Page 11 of Road Trip to the Riviera
‘Sorry, what?’
‘You know. Yesterday’s coffee?’ he says meaningfully.
Oh God. He’s talking about the pee. ‘Well, to be fair, I never got to taste that delicious brew.’ Oh shit, did I actually justsaythat?
He laughs, takes a sip of his own mug and says something about feeling comfortable with me. ‘I think it’s knowing someone for so long, since childhood,’ he says.
I nod. ‘I know what you mean.’
It’s eight thirty now and a couple of vans rumble past on their way to the exit. A group of chattering kids walks by on the other side of the bush, talking French so quickly I don’t have a hope of understanding it. Another jogger passes us, this time with a dog on a lead. I think about the dog escapee of earlier on and wonder whether I ought to have captured her, tried to find her owner. It was something about the smile; I just couldn’t bring myself to ruin her moment. Still, I hope she’s OK.
I realise that Hal, now finished, is staring at my untouched porridge. Guiltily, I pull it towards me, and take a spoonful. It’s warm and tastes kind of earthy; its texture, gluey. Hal’s expression as I eat reminds me of an expectant child, waiting for praise. ‘Yummy,’ I manage between sticky mouthfuls.
‘Be good for the leg,’ he says, and I’m just wondering whether he means we might be able to make a cast out of the sticky sludge once it’s cooled, when he adds, ‘Vitamins.’
I nod sagely. Porridge has never been my thing, but it’s sweet that he’s being so thoughtful. When Louis was younger, he used to return from Hal’s so high on sugar that he couldn’t get to sleep four hours later.
Clearly, the man has changed.
‘Leave in half an hour?’ he asks.
‘What?’
‘For the bird park.’
I want to tell him no, that he can go it alone. But something in his face is so expectant that I can’t. He reminds me ofLouis, which is odd because you always think of sons resembling fathers, but rarely think of it the other way around. ‘Sure,’ I say instead, picking an oat from between my teeth. ‘Why not.’
6
HAL
As soon as we arrive at the entrance to Marquenterre bird park, I realise I’ve made a mistake. In my head I have a fixed idea of what birdwatching is – sitting in a hut with binoculars, trying to identify different species. But of course, it isn’t as if you can roar up to the huts in a VW camper-van. There are paths on the way, the shortest of which is meant to take forty-five minutes.
I booked a guide, which cost an arm and a leg, a few weeks ago, and hadn’t thought to cancel or enquire about accessibility. But as I pull on the handbrake and glance over at Sarah, I sense she’s thinking the same thing. She broke her leg just a few days ago and is barely mobile with her crutch. Plus, although she doesn’t always admit it, I think she’s in quite a bit of pain sometimes.
‘I tell you what,’ I say to her, ‘shall we blow this off and just visit the beach instead?’
She studies me, her eyes darting over my face in a way that makes me feel completely exposed. ‘No, you were looking forward to this.’
‘I know, but…’ I look down at her leg, and she follows my gaze. I feel like a bit of an idiot suddenly, as if I’m just pointing out that she has an injury. As if she might have forgotten.
‘I’ll be OK.’ She juts out her chin and just for a moment I’m treated to a flashback from twenty-three years ago. The pair of us in Maths class, me offering to help her with algebra, her stubbornly refusing to accept any support. Twenty minutes later, I remember her suddenly making a kind of gasp as the method finally fell into place for her. The woman’s stubborn. But perhaps, like then, she knows herself well enough to be right too.
We make our way to the long wooden cabins that serve as a reception area and café. It’s early afternoon and people are making the most of the outside courtyard, eating ice creams and sipping coffee, chatting animatedly. A couple of small children weave their way around the metal chairs and tables, giggling. It’s busier than I thought it would be.
‘Hardly the tranquillity of nature,’ I murmur to Sarah who’s half-walking, half-hopping at my side.
I feel a flash of guilt as I watch her struggle a bit, her face fixed in that same determined expression. The car park had turned out to be down a small track opposite the bird park entrance so we’ve already had a bit of a walk.
‘Are you sure you’re OK?’ I ask, and she shoots me a look that almost freezes my blood.
After standing in a queue, during which time Sarah refuses to sit on a chair and let me sort out the tickets, we’re told in broken English that our guide Antoine will be with us soon. Finally, now that I’m going to be sitting too, Sarah allows herself to sink into a chair, barely disguising her sigh of relief. ‘Are you…’ I begin – about to once again ask her the same question I’ve been asking on repeat. I stop myself just in time – ‘…looking forward to it?’ I finish, lamely.
‘Yeah,’ she says, nodding. She looks about as enthusiastic as a cat faced with the prospect of a bath.
‘Maybe we should…’ I start.
But then the door at the back of the reception area opens and a tall man with black curly hair and an impossibly white smile appears. He’s wearing a turquoise T-shirt, with a light green gilet over the top embroidered with the words ‘Parc du Marquenterre’, and after a brief glance at the receptionist who nods towards us, he strides in our direction, sticking out his hand for a hearty shake.
