She Got A Weekend in Paris

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.