One Day in May - Catherine Alliott [80]
As brave as being alone at forty? I turned down Sydney Street and felt the cool breeze on my cheeks as I headed towards St Luke’s. That, of course, depended on the day. Depended on whether one woke up full of beans and optimism, or awoke, slowly opened one’s eyes, and stared down the barrel of loneliness: at the years stretching ahead. I turned the collar of my coat up against the breeze, which, I recalled, always whistled very keenly down this particularly wide and gracious street. Then I put my head down and marched on.
16
Weeks passed and Provence beckoned. Historically, Maggie and I would spend the time leading up to a trip to France making plans. Heads bent over the apothecary’s desk, excitement mounting, we’d draw up detailed lists: in one column we’d write what was selling and what was popular, and in another, what was passé, and what we should avoid at all costs. There was a bit of that this time. Lanterns, we decided were big this year, burnished and rewired. We sold masses. Armoires, too, for freestanding kitchens. Commodes were popular for putting TVs on, and overmantel mirrors flew out as soon as we’d shipped them in. But the larger mahogany pieces were anachronisms now. No one had houseroom for a vast old sideboard or a twelve-foot dining table, and likewise, wardrobes were a no no. We shuttled ideas this way and that, pacing the shop, sucking pencils, pausing to scribble or pontificate, both of us talking at once, and yes, a degree of excitement returned. Christian was right: Provence in autumn was just what we needed, and although we didn’t fizz and buzz quite like we used to – years of experience ensured we could take a more relaxed attitude, leave more to chance when we got there – it undoubtedly put a spring back into the step of the French Partnership. Undoubtedly gave us a boost.
Which was why it was something of a blow when Maggie rang the night before we were due to leave, sounding dreadful.
‘I’m really sorry, Hatts, I’ve come down with this ghastly flu,’ she wheezed, coughing away from the mouthpiece. ‘I’ll join you out there for Fréjus, but I’m going to have to miss Montauroux, I’m afraid. I feel awful.’
‘Oh.’ I realized I was bitterly disappointed.
‘But if I bring the van down when I come, we can fill that up as well. Get far more stock that way. It makes complete sense, actually, to have two vehicles,’ she told me nasally. It did, commercially. But Maggie and I had never taken the sensible, commercial route, preferring the camaraderie of a giggle together in the lorry. It was the whole point actually.
‘I suppose,’ I said, wondering if her voice was brightening slightly. It seemed to veer from being extremely blocked up to perfectly normal. ‘But what a shame.’
‘I know.’
‘You seemed all right in the shop. It’s awfully sudden, isn’t it?’
‘Very, but that’s how this bug is, apparently. My cousin had it. One minute you’re as fit as a fiddle and the next, you’re at death’s door, feeling lousy.’
‘Which cousin?’ I asked suspiciously.
‘Um, Cousin… Alfred.’
‘Never heard of him.’
‘No, well, he’s kind of the black sheep of the family. No one really speaks to him.’
‘And yet he rang to confide the details of his appalling malaise?’
‘Yes…’ Maggie was nowhere near as consummate a liar as I was.
A scuffle could be heard in the background, then a deep cough. I cleared my