The Long Summer of Monsieur Loiseau

A faint ringing of a bell came from deep within the house.

"Lunch," Prudence explained to the reporter, "sounds like one of those boarding school bells, doesn't it? I haven't heard that sound for many years before I came here. I must invite you along." Lunch time, Mr. Rivers, the nearest restaurant is more than 20 kilometers away, and it is not worthwhile to go back and forth. Although the kitchen here occasionally makes terrible lasagne, the mushroom rye pancakes are still very good. "

"These letters?"

"You can stay here."

The reporter took away the recording pen.The two walked through the winding aisle painted gray-green to the dining room.Prudence was in front, and Rivers, out of courtesy, followed two steps behind.The dining room of the nursing home is a spacious space wrapped in glass. It should be very pleasant when the weather is sunny, but it is very fragile under the wind and rain at this moment, as if it will collapse at any time.They found an empty table near the fire and waited for their food to be served.

Prudence ate so little that it seemed to him that eating was only symbolic, a symbolic act.The journalist, hungry - he had set off too early today and trudged in the cold rain - ate two rye pancakes, and they were delicious, warm and soft, slightly crispy, with white mushrooms fried in butter , sprinkled with a little salt and black pepper.

The restaurant was always deserted, and there were no more than ten people from the beginning to the end, most of them were elderly people like Prudence; an old lady in a cardigan stared at the reporter with a smile for half an hour, calling him "Dear Polis," beckoning him over; the nurse who took care of her explained that "Mrs.And a pale, middle-aged man with an oxygen tank munching on rye pancakes while flipping through a tome on Persian history.

About halfway through the coffee, the rain stopped.A gloomy ray of sunlight leaked through a crack in the clouds, and the churning waters faded from iron blue to an accessible pale algae green.The two returned to the living room to get their coats, left through the side door, walked through the waterlogged porch, and stepped onto the rocky beach washed by heavy rain and waves.The wind was blowing, wet, cold, smelling of salt and silt, and seaweed was strewn everywhere, giving off a strong fishy smell.They headed southwest, for Prudence remembered that there was a lighthouse there.

"I stayed at Connie's until the end of the war." The scarf was blown away, and Prudence grabbed the end, tied it again, and tucked it into his coat. In the world, they have four children, the oldest is 11 years old and the youngest is only six months. I share a bedroom with my cousin Liam. Aunt Connie's greatest interest is to figure out how to use limited rations to feed five children. Boy, just pieced together shirts and towels for us out of various pieces. Her husband, my Uncle Parker, worked in the shipyard, repairing destroyers—it was a secret job at the time, and we thought he was an ordinary carpenter, but Just happened to work at the dock. Three years later in late spring, many warships gathered in the port, and Spitfire fighter jets roared by every few hours. Uniformed naval officers knocked on the door after door , told us to keep an eye out for strangers and not to talk casually about the movements of ships and planes. But the only strangers we saw were the American soldiers in the naval base. They were very loud and liked to laugh out of nowhere, but I still like them because They give us kids chocolate chip cookies and candy - chocolate! Mr. Rivers, we haven't tasted this in at least four years. We didn't realize until after the summer that the ships and planes that were assembled there were all involved in Normandy logged in."

A puddle formed by low tide appeared in front of it, six to seven meters long, and as deep as the calf. A small crab the size of a fingernail ran away quickly when they approached, and disappeared under a pebble.The old man and the reporter walked around the puddle slowly, the stones rattling on the soles of their shoes.The lighthouse is not yet in view.

"Father came back in the autumn of 1946. We were all quite surprised, frankly, because everyone assumed he had died fighting in Europe. I hadn't seen him in seven years, not even a letter. I felt embarrassed Well, he probably does too, he just hides it better than I do. He misses an eight-year-old boy who made him a hero, only to come back with a gloomy teenager. I think that's why he sent me to The boarding school, not the middle school that was closer to home."

"Life seemed to return to 'normal' for a while, relative to the wartime. The home no longer existed, so we lived in a temporary shelter provided by the government for about half a year. Dad found a job in the bank again, and then moved out of the empty house. Cement box, rented a smaller place. I only come back for Christmas, and most of the time it's just Dad there."

"Dad came to see me at school on Easter 1948, and with him was a lady with curly hair and a brown shawl. Dad said her name was Suzy, and she worked at the Veterans Club and helped him A lot of work. Suzie and her daughter - my stepsister Trisha - have already moved into our apartment. They plan to get married in the summer and are looking for a bigger house. I have no problem with that, more precisely Say it doesn’t feel like it, my father and I have lived in different worlds for a long time.”

"Did you lose contact with Mr. Loiseau in the past few years?" the reporter asked, jumping on a slippery reef.

"He wrote me a letter or two, and then never heard. I went back to London, and Aunt Connie and my cousins ​​moved once, without leaving a postal address."

"But you do know his address."

"Yes," Prudence replied absently, looking out at the horizon, "let's just say I had other things to worry about. New school, two new family members. Look, Mr. Rivers, the lighthouse. "

It took the reporter at least a minute to find the lighthouse standing on the rocky reef in the distance. The waves beat the reef and splashed foamy water.Unlike the lovely tourist towers on the coast of Normandy, this lighthouse looks lonely and indifferent, not even its bright red paint can hide it.The reporter pulled his coat tighter, lowered his head, and followed Prudence toward the lighthouse.

-

Oxford, 1952.

Father parked the car two blocks from the High Street and asked Harry again if he really didn't need help.Harry reiterated that he didn't need it, moved the luggage down, said goodbye, and stood on the side of the road watching the car drive away.

The slip of paper with the address was in his coat pocket, but Harry had the address by heart.The first problem is that he needs to know where he is at the moment. This city is used to new students who are confused, and no one takes a second look at him.After asking for directions three times and passing the same alley twice, Harry finally found his footing for the next few years.The dormitory was an unremarkable wooden and stone building, and for reasons he could not understand, the doors did not open to the street, so people had to first go into narrow alleys that could only accommodate one person and a bicycle, and then detoured into the street. Grassy garden to get to the narrow foyer – which today is packed with suitcases and people keep coming in and out, blocking each other, bumping elbows and shoulders and murmuring apologies.Harry stepped carefully over the various boxes and polo sticks he had left on the floor, and walked up to the porter.

The concierge was a taciturn old man with only a bunch of white hair around his ears.He made Harry sign a form and handed him the key without telling him which floor he was on.The key tag said "201", and Harry searched for the stairs with his luggage.Four young students were running down, arguing, thumping the wooden stairs, almost kicking over his box as if they were completely unaware of Harry's presence.Harry shrank back against the wall, let them pass, and continued up.

201 is right next to the stairs, you can clearly hear the noise downstairs.The wooden door creaked unpleasantly when opened and the hinges needed oiling.The small room smelled of old books, and the old wooden floor was uneven, but thankfully there was no sign of insect infestation.The only furniture is a single bed, a desk, a wardrobe and a hard wooden chair.Harry dragged his luggage in, opened the window, and outside was a corner of the inner courtyard, where he could see an empty grape arbor.The tail of summer has not completely dissipated, and the withered flowers are lying on the path, and the breeze brings a decadent sweetness.

There was another noise in the corridor, the same four people who had rushed downstairs just now, and it was foreseeable that he would have to get used to the noise in the future.Harry crossed the room in two steps, ready to close the door, but a student pushed the door open first, poked his head in, glanced at Harry, seemed to realize that he had made a mistake, muttered an apology, and left.The sound of footsteps moved downstairs, turned back after a while, and there was a knock on the door.

Harry just opened the suitcase, holding a pile of shirts and sweaters, hesitated for a while, threw them on the desk, and opened the door.It was the student again, blond, wearing a shirt and a goose gray sweater vest, no tie.The other three huddled in the hallway, poking their heads out, eyeing Harry curiously.

"I was right, I saw your name on the form. You must come and have a drink with us, no one wants to be in this musty place."

Harry looked at him, mouth half-opened, not knowing how to respond.

"Harry Prudence," said the blond intruder, and Harry suddenly realized that this man looked just like a 20-year-old Georges Loiseau, only the dimples made him look milder. Alex. If you dare say you have no memory of that name, I swear I'll throw you out of this window."

tbc.