An Irish Country Love Story (32 page)

Barry let himself out, walked around the small car to open Sue's door, and helped her out. “Thanks for the lift, Marie-Claude,” he said.

“My pleasure,” Marie-Claude said. “I'll be off. See you next week, Sue, but if you need anything between now and then just let me know.”

“We will,” Sue said.
“Ciao.”

Barry watched the little 2CV drive away, trailing a small plume of blue exhaust fumes. “Decent lass, your friend,” he said.

“She is,” said Sue, “and knew to get off-side at once,” she winked, “because she understands that…” It was a spot-on imitation of Marlene Dietrich: “Ve vant to be halone.”

He found her wink bordering on the lascivious and laughed at her accent.

“I've already registered us and even if it is only four o'clock I really would like to go up to our room and lie down.”

His pulse started to race as if he'd run here from the airport. “I think,” he said, and swallowed, “that would be a very good idea.”

*   *   *

Barry, spent, drowsy, and deeply in love, sat in a chintz-covered armchair in their second-storey room. The bed was tossed and untidily covered by a duvet. When he looked outside, beyond the roofs of houses, the Quai de Rive Neuve, and the mouth of the Vieux Port, he saw the now-darker waters of the Golfe du Lion waiting for the sun to slip down and bring dusk's soft blanket to Provence's Bouches du Rhône and the marshy Camargue to the west.

Sue sat in front of a dressing table mirror, rhythmically brushing her mane. Now she wore an open-neck white silk blouse and bottle-green mini when not an hour ago she'd been wrapped in nothing but Barry's embrace. “You look lovely,” he said, consumed by her beauty. Seeing her, still tasting her.

“Thank you,” she said, “and thank you for loving me, Barry. Please don't ever stop.”

He rose and dropped a kiss on her crown. “Never,” he said. “How could I? I promise.”

“So do I—promise to love you always,” she said. “It is so good to have you here. And it'll not be long now until we're wed. Mum's been going round like a bee on a hot brick making arrangements for next month.” She stood, faced him, kissed him chastely, and said, “I must say after all that—uh—exercise, I've suddenly got an enormous appetite. I'm starving.”

“Me too.” He smiled. “You know the town. Where to?”

“The whole of the Vieux Port is awash with great little fish restaurants. There's one called the Chope D'Or…”

“The golden chop? Or perhaps the golden shop?”

She chuckled. “No, silly. The Golden Tankard. It's just on the far side of the Vieux Port. Six-minute walk. They do super
moules et frites
.”

“That I can translate. Mussels and chips. Sounds good, but I'd like to try some
bouillabaisse.
”

“So you shall,” she said.

The light in the room dimmed and Barry turned to watch the last of the sun sink beneath the horizon, and all over the city as far as he could see, streetlights and apartment lights, shop windows and cafés came to life. All he could hear was the snarling of traffic, the honking of horns, and the demented buzzing of a multitude of mopeds. The
nee-naw, nee-naw
of a police car in the distance was not a sound to be heard in Ulster. It was all very foreign to a young man who had never been out of Ireland in his life.

She handed him his sports jacket and picked up a heavy cardigan. “It can get a bit nippy once the sun has gone down.”

He slipped on the jacket. “Ready?”

She nodded.

He took her hand and they set off.

Barry could not remember ever having been happier. He skipped as they crossed Rue Pytheas and swung her hand as a sixteen-year-old might swing the arm of his first love. Around them, the crowds swirled.

Sue pointed to a large building on their left between the wide Quai du Port where they strolled and the water. “That's the city hall, built in the seventeenth century, and that great wide street to your right heading uphill is the famous Canebière. We're on the Quai des Belges. Not far now.”

“You seem to know your way round pretty well,” Barry said. “You did say in your letters you'd done lots of sightseeing.”

“And reading too,” she said. “Did you know there's evidence that this part of France was inhabited by Paleolithic man? Some cave paintings east of here are said to have been done between twenty-seven and nineteen thousand years BC.”

Barry whistled.

“Ancient Greeks arrived about 600 BC from what today we call Turkey and named the place Massalia. It's been an important seaport ever since.”

“And now we're on Rue de la Republique,” Barry said, looking up to the street sign. “Even with my grammar school French I can translate that.”

“This is an important street. Five hundred volunteers left from here to march to Paris in 1792 to support the Revolution. And guess what marching song they were singing?”

“‘La Marseillaise'?” Barry laughed. “Trust the French to compose an anthem that's a damn sight more cheerful than ‘God Save the Queen.'”

Sue smiled. “Okay, I'm officially off duty as a travel guide. Here we are, 32 Quai du Port. La Chope D'Or.”

They stopped outside a low railing. Tables were arranged on a patio in the open air, but only two were occupied by patrons, well bundled up in heavy overcoats. One couple were accompanied by a large shaggy dog that sat on one of the wicker chairs. The sign above the restaurant's picture window, white letters on a bright blue background, read
Brasserie LA CHOPE D'OR Crêperie.

Sue led the way inside. The place was packed and the sounds of conversation and laughter rose and fell, punctuated by the
boing
of a spring closing a door that, judging by the coming and going of waiters with loaded trays, led to the kitchen. Barry breathed in the aromas of garlic, onions, thyme, fresh fish, and Turkish tobacco. He was definitely in France.

A waiter greeted Sue like a long-lost friend, showed them to a table for two in the window, pulled out a chair so Sue could be seated, and with a flourish spread a spotless white napkin on her lap.
“Les menus.”
He set two down.
“Et quelque-chose
à
boire?”

“Barry?” Sue asked.

I'd love a Guinness, he thought, but said, “When in Rome. What are you having?”

Sue ordered a carafe of the house white and the waiter left.

Barry turned to stare out over the harbour and south to where Notre Dame de la Garde, lit by floodlights from below, stood on its hill surveying the scene. He turned back to Sue. “It's lovely,” he said, “and you are lovely. Very lovely, darling.”

She inclined her head and smiled. “Thank you, Barry.”

He looked into her eyes and took her hand, and for the second time that day, the people all around them faded.

The waiter reappeared, coughed discreetly. He poured for each of them from a carafe. Sue sipped. “
Très bien
.”

Barry presumed that the rapid-fire conversation between the man and Sue was to establish that they needed more time to study the menu. He left.

“You know I'm not very good at languages, but I think I detect quite a nasal quality to the waiter's speech?”

“Pierre's a local,” Sue said. “The French spoken here is much harsher than that in Paris.”

“I thought there was something different. Our French teacher at school, Mister Marks, used to say, ‘Laverty,
vous parlez français comme une vache espagnole.'
You speak French like a Spanish cow.”

Sue laughed and squeezed his hand and said in a low voice, “But you make love like an Italian called Casanova.

Barry glowed. He raised his glass, sipped the cool, crisp wine, and said, “I love you, Sue Nolan.”

She said, “And I love you, Barry.” She lifted her menu. “And I think, prosaic as it sounds, we really should think about ordering.”

Barry smiled. “Let's,” he said.

Sue said, “I'm going to have some pâté to start with, then the mussels.”

Barry said, “
Bouillabaisse
for me. The local fishermen invented it here.”

“No starter?” Sue said.

He shook his head.

She leant across the table and whispered, “I'm taking you sightseeing tomorrow, but with what I have in mind for later this evening I really would suggest half a dozen raw oysters.”

Barry started back in his chair. “What?”

“You heard me,” she said, and her smile broadened, her right eyebrow lifted, and she half turned her head, never letting her gaze leave his eyes.

And Barry Laverty, feeling himself aroused, laughed and shook his head. “Shameless hussy,” he said, “but you have a point. Let's make it a dozen.”

 

27

One of Those Telegrams

“So,” said Barry, buttering a fresh croissant, “what'll we do after breakfast this fine Thursday morning?”

He and Sue were sitting at a table for two in the small dining room of their pension. Three more tables were occupied. The hum of conversation was muted, the air perfumed by the aroma of freshly brewed coffee and newly baked baguettes.

“Another
belle journée du printemps
. Do you know what that means, Barry?” she said with a wink.

“I do, Miss Nolan, soon to be Mrs. Laverty, and even if it was bucketing down, it would still be a lovely spring day as long as I'm with you.” He looked over at her, admiring her fawn-coloured sweater and how it complemented her copper hair, then laid his hand on hers on top of the white linen tablecloth.

She laughed and turned her hand so she could hold his. “You are sweet,” she said, and lowered her voice, “and a terrific lover.”

Barry blushed. Last night, contentedly full of oysters,
bouillabaisse,
and several glasses of the Chope D'Or's vin blanc, he had walked her back to the pension and taken her to bed, softly, gently, with none of the urgency of their first lovemaking. His only thought on waking had been how wonderful it was going to be for the next five days finding this beautiful warm creature beside him every morning and, once they were married next month, for the rest of his life.

“I know,” she said quietly, as if he had voiced every thought he had just had. He felt his face colour again and yet it was oddly reassuring to know that someone could read him so well, know what he was thinking and feeling. He looked over at her. “Just thinking about it leaves me speechless, Barry. I love you.” She smiled at him, squeezed his hand, and let the silence hang for long moments before saying, “You asked me what'll we do after breakfast?” and inclining her head.

He chuckled, nodded, and said, “We could, but perhaps we should do a bit of sightseeing first.”

She laughed. “All right. There's so much to see and a lot of it's in easy walking distance. We could go to La Vieille Charité first. It's about a twenty-minute walk. The old building was originally an alms house, but now there's a museum with all kinds of archaeological specimens and a gallery with African and Asian art.”

Not entirely Barry's cup of tea, but he knew how much archaeology fascinated Sue.

“Then on the way back it's not far from there to Rue Henri Barbusse and the Marseille History Museum. There are some marvellous old Roman ruins there.”

Barry tried to look enthusiastic. Maybe she wasn't as good at reading his mind as he thought.

“Or,” she said, and giggled, “knowing how absolutely fascinating you find old ruins, I thought I might surprise you—”

“Oh?”

“I've booked one of the local fishermen to run us out to the islands for the morning. I'm told the grouper fishing's very good out there and I've heard a rumour that you love to fish.”

Barry laughed. “You, Sue Nolan, are an awful tease rabbitting on about your ruins. That's a wonderful idea to go fishing. Thank you.” He frowned. “But will it not be terribly expensive chartering his boat?”

“It would be,” said Sue, “except he's Marie-Claude's uncle. He's taken me and her out lots. He knows I've learned about boats and he often lets me steer. And before you ask, no, she'll not be coming with us.”

“You,” he said, “are a very thoughtful woman.”

“We've only got five days. I didn't think you'd like to spend them in musty old museums. On Saturday, Marie-Claude's going to run us out to the Calanques, east of here. They're like mini-fjords. Very pretty. But today after we come in from fishing, we'll head to the Canebière for a leisurely lunch.”

“Sounds like a pretty full morning,” he said. He looked her right in the eye. “After all that fresh air we might need an afternoon nap.”

“Indeed, sir, we very well might, and it's only five minutes from the bottom of the Canebière back to here.” She dabbed at the corner of her mouth with a napkin and said, “If you've had enough breakfast…?”

“I have.”

“I'd suggest we get started.”

*   *   *

They retraced their steps of last night along the Quai des Belges where the fish market was in full swing. As they passed the fishermen and their stalls surrounded by busy buyers, Barry admired the row upon row of gleaming silver fish, fresh from the Mediterranean Sea. He inhaled. With those smells there could be no mistaking this place for anything other than what it was.

“Those big ugly ones with thick lips are groupers,” Sue said. “That's what we're after today. And the flat olive ones with red spots and brown blotches are flounders, but those two are the only ones I recognise.”

“Those silver ones with two dorsal fins and bluey-green stripes are mackerel,” Barry said. “My dad used to take me fishing for them when I was little.”

“We were lucky, weren't we? Both to have dads that took their kids on outings? Some of the poor little mites at school never seem to see their fathers. But mine was great. He taught me to ride,” Sue said. “I was a slow learner, but he's a wonderfully patient man, is my dad.” Barry heard the deep affection in her voice. “I wonder how he and Mum are. We'll nip down and see them as soon as I get home. I'm sure everything will be under control for our big day, but I'd just like to be sure.”