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The Poule au Pot? Yes, it is good. Fran didn t say
that she had never been able to afford to eat there, but
had gazed longingly through the windows on several
occasions. What time?
Half past seven? Shall I collect you?
No, I ll meet you there. Fran scowled at the
cracked lino and the wheezing gas fire.
Fine. Seven-thirty then. Will we recognise each
other after all this time?
No idea, said Fran cheerfully. Should be
interesting, shouldn t it?
Very. Charles laughed. See you later.
Fran put down the receiver and went to the window.
It was dark now, and the wet pavements were
gleaming with reflected light. Through the ill-fitting
frame came the hiss of tyres on the road, the sound of
returning workers at the end of a long day. What were
they going home to, wondered Fran. Family gathered
around the television? Children glued to computer
screens? A microwaved meal while the other partner
rushed off to aerobics or cr eative writing classes? She
smiled and drew the thin cotton curtains across the
glass. Or were they going to have a bath in a rusting
tub and get ready for a meal out with a cousin they
hardly remembered?
Meanwhile, the sudden emergence into her life of
long-lost relatives, even dead ones, was a welcome
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diversion. And a change from beans on toast for
supper.
The Poule au Pot was a hangover from the late
sixties. It still had red and white checked tablecloths,
candles stuffed into straw covered Chianti bottles and
a menu redolent of the era. Prawn cocktail, beef
bourguignon and Black Forest gateau had been
retained at the behest of the clientele, despite several
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changes of ownership and the fads and fancies of
fashionable cooks and cooking. In fact, Fran knew
from reading the magazines while she lurked in the
paper shop, it was coming back into fashion, as,
indeed, her rather down-at-heel area of London was
itself. Nowhere would escape if it boasted a London
postcode, which unfortunately meant that the prices
were rising almost daily. When her landlord caught on,
she knew she would no longer be able to afford even
the Betjeman flat.
Charles was sitting at a table at the side of the room,
underneath a large and somewhat romanticised
depiction of French peasants disporting themselves in
a cornfield. His grey head grey! was bent over a
menu.
Hello, Charles. She sat do wn opposite him as he
tried to struggle to his feet. Don t get up.
He subsided and sat back in his bentwood chair.
Fran, he said. You haven t changed much.
Rubbish. I was a child then, and now I look like my
mother. She looked at him consideringly. You ve
changed. Your hair s grey.
He looked amused. You re very direct, aren t you?
Not always. Fran looked down at her hands. I can
dissemble beautifully if I have to.
Oh? And you feel you don t have to with me?
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Fran looked up and grinned. I don t do I? I knew
that. But I did at The Laurels.
Before we go into that, have a look at the menu.
Charles handed it over. What would you like to
drink?
When they had given their order and both had a
glass of a robust red vin de table in front of them,
Charles started again.
Now. Tell me all about The Laurels.
Fran took a sip of wine and leaned back in her chair.
Do you mean tell you exactly what I did there and
who I met?
Yes. And try and explain again why you went.
That s difficult. Fran fro wned into her glass. It
just came over me when you phoned. I felt suffocated.
And then there was this absolute conviction that I had
to go there. That s all I can say. And then& she
looked up, I got the same feeling again. When I was
in her room.
Which feeling?
The suffocating feeling. I made a fool of myself
I m afraid, but they put it down to shock and grief. I
felt a complete fraud.
Start at the beginning. Charles leaned forward and
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rested his chin on his hands. I m fascinated.
Fran told him everything from her arrival at The
Laurels to her departure, including her dream on the
train. When she had finished and the waiter had served
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