Nine Summers Read online

  ‘Ah, welcome back! I hope this is good news. We thought you would be away many weeks.’

  ‘It’s good news. You’ll be rid of us soon and we’ll be out of everyone’s way!’

  ‘It’s very good for you. I have letters for you. I’ll bring them down when I finish here.’

  ‘Thank you, Georges. It’s good to be back.’

  We climbed on board past people clambering on and off our deck. Of our plants, only the red geranium had survived. The rest had died of thirst. We opened the hatches and climbed down into the saloon. It looked tidy, unlived in. No newspaper or open books on the table, no flowers, no hat thrust onto a bunk, no half-filled glasses at the sink.

  ‘Won’t take long and we’ll be back in business,’ Felix said. ‘God, I’m suffering from tartlet deprivation. Puss, would you mind going ashore and getting a baguette and milk and fruit and tartlets, and maybe some charcuterie, while I unpack. I’ll hose down the cockpit too. You might as well take the pot plants and bury them in the rubbish bins. We’ll get new ones tomorrow.’

  ‘OK. I shouldn’t be too long.’

  ‘Here is your mail,’ Georges said as he passed down a bundle of letters. Fat letters with Australian stamps. A wave of homesickness gripped me. I undid the string and opened the top envelope. It was from a friend. I read quickly, down the page:

  …we’re so sorry to hear that Felix still has problems with his eyes and that you’re thinking of going to London to get it checked up. Perhaps the sensible thing would be to do something other than take risks sailing…

  I didn’t want to read on. But I couldn’t stop. I swallowed the temptation to cry. Yes, maybe it’d be sensible, but that wasn’t what Felix wanted to do. And nor did I. His confidence would be shattered if we had to stop sailing. I knew that. He needed to build up his confidence. And if taking risks was what it would take, then that’s what it would have to be!

  I heard Felix step on board. ‘Make way, baguette, tartlets, fruit, milk, charcuterie…’

  ‘Oh! You brought flowers! Aren’t you a sweetie! Coffee coming right away, sir!’

  I wiped my nose and gave him a big cheerful kiss.

  ‘While I was on shore I thought I’d phone le Professeur’s office for an appointment. We can see him tomorrow.’

  My stomach sank. I hadn’t expected to see le Professeur so soon. The letters had unsettled me and I knew I wouldn’t sleep that night.

  ‘Honey, I’m off to the boulanger and I’ll phone Monique to wish her happy birthday while I’m ashore. She’s home in the morning!’

  I loved the short walk for our breakfast baguette. I liked to see the shop shutters go up, awnings roll down, waiters set out tables and chairs, and to breathe in the aroma of fresh coffee everywhere.

  The fragrance of baking and fresh bread drifted well beyond the boulangerie. Inside, a cluster of women stood in a queue. We smiled and nodded. A sense of wellbeing filled the shop.

  ‘Bonjour, madame…comment ça va?’ The boulanger repeated again and again, to everyone.

  I clutched my fresh stick, half wrapped in white tissue. I smelt it, broke off an end and munched the crunchy crust. How simple bliss can be! Then I remembered that in the afternoon we were seeing le Professeur. I pushed the thought aside and made for the telephone booth.

  I checked my purse and pulled out all the coins I could use. Fortunately, I was phoning Lugano, not Australia. ‘Hi Monique, this is Rina. Happy birthday. Don’t weep. We all turn 60.’

  ‘Aren’t you marvellous to remember.’

  ‘How could I forget my cousin’s 60th birthday! Have a great day. Enjoy, enjoy.’

  ‘How are things with you?’

  ‘Well, we’re seeing le Professeur this afternoon. I hope he says it’s OK to move on. We’re back from London, and the eye problem has nothing to do with the cancer, thank goodness.’

  ‘You still sound apprehensive.’

  ‘I guess I am, can’t help it. Felix still can’t read in the mornings although it’s getting better. That’s not a problem, I can do all the navigating, but he’s not very steady on his legs. I guess I worry in case we get caught in a storm. But we plan just to sail along the coast. You know, from port to port. So we shouldn’t get into trouble. We don’t intend to cross to Corsica this year.’

  ‘Can’t you persuade Felix to give up and do something else?’

  ‘Oh God, no! That would destroy him. You know, he’s given up surgery, now he sees himself as a yachtie. I know there are other things he’d like to do, like study history, do a photography course, but that’s not the same thing.’

  ‘Yes, I guess you’ve got a point there.’

  ‘I’ll do anything for us to keep going, even if it entails risks. Anyway, I want to keep going just as much as Felix. Hey, Monique, I’m running out of coins. Have a wonderful birthday. And yes, there’s life after 60. Give my love to André! Bye now!’

  I put down the receiver and stepped out into the scorching heat.

  ‘…So if you’re feeling well, you can start on your way. But remember, don’t climb the mast…’ were le Professeur’s parting words. In French, always in French. A tall, formal, elegant man with finely chiselled features, he extended his hand and smiled, ‘Bonne chance.’ His handshake was firm and confident.

  ‘Thank you for all your help,’ Felix said when the two men shook hands.

  As we crossed the window towards the door, I looked down onto a formal summer garden. ‘Mediterranean gardens are so lovely,’ I said.

  ‘Yes, they are, so different with each season,’ le Professeur replied. It was the first time he had loosened sufficiently to make an informal comment.

  When we stepped outside, we didn’t speak. Like guilty children, we were both aware that Felix hadn’t told the Professor all he should have. Felix answered the questions but didn’t mention his eyes. Neither of us wanted to risk advice we didn’t want to hear. I was glad we’d parked the car a long way away — it was good to walk along the tree-lined street. We avoided talking about the consultation and concentrated on the colours and scents of the gardens, the twitter of birds in the trees.

  ‘Let’s go to the Place de la Comédie, and have coffee and pâtisseries. I’d like one of those almond and chocolate slices. And we can watch the passing parade and farewell Montpellier at the same time.’

  Felix didn’t hear. He wasn’t listening. He looked concerned. ‘When we get back, I’ll change the oil and go over the engine. Nothing’s been done for almost three months. Have to do that before we move off.’

  So this, I realised, was to be his ultimate test — to see whether his hands were steady enough.

  Felix removed the panels around the engine, then stretched out onto his side on the floor. ‘I’ve got everything I need. You just shine the torch for me. Over here. Thanks, that’s good. Pass me the pliers and the spanner and the WD-40. Thanks.’

  ‘I think your most useful items to hold a boat together are shock cord and WD-40.’

  ‘You’re learning fast, kid.’

  He was going through the list in the engine manual. I watched his hands nervously and followed them with the torch. They were steady.

  ‘Now I’ll just need to change the oil and top up the battery water and that’ll be it.’

  When he finally stood up and stretched, he beamed. I was right. This was the test he needed and he’d had no problems.

  ‘The gas bottle we’ve been using must be just about empty, we’ll need to change it. Could you write into the log book, “Changed oil, changed diesel filters. Battery water OK. Changed aft gas bottle.”’

  ‘I guess we’re now ready to go. I’ll settle the accounts at the capitainerie, and ask them to suggest where we can leave the car.’

  Earlier that day we’d felt emotionally exhausted, but the relief had recharged our enthusiasm. We fell into each other’s arms.

  We walked up to the capitainerie to say goodbye. From the window, the outside was bathed in afternoon sunlight, the water a glitte
r of coloured lights. Along the pier Galatea’s masts swayed from side to side as she slipped up and down with the swell. At her stern, fluttering in the breeze, was our Australian ensign and, on the port stay, the French courtesy flag.

  ‘By the way, you can leave the car where it is until you’re ready to pick it up,’ Captain Alain said, ‘and I’ve spoken to the capitaineries along the coast to make sure they help you when you radio that you are coming in. They will give you a hand. I don’t think you should have any trouble.’

  He said this nonchalantly, with a touch of embarrassment. He was a taciturn man, who rarely showed emotion. And yet, behind that façade, he was capable of such extraordinary thoughtfulness.

  I shook hands with the captain and hugged Georges goodbye. What would we have done without their help?

  ‘We’ll aim to leave by midday,’ Felix said.

  ‘Do you think your eyes will be OK by then, or should we wait a little longer?’

  ‘No, I should be fine by then.’ In an afterthought, he added, ‘Do you realise it’s almost three months since our last sail?’

  ‘Yes, I know,’ and gave him a hug.

  Felix turned on the engine and took the helm. I freed the ropes from the bollards, pushed out the bow, waved to the capitainerie and jumped on board. We motored past the port lights out to sea and hauled up all the sails. It was a cloudless day with a 10-knot nor’wester. Yet, in spite of the perfect conditions, we lacked our usual confidence and enthusiasm. The day was too momentous, and we were too apprehensive. We didn’t go through our usual flippancies — the loud music, the singing along.

  Close to the entrance to Les Saintes Mairies de la Mer, I radioed the capitainerie. A young man waited for us at the first pontoon. He waved us into a berth and caught our rope. ‘We were expecting you, the capitainerie at Grande Motte let us know you were coming.’

  ‘Yes, they are very kind, merci beaucoup.’

  It was still hot when we tied up. Few people were outdoors, and unlike La Grande Motte, it was quiet. We sat in the cockpit for a while, relieved that this short sail had gone smoothly, then went ashore to visit the church.

  The following morning Felix felt well, so we cast off early to avoid the midday heat and made for the group of islands — Iles de Ratonneau and Pomègues, 3 miles south-west of Marseilles. At various times, Phoenicians, Greeks and Romans had laid claim to them.

  It was a clear morning with a good breeze, so we put up the sails and felt our old exuberance creep back. As we entered the Port du Frioul, our hearts skipped a beat. In a setting that looked more like a stage set than ancient ruins stood the erect pillars of a Roman temple, while on the horizon, a fully rigged, three-masted ship, its sails billowing, was gliding in an easterly direction.

  We pulled into the marina and made fast. Two small sloops were tied to the pier, but there were no other signs of life. We felt an eerie sensation that we were intruders transported back in time. Apart from a marina, a few houses and a café at Port du Frioul, these islands were uninhabited.

  At sunset, we climbed to the top of the hill for the spectacle that had brought so many impressionist painters here. As we sat on a rock high above Frioul, we watched the sun sink into the sea and felt Monet breathe over our shoulders.

  We spent two days alone in this silent port. On one side of us was the sea, and on the other Marseilles unfolded and fanned out along the coast. In between, the Château d’If, a tiny island with stone fortifications, rose from the sea. Built four centuries earlier by François I for the defence of Marseilles, it was later used as a prison for political and religious captives. The Château d’If was now a tourist attraction for fans of The Count of Monte Cristo. Dumas chose a dramatic setting for his hero, one we now had to ourselves, away from the masses of twentieth century tourists who had turned this coastline into a fairground.

  ‘I guess it’s time to move on to Marseilles,’ Felix said after two days.

  The Romans called Marseilles the biggest whorehouse in the Mediterranean. Some maintain it has been the toughest and dirtiest place since time immemorial. Today many claim it is also the most crime-ridden town in France.

  The most famous part of the port of Marseilles is its Vieux Port, where it all started, and around which the town expanded. While the rest of Marseilles has grown to keep up with the times, it has remained relatively unchanged, and retained its fabled romantic atmosphere for much of the twentieth century. But if a ghost were to visit his old stomping ground around the Vieux Port, he would now find pleasure yachts tied up to its pontoons, instead of the old clippers that had once plied the seas for trade. When I shut my eyes, I sensed the relief sailors must have felt to be home and safe here after weeks or months at sea. Even the drinking holes, we were told, had changed little.

  We were lucky when we motored into the Vieux Port. Without asking for permission, we pulled into a berth just being vacated by a Dutch boat. A touch of chutzpah is not a bad thing sometimes. We asked for permission to tie up here after we were safely ensconced. As we were pulling into the marina, we noticed a young man observing us with interest. When we returned from the office he seemed anxious to talk.

  ‘I notice you have an Australian flag. Was your boat built in Australia?’

  ‘Yes,’ Felix replied.

  ‘I have never seen a boat built in Australia. Would you mind if I come on board and have a look?’ We were taken aback but were reluctant to say no. He looked respectable enough — in his 20s, dark hair, clean-shaven, neat, in a pair of beige slacks, brown boat shoes and a striped T-shirt. It hadn’t occurred to us that he might be a druggie, a criminal or that he might have had an ulterior motive for looking over the boat. Yet there was something about him that made us uncomfortable. Perhaps it was the unusual French he spoke. But then along the coast there were so many newcomers from Africa whose accents varied, depending on where they came from.

  Once on board, however, he chatted about Marseilles but gave nothing away about himself. Then he asked whether he could have a drink. ‘So how long do you expect to stay in Marseilles?’ He settled himself on the settee and we wondered how long he was likely to stay. We were anxious to go ashore.

  ‘Oh, just a couple of days. We intend to move along the coast for another three weeks. Then we plan to leave the boat somewhere near here for the winter. Do you know a marina where we could do that?’

  As soon as I’d said this, I realised I’d made a mistake, and appreciated the fact that Felix didn’t kick me under the table.

  ‘Oh yes, no problem, I’ll talk to a friend I have and I’ll come back this evening and let you know.’ It was all very promising. He had drunk the best part of a bottle but appeared unaffected.

  ‘Meet me at that bar over there,’ he pointed to a bar on the Quay du Port, ‘at 9 o’clock this evening and I’ll be able to give you all the information.’

  After he’d left we were still not at ease, but strangely pleased to have met someone who could help us find a wintering place for Galatea. We walked to the end of the marina to inspect the offerings in the fish market at the Quay des Belges, a mistake on a hot day. To flee the smell, we quickly trotted off towards the bars, cafés and pizzerias near the Quay de Rive Neuve.

  We settled into cane chairs under the blue awning of a small café overlooking the water. Culinary odours drifted onto the footpath, and French chansons filled the airwaves. A waiter floated effortlessly from table to table, and with a professional sweep of his arm, presented us with the menu. We ordered eggplant fritters and half a carafe of white house wine. At a table next to us sat a middle-aged man with a navy beret, smoking a pipe, a glass of wine in one hand and a newspaper in the other.

  At another table, a German couple with a dachshund were eating pasta and drinking red wine. The eggplant fritters were still sizzling when the waiter put our plates down.

  ‘Umm, delicious. Crisp on the outside, soft on the inside.’ We sipped the wine and continued to sit and gaze over the marina, taking deep breaths of sea air sp
iced with a touch of fish odour, and reflecting on our good fortune.

  ‘Let’s move on and have coffee where the action is,’ Felix suggested.

  The Canebière is Marseilles’s main fashionable avenue, where people lounge in outdoor cafés and restaurants, and elegant women promenade between shops. We went in search of pâtisseries and espressos.

  We returned to Galatea at 6.30 to shower before our appointment with the young man whose name we had carelessly forgotten to ask.

  By now the Vieux Port and the area surrounding it were a blaze of bright lights. Preened people stepped off boats for the night’s entertainment. I was apprehensive, but Felix didn’t let on whether he was.

  As we neared the bar, the music was deafening. Young men with black hair and sharp eyes filled the bar and the outdoor tables. I felt them stare in a puzzled way as we made for an empty table in a corner. It was the seediest bar on that strip. Felix and I looked at each other.

  ‘What will you drink?’ a grim waiter asked in a gruff tone. ‘Mineral water,’ I said, too frightened to ask for anything else.

  ‘A Carlsberg beer,’ Felix said.

  The men kept turning to look at us. The language they spoke was unlike the French we were used to.

  ‘I want to get away,’ I whispered.

  ‘We can’t, the bloke should be here any minute. He said 9 o’clock. We said we’d be here.’

  ‘I don’t care what he’s arranged, we shouldn’t have anything to do with him.’

  ‘Sure, we won’t have anything to do with him, but it may be unwise for us not to wait and at least pretend that we’re going to leave Galatea with his friend.’

  We continued to whisper.

  ‘Do you want anything to eat?’ the waiter snapped.

  ‘Do you have pizza?’

  ‘Yes,’ was the sharp reply. He walked away before we’d told him what kind of a pizza we wanted.