Page 7 of Lost in Translation
Dom fiddled with a loose button on his shirt. Charlotte prayed it didn’t fall off as sewing wasn’t one of her strengths. Right now she didn’t know what her strengths were, but dealing with out-of-the-blue proclamations wasn’t one of them. She shivered, although she wasn’t cold.
‘To where?’ Design For Life wasn’t a big company, but its ethical stance and reasonably priced homeware meant an increasing presence in the UK and abroad. Small shops, often tucked away in remote industrial estates. Their stock was limited, but all sourced from artisan producers, with not a whiff of cheap labour. They planned to expand, though Dom had been tight-lipped about the ins and outs. Charlotte’s chest tightened as she waited for him to continue.
‘Overseas. But not that far: Switzerland. They’re opening up more to international business, and it’s a great country to live in. In fact, I’ve booked a trip for all of us to visit in two weeks.’
Charlotte’s chest tightened another notch.Two weeks?Didn’t he know that they could be thrown into jail (perhaps a mild exaggeration) for taking the boys out of school in term time? Was he insane? Did she even know this man, sitting there looking cooler than an iced cucumber?
‘I don’t get it. Why do we have to move? Isn’t the head office here?’ Charlotte tried to breathe normally, but her lungs wouldn’t cooperate.
‘They want me to head up a satellite office. Small, but hands-on, just to get things running. They reckon I’m the perfect man for the job. We’re opening two stores, one in Lausanne and the other in Zurich. Early days, but it could be big. Charlotte, it’s another step up the ladder. The company’s already lining up schools to visit, and they’ll pay the fees. Plus accommodation and relocation costs.’
Dom’s eyes sparkled with excitement. Charlotte felt nauseous and dizzy.
‘It’s too good an opportunity to turn down,’ he continued. ‘You’ll love it, I’m sure.’
Charlotte wasn’t sure at all. Without a word, she left the room.
Chapter 8
‘Isn’t it stunning?’Dom pointed out of the train window as it trundled past vineyards, now stark and devoid of fruit, and the boys oohed and aahed at the expanse of Lac Leman. It was mid-November, and the sun shone, although the outside temperature was only a few degrees above zero.
They would check into their hotel, freshen up, then embark on three school visits. The next day, a relocation woman had lined up a few rental properties for them to look at. Much would depend on the favoured school in terms of where they should live.
Charlotte loosened her scarf, the heat from the carriage making her sweat. She passed the boys extortionately priced sandwiches and bottles of water purchased on arrival at Geneva Airport. Switzerland was notoriously expensive, though Dom assured her that a downturn in international companies bringing in expats meant things had changed over the past decade.
‘Prochain arrêt, Lausanne,’ purred the train announcer. How could a simple announcement sound so much sexier in French?
‘Mummy, will we have to wear a uniform at our new school?’ Robson loved his embroidered polo shirt and grey shorts (trousers in the winter), whereas Alastair loathed them. If he could get away with casual, he’d be a much happier bunny.
‘I think the first two schools don’t have uniform, but the third does.’ Charlotte had a pile of glossy brochures, each extolling the virtues of the relevant school.
‘So can we skip the first two and just choose the third?’ Robson gave Charlotte his best pleading face.
‘We need to see them all,’ said Dom sternly. ‘You can’t make snap decisions based on some photos and a blurb. It’s important we agree on things like that.’
Charlotte stifled a snort of derision. There had been no consultation or discussion on the move to Switzerland; he’d presented it as a ‘fait accompli’. OK, the boys were young and considered the whole thing an adventure, but her opinion had counted for nothing. For every reason she presented against the move, Dom had an arsenal of counter-attacks. The climate: sunny in the summer, crisp, clear and snowy in the winter. The safety aspect: less crime, fewer homeless people cluttering the streets. Charlotte had winced at that one. Those poor people huddled in doorways weren’t criminals, just lost souls looking for help in a world that largely ignored them. She remembered Alastair crying once as they walked past a middle-aged man slouched in despondency, a handful of coins in his upturned cap. With little cash on her, they’d gone into a Costa coffee shop, bought a baguette and a flat white, and returned to the man. His expression had shifted from bewilderment to delight, his gruff thank you bringing an enormous smile to Alastair’s face.
‘The next stop is ours.’ Dom pulled their bags off the overhead rack, the boys strapping on their backpacks. The plan was to jump into a taxi to the hotel which was only a fifteen-minute journey away.
They alighted from the train, buttoning up their coats against the chilly air. All around were signs in French, and the smell of coffee and pastries filled their nostrils.
Robson tugged at Charlotte’s sleeve. ‘Can I have a pain au chocolat?’ Her mood lifted a notch at his perfect pronunciation. Ignoring Dom’s moan that they needed to get a move on, she led the boys to the bakery stand.
‘Deux pains au chocolats et…,’ Charlotte hesitated, unsure of the word for the unctuous delight before her. She pointed, and the assistant nodded, placing the three items in a paper bag. Charlotte paid, then dished them out. She took a bite, a dollop of gooey cream landing on her chin.
Dom laughed before wiping it away with a paper napkin. ‘Troops, it’s time to get this show on the road!’
School one didn’t hit the mark; the lady assigned to show them around seemed more concerned with keeping her long and swooping scarf in place than giving them information. Hordes of children, clad in everything from H&M to designer gear, swarmed around, clanging lockers and chattering excitedly. Alastair and Robson looked on in stunned silence, the contrast between this and their English school robbing them of speech. Dom barked out a few questions, but Charlotte was desperate to leave, hoping the next school would prove more successful.
It didn’t. The head was a nice enough chap, who at least tried to engage the boys in conversation, but both remained shell-shocked. Like First World War survivors emerging from the trenches, they sat mute. Now, everything was pinned on school three.
‘We run a tight ship here.’ The headmistress, a tiny woman, sat behind her solid mahogany desk, where pens, papers and folders were lined up in an orderly fashion. The only anomaly was her dog, a scruffy hound of indeterminate breed, curled up in a basket. He regarded them all with an uninterested stare, passed wind, then settled down for a snooze.
‘That sounds scary,’ replied Charlotte, hoping the intended humour came across. An older pupil had taken Alastair and Robson off on a tour of the school grounds. First impressions were favourable when their taxi swept into the impressive entrance. The junior department, a picture-postcard wooden chalet, stood at the top of a winding pathway, while the senior school was a more familiar modern structure. There were tennis courts, an expanse of lawn, and an outdoor swimming pool. As it was break time, clusters of children in maroon and grey uniform milled around, teachers and support staff on hand to ensure all went smoothly.
The headmistress, Ms Chapuis, smiled. ‘Not at all. What I mean is we adhere to standards, both educational and pastoral. With over fifty nationalities and differing backgrounds, we aim to provide top-level teaching, and a wider understanding of the world and our need to co-exist in harmony.’
Ms Chapuis explained the broad curriculum, with its focus on teaching both English and French from an early age, and its commitment to sport. ‘All students have weekly ski lessons during the season, as well as a ski trip. We encourage participation in football — both boys and girls — and everything from tennis and hockey to badminton and cross-country running. We emphasise that it’s not all about winning, but taking part.’
