I’ll do that then. And the same with parcels? Oh that reminds me, one came for you earlier. Here you go.’ He held out a small package about the size of a shoebox that was covered in what looked like home-made wrapping paper. George had been waiting for this for quite some time; it had not been easy to come by.
He went home and put the package into his suitcase without opening it. He had even left a space for it. Just as he was closing his rather sad little case, he was overcome by the absurdity of the whole project. It now seemed ridiculous, far-fetched and pointless. He returned to his armchair, wedged a few cushions behind his back, picked up the remote control and switched on the television. As he had done every lunchtime for years. It was just so easy to stick to a familiar routine. And here he was getting ready to start the Tour de France. Madness.
Why had he agreed to go with Charles? He of all people, who had so rarely left the bocage, even when he had been in the peak of good health. Why, at the age of eighty-three, had he suddenly caught the travel bug? His last chance, that was probably what everyone was saying. Go on, Grandpa, have one last go at it for your pride, buck yourself up and make yourself feel invincible one last time, pretend you’re getting stronger, not weaker. ‘Realising a boyhood dream at his age, isn’t that great?’ they’d say. Oh, he’d be lying if he said he didn’t like the idea of getting people talking; he still had his pride, after all. But the whole thing made more sense for Charles, who was still young and healthy, relatively speaking, and had a large and happy family to boot. Things were so different for George. People were right, it was his last chance. It was his last chance to make a grand exit. It didn’t even need to be dramatic, his exit. Just dignified. Standing.
His patched-up body was holding up, admittedly with a little discomfort, but holding up all the same. But the man inside had been in bad shape for a long time. Having more or less admitted defeat, he had sat back and waited for the doctors’ prognoses to come true, for the statistics to be proved right and the odds to catch up with him. But they never did. So he had decided to go out and face the odds head on. Eighty-three years old, one set of aching limbs, three thousand five hundred kilometres and a two-month expedition. What it all added up to was so blindingly obvious that he had been surprised at Charles’s insistence he go with him. And yet he had to complete this epic circuit, before the army of paramedics descended upon him to unleash an assault of well-intentioned humiliation and take every last freedom away from him.
But all this was by the by. These were all things he had told himself before, when he was still feeling brave. In those mad moments of enthusiasm, bravado and unbridled determination. But in the last few minutes, that had all gone out the window. Enthusiasm, determination and bravado had all deserted him. All that was left were the voices in his head. Those damned voices.
No, he wasn’t losing the plot. The voices were of the common or garden variety. But this afternoon they really had him. They were the voices of his chair and the weather report, of his herbal tea and tomato plants, of all his familiar possessions and the house itself. They sang of the joys of everyday life, repeating a chorus we’ve all heard before: what’s the use in change? The voices were telling him it would be easier to let fate come to him, to let it cradle him gently, oh so gently. To let the days run into one another, until his time was up. The voices were even whispering a ready-made excuse: this unexpected phone call.
The more George thought about their plan, the more he found it deeply, painfully ridiculous. This wasn’t audacity, it was idiocy; not wisdom, but delusion. He looked at his suitcase sadly. It was neither Wednesday nor Saturday, so Charles would be coming over, and George would have to explain his change of heart. His knee was also playing up again, now that he came to think of it. And Charles would understand about that, what with his hip.
It was with a feeling of relief mixed with sadness that he turned his attention to the one o’clock news, and, avoiding the sight of his suitcase that was patiently waiting by the stove, he began to doze off. He had given in.
But on the other side of the garden, Charles had not given up. He was going to do this Tour de France, even if it meant dragging his friend along by the skin of his backside.
‘The Tour de France? In a Runner Speedit?’
Little Lucas looked up at his grandfather, his round eyes filled with admiration.
‘Granny, what’s a Runner Speedit?’
‘A Renault Scenic, Lucas. It’s a car,’ Thérèse answered calmly.
‘Yes, but it’s also got loads of gadgets inside it,’ Charles added quickly.
‘What gadgets, Grandpa?’
Charles was already regretting going down this rather slippery path. Discussing gadgets with a seven-year-old expert was a battle he was sure to lose.
‘Lots of options, if you catch my drift.’ There, that wasn’t a bad response.
‘And how many hours does it take?’
‘Oh no, Lucas, we’ll be doing our Tour de France over several weeks.’
‘Oh. So you’ll stop lots.’
‘Yes, we’re going to stop lots. Exactly,’ Charles replied, disappointed.
They were all sitting in the kitchen, Charles and Thérèse, their granddaughter Annie and her husband Franck and their two children, Lucas and seven-month-old Justine. The little kitchen, whose wallpaper had probably been rather fashionable at one time, smelled of leeks and Mr Muscle. A little vase of dahlias from the garden stood on the Formica table. Photos of the grandchildren were tacked all over the walls, and strings of last year’s tinsel were still hanging on the old grandfather clock. Everyone felt at home in this kitchen, especially Thérèse; this was her kingdom. Thérèse was small and round like a typical granny in a television show. She had no neck and small feet, neatly pressed blouses, bobbed grey hair worn with a brown clip, and an iron will. Charles and Thérèse had been married for fifty-nine years: they were happy and they knew it. Life had been kind to them, more or less, but the Lepensiers had learned to think positive long before the concept had become fashionable. Finding solutions to men’s problems was Thérèse’s area of expertise, and the women of the family had all inherited this talent.
Charles was now relying on his wife’s ingenuity, as he had so many times before. It was unthinkable that they would abandon the project now. He and Thérèse had put all their hopes into it. And he couldn’t do it alone, partly because George was financing the entire trip including the brand-new Renault Scenic, and partly because … well, he just couldn’t do it on his own.
‘You know, Thérèse, we’re not on the road yet. Even though we’ve been planning for ages … Now George has got a problem. His granddaughter.’
Thérèse, who was setting the table for lunch, stopped what she was doing and looked at Charles anxiously.
‘What kind of problem? You mean the granddaughter who lives in London and never calls?’
‘That’s the one. Except that now, she does call. Françoise must have asked her to. Well, I don’t know what goes on between those two but the point is, Adèle called and now George is panicking.’
Thérèse was staring down at the tablecloth. Charles went on.
‘Now George isn’t the kind to let people walk all over him. But when it comes to his daughter, it’s another story. He says she’ll have him put in a home if she finds out what he’s planning.’
Annie,
