An Electric Tomatoes piece written in just over an hour. We stabbed words in a book to come up with the prompt - She got a weekend in Paris
Aunt Jocelynne
sighed at the other end of the line.
'It was quite quick
in the end.'
Her soft accent
curled around the words.
'He did not suffer.
He was asleep anyway. His heart just... it just stopped. Gave up.
It just didn't want to fight any more.'
'Right,' said Phil.
'I'll tell her, Jocelynne, thanks for ringing. I'll tell her when
she comes in. She'll probably want to phone you. In a way I'm glad
I can be the one to break it to her.'
'She will come,
won't she? The funeral... and there will be the... the reading of...
what is it?.. in English?.. you know, the wishes... the
inheritance... what is it?..'
'The will.'
'Yes, the will. She
will come, won't she? There is no-one else...'
'I'm sure she will.
She wanted to come before... when we heard he was ill... but she
couldn't get time off. She'll be devastated. They'll have to give her
time off now. Claude was the closest thing she had to a father.'
'Good, good. Let
me know your plans.'
'Course... of
course.'
Three days later,
at the station, Anna kissed Phil as the London train drew into the
platform.
'I wish you were
coming too.'
'I know... I
know... I do too.'
She clattered the
small suitcase up into the carriage, battled the persistent automatic
door. Phil walked down the platform parallel to her as she made her
way to her seat. But it was on the opposite side of the carriage so
she could only see him if she remained standing.
At last the train
pulled out and with a final fingertip kiss she waved him goodbye and
slumped down into her seat.
She liked train
journeys, especially travelling alone and with little in the way of
luggage.
She unzipped her
backpack and pulled out her book. But it lay on the table in front of
her, unopened. Her hands stayed in her lap, her gaze fixed out of
the window. She watched the weft and warp of the landscape as it
slipped by. Fields and hedges. The running of fence wires,
power-lines, the silvered rails of the sister track. All
became a conspiracy of lines as the train slithered through the
countryside. All scheming together underscored by the continuo of
locomotion. She felt the wheels on the rails –
ticketataa-ticketataa-ticketataa. Watched the telephone wires rise
to the punctuation of the poles then swoop and sag back down again
before cresting again. A wave of black lines – the musical stave of
the train – drawing her eyes and her ears, mesmerising her,
seducing her into the lull and pause of her memories.
Claude. Uncle
Claude.
The smell of tabac
clinging to the lapels of his jacket. A heady fruitiness to his
breath when he picked her up and lifted her onto his knee after
Sunday lunch.
She reaches up
and touches his face, reading the grey stubble on his cheeks with her
fingers. Then he seizes her tiny hand in his great fist so that
just the tips of her fingers are showing and he lifts them to
his open mouth and noisily plays at eating them. She could feel the
edge of his teeth.
'J't' mange!' he
said, ''j't' mange, mon petit déjeuner!'
And she would
scream and giggle at the terrible monster he had become and flee from
his lap, laughing, only to hide behind her mother's apron and wait for him to come and find her.
The connection was
straightforward enough and she slept as the Eurostar slipped into the
darkness of the tunnel.
When she awoke they
were already passing among the banlieu – grey concrete tower blocks
with broken windows and graffiti. Factories and rundown estates.
The signature hinterland of every city.
But because she had
slept it was only on arriving at Le Gare du Nord that she learned of
the delays: a suspected terrorist incident at St Lazare. There would
be no trains out till Monday at the earliest.
'There's nothing I
can do, Auntie.'
Silence from her
aunt at the other end.
'Tant pis,' came
the reply at last, but Anna could hear the wheeze of emotion in her
aunt's voice – her tight breathing,
'We'll see you soon
on Monday, then, à
bientôt.'
'Yes,
Auntie. Baises... bon baises!'
But
the line was already dead.
After
a visit to the station information centre and a short Metro ride,
Anna found her way down a quiet side street, Rue de Paimpol, to a
small pension. She registered and was shown to her room where she
washed and changed. Then she walked out into the late afternoon sun.
Now for the first time she recognised the distinctive odour of the
Paris streets.
It
was still warm and she allowed herself to wander back down towards
the Metro station but then at the last minute she changed her mind
and walked over to a small café across the square.
She
ordered iced tea.
She
closed her eyes and lifted her face to the soft breeze, then reached
into her bag and pulled out her book once more.
Le
Petit Prince
smiled guilessly from the cover as it lay on the table – his crown
still as bright as ever. She decided that perhaps she didn't even
need to read it. Actually. It was enough to just have it there. She
remembered the soft whispering of her uncle as he read it to her. She
could feel his breath on her ear.
She
stroked the paper cover with her thumbs. She felt the the memory of
Claude's hands on the leaves. Then her fingers opened the book,
riffled through the edges - and smoothed the page.
Page
One.
Here
was Claude in her head, in her heart. Uncle Claude...here! Here
they were in Paris together, drifting once again, from planet to tiny
planet in search of peace.
