He thought of the girl he had met in the Camargue, one late summer thirty years ago. Why, he thought, why now, after all these years, why think of her again? He began to think back, trying to dig up or out any bit of memory that might be there, hidden away. How had the Camargue come back? When had the break taken place? It began to come…it was the penultimate weekend of September, or maybe the one before that. It happened a long time ago, and he couldn’t recall the whole thing, each thing, each happening; no, it happened a long time ago, just the main elements of the trip. Going back in time…he had worked in Paris in July and August, covering for a teacher, or teachers, on holiday. It had turned out to be an interesting working holiday; train and ferry return ticket, hotel with breakfast, not that breakfast in France was much to write home about; and lunch at work during the working week. That was a major improvement. He had returned to his place in Cambridgeshire, and was working in the garden when the phone rang, enquiring as to whether he would be interested in another trip there, this time for the whole of September and the first week of October. He had accepted, and now the time was coming to the end, hence the trip to the south to see somewhere different, and to get some warm weather prior to returning to England in the autumn.
He had taken the overnight train on Friday from Paris, where he was doing the teaching. The train got to Arles around five thirty the next morning; he waited until daybreak on the platform, the weather noticeably warmer than the north. He wandered around the town, before catching a bus to Saintes-Maries-de-la-Mer. He hired a bicycle, bought something to eat and drink, and headed for the beach. It was for the most part empty. The annual August exodus from Paris had long since returned, as had the tourists from other places. It was nice to have such a good spot more or less to oneself. He found a quiet hollow by the dunes, spread out the towel, and peeled off. It was hot, but not uncomfortably so. He looked around. There were a few people sunbathing, and others playing in the water, splashing about. A quartet, two men, two women, walked out of the sea to their gear on the sand, some twenty metres away. They were completely naked. They were quite clearly at ease with that, and why shouldn't they be, he thought. He lay back and began to read. Nearby, the grass of the dunes whispered in the autumn breeze.
‘If this is autumn, it suits me fine,’ he thought. ‘I could live in a place with autumn like this one.’
After some time, he went into the sea to cool off. He walked past a middle-aged couple lying naked on the sand by the water’s edge. The water felt good. He looked back at the beach; it seemed itself to be sleeping. He played around for a few minutes, half-swimming, splashing in a gratuitous kind of way, the way most people do in the sea. The soft sand under the water squeezed when he walked. He went out to waist height, which wasn’t that far. He returned to his place by the dunes, sitting on the towel, and letting the air and the heat dry him. He took out a can of beer; it was a bit warm, in spite of the wrapping. He had taken them from the refrigerator in the small shop, and had used his jacket as an insulator. It was working reasonably well. It wasn’t perfect, but no matter. He wasn’t going to have too much, as he knew that, as many men did, sleep wouldn’t be far to the rear of midday consumption.
He finished the can, opened another, and picked up the book. Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed a young woman. She was coming his way. She wore a bikini, and was carrying a loose string bag with some clothing in it, and had a towel slung across her shoulder. She walked by about eight metres away. She looked at him. He nodded to her, trying to appear a bit polite.
‘Bonjour,’ he said.
She stopped, and a small grin appeared, and then went.
‘Bonjour, Monsieur,’ she answered. ‘Vous êtes anglais?’
There was a brief pause, whilst he thought of the correct pronunciation to reply.
‘Angleterre?’ she enquired, taking the pause to mean he hadn’t a clue what she had said.
My accent must be bloody awful if she can mark me after one word.
‘Non, Pays de Galles.’
‘Ah, Portugal.’
‘Non, je suis de Pays de Galles. Je suis Gallois.
There was another pause. Now he thought it was she who didn’t understand.
‘Le rugby?’ This was a standard last resort. He had found out many times and in many places, that few people had actually heard of the country. He even went through a phase where if someone said, ‘English’, he just answered yes. It meant a lot less trouble.
‘Ah, oui.’
He wasn’t sure if she really knew, or was trying to be polite.
‘Et vous, vous êtes française, oui? ‘Oui, je suis arlesienne.’
He motioned her to sit down on the sand. She did, and they chatted in inconsequential manner, with, on his part, some trouble. She was a pretty thing. He body was a light copper colour, showing a woman who took care in the sun. He offered her a can of beer, which she accepted. They drank in silence. He sighed and looked around, then back at the girl, who was looking at the birds flying low over the water. The breeze brought the smell of the sea to them; they talked for a time, but of what, he now had no recollection, except it was on the beach, in the warm, clear French September. Then she left, and he walked naked into the sea, and swam. There were others, not many, but there were others doing the same; the beach was largely empty.
He had returned to Paris, getting there on the evening train, to north European autumn morning weather, and a strike in progress. How on earth could he get to Clamart? Unable to go by metro, he had walked, trying, in vain, to find a bus, although that would be a problem, as he had no idea of what bus went where. He got into the school a couple of hours late. The director wasn’t too happy. ‘You didn’t know of la grève?’
‘No, I didn’t.’
‘It was in all the newspapers.’
‘I didn’t read the newspapers, and I wasn’t here over the weekend, okay.’
The buildings were grey, and the trees bare of foliage. It was a different looking Paris to that of just two months ago. There were four days to go; there were four days of sitting in the train, past the Quai d’Orsay, going out of the city. They were going in the ‘wrong’ direction, as most commuters were coming in on a packed train, whilst he went out on a train with far fewer passengers, and of course, the same thing happened after work in the evening. It was even better if one had a drink in the bar next to the school, and then caught the train. By that time, it was almost empty. He had enjoyed being here, but the work wasn’t that wonderful or interesting. It was the second stint of covering for holiday staff in three months.
He thought, ‘but I have enjoyed the chance of seeing the city at two different times of the year.’
Both this time, and in July and August, at the weekends he had walked around large parts of the place. If he was not mistaken, he had walked, in part at least, in all the arrondissements. The first time he had spent in a modern, modest-size hotel near the métro Convention. It was on a wide street, and a few minutes walk to an open-air café. He had taken a snack and a drink in there on quite a number of occasions. The second time he went, in September, he had at first had a small hotel near Boulevard St Germain, in the Rue St André des Arts. Whilst it was quite bohemian - a colleague had told him that - it was neither as comfortable nor as quiet as the first hotel, so after a week or so, he went back to Convention. When you had a full day of teaching, being kept awake half the night was not the ideal preparation. He had enjoyed Paris. In the July and August time, he had taken the train to La Rochelle, about halfway down the west coast. It was a baking weekend, two days and one night. The town centre roads were made of cobbles; he thought them very pretty.
A week later, he was well away from the warmth of the sun, the smell of the beach, the warm wind blowing. He was in the cold rain of the English Midlands, phoning from a public call box near the main London railway line, next to a road that was wet and grey.
He had long forgotten about the girl from the Camargue.
He returned to work there again, in the two weeks or so just before Christmas, seeing Paris in a different context; the people sitting indoors with the windows of the restaurant, the bistro shut, the absence of greenery, the reduced number of tourists. One day when he was free, he had walked by the Parc des Princes; it was bitter, the wind biting. This time he had used a small hotel near the Champs de Mars, again having the opportunity to see somewhere and something new, walking in a different part of the city.
He went back into the kitchen, and helped himself to another beer. The thoughts were now coming thick and fast. It wouldn’t be long before she came back with the children. They had gone to a birthday dinner, her birthday. But the fact was it wasn’t her birthday for another 48 hours.
‘No matter,’ he thought, ‘out here, why not celebrate a birthday on the wrong day. We’re not there; we’re here. Who would care? No one would care; not even the girl from the Camargue.’
