Джонатан Коу - Middle England

*

The next morning, Sophie found Aneeqa sitting on the riverbank opposite the house. She had a sketchpad open on her knees and was just finishing a fine, delicate drawing of the old mill wheel and the attractive jumble of outbuildings that surrounded it, their pale, dry-stone walls patterned with ivy and bougainvillea.

‘That’s lovely,’ said Sophie. ‘They said you were good at this sort of thing.’

‘I have my moments,’ said Aneeqa, tilting her head to look at the drawing and privately concluding that it wasn’t bad.

‘I may have a job for you,’ said Sophie. ‘Do you think you could paint a sign for us?’

‘What sort of a sign?’

‘We need something to replace that .’ Sophie pointed at the archway which led to the house’s front drive, and to which someone, many years ago, had nailed a now decaying rectangle of wood with the words ‘Le Vieux Moulin’ painted on it in faded capitals.

‘Really? I think it has a certain … period charm.’

‘It’s not the sign itself. It’s the name.’

‘What’s wrong with the name?’

‘ “The Old Mill”? What could be more boring than calling an old mill “The Old Mill”?’

‘True. Do you have a better idea?’

‘Yes, I think so.’

Aneeqa pursed her lips. ‘Do we have the right sort of paints? The right brushes?’

‘Probably not. But I was going to drive back to Marseille today anyway. I’m sure I could find something, if you tell me what you need.’

‘Or I could come with you. I’ve been dying to go there. Do you mind?’

‘Not at all.’

Sophie was, in truth, glad to have the company. Compelled though she felt to revisit the city, to allow herself another, yearning glimpse of the Frioul islands, she was also somewhat dreading it. And so it was a relief, after leaving behind the coolness and quietude of the mill house, enduring a hot and gruelling ninety-minute drive down the busy A55, cooling off with drinks in the Cours Julien, readjusting herself to the urban energies of the city, the noise and the music everywhere, the walls encrusted with graffiti, the kids on skateboards, the rappers and street entertainers, the tangy aroma of North African spices in the air, after reminding herself of all that, and after finding a shop that sold artists’ materials fifteen minutes before it closed for the weekend, giving Aneeqa just enough time to scoop up the things she needed, after they had done all of these things, and walked down to the Vieux Port and rushed aboard a navette that was on the point of leaving, it was a relief for Sophie to have Aneeqa by her side, so that she could talk to her, and point out landmarks, and tell her something of her personal history with this city, and not be left alone with melancholy thoughts of that week in the summer of 2012 and the missed opportunity that sometimes, even now, she felt it represented.

‘I feel like I’m walking on the moon,’ Aneeqa said, as they trudged across the barren, stony landscape of of Ratonneau on their way to the Calanque de Morgiret, where Sophie and Adam had once had their moonlit swim. It was five o’clock in the afternoon, and the heat was almost unbearable. The sun assaulted their eyes from two directions: bearing down on them from a sky of flawless pale blue, and dancing in patterns of fragmented, dazzling light on the surface of the sea.

‘You’ll feel great once we get in the water,’ said Sophie, who had insisted that they both bring bathing costumes.

The beach was crowded with swimmers that afternoon. Wading into the water, Sophie struck out, as she had done once before, towards the mouth of the cove, heading for its furthest, deepest point, and then swam strongly backwards and forwards across the bay, from one rocky side to the other. Aneeqa – much as Adam had done – stayed in the shallows, crouching down, simply enjoying the coolness of the water and not really attempting to swim. Afterwards, they walked up the winding path which led to a ridge high above the beach, and Sophie recognized the same wide, flat rock where she and Adam had sat down to talk. Here they both rested: Sophie sitting upright, clutching her knees, Aneeqa stretched out full-length on the rock, shielding her eyes from the sun’s fierceness.

‘I’m not used to this kind of light,’ she said. ‘I could get used to it, all right. Hopefully it’ll be the same down in Spain. But if you’ve grown up in Birmingham, and spent the last two years in Glasgow, it’s a bit overwhelming. Imagine living with this light all the time. You’d actually be able to see the world, instead of just making it out through a grey fog occasionally.’

‘I know what you mean,’ said Sophie. ‘And yet I’m moving up to the North-east next week. Where the light is as grey as it gets, and not many people go swimming in the North Sea to cool off.’

‘You don’t sound wildly enthusiastic,’ said Aneeqa, lifting her hand from her eyes temporarily to gauge Sophie’s expression. ‘What’s taking you up there?’

‘New job,’ said Sophie. ‘My best friend’s husband’s started a charity. He’s setting up a new sort of college and he’s asked me to be director of studies. Running the timetable, scheduling the courses, coordinating everything. It’s a great opportunity, actually. I’m quite fired up about it.’

‘Well, that’s good,’ said Aneeqa. ‘And at least you know some people there already. So you won’t be alone.’

Sophie smiled. ‘I won’t be alone anyway. My husband’s coming with me. In fact he’s packing up our old flat this weekend. That’s why he couldn’t come here.’

‘Very self-sacrificing of him,’ Aneeqa said. ‘Must be a nice guy.’

‘Yes,’ said Sophie. ‘He is a nice guy.’ It was a statement of fact, and not a complicated one, and she knew that her task for the next few years – probably longer, much longer, although she was too scared to use the phrase ‘the rest of her life’ – was to reach an accommodation with this fact, to accept it, to allow it to be enough for her. In the last few months, since her unannounced arrival at the flat that afternoon and the reconciliation that followed, it had proved an easy enough task. Whether it would continue to be so, who could say? But for the moment, she felt that this was where she had to place her trust.

‘Does he have a job up there as well?’ Aneeqa asked.

‘Not yet,’ said Sophie. ‘He might start giving driving lessons again. That’s his thing – driving.’

‘Somebody’s got to do it.’

‘And in the meantime, he’s going to have plenty to occupy him.’

She looked at Aneeqa, and felt a sudden urge to say more, to confide in her. She felt very close, today, to this friendly, reserved, obviously very talented woman who had turned out to be her unexpected companion on this indulgent sentimental journey. How easy it would be, and how liberating, to unburden herself to someone like this, a sympathetic stranger she would probably never see again once the weekend was over.

But Sophie managed to resist the urge, and stuck fast to her original resolve: to share the secret with her mother, for now, and nobody else.

*

Late on Sunday afternoon, there was a momentous arrival at Le Vieux Moulin: Benjamin’s first writing student.

His name was Alexandre, and he was a small, earnest young man who had come by train all the way from Strasbourg. He smiled nervously when Lois greeted him and looked around in bewilderment at the signs of frantic last-minute activity: Lukas carrying three planks of wood through the hallway, Sophie and Claire on their knees in the kitchen, painting a skirting board. Lois ushered him away from these tell-tale signs of unpreparedness and offered words of welcome, showing him up to his room and telling him that he was invited to join them all for dinner at nine o’clock that evening.