Life’s Simple Pleasures Two people reconnect

So much time had passed since those special days… could there still be magic between them?

At precisely eleven forty-five on the twenty seventh of August, Pierre Gustin adjusted his bowtie and stepped out of the door. It was a routine the retired teacher had followed for decades, in weather fair and foul, and it never deviated by more than a couple of steps or a few seconds. Sometimes, when the June roses were out in the hedgerows, or the leaves on the plane tree avenue had turned to beaten gold, he would pause, linger, and possibly even sigh. But not often. Over the years Pierre had practised the art of being thankful for the small pleasures of life: a cup of good coffee and a pain aux raisins in the sunshine of a pavement café, or the intense satisfaction of pulling a dandelion from his lawn, root and all, or the quiet, melancholy pleasure of watching the rain from an armchair.

As he closed his front gate, stepping over one of his neighbour’s sleeping cats, he reflected that his comforts in life, modest as they were, most definitely included the purchase and consumption of a crab for lunch every Friday of the season, from the warm quick days of April, to the cooler waning ones of October.

He had his grandmother to thank for the habit. When he was a child, his school would be let out early on Fridays and she would be there waiting for him, with her black hat wilting in the sun and her eyes pinched from years of sewing.

She would take his hand and together they would walk to the market in the square. Then, she would choose the best seat outside the bar, hand him a few centimes and off he’d run, on his mission. No bonbons for little Pierre Gustin, no penny adventure comics or shining marbles. Instead, he would sprint past the vegetable sellers, past the butcher, past the women selling linen, to the most pungent corner of the market, where the paving stones were slick with scales.

There, his eyes level with the fish that still carried the water of the Gironde in their mouths, he would stand on tiptoes, extend his hand and enquire, “Vous avez un crabe pour mon déjeuner?”

The answer from one of the young pêcheurs, often still swamped in their rubbery yellow waders, was always an ebullient, “A crab for your lunch? Bien sûr, Pierre! Here she is, the queen of the sea!”

Knowing that his grandmother was a connoisseur and would not be satisfied with anything but the best, they would pull the biggest struggling beastie from the iced tub, kill it with a swift jab of a steel knitting needle, and wrap it in paper for him to take home. He would run across the square to his grandmother, his hands wet with the salt-freshness of the estuary, holding his prize.

Later, they would spread newspaper on the lichen-speckled wood of the garden table, and with an old hammer and his grandmother’s crochet hooks, they would

Pierre practised THE ART of being THANKFUL for the small PLEASURES

lunch like wild things, like kings on steamed crab and crusty bread and fresh mayonnaise singing with lemon and herbs, until they were as messy as heathens, grinning all the while.

Realising that the memories of his childhood and his grandmother – long dead – were causing him to drag his feet, he cleared his throat and adjusted his bowtie in order to compose himself. It was an involuntary action, dating from his early years as a teacher in the local school. Whenever order was lacking, the bowtie came first, and the rest followed.

Although Pierre was getting on in years, he still took pride in his dapper

appearance, and would not have listened to anyone if they had gently informed him that his look was a tad outdated. Some things, like a crab for lunch, need not change.

Once, when he was young and hot-blooded, a certain young lady – the certain young lady, in fact – had commented that she admired a man who took pride in his apparel, and that his new bowtie suited him very well. Lucie Simon. His eyes grew mistier at her name. They were born in the same year; he in March, she in June. Like the month, everything about her seemed to burst forth with life. Her round, bright face, her hands never still, her hair, golden-red as the plane trees in autumn, her moods like clouds over fields, quick to frown, quicker yet to smile.

They had been playmates as children, classmates, bandmates; he had played the clarinet, she the oboe with more gusto than talent. In fact they were mates in almost everything, like two pegs in a peg basket, except in one, essential way. He had never been able to tell her the truth: that he was in love with her, that he had always loved her.

He was going to tell her everything, the day before he was due to go to Bordeaux to train as a teacher. He had planned it all… the fresh crab, the wildflowers in a jam jar on the table, the bottle of wine he’d spent a week’s wages on. Sitting together, happy in a mess of crab shell, he would take her hand and ask if she might be his best friend, his partner, for life.

He had just bought the crab when one of her brothers came running to find him. There had been an accident at the factory where her father worked, and Monsieur Simon was in a bad way. Lucie was on her way to the hospital, and had sent her little brother to tell Pierre that she wouldn’t be able to make his going-away party. He understood, of course he did. He cooked the crab anyway and made the meat into a sandwich, and took it to her at the hospital that evening, where she sat, pale and red-eyed, waiting for news of her father. She thanked him for being such a good friend, and he hadn’t been able to tell her a thing, not then, not when her world was falling down.

He went away the next day, for he couldn’t risk losing his place at training college. Lucie called him on the telephone a week later to tell him her father had died. He had wanted to go back for the funeral, but couldn’t afford the bus fare. He swore that he’d save every centime so that he could visit home during the autumn break. Then, he’d find the best end-of-season crabs, cook her dinner and tell her, once and for all, what she meant to him. S o it was that on a blustery day in October, he stepped from the bus and headed straight for the fishmonger, his heart swelling