Peter May - Freeze Frames

She laughed and released his hand, a handsome woman with wide, cupid-bow lips and lively dark eyes. “You never know, Monsieur Macleod, with Halloween just around the corner.” She glanced at her husband. “Why don’t you two sit in at the table. The girls will be back any minute.”

The table looked as if it might have been in the family for generations, its dense wooden surface scarred and burned and stained by countless meals. Who knew how many souls had sat around it, eating and drinking across the years, how many dramas and conversations it had witnessed. Enzo remembered his father telling him how he had been laid out on his kitchen table as a boy to have his tonsils removed by the family doctor. But it was not a thought conducive to sharpening the appetite, and he quickly banished it.

Mats and crockery now littered the Servat table, two sets of condiments, a large grek, and cloth napkins laid at each place. The smells coming from the kitchen were delicious.

Dressers were pushed up against blue walls beneath paintings and family photographs, and a large brass lamp hung low over the table from the ceiling. But its light was not required. Sunlight tumbled through the open kitchen door, and the room seemed to glow in its reflection.

“I suppose you must feel right at home here on the island,” Alain Servat said. “A Celt among Celts.”

Enzo was no longer surprised by how much people seemed to know about him. “I do. Groix feels like any west-coast Scottish island to me. Particularly yesterday, when I arrived in the rain.”

“Ah, yes. The famous Scottish rain. Is that why you went to live in the south of France, monsieur? To escape it?”

Enzo laughed. “Yes. I’d spent so many years in the rain I was starting to go rusty.” He took his napkin from its holder and unrolled it. “And what about you, doctor. A fellow Celt?”

“Near enough. My family came from the Paris area originally. But I’m island-born and bred. The only time I spent away from the place was at medical school, and earning my stripes as an intern at various hospitals.” He nodded toward the kitchen. “Elisabeth, on the other hand, can trace her island roots right back to the fifteenth century.”

Elisabeth emerged from the kitchen with steaming bowls of leek and potato soup which she placed in front of the two men as the door burst open and two teenage girls bustled into the room, dragging cold air behind them.

“All right, girls, calm down. Behave yourselves now. We have a guest for lunch. Monsieur Macleod, meet Oanez and Seve. Twelve and fourteen, monsieur, and both with far too much energy.”

An energy immediately subdued by teenage awkwardness, as the girls self-consciously presented themselves to Enzo to be kissed on either cheek. “Unusual names,” he said.

“Breton.” Alain waved the girls to their seats, putting a finger to his lips to quell their urge to chatter and giggle. “Our son’s called Primel. We wanted traditional Breton names for all of the children. He’s now studying at the Sorbonne. Philosophy rather than medicine, I’m afraid.”

“Which means he probably won’t be back,” Elisabeth said, bringing another two bowls to the table. There was the hint of regret in her voice. “The young ones can’t wait to get away from the island these days.” She returned to the kitchen to fetch a bowl for herself and then joined them at the table. Enzo noticed that there was no place set for Doctor Servat senior. He had expected the old man to join them for lunch, but decided not to ask about him just yet.

The soup was thick, and hearty, and delicious, great lumps of waxy potato breaking up in it as he ate. He looked up at Elisabeth. “So did you not feel inclined to leave the island yourself?”

“Oh, I did. I trained as a nurse on the mainland, Monsieur Macleod. But in the end, something drew me back.”

Alain Servat chuckled. “Yes. Me.”

Elisabeth grinned. “Yes, you, Alain. Damn you!” She turned a fading smile toward Enzo. “And an unfortunately ailing father.”

Alain said, “He was one of the last of generations of tuna fishermen. You know, that’s what Groix used to be famous for it. Its tuna fleet.”

“When I was a girl,” Elisabeth said, “we could see the boats from our house, as they sailed back into the harbour at Port Lay. Of course, they were motorised by then. But in the old days they used to come in under full sail. I have some pictures somewhere. A marvellous sight. All the more amazing when you see the harbour today. It seems so small. But in my memory it was huge, filled with boats, and the raised voices of men landing their catch, and the wagons that took them up the hill to the fish processing factory.” Her smile was tinged by sadness. “All gone now. Just like my papa.”

Enzo swung his head toward her husband. “And where is your father? I thought he lived here with you.”

But it was Elisabeth who answered for him. “Oh, he does. But I’m afraid old Emile doesn’t eat with us any more.”

“Elisabeth’s been wonderful with him. If it wasn’t for her, we’d have had to put him into care long ago.” Alain looked adoringly at his wife. “And it’s not been easy.”

Elisabeth laughed it off. “It seems I have built a career out of looking after old people.”

Alain raised a hand, like a schoolboy in class. “Me next,” he said. He turned to Enzo. “A man couldn’t be in better hands.”

“Oh, by the time you reach that stage, darling, I’ll be needing someone to look after me, too. Then it’ll be up to the children.” Elisabeth turned toward her daughters. “Isn’t that right, girls?”

They both pulled faces, embarrassed by suddenly being drawn into the conversation and clearly unattracted by the idea of caring for elderly parents.

Alain laughed aloud. “God help us!” He turned to Enzo. “My father has his own room at the back of the house. I’ll take you to see him after we’ve eaten.”

Emile Servat’s room was off to the right at the end of the long hallway that transected the house from north to south. Alain stopped to peer through its glass-panelled door before entering. It was a large, airy room, with high ceilings and tall windows that gave out on to the street that ran along the side of the house. The walls had been freshly painted a rich cream colour, in contrast to the dark wood of the floor and the furniture. Bookcases lined the walls and were cluttered with all manner of maritime memorabilia. A ship’s brass bell. An enormous compass mounted on a mahogany pedestal. Paintings of sailboats and framed marine maps and charts lining the walls. Model boats on side tables fought for space with miniature lifebelts, and globes of the world. “This used to be his surgery,” Alain said. “He was crazy about boats. We went out sailing almost every weekend when I was a boy.”

Enzo was struck almost immediately by the smell of stale urine, the perfume of old age and incontinence. The room was warm and was filled by the stink of it, a suffocating and depressing odour that signalled decay and loss of control.

A television against the near wall was switched on. The applause and laughter of an audience quiz show on FR3 rang around the room. Sitting in a wheelchair, with his head tipped in the direction of the set, was the shadow of what had once been a man. A wizened creature, shiny skin stretched tight over a skeletal frame, clothes hanging loosely on his shrunken body. Vacant eyes were directed toward the TV but were completely unresponsive. Thin wisps of pure white hair were scraped back over an otherwise bald skull. Old Emile Servat’s jaw hung slack, purple lips shiny and wet, globs of drool hanging from his jowls and crusting down the front of his cardigan as it dried.

Alain immediately stepped forward, producing a handkerchief from his pocket and wiping the saliva from his father’s face. “Oh, Papa.” He whispered it, almost like a quiet admonishment, and he turned apologetically toward Enzo. “It’s no life, really. But we make him as comfortable as we can. Who knows how much he feels or understands. If I were to pinch his arm he would feel the pain. Sometimes he looks at me, but I have no idea what he sees. He’s barely spoken in the last three years.” He drew a deep breath. “So you see why there would be no point in asking him about Killian.”