the chocolate box the girl had spent half an hour getting right.

  ‘A drink, madam, sir?’ the cabin stewardess asked. Well, at least this Air France stewardess looked normal. She had a few spots on her face and her hair hadn’t been done since she’d left Paris that morning.

  ‘Nothing for me, thanks,’ I answered.

  ‘I’ll have a whisky with a lot of soda.’

  ‘Chocolates and whisky don’t go.’ My tone was abrupt. ‘I’ll try it and tell you.’

  ‘Can you eat lunch?’ I asked Felix.

  ‘You bet.’

  I hadn’t seen him eat so much for weeks.

  ‘Puss, do you remember when we were in our teens and every Sunday night we had twelve eggs, three frankfurters cut in, and a tin of peaches? Scrambled eggs wa
s the only thing I could cook!’

  ‘How could I forget?’ He smiled.

  The plane was full of people going on holidays to the South of France. They’d read A Year in Provence, and were in search of a dream. We were in search of our dream too. On Galatea. But oh, I was tired. Oh, so tired. Exhausted. Of course I wanted to move on. But sometimes I wished I could spend one week in a hospital bed. Just sleeping.

  Felix was full of joie de vivre now, and it was so good to see him like this. He still couldn’t read in the morning but it seemed to worry him less. Since he’d had the OK, he’d been on such a high. He must have been really worried.

  ‘I bought some cards for Emma and Jackie. The Guards changing at Buckingham Palace, Horse Guards, Tower of London. Here, you write them one and I’ll write them one,’ I suggested.

  I gave him a card and a pen. He balanced it on a magazine, wrote the date, then stopped. Said nothing. Then: ‘I can’t write. I’ll type them a letter on the computer when we get on Galatea tonight.’ I turned and looked at him. His mood had changed.

  ‘What’s wrong?’

  ‘I can’t control the pen. It slides across.’

  I took a deep breath. ‘Don’t worry, I’ll write for you, you just sign.’

  ‘No, I don’t feel like it.’

  ‘OK, let’s not write anything. Which chocolate is the praline? I feel like a praline.’

  But it was too late. His exuberant mood had vanished. We looked out the window. High above, a thick layer of grey–white and pink clouds drifted past. The sky was a faint purple, the setting sun a mango gold.

  ‘Ladies and gentlemen, we’re about to start our descent. Please fasten your seat belts!’

  We fastened our belts and locked fingers.

  Our mood was still subdued as the buildings of La Grande Motte loomed closer. We stepped out of the taxi. Galatea and our Renault were exactly where we’d left them. The quay buzzed with traffic and activity at the end of the day. Holiday-makers in boats were arriving back in port, children were jumping, calling out, women clutching shopping bags stepped back on board. Loud music. Georges, busy with incoming yachts, looked surprised and pleased to see us.