George's Grand Tour (4 page)

‘Psssh, that's already too much.'

‘Well I think it gives you more freedom, in a way. I get out and about a lot more now I have my mobile.'

‘Oh right,' laughed Charles, ‘because you were living like a nun before?'

‘No, I just think mobiles bring people closer.'

‘Closer?' said George. ‘The reason I live in the country is so
I don't get pestered all the time, so I'm not sure that bringing people closer to me—'

‘George,' Charles interrupted, ‘you've been living in the country for eighty-three years, it's not like you chose to.'

‘No, but if I had been given the choice, I would have chosen to live exactly where I am. So that no one bothers me!'

Nobody had a good hand, and tiredness was starting to set in. The laying of cards had given way to wide yawns. Finally, Ginette was named winner and they put away the mat in the dresser covered in trinkets. It was time to unpack their bags and put on their well-ironed pyjamas.

Ginette's house was large, although she only occupied a small part of it; the rest was rented out in the summer to two families who had come here for their holidays for years. There was no lack of spare rooms, and so George and Charles each had their own.

George brought his things into his new quarters, a small bedroom with a bolster (far better than those little pillow things), a brown chenille bedcover and a large wardrobe that smelled of mothballs. The mattress looked like a good one. And if he was honest, if there was one thing that really scared him about this mad trip, it was the beds they'd have to sleep in. He had brought earplugs for the noise and citronella for the mosquitoes, but bedding was anyone's guess. After carrying out the briefest of ablutions in the small washroom he shared with Charles, he sat on the bed, pulled off his slippers and lay down carefully, breathing a sigh of relief as he did so. This bed would do just fine. He
picked up his book, a thriller by Mary Higgins Clark, but found he could not concentrate on it. His head was spinning, buzzing, humming, restless and full of thoughts. It seemed like his mind was trying to tell him something. It had to be said, George was unfortunately prone to occasional rushes of optimism.

Good grief, he was feeling marvellous. It was as though the bed had been made for him, and around him it was as silent as it was in his own home, with nothing but a very quiet rustling if he really listened hard – was it the wind in the pine trees or the sound of the Atlantic? Perhaps he was imagining it. The geometric pattern of the wallpaper in varying shades of beige was soothing, almost hypnotic. The two meals had been delicious, yet unpretentious. George couldn't stand pretentious cooking. Or pretentious anything else, for that matter. The meals had been simple, as if Ginette had not gone to any great pains to prepare them. But fifty years of married life had taught him that she had probably spent the whole morning cooking, and perhaps even the night before as well. Did she cook like that all the time, making simple dishes just how he liked them?

He'd be glad to come here again, as a matter of fact. Would Ginette perhaps invite him back sometime? Maybe they could stay another night instead of stopping off in Gâvres? He didn't really fancy spending a day with cousin Odette. He didn't know her, and didn't feel inclined to change that; she had always sounded rather difficult. And she was a bit of a God-botherer, which was not George's cup of tea at all. What would Charles think of this change of plan? It wouldn't affect the schedule too much, after all, and it would mean they could all go and visit
Noirmoutier together. The island was meant to be spectacular whatever the weather. All these thoughts lulled George into a deep, simple sleep. Perfectly simple.

The next morning he woke up in a delicious state of confusion. He had slept so well that he woke up with no idea where he was or what time it was. For a few seconds, he felt as good as new. The sun was up. 8.47 a.m. A miracle. He lay in bed without moving a muscle.

Meanwhile, Ginette and Charles were in the kitchen preparing breakfast in their dressing gowns. Ginette was very proud of her kitchen, which was equipped with all the mod cons. Her son had convinced her to have it completely redone two years earlier and she had chosen a red design from Ikea. The trinkets that covered almost every inch of flat surface were the only things that predated the Ikea trip.

They were speaking in low voices because they were talking about George. Ginette had heard he was in a bad way, and asked
after his health with the requisite tone of concern. Charles, on the other hand, was not worried.

‘Oh, he's fine. George is going to live to be a hundred. He's as strong as an ox, he'll outlive us all.'

‘But weren't you telling me that the doctors—'

‘No, no, no. Firstly, it's not
the doctors
, it's his GP, who's diagnosed him with all kinds of things over the last twenty years, and is always trying to stuff him with pills. Because George never takes them, his GP is forever convinced he's going to keel over and die any minute. But I'm telling you that's not going to happen any time soon.'

‘Glad to hear it.'

‘Of course, only I'm not sure he agrees. Everything that's really wrong with George is going on in his head. He's a bit … sort of … depressed. So that's why I thought a change of scene wouldn't do him any harm.'

‘A touch of depression then, you think?'

‘More than a touch, actually. But don't mention it to him or he'll fly off the handle. Thérèse tried once, she told him about her homeopath in Bressuire. Apparently homeopathy is quite good for stuff like that. Well, he told her where to go, and that was the end of that.'  

‘Shhhh!' said Ginette, hearing George's footsteps in the corridor.

‘He'll live to be a hundred, I'm telling you,' Charles murmured emphatically.

‘Morning everyone!' George boomed. He looked as fresh as a daisy. ‘I slept marvellously. Hats off to your bed, Ginette.'

‘That's good to hear! Coffee, George?'

‘Why not!'

Breakfast was a masterclass in theatrical asides, with Ginette muttering to her brother, ‘He seems on top form, for someone who's got depression'; George whispering to Charles about his proposed change of itinerary; Charles privately asking Ginette if they could impose for another night; and George anxiously nagging Charles for the answer.

Finally, when the bread had been put away and the bowls had been washed and dried, they were all agreed that Charles and George would stay another night, a plan that suited everyone. The two companions would leave early the next morning, have lunch in Gâvres with the cousin, and then off they would go to Brest, the first step of the 2008 Tour, where they had booked a room at the Hôtel du Centre. In the meantime, they would go cockle picking in the Passage du Gois in Noirmoutier, the very spot where Olano had waved a dramatic farewell to his chances of winning the Tour in '99. His head full of optimism, and anecdotes from Tours gone by, George began a day that would hold a special place in his pacemaker-fitted heart.

Saturday 27 September

Brest (Finistère)

Adèle looked at her watch. 8.57 p.m. France was an hour ahead, so it was a bit late to call her grandfather. She had promised herself she would call him once a week; that was ten days ago. She had kept missing her moment. But she remembered the Saturday-night entertainment show must still be going, so there was a chance he would answer. Her grandfather picked up at the second ring.

‘Hello, Adèle?' he said, sounding much more cheerful than usual.

‘Yes, Grandpa, it's me,' she replied, a little surprised. ‘How are you, Grandpa?'

‘Fine, great, I'm just sitting in the living room, watching the telly.'

Something wasn't quite right. Admittedly, Adèle's phone calls were rare, but normally she could have predicted in advance
exactly what her grandfather would say. The only time it had been different had been when her grandmother had died. Her grandfather didn't sound natural, and the TV was turned right up. She heard a strange voice in the background: ‘At the roundabout, take the second exit.'

She double-checked that it was the landline she had called.

‘Are you sure everything's alright, Grandpa?'

He took a few moments to reply, and she heard a murmuring sound, almost a hissing.

‘Yes, everything's fine, nothing to report really. Everything fine with you?'

‘Yes, everything—'

‘Great, well, lots of love!'

‘Grandpa, have you got people round?'

‘No, there's no one else here, I'm just watching tele—'

BAM! A deafening sound like a gunshot rang down the line.

‘Grandpa, what's going on? GRANDPA!'

The line went dead before Adèle could work out what was happening. She redialled the number frantically. The phone rang and rang, but no answer. She tried the mobile. Same thing. Her heart was racing, and her imagination went into overdrive. Had it really been a gunshot? An explosion? Maybe his stove … That stove was as old as Methuselah. It must have blown up. Or a thief with a gun? Most farmers had a shotgun out there in the sticks. What could she do? Call the police? But what was the number of the French police? At last her grandfather picked up.

‘Grandpa? Grandpa, are you alright? Are you hurt?'

‘Oh sweetheart,' George replied shakily.

‘What's going on?' Adèle asked with panic in her voice.

‘Promise me you won't tell your mother.'

Adèle was taken aback but somewhat reassured. If he was hatching secret plans to fool his daughter, things could not be as bad as all that.

‘But Grandpa, what—'

‘Adèle, sweetheart,' answered her grandfather, sounding a little more stable now. ‘Nothing's wrong, but you have to promise me not to say anything to your mother, otherwise she'll get hysterical and that won't be good for any of us.'

Adèle reluctantly agreed. And so her grandfather explained that they were in the car, and that Charles had tried to turn off the sound of ‘the nice lady in the GPS', but that he had got the wrong button, and while he was hurriedly trying all the knobs and buttons in the Scenic, he hadn't seen the car in front slowing down to turn right.

‘But how come you're in a car when I'm calling your landline? And where are you anyway?'

‘We're about thirty kilometres from Brest. We've diverted the calls.'

‘From Brest? In
Brittany
?'

‘Yes, in Finistère.'

Her grandfather's house in Chanteloup. Brest. The two places were at least five hundred kilometres apart.

‘But, Grandpa, what on earth are you doing in Brest?'

‘We've decided to do the Tour de France.'

‘Grandpa, don't tell me—'

‘No, no, not on bikes. We're only doing it in a car.'

Just to clarify, Adèle replied, ‘Three thousand kilometres in a car.'

Her grandfather felt a rush of pride. It was the first time that someone had found it impressive. He couldn't help adding:

‘Three thousand five hundred, actually.'

But he instantly regretted saying it.

‘And the doctors, have you seen your doctor, what did he say about it?'

‘Pffff … you know what doctors are like. Damned idiots, the lot of them.'

‘You're not on your own, though, are you? Have you at least told someone what you're doing?'

‘Charles is with me, and his whole family knows, they even encouraged us to do it,' said George, cackling ruefully to himself.

‘OK. But Grandpa, why the Tour de France?'

‘Because that's what we wanted to do.'

This straightforward answer took her by surprise. It was an endearing response, touching even, and made her grandfather seem more human, ageless, a bit like herself, a bit like everyone else. It was normal to want to go away, just like that.

‘So are we agreed? Not a word to your mother.'

And suddenly everything came back to her: the pills, his fading eyesight, his rheumatism, and all the clichés that accompany old age. Finally she said, with a hint of irritation:

‘I don't know, Grandpa, you know what Mum's like … And you are taking risks with your health.'

‘Adèle, I'm not dead yet, you know.'

‘Right, well, I've got to go, Grandpa. I'll … I'll call you later.'

It was almost midnight. George and Charles had finally arrived at the Hôtel du Centre in Brest, three hours later than they had intended. They had been badly shaken by the accident. It was not the first time either of them had been in a crash, but this one had been so unexpected, so ridiculous and surreal that they were both still in shock. It was almost enough to make them regret ever having started the Tour. It looked as though the first step could end up being the last. And yet. And yet the adventure had got off to such a good start … especially for George.

George and Ginette had got along famously. Even Charles, who was not the most perceptive person at the best of times, had picked up on it. They had hung around for so long in Notre-Dame-de-Monts that they had simply struck the stopover in Gâvres from their itinerary – and Charles's cousin with it. Charles had initially been reluctant to call her with a trumped-up excuse, but had ended up grudgingly complying, rolling his eyes like a moody teenager. The three friends had enjoyed another exquisite meal on Ginette's patio. Over coffee, as George and Charles were starting to think about getting going, Ginette, who, like most women, never missed a trick, announced that she would be joining them in Nantes. Just to ‘say hello'. Apparently it would also be a good chance to visit a few friends in the area, and for her to treat herself to a bit of window-shopping. Not that she intended to buy anything, of course, because of the credit crunch.

Charles and George were aiming to get to Nantes on Tuesday 7 October. George could picture it already: the two heroes of
the Tour arriving to an adoring crowd, which was made up principally of Ginette. Charles replied in a mock-severe tone that the athletes' wives were strictly forbidden from all parts of the Tour. But George, on cracking form, found a quick comeback. ‘Ah, but that's perfect,' he said, ‘seeing as Ginette is neither your wife nor mine, and the rules clearly state that the Tour is open to “any and all wild-card entries”.' Ginette feigned a blush and Charles said, chuckling, ‘Well, if it's in the rules …'

They drank to the rules with a small glass of plum brandy (only one finger for Charles, who was driving). In order not to miss each other in Nantes, Ginette showed her brother and George how to save her number in George's phone. She wrote ‘Ginette Bruneau', along with her home and mobile numbers, and took George's details too. They promised to call each other to arrange a time and a place to meet. These happy moments changed George's idea of what the Tour was going to be like, but there was one thing he had never been more sure of: nobody would be putting him in a home any time soon.

Now, sitting alone in his yellow and grey room in the Hôtel du Centre, looking at the old suitcase that he had not yet unpacked, he reflected with deep sadness that nothing was less certain.

He had imagined he would get away with it without anyone trying to stop him, and now the whole plan was out in the open. For three days he had been feeling more like himself, his old self, only to become once again the doddering grandpa with all his aches and pains, who was not to do anything in case he got too tired, and did himself harm. It was his own fault: he had so often indulged in the comfort of other people's sympathy. It had never
made the pain go away, but it had made him feel less hopeless. Now what he really needed was freedom, and, surprise, surprise, he found that he was refused it. George thought of Adèle. Would she tell her mother? Of course she would, that was why she had called him on that first evening. To keep an eye on him. And of course, she had caught him with his hand in the cookie jar. He would have liked to talk all this over with Charles, but he couldn't face getting up. He felt chained to his bed, in this yellow and grey bedroom.

The sound of the phone ringing made him jump.

‘Grandpa?'

‘Yes?'

‘OK, good, you've got your phone on you.'

‘Yes, yes,' said George wearily.

‘Do you know how to write texts?'

‘Erm …'

‘You know, the messages people send with mobile phones.'

‘Oh yes, I know what you mean, but sending them … well, that's another story …'

‘OK, ask Charles, or at the hotel reception, they'll show you how.'

‘But why do you want me to write texts?'

‘Because you're going to send me one every day,' said Adèle firmly, a hint of mischief in her voice.

George was beginning to feel hopeful. She hadn't said anything about Françoise.

‘Every evening, Grandpa, you're going to send me a text. One, to let me know
how
you are, and two, to let me know
where
you are.'

‘How I am and where I am. Got it.'

‘Every evening, OK? If a night goes by without one, I'm coming to find you and I'm telling Mum. OK?'

‘OK, it's a deal. No need to worry, I'll send you one every evening. Right. Even this evening?'

‘Yes, even this evening, as a test run. You can send them whenever, I work nights.'

‘OK, fine. Was there … anything else?'

‘No, but take care of yourself, Grandpa, OK?'

‘Will do, sweetheart. OK, bye now.'

He hung up before Adèle had the chance to answer, and hurried over to Charles's room.

‘Charles, my friend, the Tour needs you!'

Adèle stood alone in the middle of the cluttered, dimly lit set, trying to get to grips with what she had just found out. That he'd diverted his calls. His rather feeble attempt to pull the wool over her eyes. That he'd been in an accident. And now the Tour de France. When all this time she had imagined him comfortably ensconced in his armchair! Was his heart going to be able to cope with all this? Ought she just to have told him to go back home and contacted her mother? Françoise had been quite clear: she didn't wish to be troubled for the next two months except in a real emergency. Did her grandfather gallivanting up and down the roads of France count as a real emergency? No, probably not. Adèle had memories of him obsessively following the Tour de France on television. She had been little at the time, but she remembered the men talking loudly around the TV set. Yes, he was old and ill, but he was still responsible for his own actions.
He wasn't a child. And yet she had just treated him like one, a child who has to call his parents every five minutes to reassure them everything is fine. It was complicated, and Adèle regretted getting involved in the first place. She of all people, who had taken so little notice of her grandparents for so long …

The familiar sounds of the film set brought her back to reality – if you could call it that. This crooked house, which was the setting, the stage and the main character of the film, had been her whole life for the last eleven days. The actors were sitting on the black wooden steps in their post-war costumes, devouring their dinner from plastic plates and chatting with the technicians, who were dressed in jeans. It was time Adèle made her own visit to the canteen, which had been set up on the ground floor.

She felt less stressed than she had during the first few days, but also much less enthused. She was beginning to get to know the team not only in professional terms (who did what, who answered to whom), but also on a personal level, and those she connected with were few and far between. She did her best to avoid everyone else. It wasn't that Adèle was antisocial; in fact she had a lot of friends. Two hundred and nineteen on Facebook at last count. But, to use her grandfather's expression, sometimes she just wanted to be left the hell alone, especially in a job she wasn't being paid to do. So she kept her distance, even from those whose company she found perfectly pleasant. In a place where excessive familiarity was the norm, she stuck to polite and strictly professional exchanges. She had spent enough time on film sets to know that friendships formed there were as fake as the actors' moustaches. People became friends for life after three takes, and forgot each other before the wrap party hangover had
lifted. It was better not to make friends at all, in order to avoid disappointment.