George's Grand Tour (12 page)

Friday 10 October

La Celle-Guenand–Loches (Indre-et-Loire)

When George pulled back the curtains in his bedroom in the château at La Celle-Guenand, he saw that the weather had cleared up again. It was cold, but there wasn't a cloud in the sky, and the newly gold leaves shone in the bright autumn sun. He had not slept well – the bed was very old, but this time he would not be complaining to reception. The chatelaine was lovely, an elegant and slim woman several years his senior. She looked after the château herself, renting out its dozen or so bedrooms to tourists, which must have been damn hard work. Everything looked worn out, threadbare and faded, yet George could tell that at one time his surroundings had been sumptuous. Even the carpet in his room had a noble history: the chatelaine had managed to acquire it through some well-connected friends during the renovation of the Ritz in Paris.

George was late for breakfast, which was served in the old armoury two floors down. The château had a magnificent staircase whose stone steps were worn from centuries of use. George was blinded for a moment by a ray of sunlight that came in through one of the large windows, causing him to lose his footing and slip just at the place where the steps were narrowest. The rest of his body tumbled after his feet, but how and in what order George would not be able to recall.

Fifty-eight minutes later he arrived at the hospital in Loches, where the doctor who saw him, although amused by the story of this unusual Tour de France, made it quite clear: the Tour ended here.

George was woken up by the arrival of his meal tray. After a moment of calm, the pain hit him with its full force. Was it the evening or the next day? No, it was evening. The nurse pushed his bed upright. He was weak, and felt as though his limbs were made of lead. He was finding it difficult to breathe. There was a drip attached to his arm and various machines were flashing next to him. He was alone, truly alone. He did not have his mobile phone next to him on the bedside table. There was a little sign stuck to the door: ‘Mobile telephones strictly forbidden.' He didn't touch his meal. He took his various tablets, one of which he could see was a sleeping pill, reclined his bed again with the remote control and waited for the medication to take the pain away.

Adèle hung up the phone. Thérèse, the wife of George's Tour teammate Charles, had just told her that her grandfather was in hospital and that his condition was critical. It would be terrible for her career to miss several days of shooting; she might not even get a reference from the production company. She thought about it for a few moments until she realised that someone else could fetch the coffee and be responsible for all her other menial tasks for a few days. She was going to see her grandfather and that was that. The production manager was initially reluctant, until she saw that Adèle was not asking for permission so much as informing her of her decision, and so instead told her she had to be back as soon as possible. It would be difficult to find another runner at such short notice. For the first time, it occurred to Adèle that she was perhaps more useful to them than she thought.

If she travelled overnight both ways she would only have to miss one day of work. She would take the train to Paris on Monday evening, get a few hours' sleep on the sofa of a Parisian friend, then take an early train from the Gare Montparnasse, arriving in Tours in the morning, where she would take a regional train to Loches. She would arrive at the hospital by lunchtime. She would only have a few hours there: she would have to catch a train from Paris in the late afternoon. During this one visit she would have to be brave enough to tell her grandfather what she had been turning over and over in her mind since the previous evening. All she had to do was find the courage to say it aloud.

Of all the hardships that George now had to endure, one stood out from the rest: he was no longer able to send and receive texts. He didn't feel cut off from the world, but he did feel deprived of a great pleasure. He was unable to express himself, and he felt very far away from his granddaughter and from Ginette. As for the rest of it, the doctor had seen him this morning to inform him that he was in for a long day of tests, scans and examinations. He was going to be dragged from department to department all day long. He had to find a way of getting his phone back.

Just then, a hospital worker came in to collect his tray.

‘Excuse me, Monsieur,' George asked, ‘do you think you could pass me my jacket over there? I think my mobile is in one of the pockets.'

‘Ah, I'm afraid mobile phones aren't allowed in the hospital building,' replied the man in his West African accent. ‘And here they're real sticklers for it. Even the staff aren't allowed. But you
can transfer your calls to your room telephone. Your family can call you on that.'

‘Oh, but it's not the same thing.'

‘I know, I hear you … OK, well I'll have a look in your jacket anyway, where is it?'

‘Oh thank you! It's there, in the left-hand pocket. Is it on?'

‘No, it's off.'

‘Oh.'

‘I've got one too. My wife always says she doesn't know how anyone ever managed without them. And I always say: just fine!'

‘Yes, exactly,' lied George.

‘I had to get one when I was looking for work; at the job centre they told me it'd be much easier with a mobile. Oh, and of course, it's perfect for calling my mistress.'

George wasn't sure if he'd heard right. The man burst out laughing.

‘I really had you there, didn't I!' and he let out another high-pitched laugh. ‘You believed me, huh? Hehehehe! For calling my mistress, that's a good one!'

And actually, it had made the patient forget about all the machines and tubes for a few moments.

‘Well, I don't want to keep you here all evening with my problems,' said George meekly.

‘Oh no, I'm done for the night. But I like to talk with my patients now and again.'

George thought it was a little strange that he was talking about the patients as though they were his own. He felt rather ashamed when the man said:

‘I was a doctor in Africa back in the day, well, a long time ago now …'

George thought to himself that it couldn't have been easy to be cleaning floors if you were a qualified doctor.

But the man continued:

‘But I'm telling you, life's much better over here – especially with your thirty-five hour weeks!'

‘And you're from Loches?' An African family would definitely have been something of a rarity in this area.

‘No, Chaumussay. We have a little house in Chaumussay, it's a lovely place. Goes without saying that we're the only black people in the village, but everyone's used to that by now. Apart from the English, mind you; they always look so scared when they turn up on their bikes! Hehehe. But I'm originally from Cameroon.'

They carried on talking for a good quarter of an hour, and even though George was starting to feel exhausted, he was grateful to this man for keeping him company. And it wasn't every day he got to speak to someone from Cameroon.

He finally plucked up the courage to ask the question that had been on his mind since they had started talking.

‘Listen, this might seem, well … I guess it's complicated. I was wondering if … if … if you could possibly take my mobile phone with you when you leave and read my text messages in the car park, just to see if there's anything urgent on there, you see. And then you can tell me what's in them tomorrow, or whenever you have time. But only if it's not too much trouble, of course.'

‘It's no trouble at all! But if you'd prefer, I can go down to the
car park now, and come back when I've read them. I'll take notes if there are a lot of them. My memory's not what it used to be.'

He put his large, wrinkled hand into his breast pocket and pulled out his reading glasses, a little orange notebook and a pencil that had been sharpened so much that it was nothing more than a little stub. George smiled; he had one just the same in his overalls at home.

George carefully explained to him how the phone worked and how to access his voicemails. The man took careful notes.

‘Alright, I'll be back in five minutes.'

A few moments later, a nurse came in to prepare him for bed, and George was reminded of the injuries he had managed to forget. Five minutes later, the hospital worker reappeared, brandishing his notebook.

‘You've got mail!' he said, chuckling.

He put his glasses on, opened his notebook and began to read very solemnly, like a parishioner reading a psalm at mass.

‘You got four texts. The first one is from Ginette Bruneau, it says: ‘The sun is out again, I had lunch out on the terrace with a friend and thought of your visit in September. I hope the weather will still be good when you come back. Love to both of you, take care of yourselves.' The second and third ones are from Adèle, and I think it's better if you just read what I've written down, because they're in some kind of shorthand, and I don't … Well, anyway I copied everything out word for word.'

1. Adèle

Shoot almst ova, we r workin even hrder now, even on w/e. im
thinkin
bout goin away in nov if i dnt get mor (paid!) wrk. But til then iv got no time. How was chato CelleG?

(Shooting almost over, we are working even harder now, even on the weekend. I am thinking about going away in November if I don't get more (paid!) work. But until then I've got no time. How was Château La Celle-Guenand?)

2. Adèle

Hvnt hrd frm u. U OK?

(I haven't heard from you. You OK?)

‘And in the fourth one, which was also from Ginette, there was no message, just a photo. An MMS I think you call it.'

‘A photo? I've never had one of them before. A photo of what?'

‘The sea.'

The two men said nothing for a while. George sighed. He didn't know where Charles was, he didn't know whether to tell Adèle or not. She had better things to do than to trek out to the middle of nowhere to see her grandfather. What should he reply? Could he ask this man to reply for him?

‘I can reply to your ladies, if you like,' said the hospital worker before George had time to decide what he wanted. ‘When I go home.'

‘Oh, well if you could … But I'm not sure what I want to say to them.'

George explained to his new friend who these ladies were and told him all about the Tour de France.

‘The Tour de France?'

‘Yes, but not on a bike, right?'

‘Yeah, I'd guessed that much with your legs,' he chuckled. ‘But even so, three thousand five hundred kilometres in a car? That's some journey! You'll be heading to the south then? My wife and I have always wanted to visit the south – Saint-Tropez, right? Actually no, Saint-Tropez probably isn't as good as all that, and it's not really for the likes of us, is it? But the Tour went through Nîmes, didn't it?'

‘Stage thirteen, Narbonne–Nîmes.'

‘And then to Digne-les-Bains, I remember seeing them on telly.'

One thing led to another and before they knew it, the two men had been talking for over an hour.

‘So, have you decided what you're going to say to these ladies?'

George's face clouded over. After a moment's reflection he made some careful notes in the notebook and handed it back to the hospital worker, who read them in silence before putting the pencil, notebook and phone in his pocket.

‘OK, so I'll keep the phone for tonight, and if you never see me again, it'll be 'cause I've sold it on eBay and run off to Saint-Tropez, right?' He burst out laughing again. ‘Just kidding! Ask for George.'

‘That's my name too,' said George.

‘Well, there you go! Great minds think alike; no, great Georges think alike!' Another peal of high-pitched laughter.

And he walked away laughing. A few minutes later the doctor walked in with bad news. They would have to operate in three days' time. General anaesthetic.

Charles gently opened the door, and George was hit by a wave of sadness. He couldn't shake the feeling that by stopping now he was betraying his friend. He smiled weakly at him.

‘Charles.'

‘We came yesterday, but you were pretty out of it.'

‘Who's we?'

‘Thérèse and I.'

‘Oh, Thérèse … So she came all the way here? She's a good friend. But how are you doing, Charles?'

‘I'm fine.'

‘I'm sort of abandoning you, aren't I?'

‘No, no, not at all.'

‘Yes, I am, and I don't know what I can do about it. You know I'd love to keep going, if only for your sake …'

George had tears in his eyes; Charles couldn't meet his gaze. Instead, he made do with patting him on the arm.

‘They're going to operate on me, so …' said George in a whisper. ‘All those years we were neighbours … They were good years, you know.'

George stopped, unable to continue, but Charles knew what he was trying to say.

‘Of course, there were a few ups and downs along the way,' George added.

‘Oh sure, but on the whole …'

‘Yes, on the whole …' George nodded slowly. ‘So what are you going to do?'

‘Well, that's actually why Thérèse is here. Quite a lot has happened over the last few days, so I might as well start at the beginning. Firstly, I've spoken to some of the doctors here. This whole Tour thing … I'm not saying it's a miracle cure, but it really is helping, George, I can feel it. And the doctors agree. And Thérèse can see it as well. Nothing gets past her, you know. And she can tell it's working. I mean, of course, when I told her you'd had an accident she didn't think twice before coming here. We've been talking a lot, and we were thinking, if you're not game any more …'

‘Oh,' sighed George. ‘It's not that I'm not game, old chap, it's my body that's given up … And then there's that lot …' He gestured towards the corridor, where the nurses were hurrying about their work.

‘Alright, well, we'll see,' Charles said. ‘But anyway … what was I going to say …? Oh yes! We were at the Volkswagen dealer
this morning … and we've bought ourselves a camper van. It's got everything we need in it. We're going travelling!'

‘A camper van? Charles!' exclaimed George, grinning. ‘And you're really going to travel around in it? How long are you going away for?'

‘As long as it takes. We'll probably put the house up for sale. And Marcel, you remember Marcel from Erquy, the guy who went swimming every day?'

‘Oh yes, of course, Marcel.'

‘Right, well, Marcel and his wife might come with us.'

George didn't know what to say. He thought it was a marvellous idea. Finally, he asked:

‘And Thérèse is happy to come along? She won't mind leaving her dahlias and chickens for such a long time?'

‘It was her idea, George.'

They fell silent again, each man smiling to himself. George felt his eyes welling up again, but this time they were not tears of sadness.

‘I'd better get going. Thérèse is off buying the provisions, but we'll come back to see you tomorrow morning. I'll bring the brochure for the camper van. When is your operation?'

‘The day after tomorrow.'

‘Have you called Françoise?'

‘I've asked the doctors to try to get hold of her, wherever she is at the moment.'

‘And you're sure they'll find her?'

‘Oh yes, they'll track her down somehow. Email and all that. Right, Charles. Go and help Thérèse, and give her my love.
You're lucky, you know, Charles, to have a wife like that.'

‘I know, I know.'

Just as Charles was about to leave, George remembered something important:

‘Listen, if I do kick the bucket … I want you to write the inscription on my gravestone … in pig Latin!'

Charles smiled, told him not to be ridiculous, and left.

Once again, George was all alone in his room. He was still in pain, but he felt as though a weight had been lifted from his chest. Outside, the wind chased after the swirling autumn leaves. His room telephone rang. George let it ring a few times before he picked up.

‘Dad? It's me.'