For me, it was a bit of a shock. A bit like meeting an old friend that you thought was dead. At first I didn’t want to touch it, some of those memories were still stark, too real.
‘Not sure how the old boy got this – maybe he found it. I got your name from the cover. It took a few beers to buy a favour from the adjutant, but I eventually got your contact address out of him.’
I gave him the story of my time in the dust and filth of Desert Storm and how I’d kept the illegal journal. And of his father’s response to its discovery.
‘Dad read and reread your notes and poems many times. He had one of the poems printed up and framed. It was, still is, on the wall of his study above the desk.’
He picked up the little book and thumbed through the pages. ‘Here it is, this is the one.’
He passed it to me, opened at a poem I’d written about a mate who was shot by a sniper as he stood right beside me.
‘Well I’ll be...’ I didn’t know quite what to say.
‘Jimi sat forward on the edge of his chair, ‘It’s why I’m here.’ he said.
‘Well....thanks. I’m sorry about your loss, but it’s nice to see this old book again.’
‘I’m sure. But that’s not all. Do you have any more?’
My raised eyebrow must have given him the clue that I didn’t know what he was talking about, because he set about explaining how he’d left the Marines and found his niche as a publisher’s agent. He’d had a notion that a collection of my scribbled poems could be a saleable project. So I dug out my old notebooks from a case in the attic and we spent the rest of the morning looking through them. Jimi’s smile got wider and wider.
‘Perfect.’ he said ‘Absolutely. Bloody. Perfect!’
I put the last book on the pile, the one Jimi had given me. There was a full set now, stretching from 1982 up until just before my release in 1992.
‘I’m sure it’ll work.’ said Jimi. ‘I know it will. If you like, I can get a contract drawn up right away, and we can get to work setting up a meeting with the publisher’s team.’
And so we did. We went to the local pub for lunch and he explained all the ins-and-outs over several glasses of wine. The advance of royalties that he promised was rather more than I’d thought probable, or even possible. But he assured me that he would get it – He’d done it before.
The afternoon wore on into the evening as we reminisced and told each other tales of daring action and adventures on foreign visits. By the timer I got home, I was too late for the dinner date at the Taylor’s and I guess that drove the wedge a little deeper into the wound of our marriage. I’d had too much to drink anyhow and would probably only have disgraced myself by saying what I really thought about their tiny hypocritical world.
~ ~ ~
The book deal was snapped up at an affair rather like a private auction and one sunny morning just a few months ago, young Jimi had arrived at the door with his wide smile and a cheque. I’d decided to keep this affair quiet – it would be my cash deposit, for my rainy day. But I’d already begun to think of a move away from this house where I’d been a boy, a move away from mainly unhappy memories, from old Blighty even – and had been looking at houses in France. Brittany mainly, because I knew the place from our holidays.
~ ~ ~
And that’s how I’d come to be here, in an old farmhouse near Pontivy in France. It’s a grand old place, thick stone walls and a steep slate roof. I’ve got three good size bedrooms and oodles of space on the ground floor, there’s a well fitted kitchen and a lounge with an enormous log-burning stove. One of the things I’d set my heart on when looking around, was a house with a big garden where you couldn’t see another roof or window. And that’s what I’ve got. It’s not really isolated, although it can feel like it, the nearest hamlet is just a few hundred metres down the hill and Pontivy, a large market town, is just a short drive away.
I’d hoped it’d be a marvellous escape for Janet and me. I could write and Janet, who spoke good french, could indulge her favourite pastime of coffees and gossip at some real cafes. It had been something we’d often talked about, a life changing adventure. We’d dreamed of a self-sufficient life-style with animals and a proper vegetable garden, it could have been our second chance and I thought she’d be pleased.
But I was wrong. When I told her what had happened and what I planned she went coldly silent, then begged me to ask the insurance company to give me my job back.
‘How can I tell my friends that my big, hunky husband is a Poet?’ she’d said with tears of anger rolling down her cheeks. ‘They’ll all laugh, I know they will. And this house that you’ve chosen. It’s old. It’s falling apart and it’s so isolated. How could I invite my friends to stay....they’d need overalls, wellies at the very least!’
She’d thought at first, that a weekend might be ok, but I knew that any longer than a few days and she’d be fretting about the clandestine movements in her social circle of waspish females. Who’d be talking about who, who’d be talking about her and which adulterous cow would be screwing a neighbour’s husband. I still felt it surprising just how little I knew of Janet’s real inner self. It had come as a shock when I’d slowly realised how much at arm’s length I’d been held from her true personal feelings, thoughts and opinions, I guess I’d been too trusting. But that’s just me.
So here I am. On my own, with more work than I can cope with. But really, it had all been an incredible stroke of luck. For I’ve also discovered something that I enjoy passionately, the thought that someone out there enjoys my poetry writings enough to want to buy them, is a thrilling thing – I’d not thought it possible. I just wish I had someone to share it all with.
‘Well, I’ll not go back. I just couldn’t face it, I thought, reaching for my overlarge glass of red wine. ‘Maybe I’ll give her another call. See if she’s changed her mind.’
I reached for my battered Blackberry and jabbed at the shortcut button. I smiled as I heard the dial tone. The phone was so battered, abused even, that it amused me every time it managed to work.
~ ~ ~
Janet was in the bar at the Golf Club with some friends, she leaned across the table. They looked like the coven of witches from Shakespeare’s Macbeth.
‘Well, you should have seen the state of him.’ said Janet, pushing a stray blonde hair from her face. ‘He’d obviously been out all night. I mean....who wears a DJ and unravelled bow tie at ten in the morning? And he could hardly stand.’ they all laughed, waiting for more.
Janet’s new and still shiny Smartphone began to gurgle its awful ring tone, she wished she could change it, but didn’t know how – so she pretended to like it. Onto the screen flowed an image of William, he was almost naked and looked fit with his well muscled body and curly dark hair. Her friends, as if pulled by the same string, leaned forward to see the screen, then sat back with smug anticipation on their pert faces. They knew that the next few minutes promised to be entertaining and a goldmine of gossipy items to share at dinner parties.
‘I’m busy at the moment William. Is it urgent?’ Janet picked up her glass, and to the total disappointment of the table, stood and walked outside to the patio. ‘I thought I’d made myself quite clear,’ she said with the staccato beat of marching boots. ‘I have no intention of making a visit to your dusty, smoky old house until springtime.’ She frowned as she listened to her husband’s chirpy voice then turned to wave to her friends. I’m sure you’ll do just as you want....Be nice if you came home.’ Janet turned back to her view of the fairway, she smiled at the new coach, he looked good in his revealingly, tight white trousers. But her eyes had become coldly calculating and again she interrupted William’s chatter ‘Oh well, if you feel like that, the answer is simple. I’ll speak to Gryce and get some petition papers started. Desertion shouldn’t be hard to prove. Should it?’ she touched a switch to cut the line and went back inside.
~ ~ ~
I gazed at the silent phone for several minutes, then turned
back to the view of my garden. ‘So that’s it then. That’s how it happens. She’s gone.’
Chapter 3
It was Sunday evening already, it still felt strange not to have work to prepare for. But it was strange in a way that William thought he would get used to quite quickly. The sound of distant gunfire had stopped a while ago and the silent background to the birdsong was like a tonic.
He’d made his decision, a formal separation from his wife had begun to give him an unexpected feeling of release. In truth though, if she hadn’t pressed it, he would probably have stayed in that disappointing, one-sided relationship, but if it must, well, divorce it would be. He and Janet had been going their separate ways anyway and they’d been emotionally drifting for a number of years. So, he told himself, this life isn’t a rehearsal, there’s no second try. And decision made, he began to feel relieved, he thought he should be soaked in a feeling of guilt, but wasn’t.
He pushed any negative thoughts to the back of his mind and, with a lightness in his step that he hadn’t felt for a long time, William went out to the woodshed to split logs for his evening fire.
~ ~ ~
I’ll get some company. A dog would be nice, I thought.
‘Always wanted a dog. Too messy she’d said.....Perhaps a big dog.....can’t see me with one of those little ratty things. And now.....I’m talking to myself!’ I laughed and shook my head then swung the heavy axe. The exercise felt good.
Later that evening, logs crackling in the fireplace and sending a flickering light around the room, I sat with a pencil and notepad. Two new poems outlined already. This was the life I thought. But as I’m staying here, I probably have a mountain of French bureaucratic paper to climb, so I began a list of who to contact. I got as far as the local Mayor’s office and the dog’s home when the phone rang. I no longer kept it handy and got up to fetch it from the dining table.
At first, I thought it might be Janet. Changed her mind eh? My hand stalled as I reached for the battered mobile. I was surprised to feel a hot resentment, I’ll not be fooled with, I thought. I really didn’t want to go backwards, being alone was starting to bother me – but I’d already gotten used to the divorce idea. Maybe I wouldn’t answer. But the picture I saw on the screen was a complete surprise....and someone I should have called earlier, much earlier.
‘Rachel. Hi...How are you?’
‘Hi, Dad. I’m fine. Mum’s just called...’
‘Ah...Guess I should have spoken to you a while back....sorry.’
‘Don’t be. Look...The way you and mum were...just wasn’t right. It was one of the reasons I didn’t visit so very often. But you’re a quiet one eh? A house in France? I didn’t know you even spoke any French.’
‘Hah ha....well I don’t speak too much – but I’m learning.
‘Whereabouts are you over there – it’s a big country.’
‘I’m near Pontivy, in Brittany...I’ll send you a text with all the details. Why don’t you come over and take a look around?’
‘Thought you’d never ask. I could get over next month...If that’d be ok?’
‘You can come whenever you like Rachel. Love to see you anytime.’
‘Yeah...I know. But it sounds to me like you’ll need a good lawyer right soon. Mother’s pretty mad.’
I thought about that for a moment, if I wasn’t careful I could be facing a disaster of monumental proportions.
‘Hi Dad....you still there?’
‘Ah...yeah. She’ll get over it. But you’re right about a legal rep, maybe you could recommend one? Not too expensive mind.’
‘Ha ha. I’ll see what I can do. Don’t forget that text, I’ll book a ferry as soon as I can, but it won’t be ‘til the end of the month, soonest....Bit busy getting ready for the new term and that. You be good over there.’
‘I’ll try. Take care Rachel...love you.’
‘Oh Dad...love you too. See you soon.’
~ ~ ~
And that was the end of my job-list making for the day, I couldn’t think about it after Rachel’s call. Such a lovely surprise and, I guess, perfectly timed. I knew I’d start to count the days ‘til she came. I thought of marking it up on the calendar, but realised I didn’t have one. That’s another thing for the list tomorrow.
I’d need to do something with one of the spare bedrooms too. Make it up into a comfy guest room. Hmm, might need to find some help there, I thought...Don’t want to overdo the frilly girly thing. But still need the frenchness – the style. Have to think about that. But right now, another glass of wine and off to bed. It’s been a funny old day. I’m more tired than I’ve been for years, but comfortably tired – not stressed or anxious – like I feel I ought to be.
~ ~ ~
For some reason I expected sunshine to stream through my bedroom window and wake me gently. The rain was quite a surprise. I’d forgotten that heaven wasn’t always going to be ideal. But it wasn’t cold and the rain was soft, I drank my first cup of coffee under the shelter of the porch, listening to the birds, watching the rain and making some more notes on my list of chores for the day. My mind drifted and I thought of Janet.
Was she alone too, I wondered. I’d often thought that there might have been someone else. Nothing I could put my finger on exactly, just an impression a loose sort of feeling. I guess men aren’t so good at detecting things like that. But Janet had definitely been a bit, well, distant at times. Maybe a separation had been something she’d been looking for? As Rachel said, “Things weren’t right.” Perhaps she just needed the excuse that I’d served up to her. Maybe I’d never know.
By the time I’d showered and dressed, the sky had begun to brighten and before long, there were patches of clear sky. The rain eased to drizzle, then stopped and I went off to the town.
Chapter 4
William sat in the sunshine at a cafe in Pontivy’s busy square with a croissant and coffee. Where does the time go, he thought and frowned at his list of chores. He’d made an important discovery, most of France, it seemed, was shut on a Monday. So all his errands remained undone.
~ ~ ~
In one respect though, I’m doing quite well today, I ordered coffee and a croissant in french without having to repeat myself and, without Pierre the waiter feeling the need to switch to his excellent English. That’s more than I can say for a couple of tourists sitting at a table across from me, they tried to give their breakfast order in their own language, getting louder each time that they had to repeat their order. Pierre smiled, gave them the characteristic shrug treatment and walked away. They were fuming, and for a moment, they were speechless...which was nice.
I scanned my list of chores, not one of them done. The Hotel de Ville or town hall was closed, the Prefecture didn’t even have any lights on, the Bank’s doors were firmly locked and a notice on the gates at the Dog’s Home told me they were open Tuesday to Saturday, afternoons only. So, I leaned back in my chair, sipped my coffee and smiled at the two tourists as they loudly complained about rude foreigners. I wanted to tell them that this is France. It’s you that are the foreigners!
But then, I thought, so am I. I live here, but I’m still a foreigner and I suppose always will be. I find those English people who pretend to be French rather pathetic, but I must find a way of integrating myself into their country, into their systems. Language was a hurdle, but I had the basics, even if it did need more....much more practice. But of course, that was it. Practice! I need to find some new friends, local ones, French ones. But how to start? Where to start?
The early rain had washed the dust from the trees and the leaves sparkled with their gloss in the fresh clean air. I got another coffee and, enjoying the warmth of the sunshine, watched the people as they went about their business in the weekly market. It wasn’t a huge event by French standards, but there were dozens of stalls set up in the square. You could buy almost anything you needed, from a baguette to double glazing. There was no pushing or rushing, people strolled around like it was a park, st
opping to taste a morsel of cheese here, a sip of cider there. Friends met, embraced and kissed without any sign of an Englishman’s embarrassment or awkwardness. The other thing I noticed were the children, ok they weren’t angels, but there were no ‘I want’ tantrums, at least none that I could see. They walked along with mum or dad and even helped carry some of the groceries.
Well, I’d have no help to carry shopping, but I didn’t need too much. I turned over my list of errands and made a quick shopping list for fruit, veg and some other essentials.
My thoughts strayed back to my new home and all the work I should be doing. The veg patch that I was planning, grass cutting to finish and now the new job of fitting out and decorating a spare bedroom for Rachel....But, this is France, and in the country nothing happens quickly. And I was getting used to it.
I thought about the sound of gunfire that I’d heard yesterday. It had sounded quite close, perhaps only a mile or so away from the house. Now, that could be an answer. You could tell from the pattern of shots that it was more than likely a clay pigeon range. If it was a gun-club, it just might suit me down to the ground.
I’d been a good shot once. Ok, it was a while ago now, but I bet with a little practice I could get it back. What a great place it would be to meet new people, I’d have to work on my French too, there’d be no option. Two birds with one stone eh? Or perhaps that should be two birds with one shot! Target shooting would be good. I didn’t relish the thought of killing anything anymore. I’d done enough of that. Who knows, it might even help slay some of the nightmares that still managed to surface and creep into my dreams now and then. I’d look them up, see what’s what.
‘Yes’ I said aloud. The couple at the next table turned and smiled. I think I must have blushed a little.
Chapter 5
As with most things French, where time often flies by unheeded, William didn’t get around to finding the shooting range until Sunday on the following weekend. The day was warm and he dressed carefully in a blue, short-sleeved, check shirt and sandy coloured chinos, his dark curly hair was getting long and a bit unruly, but he managed to brush it into submission.