Channel Ferry Crossing

He was on his way back to London, having done what he could in Paris to try to swing a much-needed job and then celebrated New Year in Provence with an old flame who had a house there.

   Paris had been snowbound over Christmas, the trains stuck fast in the stations, and despite a thaw it was still cold. At Calais the foot passengers from the train froze lining up for the ferry.The frowsy warmth aboard the comfortable old vessel was welcome and soporific, and his unwary spirit, if not satisfied, was at least quiet…
   Then, all in one liquid moment, as he entered the bar lounge looking for a place to park himself, he saw her see him moving towards the empty space by her, which was where he sat down.

   He guessed almost immediately that she was alone. With her pale, rather heavy and sad, almost bitter face, and apparently no baggage, she looked a bit tarty, he thought. A day-tripper, he told himself wryly.The place he had taken was close enough to give him a good, full view of her, but not so close as to make his glance indiscreet. Or so he hoped.

   He slumped into the seat and resumed the reading of his already well-thumbed English newspaper. But he soon tired of trying to keep his attention on the page and began to doze.
   It was thus through half-closed eyes that he saw her suddenly transformed by a radiant smile as she gratefully accepted the offer of a cigarette from two English boys sharing the corner. They had seen her just find her own pack empty. In a state of semi-conscious free fall, his mind formulated and concentrated upon an image of warm honey welling from a crimson velvet gorge.

   He must have fallen asleep after that, for when he next looked she was gone, leaving only a pair of gloves on the seat like a reminder or sign. As if in a sleepwalk, he stood up and began a tour of the deck. And almost immediately they passed each other in one of the gangways. He started back to his seat, but then spontaneously turned on his heel to go to the cafeteria. As he entered it from one door, he saw her entering from the door opposite.
   She was served first and so, in effect, he followed her, sitting down at what seemed to him the most obvious table to choose, which was hers, seating himself directly across from her. She looked up at him and smiled, and he asked: "Vous êtes française?" She was, which pleased him.

   Strangely, he felt no surprise at the unconscious intuition which now came out of his mouth, for he had earlier wrongly guessed she was English ( a "day-tripper"). He felt unusually confident and at ease as events seemed to unfold automatically,  and yet as if by design.They talked, and he was titillated to learn that she was a French teacher in an English boys' school, near Manchester. Then having finished her meal, she abruptly announced that she was going to the bar.

   "Ca vous gêne si je vous accompagne?" he asked, taken by surprise and immediately regretting the inelegance of his question.
But he gathered that he might join her.

   Now he really was following her. She reached the bar before him, and as soon as he caught up with her she asked, deadly direct: "Qu'est-ce que tu veux?"
   And that threw his mind right off the rails.  Indeed what the hell do I want? he screamed silently to himself, realising all in the same brain-race that she had used the familiar "tu" form, whereas they had been on the more formal "vous" terms until then.

   Hoping that his mental shock had not shown too much, he chose to assume that she was simply asking him what he wanted to drink. They both took half-pints of beer and she paid.
A great tired, brooding sadness seemed to be coming over her again, and he wondered to himself what could be responsible for it. It was also rapidly transmitting itself to him, making him feel suddenly depressed.

   She had spent Christmas in Paris, she told him. It was now the 2nd of January and she was already returning to Britain. Had there been a family tragedy or bereavement? he speculated silently, trying to account for her condition, or what he took it to be. And to what or to whom was she returning so soon?

   She also told him that she was taking a bus on to Manchester as soon as the boat-train reached Victoria Station. His disappointment on learning this revealed to himself some hidden hopes she had raised in him. His own journey was ending in London.

   He had no chance to buy a return round of drinks before a loudspeaker was telling passengers to prepare to disembark. The time taken for the ferry to cross the Channel had passed remarkably quickly. She did, after all, have luggage, he now saw: a large expensive-looking suitcase. She also produced and donned an elegant topcoat and pretty scarf. Her style was not at all tarty, he realised.

   They sat together for the short bus-ride from the quayside to customs and immigration, but their conversation dwindled and died. Making a last effort, he elicited the information that her family was of Spanish rather than French origin. That would explain the lusciousness of those lips, he thought, studying her face again as they spoke in the bus, seated side by side.

   They were obliged to separate at the immigration control: he to the passage for UK citizens, she to one marked "other EEC". He was through the formalities before her, and hesitated, agonisingly torn, over whether he should wait for her or not. He was filled with pain and a dull uncomprehending anger, as he fought against what seemed like some sheer arbitrariness dressed up as destiny forcing itself upon him.

   Why this one, dammit? Why her? he raged.

   Guiltily, he made himself go on ahead without her, without waiting or looking back, and boarded the train alone, keeping his head down for the rest of the journey. He knew even then that the episode would remain with him for years.