Coming Home to Story

Arrived at Airvault yesterday evening after a long drive from Le Havre. This afternoon I dropped my daughter Georgie at the station so she could catch a train to Paris for the weekend and then called in to the local Intermarché to stock up for the first week of campismo en France. I blundered around the over-stocked aisles until I came to the fruit and vegetables.

Suddenly I remembered how excited Chris would be at the abundance of fresh food in French supermarkets and instinctively reached for my iPhone to take a picture – as she would have done – of a display of enormous “coeur de boeuf” tomatoes. Local markets and village shops were her providers of choice, but she’d make an exception for a good Intermarché.

And then it hit me: I was there alone. Everything – shopping, camping, life itself –was an adventure with Chris. Her curiosity and delight in the world were contagious. I carried on as best as I could: wine, apricots, cuisses de poulet, ham, cheese, croissants. The trolley got filled but I felt more and more empty. I was so distracted that I dropped a jar of olives. It smashed on the floor and I went to find an assistant to clear it up.

“Pardon. Un petit accident. Je suis desolé.”

Sorry. I rolled the final phrase around in my mind and I thought, that’s exactly how I feel. I’m not just sorry Chris isn’t here, I’m desolated: abandoned, thoroughly alone.

Feeling quite miserable, I went out to the car park to load the camper van. Teddy pounced on me – as he always does –with unconditional delight. He wagged his tail and buried his face in mine.

“Of course you’re not alone,” he seemed to say, “I’m here.”

Merci beaucoup, Ted.

Mon ami.