EMMA
23 July 1980, 1 a.m. Somewhere south of Paris. Train.
So much for writing every day . . . Oops!!! If you want to be a proper writer, Emma, you should at least make the effort on this, your big adventure.
Just to note, so I don’t forget:
Great time in Paris – Louvre, Notre Dame (including the amazing Sainte-Chapelle with its stained glass), The Orangerie, Jeu de Paume and Musée Rodin. Lived on crêpes bought in the street, and cheap wine – 3F50 a bottle!
Let’s Go Europe
says sleeping in Paris is a waste of time and money. But I need my zzzzz, so stayed in a crowded hostel full of the first Americans I have ever come across not in a film. Met up with a group of girls from Washington State (which is different from Washington D.C. Whaaat?), who told me about when Mount St Helen’s erupted in May. One of them (Lori) talked about her dad driving them all away from their home as fast as he could, with the windscreen wipers going, washing off all the ash.
Most evenings I tripped around with the American gals ‘riding the Metro’, as they put it. Smells funny, the Metro, like perfume, cake and sewage all mixed up. And you can buy sweets and stuff from these machines they have on the platforms.
We ‘hung out’ outside the Centre Georges Pompidou, smoking, drinking wine, talking, eating baguettes and Camembert. Must have put on about half a stone while I was with them. I’m bloated with all the bread I’ve been allowing myself to eat. Must take care. Must eat more healthily/less.
Met a band from Brighton. They were busking on the concourse there and made loads of money. Said I’d get in touch once I got back!
How cool is that? Nothing like that happens in Ripon.
Read
Tess of the D’Urbervilles
in my down time. Poor girl.
Anyway, heading south now, where I hope it’s a bit warmer.
Must sleep.
23 July 1980, 1 p.m. Marseille. Restaurant on the Quai de Rive Neuve.
I’m going to try to be more descriptive with this. Paris bit was too brief. So:
This morning I stepped off the train at Gare St Charles and into the hot, herby air. It’s a different world to Paris. My preconceptions of this city – from reading about it in
Let’s Go
– didn’t do it justice. I saw it as a dirty urban sprawl, possibly quite Arabic in influence. In fact, it feels more how I’d imagine Italy to be, although it’s quite clean compared to English cities. And, despite the
Mistral
, which shoots along the alleyways blowing dust into your eyes, the light here is sparkling. You can see why the Impressionists all came down to the South.
Oh, I’ve got to record the old woman sitting next to me on the train. She was incredibly well dressed in what looked like a Chanel suit. Her face was caked in powder and she was drenched in some sophisticated perfume. I was practising my French on her, telling her about my university plans, and she seemed to be very
gentille
, very
sympa
.
But then, as we pass through the suburbs of Marseille, past a forest of tower blocks, she purses her bright red lips and says – as if she has some sour taste in her mouth – ‘That’s where
les
Arabes
live.’ She then goes on to tell me that
les Arabes
are parasites in France and that they should all go back to Algeria with their primitive habits!
I watch her as she’s talking and I realise that under all that finery and paint I’m looking at an ugly animal.
Luckily we only had another ten minutes before we hit the station, or I would have moved seats. I’ve never seen such hate in anyone. Never.
Picked up a map from the tourist office at the station and headed off with rucksack to the youth hostel.
Let’s Go
said it’s about an hour’s walk, but I must have got lost, because it took me nearly two . . .
It’s a beautiful, big old chateau with a cavernous living and dining area that must have once been a ballroom, but which now echoes to the sound of Jimi Hendrix being played very loudly by Hans, the German bum who is the warden. He wears nothing but a pair of tight little shorts and ends each sentence with ‘for example’. Don’t know how much of him I’ll be able to take.
There doesn’t seem to be anyone else staying there except a group of very jolly German boys I passed on my way out who I suppose are a bit older than me, so it looks like I’ve got the girls’ dorm all to myself! It’s like having a massive, very cheap (four francs a night) hotel room. A real treat after being crammed into the place in Paris.
Dumped my stuff and headed off down to town. Hans drew me a map showing me how to get to the bus stop. I’ve walked so much that my poor old feet didn’t want to make the journey all the way back into town. Blisters on my blisters, etc.
Got off the bus at the top of La Canabière – or, as the old sailors used to call it, the Can o’Beer (thanks,
Let’s Go
) – and strolled down to the port.
There’re loads of leery old men around, and they make these little clicking sounds as I go past. I’m beginning to find it quite annoying, worse than builders’ wolf whistles back home.
Then when I was wandering through the old town (
Le Panier
, a warren of little narrow alleyways and tiny shops), a man jostled past me and took a left just up ahead of me. As I passed the turning, I glanced down it and saw that he was just around the corner, leering at me, with his hand working away at his very stiff, very exposed, willy!!!!
I was so shocked, I laughed out loud. Don’t think that was the reaction he was hoping for . . .
What was he thinking? That I’d be turned on? Or scared? To be honest, I just think he was pathetic. He was at least as old as my dad. It’s disgusting.
Anyway, thankfully, a group of older women were coming up the alley towards me, hauling baskets full of vegetables and talking in thick accents that I couldn’t make head nor tail of, despite my French A level. At the sound of their voices, the man scuttled away.
Must make sure to keep on busier streets in future.
It’s annoying, though. If I were a boy, that wouldn’t have happened, would it?
Anyway, apart from the wanker, Marseille is amazing. I’m writing this sitting in a great little bar on the waterfront, smoking roll-ups and drinking a beer. So long as I concentrate on writing this, I don’t get interrupted.
Perhaps some of the FOUR men who have tried to talk to me since I sat here were just being genuinely friendly. If so, I’m missing out: it would be nice to talk to someone. But I can’t help suspecting they were all slimeballs.
So how do I meet people? Where are the young women? The only ones I see are with other people and don’t seem at all interested in meeting me. So perhaps I should go up to a boy and say hello. I have to remember that the whole point of travelling on my own like this is to be open to new people, new experiences. I made the decision to come here, and I am going to make it work, whatever happens.
But it’s scary. If I do go up to someone, what if he thinks I’m trying it on?
Again, can’t help thinking it would be different if I were a boy. Think of John Steinbeck, Jack Kerouac, the Durrells. Does the fact that I’m a girl stand in the way of having those sorts of adventures?
Rang home today. Yes. I am a little bit homesick. Never thought I’d miss my parents – couldn’t wait to get away from them.
But anyone I meet now is just part of a sea of passing faces: people passing me by. We travellers – and I think I can call myself that now – are blasé about saying goodbye. We do it every day to people and to places. I doubt, e.g., if I’ll ever see those girls from Washington State again. Shouldn’t imagine also that I’ll ever sit in this spot again in my entire life.
It’s strange: life’s a collection of experiences; the end of each one is a little death.
Sigh. That’s depressing. Wonder if I’m really cut out for travelling on my own? Still, it’s only for a month.
Tan’s coming on. Freckles all over my nose. Halfway through
The Bostonians.
A bit long-winded.
Going to have bouillabaisse later – the local fish soup, with a sort of chilli mayonnaise on the top. Sounds interesting – a far cry from Mum’s shepherd’s pie-type English grub.
I’m discovering the world, and the world’s discovering me! I’m going to take great care to try different sorts of food and eat well and healthily and regularly. I feel fat right now, but I have to remember what Doc Norman said: six stone, even for someone as short-arse as me, is underweight by normal standards.
I know she’s right, but, really, who wants normal standards?
KATE
2013
‘You were seriously good, though,’ Mark said as he and Kate
sat in the restaurant, a glass of champagne each, waiting for Tilly who was, as usual, running late. ‘If I hadn’t known you’d be uncomfortable I’d hardly have guessed.’
‘Though you are somewhat biased.’
Mark held up his hands. ‘Not a bit of it.’
Dinner out was in honour of Kate’s TV appearance that morning. She would far rather have gone home and either cooked something or got a takeaway: once out in a day was more than enough, as far as she was concerned. But, wanting to treat her, Mark had booked a restaurant that was close enough to his office for him to be able to cycle back for a late call he had with some challenging American clients.
On the plus side, she said to herself as she got ready to go out, it would be a treat to see him on a weekday evening. He had always worked late, but in the past year or so, it had become rare for him to get home before midnight. She didn’t mind. Being on call at the helm of capitalism was, after all, how he made all their money. It was why they could live their lives in the way they chose, why she could give much of her spare time – and a chunk of their spare cash – to Martha’s Wish.
No. She never, ever complained about his work. Martha aside – and, admittedly, that was quite a sizeable aside – she was aware that she could only count her blessings. Considering.
She sat back and cast an eye around the room. If a restaurant could be a person, this one would be Mark. Tucked away in Bankside behind the Tate Modern, it was one of his favourite places for bringing clients. The ambience was exactly him – expensively understated, shades of taupe, clean lines, not too much of anything. Jil Sander as opposed to Versace.
It had taken Kate a long time to pick up these codes from him, but now she had it as if she had been born to it. She knew which artists to admire, the right designers to wear. Even though she used it only rarely, she had the perfect car – an Audi cabriolet. Her clothes were simply, beautifully cut, her jewellery – most of which had been bought for her by Mark – was pared-down, clean-lined and surprisingly expensive for such simple-looking stuff.
It hadn’t always been like this. Along with her accent, her buying habits had been quite consciously modified.
‘Oysters?’ Mark asked. ‘While we wait for madam to turn up?’
Kate nodded. She had even brought herself to enjoy what she used to think tasted of nothing but ozone-infused snot. Of course, the fact that they contained virtually no calories helped.
The waiter placed a platter of ice, West Mersea rock oysters, Tabasco and shallot vinegar on their table and they scooped and sipped. Piano music – Kate identified it as Glenn Gould playing Bach Partitas – played at an almost subliminal level and the lighting was low, but not too low.
She glanced at their fellow diners, who blended almost imperceptibly with the decor, tinting the generous space between tables with the murmur of smiled conversation. The kind of place where wealthy married couples ate, this wasn’t where one would bring one’s lover. Or one’s adversary, come to that. Nor, Kate thought as she watched Tilly dash across the floor to join them, should one really bring one’s daughter. Completely changing the energy in the room, Tilly looked entirely out of place, all holey matt black tights, Doc Martens, tartan ski jacket and striped minidress.
‘Jeez, I’m sorry.’ She flopped onto the empty chair at their table. ‘Tyrone spilled this massive cake on the floor and I couldn’t let him clean it up on his own.’
‘So I see.’ Mark licked his thumb, reached over and wiped a blob of crusted, dried-on icing from her cheek. It was a curiously maternal gesture. But then, for a hard-working hedge fund manager, when it came to his daughter he could be a curiously maternal man.
‘Oh fuck. Have I been going around all day with stuff on my face?’ Tilly draped the back of her hand across her forehead and leaned away in a dramatic fashion. ‘The shame.’
While there was no perceptible change in the attitudes of their fellow diners, it was clear that Tilly had been noticed.
She really was too vibrant for the place.
‘Hey, guess what?’ Tilly abruptly leaned forward, and wiggled her elbows onto the table. ‘The famous vegan soap star Sally Peters had mystery meat pasty
again
today.’
‘No,’ Kate said in mock shock.
In her gap year, Tilly was working at the National Theatre staff canteen, serving, as she put it, ‘chips to the people with the jobs I want’. As well as free theatre tickets and cheap meals, the other perk of her job was keeping abreast of the eating habits of the stars. Only the day before she had told Kate of a famous film star, renowned for her slender beauty, who consumed only bacon butties and full-fat cola.
Mark poured Tilly a glass of champagne. ‘Here’s to your mother,’ he said. ‘For a great performance on
Hello UK!
’
‘We all watched it just before breakfast service,’ Tilly said, raising her glass then knocking back the whole lot in one. ‘Tyrone and Maria clapped after you’d done. Maria crossed herself and said, “Your mudda is a saint”.’
‘I’m hardly that.’
‘“She look like de angel of de lord!”’ Tilly waved her hands in the air, continuing her impression of Maria, who hailed from one of the West African countries where Martha’s Wish built schools, and whose continuous Christian pronouncements were a great source of amusement to all the other canteen staff. ‘“Praise de lord for your angel mudda”,’ Tilly went on.
‘Self-censorship, Tills,’ Mark said sternly, his eyes pointedly flicking to their most immediate neighbours, who were clearly earwigging what was going on. Although Kate was sure that Tilly wasn’t consciously displaying casual racism – it was just an accurate impersonation of an extreme character in her life – to an outsider it would look just like that.
Feeling her old friend shame stalking around her, Kate tried a couple of deep breaths. Her heart rate was up and she needed to seize control before it got out of hand.
‘Well, here’s to you, Mum, anyhow, and to Martha’s Wish.’ Tilly reached over for the champagne bottle and refilled her glass.
‘It’s all good for Martha’s Wish, that’s for sure,’ Kate said.
‘Amen to that.’ Mark polished off the last oyster. ‘Now, having kept us waiting for nearly half an hour, can you decide what you’re going to have, Tilly? I don’t know about you, but I’m starving, oysters are hardly filling, and I have precisely one hour in which to eat.’
Tilly fell silent and stared at the menu, twirling a blond curl around her finger, her eyes lowered behind mascara-smudged lashes. She was so present, so assured, so alive. She so reminded Kate of herself at eighteen, sometimes frighteningly so.
Finally, Tilly looked up. ‘I’ll have the steak frites with Roquefort sauce.’
Kate smiled. The one major difference between her daughter and her younger self was that Tilly had grown up with such a robust appetite. A source of great pride, this was one less box for her to tick on the guilt list she lugged around in her heart.
The waiter took their orders, then brought the Barolo Mark had picked out, pouring while the family sat in silence. After he left, Kate sat back and took in the moment. They were all there, the people she loved. She didn’t need to do her habitual family head count. The evidence was in front of her. Those who remained were all safe, all well, all accounted for.
‘I’ve got an announcement to make,’ Tilly said, and both Mark and Kate looked at her with raised eyebrows. When she had their full attention, she went on, ‘I’ve finally decided what I’m going to do with all the vast reserves of cash I’ve stockpiled from the chips job.’
Even though they were able to hand Tilly money whenever she needed it, Kate and Mark saw it as vital that their privileged daughter learned its value. They had sent her to a very good private girls’ day school – state schools in South London being, in Mark’s view, out of the question – but Kate considered it an important part of her education to realise that there were other, less lucky people in the world. It was because of this that she had taken her along on the West African field trip that resulted in the Face of Kindness photograph. And, for the past two Christmases, Tilly had arranged, off her own bat, to help serve dinners at a homeless shelter.
In October, she was going to Bristol University to read drama. Mark had wanted her to do English at his old college at Oxford, whereas she had been set on drama school. The final plan was a compromise that had taken Kate a lot of work to broker between the two of them. Until she went up to university, the deal was that Tilly could live at home in Battersea for free, but any extras would have to be saved up for from her earnings. Rather impressively, she had applied herself to putting aside every spare penny. The last time Kate had asked, she had stashed over two thousand pounds.
‘So then, what’s it to be?’ Kate said, bracing herself.
‘I’m going travelling.’
It was as Kate had feared. ‘What?’
‘I’m orf to Greece,’ she said, her arms out as if she were taking a bow at the Royal Shakespeare Company.
Kate gasped. ‘
What?
’
‘I’m going to Greece,’ Tilly said again, frowning at her mother’s extreme reaction. ‘And then I’ll slowly work my way back up north.’
‘But
why
?’ Kate said, and Tilly looked at her as if she were mad.
The waiter arrived and seemed to take an age to put their plates down in front of them.
‘What on earth do you want to go travelling for?’ Kate said as soon as he had left. Suddenly her goat’s cheese soufflé didn’t look as appetising as it had on the menu, and her damn heart was racing again, knocking against her ribcage, almost deafening her. She reached in her pocket and touched the stone with the hole in it.
‘Where do I start? OK. I want to see more of the world. It’s not like you’ve exactly treated me to the most exotic holidays. Cornwall, Cornwall and Cornwall.’
‘And New York and West Africa,’ Mark said. ‘You’re in danger of sounding a bit spoiled.’
Tilly snorted. ‘Come on, Dad. A family visit and a Martha’s Wish field trip. Don’t really count as holidays, do they? Thanks to you being always busy at work and Mum’s issues with planes, I was the least travelled girl in my class.’
‘
Touché
,’ Mark said, holding up his hands.
‘Why to
Greece
of all places?’ Kate said.
‘I want to visit the birthplace of The Drama,’ Tilly said, oblivious to the well-disguised unravelling of her mother next to her. ‘I want to see the skene, the parados, the Orchestra. And, um, let’s see.’ She counted the reasons off on her fingers, which Kate noticed were almost as chapped and raw-looking as her own and wondered if she was provided with washing-up gloves at work. ‘Cradle of civilisation? Sandy beaches? Beautiful countryside? Warm and welcoming people? Blue, blue, blue, blue sea?’
‘Greece
is
jolly nice, Kate,’ Mark said. ‘And Tilly’s a big, sensible girl now. We’ve got to let her go one day.’
It was all right for him. His experience of the country was utterly benign, consisting solely of two weeks in Corfu as a fifteen-year-old, staying with a school friend whose family owned a vast estate on the north-east shore. He remembered it as
My Family and Other Animals
with gorgeous Italian girls thrown in.
But for Kate it was the most inauspicious place in the world. A place that had pulled her towards it along a path of misery, and then completely derailed her life. She didn’t want her daughter to go travelling, and, call her superstitious, but she certainly didn’t want her anywhere near Greece. It would be tempting fate.
Kate realised she was stroking the side of her nose, the place that she knew could often end up raw and red if she didn’t watch what she was doing.
‘It’s very different these days, as you well know,’ she told Mark, forcing her hand down and trying a more reasoned tactic. ‘I saw this documentary. Athens is seething with feral dogs and drug addicts. There are riots; people set fire to themselves in front of the parliament building. It’s a desperate place.’
‘Don’t believe everything you read in the papers,’ Tilly said. ‘And in any case, that’s just Athens, Mum.’ She rolled her eyes. She was used, after all, to having an overprotective mother, and had learned through the years to bear this burden of the surviving sibling with good humour. ‘You remember Ilona, the Greek girl from school, right? She’s working front of house at the National at the moment and she says it’s nowhere near as bad as they make out on the news, even in Athens. And it’s great on the islands – people are so glad to see tourists, and everything’s super cheap, so I’ll be able to stay a really long time.’
‘Tuck in, Kate,’ Mark said. He and Tilly had made good headway with their meals, but Kate had yet to start her food.
She looked at her plate, fork poised but stilled.
‘Look, if you’re worried about Tilly in Athens,’ Mark said, glancing at something that had flashed up on his iPhone, ‘I’ll make sure she stays somewhere nice, in a safer part of town.’
Tilly shook her head, making her skull-shaped earrings clatter as she did so. ‘Thanks, Dad. But I’ve already booked a hostel online. I’m doing this on my own.’
‘Already booked?’ Kate said. Her voice squeaked. To try to disguise her panic, she slipped a tiny piece of the soufflé between her lips. The salty, rich taste nearly made her gag.