Jennifer enjoyed shopping at Champions, open on Sunday mornings from nine to around midday. She waited for Charlie to park, took a euro coin for a trolley, and set off happily for the delicatessen shelves. She let Charlie buy wine and beer, Muscadet for herself, white bordeaux for him, but kept food for herself: she planned to buy ham, and saucisson, various different kinds of cheese, some pasta, and coffee and jam – all a good deal cheaper than at home – and some cold meat and salad and fresh fruit for a nice picnic lunch.
She stacked plastic bags neatly in the back of the Volvo, covering them with an old duvet, because the sun was now really hot, and then sat alert as Charlie drove north, heading for another flea market in a village near St. Omer. They crossed a canal, with a grassy bank shaded by trees, and she judged the bank just right for a meal. She tidied Charlie away for a nap on the old duvet, and spread a cloth on the ground, busying herself with ham, a pot of rillettes, some cold roast pork, a plate of lettuce and lambs’ ears, with a couple of tomatoes to add a splash of colour, another plate with a good choice of cheeses, before chopping a baguette up into chunks. She liked to make her meals look good, even picnics. She was a dealer with a designer’s eye.
The food was just right for a hot day. Charlie opened a bottle of chablis to celebrate the Flemish range, and the wine lulled them both into a gentle companionability, with the canal lapping peacefully at its banks as a huge barge chugged past. She packed Charlie back to sleep when they had eaten, because he had driven all the way from Fulmer, and would have to drive all the way back, and reflected to herself how much nicer it would be if she were able to trade in really good antiques, and make thousands rather than hundreds.
She deserved a better man, someone with expertise like Freddie, her partner. But sadly Freddie preferred men. She was growing tired of forever having to push Charlie. She had overtaken him, and deserved better.
Then she glanced at her watch. Time was moving on, and there was still some space in the Volvo. She shook Charlie’s shoulder, grimacing as he woke in a shower of spluttering. Men could sometimes be gross.
‘Time for action, hubby.’ She backed away as she spoke. Charlie had a disturbing tendency despite his age to wake libidinously, and she had no ambition at all to find herself pinioned into the grass at the edge of a French canal.
Charlie grunted. He had been dreaming of a naked woman, somebody unknown but well-proportioned, dark-haired and full-figured, and they had been on the brink of passionate engagement. He eyed Jennifer, and knew he had no chance. Sex, in the Tindal household, was a weekly, perhaps a fortnightly, experience, a matter of duty, and sometimes purchase, of something that should be, or a thing to gain an end. He hauled himself to his feet, stretched, and got back in the car. Maybe, one day, he would find somebody nicer. Hope never dies, not even at fifty-five.
The St. Omer fleamarket proved depressing. Lots of baby clothes and cheap ornaments, with one van selling ungainly furniture, and a couple more trying to shift junk. Jennifer bought a couple of china plates and Charlie translated obediently, though his mind was elsewhere, still seeking after the woman in his dream. He made eyes at a girl, but she tossed her head in disdain, and he gave up.
‘I need a beer.’ His voice was determined. St. Omer had a big square, with several nice cafes. He had done his work for the day and needed to relax before tackling the journey home. P&O’s late afternoon ferries tended to be packed, and he might find it hard to locate an empty place with room enough for him to stretch out and sleep, whilst the M20 and M25 would probably prove slow-moving traffic jams.
Jennifer scowled. She was browsing, and enjoying herself. But Charlie tended to grow painful when grumpy, so she acceded reluctantly. It was a hot afternoon, and she could do with something cooling herself.
They settled comfortably at a table in front of a cafe facing out over the main square, and Jennifer ordered a panache, a beer and lemonade shandy, whilst Charlie had his cold beer. She thought of her purchases, and felt pleased with herself.
Then she realised that a couple of women at the next table were speaking English as well. They were both in their late thirties or early forties, and looked prosperous, one small and round in a green cotton summer dress plainly chosen to camouflage generous curves, the other fair-haired and quite angular in long blue denim sweeping all the way down to her ankles. A couple of friends on a day trip: nice sort of women, from the right sort of background, but both a bit dumb. She smiled at them in a companiable sort of way, but they were busy having some sort of complex discussion about buying things to take home to England.
Charlie grew restive as well, trying to catch the eye of the one in green. But Jennifer was not bothered. She could see that the woman had noticed, and was ignoring him pointedly.
The two women completed their discussion, and Jennifer guessed from overheard exchanges that they had talked about buying bread and taking it home to freeze it, so that they could enjoy real French baguettes and croissants for breakfast. One got up and made for a bakery next to the café, and Jennifer smiled at her companion.
‘Isn’t it wonderful, to be able to sit here in the sun and relax?’
The woman smiled back. Jennifer and Charlie looked prosperous, the right kind of people to know, and Jennifer’s voice was nicely pitched. Her remark was friendly, without being pushy, providing scope for an easy-going exchange of views. She also noted the way Charlie ordered with easy fluency. This might prove handy, because Trish only knew a couple of words of the language, and was bound to tie herself in knots, was probably already tieing herself in knots. She turned words in her mind as she prepared to reply. But fortunately Trish saved her from making a false move by hurtling back in a panic.
‘I can’t made the girl in there understand a blind thing. I wanted to buy the lot, but she’s just laughing at me.’
June Thorburn sighed. Trish Haywood was the kind of woman who could work herself into a tizzy trying to pay for a parking ticket in a multistorey carpark. She framed a sympathetic smile. ‘Tell me.’
‘I couldn’t handle it. She just kept gabbling at me in French.’
Jennifer decided to intervene. Charlie had begun champing at his bit, and needed a lesson.
‘Perhaps my husband could help.’
Charlie glowered as the plump woman stared at her in surprise.
‘You’re English.’ She sounded astonished, as though she only expected to meet fellow Brits in Britain. Jennifer nodded amiably. ‘But my husband speaks fluent French.’
The plump woman inspected Charlie as though suddenly registering his presence. She was not a woman to talk to a dog when she could speak to the owner. ‘Would he help?’
Jennifer nodded approvingly.
The plump woman stared at Charlie a little condescendingly. ‘Can you help?’
Charlie was already on his feet. He followed her into the bakery, and then stopped dead in his tracks. A girl stood behind the counter, and smiled, and had a face and figure to make his heart burst. She was tall and slim, with blue eyes and blonde hair tied up in a chignon. Her eyes sparkled, and she was divine, perhaps eighteen or nineteen, dressed in a tight fitting white blouse that swelled most temptingly and a tight black satin skirt under a little lace pinafore, and her smile was wholly enchanting. For a moment they made eyes at each other.
‘Monsieur? You seek something?’
The plump woman observed this exchange of coquetry and bridled a little. The girl had never smiled so sweetly for her. ‘Can you tell her I want to buy all her croissants and a couple of baguettes. I want to take them home and freeze them.’
Charlie translated obligingly, and the girl behind the counter looked at the plump woman as though she had a screw missing somewhere. Who could possibly want to buy an armful of bread that would be stale by next day?
Charlie explained patiently that the plump woman planned to take it all home and pack it in her freezer.
The girl behind the counter eyed him doubtfully. ‘Why doesn’t she buy some more tomorrow?’
‘We don’t have croissants like these in England.’
The girl pouted. ‘You are English as well?’ Her voice held an undertone of disappointment, because he was a nice looking man. An unpleasant thought suddenly struck her. ‘You are together?’ He was really much too nice for this frumpish thing.
Charlie shook his head, and she smiled again. They discussed croissants for a moment, and the relative advantages and disadvantages of freezing them, because the girl was not convinced that croissants belonged in a freezer at all. But after a while she relented, and filled several large paper bags, and added several baguettes, and Charlie bought some bread for himself, because he noted the baker’s name and telephone number printed on the bag, in a world where one can always frame dreams about the future, and the woman paid, and he paid. But he lingered a moment as the plump woman headed for the door.
‘You have been very kind.’
The girl smiled from under her eyelashes, and squared her shoulderblades so that her blouse tightened until it seemed ready to burst. ‘I am only here for that, monsieur.’
‘Perhaps I come back one day and buy some more.’
‘You could always telephone us your order, monsieur.’
‘And you call yourself?’
An eyebrow raised slightly, and then the girl pealed with laughter. ‘Me? I’m Annette, monsieur. But I speak no English.’
‘I will come back to look for you, and you will have absolutely no need.’
The girl smiled, and turned away: she plainly felt that she had flirted with Charlie enough for one afternoon. But it was a triumph, and he danced out of the bakery on winged feet. Jennifer might treat him as a pet, and arrogantly attempt to keep him on a leash. But he could still enjoy moments of freedom.
He found Jennifer and the two women now in animated conversation: all Jenny and June and Trish. Trish insisted on buying Jennifer another shandy, though Charlie was restricted to a small coffee, because he had to drive, and also largely ignored. Jennifer spoke of filling her Volvo with a carload of treasures, and stocking up on the most delicious things to eat and drink, with Charlie relegated to his duties as chauffeur, interpreter and porter. Both women plainly admired her dash and resourcefulness. Both admired her ability to manage her husband.
Charlie began to look more and more sulky, and Jennifer judged it time to be move on. She rounded off by patting his shoulder in a proprietorial sort of way. ‘He’s really a treasure,’ she says fondly, smiling at the two women. ‘He’s a good man, and very, very useful.’
Charlie drove in silence as they began the final lap to Calais, and Jennifer sniffed. ‘You don’t have to work yourself up into a temper.’
Charlie scowled. ‘I’m not a bloody dog.’
‘Well, then. Don’t behave like one.’
Charlie felt anger mount. He was not a man to lose his temper, but sometimes he could be very cutting. ‘I’m the one who finds stuff, buys it, gets the price down. I do all the bloody work.’
‘Make eyes at all the bloody women?’
Charlie opened his mouth to speak, and closed it again tightly. He wondered whether Jennifer had been able to see the girl in the baker, or whether she had just fired in the dark. He compensated by racing as fast as he dared along the motorway spur leading from the main Calais-Dunkirk motorway into the ferry terminal, cornering hard on the bends. Jennifer hated him speeding, but he knew she would show no weakness. He got his own back in white hairs.
They arrived just in time for a boat, and lined up to embark. Charlie always crossed the Channel by boat – he had tried Eurotunnel just once, and found himself waiting for three hours under a baking sun for a train back from Coquelles, the French terminal. He had sworn never to Chunnel again. P&O ferries might be slower, but they were much more comfortable, and he knew he could swim away from any disaster.
Jennifer did not speak. One day Charlie was going to misjudge a bend and wipe the Volvo. The tension had given her a headache, and she noted a line of waiting coaches. The boat would be full, and uncomfortable, and Charlie would sulk.
They waited, and the car filled with the odour of melting cheese. But then the queue began to move, and they were on board, and Jennifer scrabbled for her bag of cushions, because now she had just once chance to find Charlie a place to sleep before they were swamped by old age pensioners with bad-tempered expressions and sensible clothes. She made purposefully for her bar. But two men had already collared her chosen bench, and she hovered indecisively.
Charlie took command. “We’ll go in the lounge.” He moved on, heading purposefully for an empty stretch of bench seat, and was already stretched out, cushion comfortably under his head, when the first pensioners arrived. A couple of elderly women muttered in disapproval at the sight of him taking so much space – Jennifer had settled uncomfortably in a nearby chair – and then wandered off. A second wave flowed in, bringing an aggressive woman in a pink shellsuit walking on a stick. She stared down at Charlie in open disapproval, before raising her stick to prod at him tentatively. Charlie glowered.
‘You’re taking up a lot of space there, young man.’ The woman’s voice was truculent.
Charlie sniffed, turning his back.
The woman tried a fresh prod. ‘If you moved over, there would be room for another person to sit there.’
Several pensioners gathered to watch this confrontation with interest. Jennifer turned her chair away, so that she sat with her back to him. The woman tried a third prod, harder this time.
Charlie rolled over. ‘Go away.’
The elderly woman lowered her stick uncertainly. Pensioners generally got what they wanted, and she was used to having her way with men. She turned appealingly to a man next to her. He had been her constant companion on the coach trip to the Italian Lakes, because he judged her quite wealthy, and she was undoubtedly a widow. He looked at Charlie sternly.
‘I think you should made room for the lady.’
Charlie scowled. ‘I think she should go away.’
The elderly man bridled, and edged away. He was not going to risk being thumped. Somebody else could have her.
A second pensioner puts a hand on the woman’s arm. ‘Come away, dear. He’s obviously determined to be rude. This is no place for you.’
The other pensioners murmured their approval. Empty chairs had begun to fill all around them, and they must seat themselves quickly, if they were to seat themselves at all. A moment later they were all gone.
Jennifer turned her chair around again. ‘That was dreadful of you, Charlie. Most embarrassing.’
Charlie did not bother to reply. He wanted to sleep.
‘Everybody was staring.’
He growled. ‘I won.’
Jennifer tried to think of an appropriate riposte, but then decided to keep her mouth shut. Charlie was right: he had won, and that was all that really mattered. She needed a well-rested driver for the trip home.
Ninety odd minutes later they rolled off the boat at Dover. It was still warm, and Charlie opened his window to balance his hand holding their passports on his wing mirror. It was a game: he held the passports fanned like playing cards, so that they would be just out of reach of the immigration officer waiting in a little booth just ahead of the customs control. He objected strongly to having to show them: only Britain maintained border controls, and they wasted time.
However the official, a woman possibly in her late twenties, merely glanced at the passports, nodded, and waved him past. The gaggle of customs officers waiting in the hall just beyond immigration showed even less interest. One held a clipboard, consulting it as cars drove past slowly, but ignored the Volvo completely. Charlie caught a quick glimpse of a white Transit van diverted into an inspection bay, with a young man standing with a rather dejected air between two customs officers in blue overalls, as though he had been caught red-handed doing something illegal, and it was an insight into a different world, a world of smugglers and crooks, and very possibly of hard men on boats doling out large free brandies. But then he was out of the terminal, and heading for the M20 motorway in a cluster of cars.
The drive home took two hours, in a seemingly infinite traffic jam, moving at a steady sixty to seventy miles an hour. Jennifer dozed fitfully, and Charlie thought of the woman at Courrieres, and the girl in the bakery at St. Omer. Perhaps a better life waited for him, somewhere out there. Perhaps fate would change from being unremittingly oppressive, and deal him a better hand. Perhaps, perhaps, perhaps. But he knew, in his heart of hearts, that life would march on. Jennifer would go on bossing him about, and probably boss him more and more. Nothing would change. Nothing would improve. He realised that he had begun to grow old.