Chapter One - Moule IV
The noisiest ones sat in the far back, making their presence noticeable as much as they could. I voluntarily remained in the queue, hoping that I could find a sit close to the driver, the better to see the future. Until then, Great-Britain had been a name on a map, a place related to a language which gave migraines each time I uttered, correction…, each time I attempted to utter a word in the class-room, especially if it contained th’s, even worse if letters like s, ch, f or z were in the vicinity. The teacher and the driver exchanged a few sounds that flew directly over my head and made me realise even more cruelly that the four weeks ahead were not going to be a bed of roses!
I sat on the first row, close to the edge of the road. The teacher counted us and noting that nobody was missing so far, the bus started slowly, on the left hand side of the street, a detail that struck all of us, even though we had heard about that unusual approach to driving!
Remarks and questions began to be thrown from all sides of the bus to the teacher: ‘At what time do we arrive, will the families be waiting for us, are we supposed to shake hands, when do classes start in the morning, how do we get to the school?’ A few of us compared the names on the documents given for reference and noted that each family was addressed as Mrs Wilson, Mrs Thompson or Mrs Walker. A guy asked the teach whether Whitstable was a widows’ community, but it simply seemed that it was customary to designate the lady as the person in charge of keeping order in the house, which led to all conjectures since it was then impossible to ascertain whether the lady was married, divorce or a widow.
The drive from Dover ‘On the contrary, I think I do!’
‘I have often dreamt of you, wearing a white chiffon long dress, on the plains of the Highlands Mountains, keeping sheep, playing a Celtic harp, invoking the Gods with your arms raised, holding a sceptre in your right hand, for the rain to stop and a rainbow to be painted in the sky to obey your command…’
‘You’re sure you’re not taking me for someone else?’ Her eyes went round and her lovely eyebrows drawing tender arcs of circle.
‘Let me explain… Imagine that you unexpectedly get the opportunity of meeting your favourite star, a singer or an actor, that you have the infinite honour of sitting opposite him, presumably for an hour, at least. Knowing at the same time that you do not belong in his world and that the magical hackney will inevitably turn into a pumpkin at midnight. Well, this exactly how I feel now, looking into the future. You ARE THE ONE whom I would like to share my life, when I’m worthy of you!’
The waiter came back. Apparently, the service had to be sped up.
‘Have you chosen?’
‘I’ll have smoked salmon, followed a rib-eye steak, very rare!’ She said.
‘The same for me please.’
‘Would you like any wine?’
‘I’ll leave my husband chose the wine!’
‘A bottle of Côte-du-Rhône Villages, please.’
He went away, visibly satisfied. He had broken my lyrical take-off and I was not too sure whether I would ever find the same kind of inspiration.
‘I love it when you talk to me that way!’ I said. ‘Calling me your husband, in public.’
‘Well, it’s an innocent game and… if I’m seen with you, it might calm down the second rate romantic assaults of the other guys!’ She realised that it was not precisely the answer that I was begging for and bit a lip, then resumed, hastily. ‘I did not mean to hurt you or to use you, don’t think that. You are a very nice boy and you have said so many lovely words…’
‘I understand. You are not afraid of me and you assume that if you pass me off as your boyfriend, you may have a quite holiday without all the seducers under training throwing lines at you constantly, lines that you may have heard thousand times for several years already!’
‘Well, I did not mean to hurt you. But it’s true… Men are always around me, like bunches of grapes, with a single idea, add me to the list of their past conquests. Mind, you, there are times when it’s flattering to be whistled at on the street by strangers. But I can hardly go to the baker’s or take the metro without men smiling at me, walking up to me and trying to make me laugh.’
‘I’m sorry to say that I can’t really imagine what it’s like to be that popular! I have made many girls smile and laugh, in parties or in the class-room. But as soon as I try to kiss them, it seems that they ignore me. And even, for the very few whom I have kissed, if ever my hands started to explore their bodies, they would grab my fingers and bar any progress.’
‘Perhaps you are too impatient. You should give time to a woman to get accustomed to your presence. You see, we’re not built the same as you, guys. You don’t need to be in love to make it, whereas most of us do, even if we brag that we do otherwise.’
‘Suppose that I did not show my over-attentiveness, what would they think?’
‘First of all, they would be relieved, providing you still carry on the smooth-talking… and as far as I can judge, you’re quite good at it. You must let the lady know that you fancy her, but you must never rush her.’
‘I see, I should find the very happy medium between tearing my clothes off at the first kiss and dozing off as soon as she starts to speak!’
‘Exactly, if you show too much confidence you let on that she’s the village bike or that you think so high of yourself that you expect all ladies to be begging for your favours. On the other hand, if you show too little confidence, how do you expect ladies to believe in a ghost of a man?’
I pondered over what she had just said. She could be my mentor in love. After all, I needed teachers to learn history, poetry and mathematics, so why not listen to the advice of a lady who would help understand her sisters?
The meal was taking a pleasant turn. A sort of intimacy was planting its seeds between us, a feeling of complicity, I was not afraid of her because she was inaccessible and she was no afraid of me either, because she shared the same opinion, at least… that is what was we assumed…
Once we had had our coffees, small, black and strong, I was delighted to offer my first lunch to lady. We mingled again with the hostile world. Isabelle’s female friends might have been keeping watch of the exit of the restaurant because they literally assaulted her as we came out and I saw her, reluctantly, disappear with them, leaving me behind, lost in my fantasies. I had just the time to visit the duty free shop to buy a bottle of malt for the man of the host family and a bottle of Chanel 5 for the lady of the house and the cliffs of Dover loomed in the horizon. A coach was waiting for our group after the customs. All the signs written in English were not too difficult to decipher, but the questions raised by the emigration officers plunged more than one of us into abyssal perplexity. The teacher with us acted as an interpreter to avoid any undue blockade of the harbour and we made our way towards the bus. through Canterbury to Whitstable lasted about one hour and a half, the bus showing signs of exertion uphill, amidst green fields. The scenery outside was a complete discovery: houses reminding of Agatha Christie’s crime stories, youngsters clothed like the pop groups of the time, T. Rex, David Bowie, Slade, flare-ups, satin trousers, platform soles, the girls wearing miniskirts or mini dresses, the elderly ladies in flowery hats. The whole atmosphere conveyed an awkward feeling: not so much as if having crossed a geographical distance, but rather a distance in time, perhaps to another planet, as if time had no power on the quietness of the locals.
I felt free like never before. I had started to work week-ends at the lingerie shop, either going to the store to bring back the items the customer wanted to try, or, most of the time, delivering to their hotels the items they had ordered, often in the vain hope that they would give a little more attention than a tip.
I looked again at the name of my host family, Mrs Maddison, no Christian names, no indications of a husband or children, it would be a surprise. We drove through Canterbury where the teacher remarked that we would come back the following week for a full shopping day. A few miles after leaving that city, the bus seemed ready to give up the ghost on a steeper hill than the previous ones and… once at the top… the sea, from the other side of Kent, appeared. Excitement went through the whole bus, the trip was coming to an end and we would soon know with whom we were going to spend the four coming weeks. A few minutes later we reached the roundabout crossing the Thanet way, on the way to Borstal Hill. Whitstable as, and still is, mainly a very long main street, with most shops concentrated along a quarter mile, a mushrooming town one hour away from London by train. The bus stopped at the other end, by the sea, close to a beach where gravel replaced sand. A bowling alley was situated nearby, presumably the rallying point for the local youth, with a place called Jack’s Arcade round the corner, filled with one-arm bandits and pinball machines, a place indeed I shall soon visit.
There was a group of families waiting for us, a close-shot of early 70’s Britain, couples with and without children, retired couples, young married couples and middle aged couples, with children running and yelling at each other on the lawn outside the bowling alley. The bus stopped… it was too late to go back, I only had to pray fervently that I was not going to land in a family with those yelling children, in a family where the lady of a house would be as beautiful as Isabelle with a husband paying his tribute to her noisily next to my bedroom every night, in a family speaking so fast that I would commit suicide within hours or in a family who would bolt the place up after eight o’clock in the evening, sentencing me to watch a sitcom whose philosophical message would beat me.
Names were called out as comments were exchanged on the host families waiting for their French guinea-pig, cheers of congratulations or ironical remarks when the external appearance of the locals was less than enticing. I heard my name, rose and climbed down from the bus onto the pavement, went to pick up my luggage and waited by the teacher. I was about to put a face on the name of the lady who would change my life …