Chapter Two Moule I
A lady left a group of women involved in a vehement discussion, she was wearing a Coco Chanel suit, light grey, with a white blouse terminated by a silk collar, perched on high heels, open-toe, with straps, her feet hidden behind tights or stockings. Her hair was auburn, frizzy, her eyes green, her features slightly sharp, in contrast with a welcoming smile as she held out her hand.
‘Pleased to meet you, Pierre!’
‘Pleased to meet you, Mrs Maddison!’ I replied most astutely.
‘Follow me, my car is just round the corner!’
I dragged my luggage as fast as I could not to lose pace with her decided gait. We reached her car, she opened the boot and I threw my effects in there. She went to the right hand side of the car and I followed her.
‘Would you like to drive?’ She asking, playfully.
I realised that English cars, obviously, had the steering-wheel on the wrong side so that I had to retrace my steps and walk over to the passenger side. As I was sitting next to Mrs Maddison, I noticed that her jacket was stretched and pushed forward by monumental bulges that made me swallow my saliva so empowering the sensation was. I thought that if ever I heard her in the bedroom with her husband, next to mine, my options would basically be limited to going back to Paris before crying myself to death! Her profile conveyed the impression of a woman who knew what she wanted and how to get it as well. She must have been in her mid-thirties, no more than forty years old. She must have been a Miss Something in her twenties, but the growth of ages had added a noble patina to her person and I did not dare to imagine what could happen if no husband was waiting for her and if she found in her the necessary in-born generosity to deal gently with my destiny!
I wanted to find something spiritual to say, to make her laugh… After all, she was probably even more inaccessible than Isabelle so I could safely fire away, except that with a vocabulary encompassing 23 words, I defy anyone to crack the joke of the century.
She asked me a question that made feel stupid beyond all description. I replied ‘Sorry?’ hoping that she would slow down, preferably write it on a slate or, even gave the translation, but there were no subtitles, it was real life and I had to face up to it. I had anticipated that conservation would be limited so I tried to remember one of the lines that I had prepared over the last previous weeks.
‘Excuse me, Mrs Maddison… (so far so good), it is the first time that I am in your country and I do not understand what you say (whoa, what an exploit, without losing my breath), please could you speak slowly? (I did my best to pay attention to the long closed vowels and to the short open ones, avoiding on purpose words containing the dreaded ‘th’, as in ‘thought’ or ‘these’, although not completely).’
‘Your English is good!’
Gosh, I nearly wet myself laughing, was she having me on? I was pathetic, but I really wanted to communicate to her.
‘You are very kind… and very beautiful!’ I replied, blushing. That was it, I had revealed the extent of your years of tedious apprenticeship: any question or comment on the economic future of Europe would inevitably meet with a gigantic question mark on my face.
After a few minutes we arrived in a place called Old Bridge Road, close to a cricket ground, a game that I had never understood and still do not. She parked in an alley leading to a detached house with a sizeable front garden. I took my luggage and she opened the door, which led us into a porch way, with another door to the proper entrance to the lodging. I noticed that the knob was higher than in France, and round, not the kind that you can grab like a handle. The floor was carpeted in a dark pink, mauve colour, as far as I could see, because my relative colour-blindness prevented me from providing a more detailed description. I did not know what to do next. Mrs Maddison asked a question in which the words ‘freshen up’ and ‘bathroom’ were surrounded by strange onomatopoeias that barely sounded to plunge into one another. I was nearly fifteen years old, totally inexperienced and in a foreign land. Consequently, if I wanted to defend my case honourably, I had better fasten my seat belt and select a faster gear.
‘I would like to take a shower, yes thank you!’
‘Would you like anything to eat or drink after you’ve had your shower?’
’I would be happy to take a cup of coffee, yes please!’
She answered something, with a pace that I began to follow, straining very hard, where the words ‘correct’, ‘don’t mind’, ‘have’, ‘instead’ and ‘take’ entered my brain. It only remained to put them together and to use a little imagination. I had made a mistake, hence the verb ‘correct’. Her expression was slightly uneasy, she did not want to offend me. She had heard a sentence that bordered on the understandable but would not qualify me to play in Romeo and Juliet at the Royal Albert Hall instantly. Now, if I rewound the film in my brain, the first part seemed uneventful, ‘I would like’ expressed fairly accurately my request. The coffee was the object of my request. ‘yes please’ was also quite innocent. The only possibility was the use of the verb ‘to take’ that would have been appropriate in French, but it appeared that ‘to have’ would rejoice a native speaker’s ears in such a situation. She went on to explain that you can ‘have a smoke, have a good time, have a laugh, have a nap, have a cup of tea (with a smile, which meant that, apparently, to have a cup of tea was the next best thing to reaching Paradise without wasting time in the purgatory, whereas you can take the train, the plane, the car, the time to read a book, the trouble to help someone in case of difficulty, with cases where both possibilities were acceptable such as to have or to take a shower. She was speaking slowly and I was looking into her eyes as if to absorb the knowledge that she was diffusing.
‘I’ll make you a nice cup of coffee for you to enjoy when you come downstairs.’
She showed me to my room upstairs and to the place where I could HAVE the long-awaited ablutions. She closed the door behind her and I was left to my own device. I was relieved to remove my garments and wash the sweat of the day. I dreaded the moment when I might know that there was a Mr Maddison, who was enjoying her company every single day of his life. If I had been in his shoes, I would have a broad smile of beatitude permanently enlivening my baby’s face.