Page 69 of Where Do We Go From Here?
‘You don’t want more?’ the baker asks, as she rings up Wendy’s limited purchases. ‘No delivery this time?’
Wendy just shakes her head and taps her card against the payment machine.
‘You are OK?’ the woman asks, one eyebrow arched. ‘You look…je ne sais pas… fatiguée ?’
‘Oui,’Wendy says flatly.‘Je suis fatiguée.’And then she hikes her heavy backpack onto one shoulder and turns towards the door. She’s in no mood for small talk this morning. Not in any language.
She has to rest repeatedly along the way, and by the time she gets home she’s so exhausted that she considers it a result to have made it home at all. But the sun is streaming into the warm cabin and after a Pot Noodle, a hefty serving of wine and an unplanned three-hour snooze on the sofa she wakes up feeling a bit better, though not really well enough to deal with what happens next: a tap, tap, tap on the window. A familiar face peering in.
‘Hello!’ Manon says brightly, the second Wendy opens the door. ‘It’s OK? We take our lesson?’
‘I… I didn’t think you were coming,’ Wendy says, blocking the doorway with her body, effectively keeping Manon on the doorstep.
‘Of course I come,’ Manon replies. ‘It was just so much snow.’ She gestures around her at where the snow was only yesterday. ‘I don’t even deliver post for three days because the road is closed. But if you don’t want…’
‘I’m ill, actually,’ Wendy tells her, faking a cough and wiping non-existent sweat from her brow.
‘OK,’ Manon says. ‘Maybemercredi, then? Wednesday?’
Wendy shrugs. ‘Maybe.’ She’s feeling angry towards Manon, though having just woken up from her snooze, she’s struggling to remember quite why.
‘If you feel better,’ Manon says and Wendy sees her glance at the bottle on the coffee table, and remembers. Then with a wave, Manon turns and walks away. ‘À mercredi !’ she casts over her shoulder.
She tries not to think too much about Manon, but it’s hard. Specifically, every time she takes a sip of wine, her accusations come to mind. But as a sip of wine seems to be the only thing which momentarily clears the flu from her head she doesn’t feel like she has much choice.
She is efficient, though, despite her illness and these occasional sips of wine. Between alternating waves of fever, nausea and general tipsiness, she manages to text Harry for Fiona’s flight details and book a ridiculously expensive car from Hertz for the three days Fiona will be here over Christmas, plus a taxi to get to the airport to pick the car up in the first place.
With all this sorted, she gives herself permission to finish the last of the bottle before crawling back upstairs to her bed.
She’s woken just after ten in the evening by her telephone, and through bleary vision she manages to see that it’s Fiona calling.
Fiona: I’m so excited. Thank you! Dad’s just told me!
Wendy: Well, I’m excited, too. I only hope you don’t hate it here. It’s very, very rural you know.
F: How could I, Mum? It’s France! For Christmas!
They discuss places Fiona might want to visit during her trip (Nice, Antibes and a perfume museum in Grasse) and items Wendy might like from home (mince pies, Christmas cake and crackers). The conversation is unusual in that none of Fiona’s usual reproach leaks out. She genuinely does just sound excited.
The next morning, Wendy feels well enough to throw herself back into her routine. She hikes back up to the spaceship to take her photo, and then trudges back down and onward to the bakery where she picks up a few slightly more thoughtfully chosen supplies.
It’s a gorgeous sunny day and she ends up tying her jacketaround her waist. It’s almost impossible to believe that only three days ago she was snowed in.
Back home, she feeds Mittens (he’s almost stroke-able now) empties the wood stove and neatly stacks a batch of logs beside it. She cleans the cabin from top to bottom and, noting that the water is now hot, even hand-washes a batch of laundry and hangs it out to dry.
Finally, feeling the particular joy one feels when an illness finally fades, she settles down to make a Christmas shopping list. Her daughter is coming for Christmas! Perhaps she still loves her old mum after all.
The weather continues to improve and by the time the twenty-third comes around it’s almost like an English summer day. This is a massive relief for Wendy. After all, she’d far rather her daughter see her enjoying the Mediterranean sunshine than have her witness the misery of snow, cold and blackouts.
The Hertz office being rammed with Christmas travellers, picking up the car takes longer than planned, so despite her best efforts, she’s almost an hour late getting to arrivals.
‘I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry!’ she exclaims as she trots across the hall to where her daughter is seated, looking bored and a bit annoyed.
‘It’s fine, Mum,’ Fiona says, but then, unable to resist, she adds, ‘It’s nice to know you’re so keen to see me.’
‘Oh please don’t be like that,’ Wendy says. ‘The whole car thing has been a nightmare – I’ll tell you about it all later. But my lateness has nothing whatsoever to do with keenness or lack of. I’m thrilled to bits you’re here.’
Fiona scrunches up her nose and smiles. ‘I know,’ she says, finally deigning to stand. ‘I’m onlypulling your leg.’
