Stone Bruises

18

Rain thrums on the roof like static from a broken radio.

Outside, water streams and drips over the kitchen window in a steady cascade, like a curtain of glass beads. It’s coming down so heavily that the door and windows are all closed, leaving the kitchen hot and stifling. The rain doesn’t seem to have made it any cooler, and the airless room is claustrophobic and thick with cooking smells.

Mathilde has gone to town with dinner this evening, serving a rare first course of artichokes in butter.

‘What’s the special occasion?’ Arnaud grumbles. Butter varnishes his mouth and chin.

‘No occasion,’ Mathilde tells him. ‘I just thought you’d like a change.’

Her father grunts and goes back to gnawing at the artichoke, nuzzling obscenely at the centre of the splayed leaves. Gretchen all but ignores me as she sullenly helps her sister serve the food.

Georges evidently hasn’t told Arnaud about seeing us in the woods earlier. So far, at least. Either he really does only care about his pigs, like Gretchen says, or he’s learned to turn a blind eye to anything that doesn’t concern him. Either way, I should be relieved.

Instead I feel almost disappointed.

I’ve been in a strange mood all afternoon. There was no question of doing any more work once the rain started. It quickly turned my mortar to sludge, and when the wind picked up as well, buffeting the scaffold with each squall, I’d no choice but to come down. Soaking wet, I went back to the barn and stripped off my wet overalls, then watched the storm through the loft’s window. The landscape outside was transformed, the familiar pastoral scene replaced by a wilder persona. The fields beyond the wind-thrashed trees had been smeared from existence, while the lake was no more than a blur. As thunder rumbled in the distance I contemplated swimming in it now, with its surface shredded by the downpour.

Instead I stayed in the loft, listening to the drumming rain and waiting for the promised lightning. It never materialized, and before long the storm’s novelty had worn thin. Smoking one of my last cigarettes without enjoyment, I tried to read another chapter of Madame Bovary. But my heart wasn’t in it. As the day dragged into evening without any let-up in the downpour, I grew more restless. For the first time in weeks I put my watch back on, watching the seconds tick by to when I’d have to go to the house for dinner. As well as apprehension, there was also a strange sense of anticipation.

Now I’m finally here, though, it’s an anticlimax. Everything carries on as normal. Mathilde comes around with the pan, serving a second artichoke to each of us. They’re small but tender, the meaty flesh of the leaves succulent and soft. I don’t have much appetite, but I accept another all the same. She pours a little hot butter from the pan onto it before moving away, as expressionless as ever.

As I tear a leaf from the choke and bite into it, I catch sight of my watch. It feels both familiar and strange on my wrist, and my stomach sinks to see that only a few minutes have passed since the last time I looked. The hands seem to be moving through honey, as though the farm is slowing the laws of relativity to suit its own rhythm. Or maybe I’m just waiting for something to happen.

‘Going somewhere?’ Arnaud says.

I lower my watch. ‘Just lost track of time.’

‘Why? Don’t tell me you’re tired.’ He gives a wheezing laugh, waving a ruined artichoke at me. ‘You’ve hardly done anything today. The rain’s given you a holiday, what have you got to be tired for?’

There’s a needle-gleam to his eyes. He’s in a good mood, I realize. He’s the only one in the room who is. Gretchen seems determined to out-sulk herself, while Mathilde is even quieter than usual. I wonder if her sister has said anything about this afternoon, and the possibility takes away what little inclination I have to make conversation.

Arnaud remains unaware of the undercurrents around the table, too intent for the moment on his appetite. As Mathilde and Gretchen serve the main course — thin strips of pork with a caper sauce — he speaks to me again.

‘I hear the stitches are out of your foot.’

‘Yes.’

‘So there’s nothing to slow you up any more, eh?’

‘I suppose not.’

‘Something to celebrate for both of us then.’ He reaches for the wine bottle and makes to refill my glass.

‘No, thanks.’

‘Come on, you’re empty. Here.’

I move my glass away. ‘I don’t want any more.’

He frowns, holding the bottle poised so the red liquid is close to spilling from its neck. ‘Why not? Is something wrong with it?’

‘I just don’t feel like drinking.’

Arnaud’s mouth is clamped into a disapproving line. He’s had most of the bottle already, and I doubt it’s his first. He pours himself more, splashing it onto the table. Over by the range, Mathilde flinches as the bottle bangs down.

‘What?’ he demands.

‘Nothing.’

He stares at her, but she keeps her eyes downcast as she returns to her seat. Taking a swig of wine, he impales a piece of meat with his fork and glares around the table as he chews.

‘What’s the matter with everyone tonight?’

No one answers.

‘It’s like eating in a morgue! Is there something going on I don’t know about? Eh?’

The question is met by silence. Across the table, I feel Gretchen’s eyes on me but I pretend not to notice. Arnaud empties his glass. His good mood hasn’t lasted very long. He reaches again for the bottle and sees Mathilde watching him.

‘You want to say something?’

‘No.’

‘Are you sure?’

‘Yes.’

He continues to stare, looking for something to criticize. Failing to find it, he takes up his knife and fork and resumes eating. The pork hardly needs chewing. It falls apart, the sauce piquant with garlic and the capers.

‘Not enough seasoning,’ Arnaud grumbles.

The comment goes unacknowledged.

‘I said there’s not enough seasoning.’

Mathilde wordlessly passes him the salt and pepper. He grinds pepper liberally over his food then douses it with salt.

‘I’ve told you often enough to use more when you’re cooking. It kills the flavour putting it on afterwards.’

‘Then why do it?’ I ask before I can stop myself.

Arnaud gives me a poisoned look. ‘Because then at least it tastes of something.’

‘It tastes fine to me,’ I say to Mathilde. ‘It’s delicious.’

She flickers a nervous smile. Her father stares at me across the table, chewing slowly. He swallows, taking his time before answering.

‘And you’d know, would you?’

‘I know what I like.’

‘Is that so? I didn’t realize you were such a gourmand. All this time I thought it was just some no-hope hitch-hiker I’d got living in my barn.’ Arnaud raises his glass in an ironic salute. ‘I’m honoured to have your opinion rammed down my throat.’

The sound of the rain is loud in the sudden silence. Gretchen is watching us wide-eyed. Mathilde starts to get up.

‘There’s some sauce left in the pan—’

‘Sit down.’

‘It’s no trouble. I can—’

‘I said sit down!’

The plates jump as Arnaud’s hand crashes onto the table. Even before the reverberations die away the sound of Michel’s crying comes from upstairs. But no one makes a move to go to him.

‘Why don’t you leave her alone?’ I hear myself say.

Arnaud slowly turns to stare at me. His face is already flushed from the wine, but now it darkens even more. ‘What?’

It feels like I’m running downhill, knowing I’m heading for a fall but carried away by the rush. ‘I said why don’t you leave her alone?’

‘Don’t—’ Mathilde begins, but Arnaud silences her with a raised hand.

‘You hear that, Mathilde? You’ve got a champion!’ He doesn’t take his eyes off me, his voice becoming dangerously low. ‘You sit there, eating my food, drinking my wine, and question me? In my own home?’

Mathilde’s face has paled, while Gretchen’s pretty features have developed an ugly twist. At any other time I might recognize that as a warning, but I’m too focused on Arnaud. His expression is murderous, and a vein beats rapid time on one temple. It makes me glad he doesn’t have his gun to hand.

And then, suddenly, something changes. A glint of calculation comes into his eyes. He shrugs, unclamping his jaw enough to give a forced smile. ‘Ah, to hell with it. I’m not going to argue about a plate of pork. A man’s entitled to his own opinion.’

For a second I’m at a loss, then I get it. He thinks this is about the conversation we had in the woods; his suggestion that I should take Mathilde off his hands. The pent-up tension that’s been building in me all day abruptly deflates.

Arnaud sets about his food again with gusto. ‘So, you like Mathilde’s cooking, eh? Good for you. Perhaps I was a little hasty. You know what they say, a woman who knows how to cook for a man knows how to keep him happy in other ways as well.’

Jesus. I look across at Mathilde, hoping she doesn’t think I’m party to this. Her eyes are averted, but the same can’t be said for her sister’s. Gretchen is glaring at me with a fury that’s drawn the skin of her face taut against its bones. The force of it slaps me like a physical jolt, and then she turns to her father.

‘Papa, I’ve got something to tell you.’

Arnaud waves his fork indulgently, without looking up. ‘Go on.’

I stare at her, not wanting to believe she’s going to do this. But of course she does.

‘I saw Georges in the woods this afternoon. Didn’t he mention it?’

‘No, why should he?’

She looks at me, angelic face dimpling in a vindictive smile. ‘Sean can tell you.’

Arnaud lowers his knife and fork, suspicion replacing his earlier indulgence. ‘Tell me what?’

‘Gretchen, why don’t you—’ Mathilde tries to intervene, but their father isn’t going to be put off.

‘Tell me what?’

They’re all staring at me. The three faces show differing expressions: Arnaud anger, Mathilde fearfulness and Gretchen growing uncertainty, as though she’s belatedly regretting what she’s started. Strangely enough, I feel calm. As though I’ve been trying to find my way to this moment but didn’t realize it until now.

‘I’m leaving.’

The announcement is met with silence. It’s Arnaud who breaks it.

‘What do you mean, leaving?’

‘Just that. There’s something I need to do.’ Now I’ve said it all my indecision and uncertainty have gone. It’s as though a weight’s been lifted from me.

Arnaud’s face has grown thunderous. ‘You’ve been here all this time and you never mention this before? What’s so urgent that it needs doing now?’

‘It’s personal. I know it’s sudden, but I can’t put it off any longer.’

‘What about your obligations here? It’s all right to put those off, I suppose?’

‘The wall’s in a better state than it was. But I can stay a few more days, at least until—’

‘Don’t bother!’ Arnaud bellows. ‘If you’re going to desert us you’re not spending another night under my roof! Go on, Judas! Pack your things and get out!’

‘No!’ Gretchen cries. She looks angry and upset, but that could just be frustration. ‘No, he can’t leave!’

Her father waves aside her objection. ‘Yes, he can! And good riddance! We don’t need him!’

Mathilde has been silent till now. She seems genuinely shaken. ‘Wait, can’t we—’

‘No, let him go!’ Arnaud roars. ‘Didn’t you hear me, you ungrateful bastard? I said get out!’

I push my chair back and head for the door. Mathilde hurries to stop me. ‘At least let’s wait until tomorrow to talk about it! Please!’

I’m not sure if the plea is aimed at me or her father. Arnaud glowers at her, jaw working as though he’s gnawing a bone.

‘Please!’ she says again, and this time there’s no question who she’s addressing.

Arnaud throws up his hand in a dismissive gesture that ends with him grabbing the wine bottle. ‘Let him do what he likes, I don’t care. Stay or go, it’s all the same to me.’

He sloshes wine into his glass. Mathilde takes hold of my arm and hurries me into the courtyard. Before she shuts the door after us, my last view is of Gretchen, staring after us with her face pinched and intent.

Outside, the rain has eased up but a fine drizzle still hangs in the air. It’s cool and damp enough to make me shiver. Mathilde leads me across the slick cobbles until we’re out of earshot.

‘I’m sorry,’ I say.

She shakes her head. Her hair is misted by the drizzle. ‘You don’t have to go.’

‘Yes, I do.’

‘My father’s just angry. He didn’t mean what he said.’

I’d beg to differ, but it doesn’t matter anyway. ‘It’s not him. I’ve stayed too long as it is.’

She glances back at the house. I can’t tell what she’s thinking. ‘Won’t you change your mind?’

‘I can’t. I’m sorry.’

She’s silent for a moment, then sighs. ‘Where will you go? To England?’

I just nod. It’s only now starting to sink in. Mathilde tucks rain-damp hair behind her ear.

‘Will you come back? Here, I mean?’

‘I don’t know.’ I’m surprised and moved that she’s asked. I wish I could say, but the decision won’t be mine to make.

‘You should stay until morning, at least.’

‘I’m not sure that’s a good idea.’

‘My father will calm down. Besides, there won’t be many cars on the road this late.’

She has a point. If I go now I’ll either be walking all night or still outside the gate come morning. I glance back at the house. ‘I don’t want to cause any more trouble …’

‘You won’t. And I have to talk to you before you go.’

‘What about?’

‘Not now.’ She’s standing close to me. Her grey eyes seem huge. ‘Can I come to the loft later? After midnight?’

‘I … OK. Sure.’

Her hand rests lightly on my chest. ‘Thank you.’

I stare after her as she hurries back to the scaffolded house and disappears inside. Then I’m alone in the post-rain quiet. A breeze causes the old weathervane to twist and creak on top of the stables, carrying a rustle of the distant trees. Clouds slide across the not yet dark sky, fitfully obscuring a rising moon. My thoughts are in a tumult as I set off across the wet courtyard to the barn. Everything seemed so clear only minutes ago. Now I don’t know what to think.

Or what Mathilde might want.

A sudden wave of doubt takes the strength from my legs. Christ, what am I doing? I lean against the barn wall, sucking in air, and it’s only then I remember I’ve left my walking stick in the kitchen. There’s a moment of panic, but it quickly passes. I’m not going back for it, and once I accept that I feel calm again. With a last deep breath, I straighten and carry on back to the loft to pack my things.

It’s time to face up to what I’ve done.

It’s dark when I arrive in Docklands. I’ve no idea what the time is — the numbers on my watch face seem part of an illegible code — but it’s late. The bars and restaurants I pass are closed, and the only sound is the echo of my footsteps.

I’ve reached that stage of pseudo-clarity that feels like being sober. Jez said the gym was near an undeveloped quay, but after wandering at random all I’ve accomplished is to get myself completely lost. The area is a maze of unlit tower blocks, gentrified dock buildings and derelict warehouses overlooked by faltering regeneration.

It’s beginning to sink in how stupid this is. Even if I find Jules, what would I do? Any idea of retribution now seems pathetic, an alcohol-fuelled fantasy to stave off my own guilt. As I walk the empty streets Yasmin’s accusations play in my head like a looped recording. You just walked out and abandoned her. She wanted to make it easy for you, and you let her, didn’t you? Did I? Is that really what happened? I don’t know any more. The thought that the baby might have been mine leaves a physical ache under my breastbone. I’ve gone over and over everything Chloe said, trying to decipher the truth. I can’t, but much as I want to believe that Yasmin was just hitting out I know it isn’t only Jules who’s to blame.

The beginning of a hangover is starting to throb in my temples. I feel tired, sick with regret and self-disgust. All I want now is to go back to my flat, but I’ve no idea how to get there. The streets all look the same; tunnels of brick, chrome and glass that as often as not lead to dead-ends of dark water and silent boats.

Then I turn a corner and see light coming from an open doorway in a warehouse. A car is parked on the other side of the road, but other than that the street is deserted. I walk faster, hoping to find someone who can tell me where I am. I’ve wandered well away from the more affluent parts of Docklands. Apart from the warehouse, all the buildings around here are derelict. Beyond a fenced-off strip of wasteland is the black sheen of water and a run-down quayside. But it isn’t until I notice the developer’s board outside the warehouse and the skeletal frames of exercise machines through the ground-floor windows that I fit it all together. I slow down, still not quite believing this can be what I think, and then someone comes out of the doorway and crosses the road to the car.

The electronic squeal of it unlocking carries in the quiet street. I’ve stopped, watching as the man goes around to the back and opens the boot. I lose sight of him for a few moments, then the boot is slammed shut and the figure goes to the driver’s side and gets in. I stand motionless, no more than twenty or thirty feet away, as Jules is revealed by the dim interior light. Whatever stomach I had for confrontation has gone as I watch him slumped at the steering wheel. There’s nothing smug or arrogant about him now. The stubbled face looks tired and defeated, his eyes shadowed.

Not daring to move in case he sees me, I wait for him to go. Instead he rummages for something out of sight. I only realize what he’s doing when he bends his head, pressing a finger to the side of his nose as he snorts something from the back of his hand. Suddenly more purposeful, he straightens and starts the car engine. A moment later the road is lit up by bright halogen headlights.

And so am I.

I shield my eyes from the glare, hoping even now he might not notice me. For a moment nothing happens. Then the engine and headlights are turned off. As I try to blink away their afterimage I hear the car door open. It chunks shut as Jules comes to stand in front of the car.

‘What the fuck are you doing here?’

Still dazzled, I try to make him out in the darkness. ‘Chloe’s dead.’

It’s the only thing I can think of to say. There’s a pause. For a second or two I actually hope we might be able to put aside any rivalry.

‘And?’

‘Did you know?’

‘Yeah. So if that’s what you came to tell me you can turn around and piss off.’

The anger that had drained away starts to seep back. ‘What did you do to her?’

‘I didn’t do anything, she did it all herself. That’s why they call it suicide. Now why don’t you do us both a favour and fuck off, because I’m really not in the mood for a sermon.’

‘You threw her out.’

‘Big deal. I didn’t ask her to jump off a bridge.’ There’s something defensive behind his aggression. ‘Anyway, what the fuck’s it got to do with you? I can’t remember you being so concerned when you walked out and left her. You want to blame anyone, look in a fucking mirror!’

It’s close enough to what Yasmin said to make me want to hit out. ‘Did you know she’d had an abortion?’

That’s met with silence. My eyes have adjusted enough to see him shrug. ‘So what?’

‘She said it was yours.’

‘Yeah? She should have been more careful. At least she had the sense to get rid of it.’ The callousness sounds forced, but it’s quickly replaced by rage. ‘You want to know why I kicked her out? Because she’d got to be a fucking liability. An embarrassment! She was a fucking cokehead, it’s not my fault she couldn’t keep her shit together.’

‘And who made her like that?’

This time the silence is threatening. ‘You need to watch what you’re saying.’

‘You got her hooked and then dropped her when she wouldn’t courier for you!’

‘Last chance. Shut the fuck up and go. Now.’

‘Why, so you can ruin someone else’s life? You’re just a fucking pimp!’

For a few seconds the only sound is our breathing. Then Jules turns back to his car. I think he’s going to drive off but instead he goes around to the passenger side. He opens the door and leans inside, emerging with something long and slender.

‘I warned you,’ he says, walking towards me.

He’s got a baseball bat.

The situation seems unreal. I take a step back, and as though that’s the trigger he rushes forward. I try to dodge as he swings, gasping in shock as much as pain as the bat smacks into my raised arm. I stumble away as Jules flails wildly, missing more often than he connects, and there’s a clatter of glass as I trip over a box of empty bottles. Off-balance, I only just get my arm up in time as the bat comes at my head. It glances off my shoulder and catches me on the cheek. There’s a hot flash of light, then I’m falling. I land clumsily, sending bottles skittering over the pavement. Numb with panic, I try to scramble away as Jules raises the bat above me, his face contorted.

‘The fuck’s going on?’

The shout comes from across the road. A big figure blocks out the light from the same doorway Jules came from. As it steps into the street I recognize the broad shoulders of Lenny.

‘It’s the cunt from the Zed,’ Jules pants. The bat is still poised ready to swing, but it’s clear he’s deferring to the other man.

The big head moves, trying to make me out in the darkness. ‘What’s he doing here?’

‘He’s heard about Chloe. He’s trying to blame me for—’

‘For fuck’s sake,’ Lenny mutters, and starts towards us.

There’s something terrifying about his unhurried intent, and while Jules is still distracted I grab one of the bottles lying nearby and hurl it at his head. He sees it coming and ducks, and as it shatters behind him I make a run for it. There’s a shout as I barge past, and I feel the bat whoosh past my head close enough to ruffle my hair. Then I’m pounding down the street as hard as I can. Jules’s footsteps are just behind me as Lenny angles across the road to cut me off. There’s nowhere to go, but Jules’s car is dead ahead. Its passenger door is still open, so I throw myself inside. Jules grabs for me and cries out when I slam the door on his arm, trapping it. The baseball bat clatters to the pavement as I heave on the handle, keeping him pinned. His arm’s bleeding where the edge of the door has gouged into it, and as he clutches for me across the seat I see that Lenny has almost reached the car. I can’t keep them both out, so as Jules tries to wrench free I shove the door against him. He stumbles backwards, and as his arm clears the door I yank it shut.

There’s a beautiful clunk as I hit the central-locking button and the bolts shoot home. Then the car shudders as Jules hurls himself against it.

‘Open the fucking door!’ he shouts, banging on the glass. ‘You’re dead, you hear me? Fucking dead!’

I’m sprawled across the front seats, gasping for breath. Pushing myself upright, I see why Jules hasn’t used his key to unlock the car.

It’s still in the ignition.

I scramble over to the driver’s seat as he pounds on the passenger window. ‘Don’t you fucking dare!’

My hand shakes as I turn the key and jam my foot down. The car jerks forward and stalls. I flinch at a sudden bang on the door next to me as Lenny rams an elbow against the window. The car rocks as Jules wrenches at the door, yelling as I turn the key again.

‘No, wait! Don’t—!’

The engine drowns out his voice. Lenny has picked up the baseball bat but I’m already accelerating away. He jumps back but Jules runs alongside, still hammering on the glass. He’s screaming at me now, but I stamp on the pedal and he abruptly disappears. There’s time for a moment’s relief, then the steering wheel is almost torn from my hands as the car bucks and judders. A clattering comes from the passenger side, as though something’s snagged underneath. The juddering stops as I brake, jerking forward as the car screeches to a halt. I twist round, but there’s no one nearby. In the rear-view mirror I can see Lenny standing motionless in the road behind me.

There’s no sign of Jules.

The engine chugs softly. I look over at the passenger side. The seatbelt is trapped in the door, unspooled and twisted like a miniature noose. When I reach over and open it, the belt snakes sluggishly back inside as it tries to rewind. But the mechanism’s damaged and it soon stops. I stare at the frayed fabric, thinking about Jules groping for me across the seat. How he banged on the window as I sped off.

Leaving the engine running, I climb out of the car.

Lenny is staring down at something lying in the gutter. It isn’t moving, and in the glow from a streetlight I can see the back-to-front wrongness of its limbs. Something black and viscous pools around it, glistening like oil. Any doubts I might have are snuffed by Lenny’s lack of urgency. I automatically take a step forward but stop when he raises his head and looks at me. He’s still holding the baseball bat, and I back away as he starts walking towards me with a deliberation that’s chilling. The driver’s door bumps against my legs, then I’m scrambling into the car and grinding through the gears.

As I roar away, I glance in the rear-view mirror. Lenny has stopped in the middle of the road. My last view is of him staring after me, the baseball bat still gripped in one hand.

I drive until I feel I’ve gone far enough to be safe. Pulling over, I manage to open the door in time to throw up, hanging onto the door as I heave scalding bile into the road. When the spasm’s passed I grope for my phone to call for an ambulance. It won’t do Jules any good but I’m functioning automatically now, obeying the Pavlovian response of a good citizen. Besides, I can’t think of anything else to do.

But my phone’s broken. Its screen is cracked and the casing threatens to come apart in my hand. I don’t know when it happened, but it’s useless. I start driving again, intending to stop at the first public phone I come to. Except I don’t see one. I turn on the windscreen wipers as a sudden downpour smears the glass, turning the world outside into an Impressionist blur. I feel like I’m trapped in a nightmare, but gradually my mind starts to work again. Soon I’m able to think clearly. At least, that’s how it seems at the time.

It’s still raining, but the first flush of a summer dawn is lightening the sky when I pull up outside my flat. Almost feverish with the need to hurry, I let myself in. I’m shaking, hurting all over, but I can’t stay here. Lenny knows who I am, and it’s only a matter of time before he or his business associates find me. I can’t even hand myself in to the police, because I doubt I’d be any safer in prison. There’s only one thing I can think of to do.

I cram clothes and what cash I have lying around into my rucksack, only remembering my passport at the last minute. I take a last look around the small flat, with its shelves of old DVDs and framed film posters. There’s a rare reproduction from Rififi, and a print of Vadim’s Et Dieu … créa la femme with a luridly breathy Bardot that nearly bankrupted me. None of it seems important now.

I close the door and hurry back out to where I’ve parked Jules’s car. It’s an Audi, sleek and expensive. I don’t look like the sort of person to own an expensive car, but the urge to get away overwhelms everything else.

There’s never any question of where I’m going to go.

I throw my rucksack into the boot and go to open the driver’s door before I stop. I don’t want to see what might be on the passenger side, but I can’t leave without making sure. Checking that the street is still empty, I make myself go around the car. The black paintwork on the rear wheel arch is scraped and dented. But not so much that it will attract any attention, and the rain has washed off whatever blood was there.

There’s nothing to show what I’ve done.

It’s too early for much traffic, and I make good time to the Dover ferry terminal. By now reaction is setting in. I’m hungover and exhausted, aching from the fight earlier. Nothing seems real, and it’s only as I’m buying a ticket that it occurs to me that the car registration number might flag an alert. I’m stunned at my own stupidity for not having abandoned it and boarded as a foot passenger.

But there are no sirens, no alarms. I drive the dead man’s car into the boat’s cavernous metal belly, then go up on deck and watch the white cliffs slowly recede.

A few hours later I’m hitching on a dusty French road under a white sun.