On the eighth day of the holiday, mid-afternoon in Angers, Anna McGull suffered a crisis no one noticed.
She stood apart from the rest of her family who, for the second time that day, were looking at the famous tapestries. Her husband Michael and her youngest son, Patrick, huddled together, seemed to find as much interest in the guide book as in the tapestries themselves. Simon, the eldest son, stood some distance away, his earnest stare fixed upon the Apocalypse. When contemplating any work of art, Simon managed to exude an air of superiority, as if he alone were granted understanding. His father and brother, a little awed by this attitude, believed Simon had a vision they lacked: hence their endless perusal of guide books to make up in facts what they lacked in spiritual communication. Anna had no such feelings. Simon’s loftiness drove her wild. She thought he looked quite goofy, peering through his thick spectacles, fingers twitching at his sludge-coloured anorak. For years, she had struggled to fight the annoyance his physical presence caused her. It had never been so bad as on this holiday.
Outside, it gently rained. A flat, plum-coloured light in the galleries darkened the tapestries. Anna wondered if any of the women who had put thousands of hours of work into these hangings of gloomy beauty had ever rebelled. The younger ones, surely, must have woken some mornings and thought to themselves they would go mad if they had to do another bloody stitch.
Anna’s reflections were cut short by a Norwegian tourist. He stepped in front of her, blocking her view and provoking the crisis. His mackintosh skimmed calves latticed with veins: bare toes splayed beyond the edges of his sandals, clenched in concentration. Anna thought: in the past week I’ve seen forty-three Romanesque churches, fifteen museums, eleven châteaux, seven picture galleries, the tapestries twice … and now a Norwegian is thwarting my view. I can’t bear it any more.
She left the gallery, hurried outside. It was raining harder, now. Sheltering under a chestnut tree, she looked up into the great dome of sharp green leaves and thanked God there was nothing in the guide book about this. The very thought of the guide book made her cry for a moment. Soon she would recover herself, return to the gallery, wait.
But as she was dabbing her eyes an English couple walked by. Plainly happy, the man took the woman’s arm and guided her towards a café. His innocent gesture caused Anna a second crisis, this time of jealousy. Michael and the boys would never consider stopping mid-afternoon for a drink. Three more churches before dark, they would say.
Anna followed the couple into the café. She chose an empty table by the window, ordered a croissant and coffee. (Lunch had been a bag of apples eaten beside an ancient tomb.) Her aching legs and feet recovered. The pleasure of sitting alone at a foreign table uncluttered by guide books was almost tangible.
After a while she saw her husband and sons leave the gallery. They looked briefly about them, then set off towards the church. The English couple rose to leave.
‘Where are you going?’ Anna heard herself asking.
‘Delange, ten miles north. We’ve been staying in an auberge there, but we’ve got to get back to Paris.’
The woman smiled, friendly. Then Anna heard herself requesting a lift.
They sped along a small road that followed a curling river. Silver birches shimmered high above white cows, and higher still white clouds feathered the sky. What am I doing? Anna thought, just once.
The auberge was the sort of place she had been hoping to find ever since landing in France. In her mind a fuchsia auberge (baskets of flowers hanging round the terrace) represented warmth, peace, an hour or two to herself. Michael and the boys, of course, were not interested in such things. Convenience for the sights was all they cared about. Station hotels. But she was alone now. She could do as she liked. Anna quickly decided the place was much too agreeable to leave within the hour. Besides, there was no transport. She booked in for the night.
Her room had blue-striped walls, curtains dizzy with flowers, a freckled mirror in a heavy frame. The window looked on to a narrow garden of apple trees and lupins. A grey cat, ears laid back, snaked across the grass and jumped up on to a wall. Small gusts of windy rain, splattering against the window, were the only cracks in the silence.
So this is freedom, Anna thought, and put out her hand to touch it: the silky bed cover, the cold brass of the bedstead. She climbed under the eiderdown and with no feelings of disloyalty reflected what a relief it was to be in a silent bed: no Michael beside her rumbling on about tomorrow’s plans or today’s churches. Then she fell asleep.
It was almost dark when she woke. Away from the family for four hours … Guilt brushed her lightly. Much stronger was a kind of nefarious excitement, a feeling of adventure. The word caused her to smile to herself with a touch of scorn. If an afternoon’s sleep in a French auberge was an adventure, how dull was the rest of her life?
Downstairs in the salon – open fire, smell of lavender – the guilt vanished altogether. Half a dozen couples – here for the fishing, she supposed – all seemed to be drinking champagne. The place reminded her of a small hotel in Galway where she and Michael had spent a last holiday alone before the children were born. They would sit on the bank of the river all day, Michael tweaking at his rod, she reading War and Peace. After a dinner of grilled fish they would play Scrabble by the fire, and have a glass of Irish whiskey before bed. That had been a good holiday, long ago.
Michael, these days, hated spending money on frivolous drinks. In private defiance, Anna ordered herself a glass of champagne. Careless of her light head, she chose a seat and drank fast. Then, rising cautiously, she went to the telephone and rang the hotel in Angers.
Michael and the boys were out.
‘Sortis pour le dîner,’ the receptionist said.
Anna was silenced for a moment. Loyalty and compassion had forced her to make this call. She had imagined them worried, searching.
‘Were they looking for me?’ she asked at once.
‘Absolument pas.’
‘Please say I’ll be back tomorrow.’
Returning to the bar, annoyed by her burning cheeks, Anna found a full glass of champagne on her table. Puzzled, she caught the eye of a man she had noticed before. He sat alone.
‘Je vous en prie, Madame,’ he said quietly, and lowered his head into his newspaper before Anna, in her confusion, could thank him.
Her hand now trembled on the glass. The extraordinary gesture had blasted all thoughts of her family from her mind. She felt the warmth of vanity. Her profile, she remembered, had always been good. Perhaps the remnants of other attractions were still recognisable. After a while she allowed herself to glance at the sender of the champagne. Nice face, hair drooping endearingly over one eye.
Suddenly, the way things were going became marvellously clear to her. She thanked God for the double bed, though how would she manage without a dressing-gown? The man raised his eyes.
They looked at each other searingly, recognising their mutual intent. Anna got up, left the salon. She would go straight to her room, rip off her clothes and let the stranger begin.
Somehow she found herself guided by the friendly proprietor to the dining-room. A candle burned on her corner table, a vase of blue lupins made pearly shadows on the white cloth. She ordered dinner. Passion would have to be postponed for an hour or so. Soon the man would follow, make his next move.
As she sipped at the stranger’s champagne, Anna found herself wondering at her cold-blooded lack of guilt as she contemplated imminent infidelity. After twenty-three years of absolute faithfulness, here she was suddenly confronted by the prospect of adultery, determined to break every rule she had ever lived by, to behave like a whore. She shivered, enthralled at the thought.
She was halfway through her wild duck when the man eventually entered the dining-room accompanied by a girl of about twelve – plainly his daughter. He gave Anna a brief smile full of purpose, then sat with his back to her and started a conversation with the child. Pity, considering the scarcity of time, Anna thought. But there was also something luxurious about not being able to have dinner with him.
By ten o’clock she was naked in bed, waiting. The sound of voices and the banging of cooking pots came from downstairs. Two hours went by. Footsteps creaked outside her room. Doors shut. Silence.
Tense with anticipation, Anna found herself wondering if just one night with a stranger would do anything to jeopardise twenty-three solid years of marriage. Might the placing of one foot on the slippery slope mean a general descent? Would it whet a long-dormant appetite, underline her discontent? It was hard to judge in advance. The self is so surprising. Maybe, from now on, she would break out in all sorts of directions. Maybe she would start to acknowledge the looks that Jack, Michael’s oldest friend, had been giving her for years. Maybe she would become impervious to the boys’ lack of consideration and, with other things on her mind, be irritated by them no longer. Maybe she would spend some money on herself, for once: resuscitate her rusty smile … cut and redden her hair, go off to London on Michael’s nights out at the Round Table, the Parish Council, the Rock Gardeners’ Club, and the Regiment’s endless reunions …
The silence continued. Anna lay awake all night. The man did not come. The cold she felt became the cold of foolishness and shame. Desolate, she dressed at dawn, stood for a long time at the window watching a hard sun rise over the lupins. Escape had been quite spoiled by her own stupidity, her own crushed vanity. Also, she must now query her own judgement. How could she have been so wrong about the man’s intentions?
By eight, she was downstairs settling the bill. Through stinging eyes, she observed a mistake. She had been charged for two glasses of champagne.
‘A gentleman paid for one,’ she explained.
‘Apologies,’ said the proprietor at once. ‘Of course: Monsieur Cadeau. He gave instructions. Whenever he’s here he buys everyone in the place a glass of champagne. Good for – how do you say? Public relations.’
Anna felt the blood scour her face.
‘Who is Monsieur Cadeau?’ she asked.
The proprietor’s smile indicated it was not the first time he had had to solve this puzzle.
‘He works for a champagne firm,’ he said.
A taxi took Anna back to Angers. At the hotel she found Michael and the boys at breakfast. They showed no surprise at her return.
‘Had fun?’ asked Michael. ‘You might have left a proper message. Still, we didn’t worry. We knew you wouldn’t do anything silly.’
The boys, engrossed in guide books, asked no questions.
‘Delange is the plan for today,’ Michael went on. ‘Looks like an interesting church.’ He turned almost contrite eyes to his wife. ‘I see it has a pretentious auberge, your sort of thing. Would you like –?’
‘Oh no,’ said Anna quickly. ‘I went there. You wouldn’t like it at all.’
From a long way off, she registered Michael’s relief, and her sons’ clumsy hands thrashing about among their guide books and maps, eager to be off.
‘Buck up with your coffee, Mum,’ said Simon.
Was there anything more bleak than return from a flight that had failed?
In the car, Michael said, ‘Let’s take the small road, follow the river.’
I could always try again, thought Anna.
‘Did you look at the church?’ asked Simon, zipping up his horrible anorak.
‘No,’ said Anna. ‘I didn’t go there to see the church.’
Turning her attention to the map, she found the road that led to Monsieur Cadeau of the champagne firm.
‘On our way then,’ said Michael.
But I don’t suppose I will, thought Anna.
En famille once more, the McGulls then set off for the ninth day of their sightseeing tour of France.
