Loving Amélie (12 page)

 
It occurred to him that she either hoped or assumed he wasn’t
‘attached’ to Amélie’s ‘mum in Paris’: intuition or simply the bold gambit of
the modern woman? She was attractive, if a little buttoned-up; and he could
easily imagine her naked - smooth- limbed as a mannequin - and mollified by a
few glasses of good wine. He wanted to be moved, excited at the prospect of a
clandestine meeting with Gabriella Dixon in a European city, but he felt the
fingernails of doubt and disappointment sinking into his flesh, bringing him
fully to his senses.

“Perhaps we can share a taxi?”
she asked him on the platform, as passengers alighted with their luggage and
began to stream past them into the busy station. “Where are you going?”

“My wife is picking me up. It
was lovely to meet you,” he replied, unable to meet her gaze but touching her
lightly on the small of her back.

 
Her footsteps slowed beside them as he wheeled Amélie
resolutely away into Paris.

Chapter Twelve

Chris pointed to the
Rue Saint Georges
on his pocket map and gave the taxi driver instructions in English:
satisfied that he had had a stab in French, but had been met with a blank look
and the response: “Anglais?”

After about twenty minutes, the
driver’s incessant muttering and covert whistling made Chris suspicious that he
and Amélie were being taken on a circuitous, costly route:

“I’m thinking anywhere here
will do,” he said, firmly, when twenty minutes had elapsed and he hadn’t
recognised any of the street names on his map. “
Arretez ici, s’il vous plait!”

“No, no, we are near,” replied
the driver, who brought his cigarette arm back in through the window, performed
a swift U-turn amidst a cacophony of blaring horns and steered them down a side
street: to Chris’s relief the
Rue Saint Georges.

The metre displayed a fee of
seventeen Euros: feeling it was within his moral rights to play the witless
tourist that he had been cast, Chris proffered fifteen:

“Sorry. It’s all I have.
Merci,” and he, Amélie and their luggage hastily scrabbled out of the taxi.

Their hotel was a smart
Parisian townhouse situated near a
Metro
station. They climbed a few steps into a
tiled reception area with an elaborate wooden desk and a revolving plastic
stand bedecked with Tourist Information leaflets: everything from bateaux trips
on the Seine to evenings of glamour and enticement at the
Moulin Rouge
. Chris browsed through the
display while he waited for the concierge to come off the telephone.

“Ah, you must be Mr Chris
Skinner from London!” the latter cried. He was a tall, rotund Frenchman in a
brocade waistcoat, with black oily curls and a beard. He wore spectacles with
unfashionably thick lenses that didn’t flatter his lively blue eyes and
generally hospitable physiognomy. They shook hands warmly.

“And the baby Englishman?”

“English woman. In fact, half
French
woman.”

“Splendid! This explains why
she is not quite as ugly as you.”

A couple of chamber maids who
had been lurking in a doorway behind the desk smirked at each other and made a
giggly exit.

“They find me funny, Mr
Skinner,” said the concierge, who was, in fact, Paul Bénard, the owner of the
hotel. “But not so much when I deduct their wages for
insubordination!
” This he shouted for
the girls to hear, and, although he spoke in English, the girls shouted back
something defamatory in their own tongue.

“Now then, you have the
misfortune of staying here for three nights? Bed and breakfast?”

Chris nodded. Paul Bénard was
younger than his initial impression – maybe due to his excess weight and
heavy glasses: a man in his mid-forties, much like Chris himself; and something
of a kindred spirit, the Englishman imagined, as the Frenchman tapped Chris’s
details into a less than cutting edge computer with a curse or two under his
bristling beard.

“Good. Room 342. There should be
a cot made ready for your little Anglo-French piglet. And breakfast is from
seven to nine thirty exact. Enjoy Paris!”

Chris and Amélie made it to
their room in two shifts, as there was no one on hand to help with their bags.
The lift – barely wide enough for two adults – closed with an old
fashioned concertina door, and announced their arrival at their destination on
the top floor with an antiquated tuneless ‘ping’ of a bell.

There was, as M. Bénard had
anticipated, a child’s travel cot erected next to Chris’s
only-just-double-sized bed. It was sparse, but clean, and had a bathroom sink
spacious enough for Amélie to bathe in.

It was, as usual, a physical
relief to take the baby out of her carrier and to lie down himself; knowing she
was safely contained where she couldn’t tumble or roll or slip away. He
contemplated the ceiling: noticing that the old coving ran out abruptly at the
corner, where it had once been part of a bigger space subsequently divided into
smaller rooms. He liked the feel of the place: every turn in the staircase had
shelves stuffed with books and the occasional chair with a worn cushion and
tracks of woodworm. There weren’t many English books, of course, but the few he
spotted on his first inspection included atlases from a bygone era of printing
and a biography of Peter Cook, which made him feel comfortably at home.

After a shower, he decided on
an early evening meal so that Amélie could be bathed and settled for bed in
line with her (almost) usual routine. He had found a children’s storybook
called
Le
Petit Prince
which he would have a bash at reading to her later, in the
spirit of encouraging her ear for her mother’s native tongue: although he
wasn’t convinced his tongue would do it proper justice.

He set out boldly with his
little girl fastened close to him, feeling quite elated that they had made it
to Paris together - he and his little Anglo-French piglet.

Chris settled on a nearby
restaurant that was accessed from the pavement through a dark green awning,
with stainless steel tables and chairs arranged outside. There was a smattering
of other diners: and he ordered a lamb stew with
haricots verts
and a carafe of the
house wine. He thought, fleetingly, of the bistro back home, no doubt bustling
with early evening custom; and of Peter and Linda forging on with minimal
disruption to their routines. It was the first time in their lives that the
brothers had encountered a set of circumstances that divided them so
completely, and it was something of a revelation to the younger brother that it
should be he who was the one driving the division. Warmed by the robust red
wine and good food, he paid for his supper - expressing his satisfaction in his
finest French - and returned to
L’Hotel Bénard
with Amélie for their early
night.

To Chris’s surprise, his host
appeared to be waiting for him in reception: it seemed very peaceful, at first,
with the desk unmanned; until Paul Bénard announced his presence from the area
behind the leaflet display where he was reclining on a chaise longue. He had
removed his jacket to reveal the full majesty of his gold brocade waistcoat,
straining somewhat across his broad girth: a small book enclosed in one of his
fleshy hands:

“Good evening, Mr Chris Skinner
and
Mademoiselle
Skinner. Are you managing to have the most splendid first evening in
Paris?”

“We are,” Chris replied;
appreciating the glint in Bénard’s eye. “Despite the regrettable number of
Frenchmen, it is really quite pleasant.”

The hotelier was at his side,
laughing on a low setting, so that his wide chest wobbled and his smile
revealed a missing molar in the top left of his face: he had bitten into
something irresistibly delicious – he would tell Chris later that night
– but it had been concealing a hard heart.

“You are the rarest of
Englishmen, Mr Skinner,” he continued. “An amusing one.”

Chris spun the tourist leaflets
into brief chaos over Amélie’s head and asked:

“What do you recommend for our
visit?”

“That depends on what you have
come for,” replied Bénard, resting back onto the sturdy desk to survey the
stranger in his reception.

Chris looked without conviction
at scenes of the Eiffel Tower and an invitation to attend a theme park for
historical re-enactments. He rested his hand, where it was beginning to feel so
at home, on top of the strawberry hat: dutifully in place despite the mild air
of the September evening.

“I have come to show Amélie
where her mother was born,” he said.

“Which was where?”

“In the region of Canal
St-Martin, I think.”

Bénard smoothed his beard:

“Do you have an address?
Relatives?”

“It’s not that
straightforward,” said Chris. “Her mother is in London; and I have no
addresses.”

“Then you have much to achieve
in three days,” said the Frenchman. “Permit me to make a phone call.” He
reached across his desk and dialled a number while Chris continued to browse
for inspiration. He overheard the conversation that was both too fast and too
colloquial for him to comprehend; and awaited the outcome.

“It is arranged,” said Bénard.
“I have called in the support of more piglets. The daughters of my favourite
sister. They will help us with the delightful task of amusing baby Amélie while
we discuss your trip around the city. You are a drinking Englishman I trust?”

“In moderation, I should say,”
said Chris. “Now that I have responsibility.”

“But of course!”

Within half an hour of his
return from supper, there was a four-by-four vehicle, with its hazard lights
flashing, mounting the pavement outside
L’Hotel Bénard;
and Chris was being introduced
to Paul’s sister Edith and her children Sophie and Cécile, who breezed into
reception with an armful of toys, books and a box of baby items that put him in
mind of the recent courier delivery at his flat back home in London.

Edith appeared a little more
world weary than the rest of the family in Chris’s midst, with dark circles of
industry under her grey eyes; but she hugged her brother warmly, and explained
to Chris in flawless English that she ran a kindergarten and that her daughters
were expert, if amateur, babysitters. The girls were twelve and ten: their tousled
curly heads revealing them to be the more nimble miniatures of their uncle,
chattering at each other and to the world in general in animated foreign
voices. With their mother gone, they ushered the baby into their uncle’s
apartment at the end of a downstairs corridor; where they laid her into a baby
recliner, and applied themselves like a pair of worker ants to the task of
putting together a contraption of interlocking plastic tubes covered with taut
fabric that became a baby “gym”. Safely restrained in the harness of her new
seat, Amelie was able to work her legs and arms freely, surrounded by a
wondeful array of soft animals, mirrors and mini gadgets that might entice her
to push or pull.

Chris watched mesmerised as his
baby daughter batted her fists at the lion, zebra and monkey; while the two
older girls commentated fussily in French – adjusting this and that
– largely ignoring the presence of the two men as they went about their
special assignment.

“They are utterly charming,”
said Chris.

“Indeed,” said Bénard. “My
sister is a formidable example to them. Their father comes from a long line of
farmers and now manages many indoor markets around the city. He is a
hardworking man. A good man: there are few of us to go around.”

Paul Bénard provided plates of
bread, cheese and paté for his nieces from his kitchen that also served as a
dining and sitting room. He uncorked a bottle of red wine for himself and his
guest.

With a little encouragement,
Chris began to tell Paul his history of cooking, from his early experimentation
with Peter on the latter’s return from Montpelier to his provision of a daily
menu at
Skinner’s
.
He described how well their association with each other had always worked;
despite Peter’s seemingly lifelong attachment to Linda.

“Ah, the bond of brotherhood,”
Paul declared. “It is a very tight fastening.”

He listened with easy
enthusiasm as Chris talked; and consumed, not unexpectedly, a large amount of
bread, cheese and ham that he sliced and ate from the back of his knife. He sat
back, eventually sated, in a worn armchair in front of a dresser that was hung
with cups as inconsistently as his row of teeth: one or two missing, but not
detracting from an overall sense of charm.

Chris recounted his history
with Amélie, his baby’s mother; and his journey to her birthplace, as the
starting point of a travelling adventure, which might lead to a new phase of
life with his daughter.

When it was time for Amélie’s
bottle, Sophie and Cécile took turns in warming and feeding; and then Chris performed
the final honours of winding her on his knee. Everyone kissed her goodnight and
carried her up the flights of stairs and into her cot. The girls unplugged
bedside lamps and filled the sockets with a baby listener and a nightlight.
They posed sweetly while Chris snapped them next to Amélie, and he sent the
picture to Sara, Peter and Tash with the caption: “First night in Paris, with
Cécile and Sophie.”