2006 - A Piano in The Pyrenees (7 page)

“That van is scrapheap bound,” I continued. “I am not prepared to put a further penny into it. The only thing we can do is hire another one and start again.”

And in that moment I knew that my period of temporary madness was over and I had finally come to my senses. I was now doing what I should have done in the first place. It made no economic sense to carry on with this van. My outlay thus far had been:

It’s important to remember that this total of £515.00 had to be measured against the distance covered before the engine blew up. A measly 1000 metres. The van had effectively cost me 51.5p a metre. Calculated at this rate, the journey to the Pyrenees would have ended up costing about £515,000.

“I’ll make another pot of tea,” I said, authoritatively.

And why the hell not? There were another two hours to kill before the van-hire people turned up.

§

It turned out to be quite an exhausting day. Once the reams of paperwork had been completed and the new van had been hired (and boy did it look new compared to what we’d just been in), we had an unenviable task ahead of us. We had to empty onto the roadside the contents of a Luton van that had taken hours to pack, before loading it all onto a new one. Just as Tim pointed out how ‘lucky’ we were to have a nice bright morning in which to complete the undertaking, rain clouds appeared, in preparation for drenching us and our gear at the most inconvenient moment. Fortunately the piano’s second movement (pun intended) was simpler than the first, because we were able to drag it from one van to the other by putting the vans back to back. Anxious onlookers emerged, no doubt from Neighbourhood Watch. They looked on in both wonder and dismay as Tim waved his arms and guided me and the pristine Luton van into position, butting it end to end with the stranded, disgraced and completely shitty one. The whole operation gave everyone a brief glimpse of a downmarket version of a rocket ship docking with its mother station in space. However, on successful completion of the mission there were no whoops and hollers from Houston, just dirty looks from disapproving local residents, followed by some eager piano-wheeling from two rather desperate-looking figures.

We were on the road again at one o’clock, with a load comprising two tired men (one with an empty wallet and bruised ego) and a considerable amount of damp furniture and boxes. Initially we made good headway, but then, as if we were being karmically punished for past misdemeanours, we discovered that the M20 was closed between junctions 9 and 10. A huge detour was necessary through rural Kent, affording us a snapshot of the idyllic ‘little England’ that each year people leave in their droves for retirement in Spain, Italy, France and elsewhere. In spite of this briefest of glances of the tranquil England of cricket greens, oast houses and quaint villages, it didn’t leave me thinking: why am I leaving for France when I can have this? Maybe this is because much of the English countryside doesn’t really feel like the country—more like large green areas with easy access to motorways that can speed you into cities. The quaint villages aren’t necessarily full of quaint villagers, and the nicest houses are invariably inhabited by CEOs and retired city traders. And even though it isn’t crowded, it still feels like it’s bang on the edge of crowded.

How marked the contrast then as soon as we emerged from the tunnel and began to drive through Normandy. The farrago of vans, lorries and cars that had so clogged the latter part of our British drive seemed to dissipate the instant we touched French soil. Quite where it all went remains a mystery but the roads were empty and, like magic, large vistas of green rolling hills opened up around us. Tired though we were, it felt good to be in a new country, especially in a nice safe vehicle with no fears of imminent breakdown, and with an engine volume that allowed easy conversation.

The fact that we hadn’t hit Calais until 6pm local time did mean that we were hopelessly behind schedule. We pressed on heroically, however, circumnavigating Paris with some difficulty and finding ourselves, much to our surprise, eulogising on the merits of the M25. Paris lacks a simple peripheral motorway and the road signs that are supposed to guide you around the city are like coquettes that lead you on with the promise of your destination only to disappear at the moment your passions are most aroused.

By lam we started to fade and left the
peage
in search of a place to lay our weary heads. Fortunately we were in a country whose entrepreneurs had taken it upon themselves to cater for the travelling motorist who chooses to push on into the night. France is well served by newly constructed budget hotels situated on industrial estates near major roads. They offer very little, but to be fair they only ask for 20-25 euros in return. Armed only with a credit card, the guest can struggle with a machine (in our case, bad temperedly) and then be given a slip of paper containing four digits that allow access to a small room. The accommodation is spartan but the bed is so welcoming to the exhausted driver that it matters little. However, what did matter on this occasion was that we were inheriting a room from the man with the smelliest feet in France. The moment we opened the door the smell was quite overpowering. We were immediately faced with a major drawback of these hotels: none of one’s dealings are with human beings. However much Tim and I wanted to, it would have been fruitless to go back to the machine and bellow at it until it had the common decency to provide us with a room that didn’t smell like a cross between a cheese shop and a rugby changing room. So instead we collapsed resignedly onto the disappointingly hard beds.

“Well, Tim, it’s been an interesting day,” I said. “What mark would you give it out often?”

Tim mused for a minute.

“I think a five would be fairest.”

And he was right. We had successfully avoided death, injury, robbery and assault and we were in a new country where we’d found a bed for the night and a roof over our heads.

We couldn’t shut the door though. That would have been too risky. There was too grave a danger of passing away peacefully in our sleep as the first known victims of’lorry drivers feet’, so we had to sleep with our coats on and with the door wedged open, leaving ourselves hopelessly vulnerable to a random theft or mugging.

“I remember the last time you slept in that leather jacket,” said Tim, wriggling around in a futile search for comfort. “It was in that dodgy hotel in Salamanca.”

“Oh Christ,” I said. “Don’t remind me about that weekend.”

It had all looked so promising. Many years previously the two of us had headed off to Spain for a long weekend and we’d ended up in the picturesque Spanish town of Salamanca. On the Saturday night we’d met two fabulous girls and we’d had the most amazing evening. They were both beautiful, spoke fluent English and, happily, Tim and I each fancied different ones so we weren’t fighting over the same girl. Their interest was reciprocal. We drank wine, joked, laughed and danced into the night. It was incredible. Tim and I were smitten. So smitten in fact that we made no attempt to try and kiss the girls other than in a polite way when the whole magical evening drew to a close. What was the hurry when they were that gorgeous and that much fun? Besides, we were going to spend all of the next day and evening together. We had agreed that we’d all head off in our hire car to Portugal together.

At midday the next day, as arranged, Tim and I waited for Arantxa and Mercedes in front of the cathedral. We were ready for the most romantic adventure of our lives thus far.

The girls were late. No sign of them by 12.15.

OK, we thought. A woman’s prerogative.

The girls were very late. No sign of them by 12.30.

OK, we thought. A Spanish woman’s prerogative.

By 12.45, still nothing. We were running out of prerogatives.

At 1pm we began to wonder if there was another cathedral and we were at the wrong one. There was absolutely no way we could have misread the signals the night before. No question—the two girls had enjoyed an amazing night and, like us, they were well on the way to falling in love. There had to be a reason why they weren’t there at the cathedral. They must have got held up in some way. There must have been some kind of incident.

Tim and I took a picnic lunch on the cathedral steps and continued to wait. We would not give up hope. We wandered the streets nearby. We peered into hotel receptions. Maybe the girls had overslept—after all, it had been getting light when we’d parted company the night before. But nothing. By 3pm there was no sign of them anywhere and there was nothing else for it but to give up, and so we plodded back to our car, distraught and heartbroken.

During the sombre car journey back to Madrid we discussed all the possibilities for what could have happened to Arantxa and Mercedes. In the end we decided that there was only one plausible explanation.

They must have been murdered.

Tim shuffled on his hard bed, turned towards me and frowned. I didn’t know whether this had been brought on by the room’s smell or the painful memory of Salamanca.

“Those poor girls,” said Tim, shifting onto his side ready to have a stab at sleeping. “Funny how a double killing like that never made the papers.”

“Yes, it was very odd.”

“Goodnight.”

“Goodnight.”

In the morning, after a surprisingly good night’s sleep, we made our way back to the van to continue our epic journey. As we walked past the credit-card machine with our bags, we waved cordially but we were ignored. No acknowledgement, not even a nod or a ‘Have a nice day’. We felt used. Frankly, once those machines have swallowed and then regurgitated your credit cards, they don’t give a toss. This was an example of twenty-first century ‘progress’.

No wonder finding a house in a French village was so appealing.

§

Tim’s house was in a picturesque rural setting with lovely hill views, but was much more of a ‘project’ than mine. It had been a ruin when he and Lucy had bought it, but extensive works were now only months away from completion. Tim had avoided all the drama and constant disappointment that usually accompanies such building projects by cleverly giving the job to one of his best mates, Matt, who had formerly been his partner in an amusing double act that had worked the London comedy circuit for a few years. Despite prospects for a promising career as an actor, Matt had thrown in the showbiz towel when his girlfriend Helen had become pregnant, and shortly afterwards they’d moved out to this region of France with barely a franc in their pockets, setting up home in a barn.↓

≡ Their first born son would be lucky enough to be able to go through life leaving doors wide open, and when challenged with the question, “Were you born in a barn?” would be able to reply, “Yes.”

Now, fifteen years later, Matt and Helen had fostered a successful building business, added two more children, and embraced convention by shunning ‘barn life’ and moving into a house.

They were working on Tims property when we arrived and they greeted us with enthusiastic hugs and kisses, which suggested that fifteen years of living in France had meant they’d more than embraced the concept of French salutations. And perhaps they were pleased to see us, too.

“How was the journey?” asked Helen.

“Ah,” said Tim.

“Perhaps we should tell you about it over a cup of tea,” I said.

And a terrific cup it was, over which the story of the ‘journey thus far’ was related, much to Matt and Helen’s amusement. Then a new plan was formulated. It was decided that Matt would travel with us on the next part of the journey. This would give me and Tim another driver, and Matt the chance to catch up on a decade of news. It had been a satisfyingly spontaneous decision, and one to which Helen had acceded with great generosity of spirit.

“The chance for you to be three lads together in a Luton van?” she’d said. “How can I deny you that?”

‘Three lads in a van’ (and I use the word ‘lad’ more in reference to gender than age) turned out to be great fun. For us, the
autoroute
south now became ‘Memory Lane’ as we discussed stories from London’s comedy circuit during the late 1980
s
, successful and unsuccessful sexual liaisons and past girlfriends, all of which were peppered with the occasional mention of football. And we laughed. How we laughed.

And then, somewhere along the seemingly endless stretch of motorway, perhaps between Montauban and Toulouse, the banter suddenly matured and became surprisingly philosophical and analytical. Tales of past conquests and humiliations gave way to more reflective discussions about life and love, and where we all were. Of course, we were all in a Luton van working our way towards the Pyrenees, but where were we on our life journey? And being the only one who hadn’t followed the more conventional path of finding a partner and raising a family, my life invited the closest scrutiny. Matt and Tim fired question after question at me: what age had I been when my parents had divorced? What was my relationship like now with my parents? Why had I split up with my last girlfriend?

It was Matt who asked the hardest question.

“What about love, Tony? Have you ever been in love?”

A very tricky question indeed.

“Well,” I replied uncomfortably, “I know it sounds an incredible thing for a forty-four-year-old man to say—but I don’t think that I ever have. Of course, it depends how you define it.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, there are lots of meanings for love, aren’t there? I mean, you can love your sister and you can love your dog.”