children tore around, screaming and knocking chairs over. The bridegroom was guffawing with his mates, to show he had the situation well in hand. And poor Yvonne, rather red of nose and shiny of complexion under the headdress of florist’s roses, was making her acquaintance with the loneliness of young wives.
I bided my time, sure my opportunity would come with the dancing. But we weren’t there yet by any means. The party got a new lease of life with the arrival of the wedding cake and champagne, which gave the green light for a singsong. A handful of old men, voices quavering as much with booze as decrepitude, were bent on subjecting us to every single verse of those endless Breton ballads about partings and broken promises and watery graves which paint such a tempting picture of the future for young seamen’s wives. Then a woman who fancied herself as a chanteuse embarked on a popular song of the time, and didn’t quite manage to massacre it. We must have got to the seventh chorus when Gauvin suddenly stood up to enthusiastic applause and launched into ‘Bro Goz Va Zadou’. His voice bowled me over; not that it would have taken much. It was a fine bass, which resonated on the harsh, heartrending Breton syllables. That bard’s voice, combined with his touching assurance, went so well with his massive chest and those shoulder muscles which bulged, almost indecently, under his skimpy jacket. The Tregunc tailor insisted on encasing these hulking men in skin-tight suits which clung to their backsides and strained over their great thighs.
It was Marie-Josée who gave the green light for kissing Gauvin when he got to the chorus:
The parish priest gets mad
When boys go kissing girls,
But turns out quite a lad
When boys get kissed by girls.
Well, who was I to pass up a chance to kiss the boy Lozerech? And it wasn’t going to be just a peck, either. I waited until last, so as not to join the bleating herd of women queueing up for handsome Gauvin’s lips. He was laughing loudly, flushed with success, revealing the chipped front tooth which gave him a buccaneering air, as appealing as a pirate’s patch. I was right next to him so all I had to do was lean across and plant a quick kiss on that front tooth, as if by accident.
He shot me a look. No, he hadn’t forgotten that night on the beach. But we still had to endure the ritual of drinking sangria at the Cafe du Port while everyone waited for the local stars – the Daniel Fabrice band from Melgven – who were booked for the dancing. Now I was sure, though, that my hour would soon come.
The ballroom was ghastly: bare and harshly lit, and I caught sight of myself in a mirror and saw that the long day had done nothing for my looks. To make matters worse, a whole new gang of guests arrived, some of them summer visitors, friends of mine. They pranced in fresh as paint, looking about them as if they were at the zoo. Of course, I was drawn into their orbit. It was mine too, after all. I kept casting desperate glances at Gauvin – to no avail. I might just as well not have been there at all. I experimented with all the tried and tested techniques: staring mesmerically at the back of his head, being wildly vivacious when I thought he might be looking my way, ostentatiously refusing to dance even the tango, roaming the room like a lost soul. But none of my ploys worked. It was Marie-Josée whom Gauvin took in his arms for all my favourite dances.
Oh well, nothing to do but rejoin my own kind and forget the handsome peasant. No hope left for me here. The party was pathetic. Everything was pointless. It had all turned out for the best, no doubt. What would I have done with Gauvin afterwards? He would only have been hurt. My wounded pride soothed itself with these lofty sentiments.
Yvonne’s father was surprised when I went to take my leave. ‘You’re not staying for the onion soup?’ I most certainly was not. I couldn’t stand the sight of Gauvin and his bodyguard a moment longer. Suddenly I felt tired and a thousand miles away from the whole Lozerech clan. I kissed Yvonne quickly, and slipped away with my friends. Frédérique was all sweet reason: ‘You’d only have spoiled a beautiful memory.’ That made me even crosser. Who wants beautiful memories? I hate them. What I like is beautiful prospects.
Outside the hotel, I picked my way through the bodies lying all over the garden. Some still twitched, crooning bits of songs or raising a limp arm heavenwards to emphasise drunken pronouncements. Suddenly I was startled by a hand on my shoulder.
‘I’ve got to see you.’ Gauvin’s whisper was harsh. ‘Wait for me by the harbour. I’ll be with you as soon as I can. By one at the latest.’
It wasn’t a question and he didn’t wait for an answer. His friends called him and Frédérique was waiting impatiently in the car. But I took my time. As I allowed the meaning of his words to sink in I drew a deep breath and a wave of happiness broke over me, filling me with blazing, joyous resolution.
After the smoky dance hall the west wind blew the smell of seaweed and of sex. I went home, to establish an alibi with my parents and to collect my duffle-coat so it could cushion me on the hard ground under Gauvin’s one hundred and sixty-five or so pounds. Just in case, I grabbed the poem, the one I’d written two years earlier. Before I left I showed it to Frédérique. She pulled a face and said it was terribly schoolgirlish. I thought it was beautiful myself. You always get a bit schoolgirlish when you’re racing off to be loved, don’t you?
There was no moon. The Isle of Raguenès could just be seen, a darker mass on the dark sea. Everything seemed poised in stillness, as if waiting for something. Correction: I was waiting for something. For nature it was a summer night like any other. From the moment I got there I was caught up in the exquisite state of passionate anticipation, aware that this was the highest experience life can offer. That evening I would gladly have sacrificed ten years of my life – well, five anyway – to ensure that nothing would now come between us and the drama we were about to play, though neither of us yet knew our lines. What are a few years of old age when you’re twenty? I was preparing for a night with no tomorrow – outside convention, outside caution, outside even hope. I felt such wild joy.
At last he arrived. His car stopped at the top of the cliff and I heard the door slam. I could just make him out as he peered around in the darkness. He must have glimpsed me in the headlights because he started running down the rocky slope. I was sitting with my back against a beached dinghy, sheltering from the wind, clasping my arms around my knees trying to look alluring and casual at the same time. One tends to strike poses at twenty.
Before I could say a word he took my hands and pulled me up to him, clasping me fiercely, his leg thrusting between mine and his mouth forcing my lips apart. My tongue caught on that chipped tooth and, for the first time, I reached my hand under his coat, into the warm odour of him, my fingers, under his belt, finding that touching hollow of his back where the muscles flexed and twisted.
A silent rain began to fall. Neither of us noticed at first. We were in another world. For a moment I thought he must be crying, and drew back to search his eyes. His hair was falling in shining curls on his forehead, and drops sparkled on his eyelashes. Perhaps they were tears after all. Our lips came together again, parted for a breath and then joined, slippery with the delicious taste of summer rain. The dark air, the melancholy stretch of wet sand, the sea, pocked with rain, all surrounded and distanced us from the hot busy day, plunging us into the almost unbearable simplicities of love.
The rain was beginning to work its way under our collars, and the south-westerly breeze was getting stronger. But it felt as if we would never again be able to let each other go. With a jerk of his chin Gauvin indicated the cottage on the island. It was a ruin, with just one section of the roof held up by a single beam. I smiled: we had played there throughout our childhood.
‘We’ll make it,’ he said. ‘The tide’ll be out till about two.’ We ran across the sand bank which links the island to the shore at low tide. I twisted my ankle on a clump of seaweed but
