Read Online English Correspondence by Janet Davey - Free Book Online Page B

one night, so he would be gone in three hours. They asked clients to leave by eleven. It was written on the form on the backs of the doors. She had filled in the numbers herself, the times for breakfast and leaving, in her French school handwriting, so different from George’s. She didn’t say any more, or ask him questions about himself, or where he was going. It seemed impertinent. And, in a sense, she didn’t want to know. That wasn’t the sort of conversation she wanted. She had trouble with questions. Such a high level of intrusion for a banal response. She didn’t like them, so it didn’t seem right to inflict them on other people.
    The couple came down and sat by the window, commented on the rain on the hedge and the state of the sky. They were hungry. Sylvie wasn’t surprised. They hadn’t finished their dinners. She sliced up more bread and brought it across to them. She stopped and chatted to them. They were easy to talk to and she suddenly wanted to. When she moved awayshe saw that the Englishman had left the room. She hadn’t noticed him going. She looked across at his table, the plate with a smear of butter on the edge, the empty cup. It could wait. She didn’t feel able to clear it away.
    Paul was by her desk when the man came to check out. He’d driven Lucien to school. There and back took about half an hour. He moved his hand slightly, indicating that Sylvie could sort out the bill. She got on with doing it but ignored the gesture. It was strange that this was possible. It required concentration and made her feel feverish.
    â€˜Come and stay here again when there’s less going on.’ Paul took up a position that almost obscured her. ‘It’s normally pleasantly dull here. Relaxing.’ He smiled. ‘We like our guests to concentrate on the food. That’s what we’re here for.’ He glanced across at the dining room door, wide open and letting light into the hall. ‘They were unusually difficult circumstances. I hope my wife looked after you.’
    The man nodded, not looking at either of them.
    â€˜We don’t know the outcome,’ said Paul. ‘Whether the resuscitation succeeded.’
    Sylvie kept her head down. He never even asked, she thought, he wouldn’t, why should he? She remembered that George had once written to her and said that if he were ever taken to hospital he wanted DNR tied to the bed. They only understand acronyms, he wrote, so don’t bother to spell it out, though, in case you don’t know, it means, do not resuscitate. Don’t dwell on it though, I just wanted to mention it. It hadn’t been necessary.
    â€˜Have you got far to drive?’ Paul asked
    â€˜Calais, then London.’
    â€˜It’s not a bad day. Drying up. The couple who were also staying last night, the others who got caught up in this, they’re leaving too. They haven’t got far to go, over towards Metz.’
    The man nodded. Sylvie handed him his bill. He read it and paid it, looked briefly at her.
    â€˜Have a good journey,’ Paul said. ‘I hope we’ll see you again. We’ll make sure it’s more cheerful next time.’
    â€˜I’ll go and clear up,’ Sylvie said.
    She came round from her side of the desk, walked across the room and through into the dining room without turning her head. She felt the cold damp air come in, as the Englishman opened the front door and went out. The telephone rang. She was glad. She didn’t want to hear the sound of his car starting up, going away. She had, for half a second, wondered how she was going to shut it out.
    â€˜â€™Phone, Sylvie,’ Paul called from the hall.
    â€˜Can’t you answer it?’
    She could hear him muttering. But he was standing right next to it. Why couldn’t he answer it?
    â€˜It will be for you, Sylvie.’
    â€˜Let it ring then.’ For as long as it takes for the car to go, she