Typewriter
Caroline Day’s charming tale is about a writer who types a letter to an acquaintance from many years ago – someone she met in exceptional circumstances…
Chère Madame. Vous ne vous rappelleriez pas de moi, mais de ma part… Tap-tap-tap-tap-tap. Tap-taptap-tap-tap-tap…
She flicks the return bar – PING – and her fingers fall back into rhythm. Catherine’s French comes as naturally as the movement of her hands on the keys.
Dear Madame. You will not remember me but, for my part, I recall you vividly. Thirtyseven years ago, your village was holding a vide-greniers, a car boot sale, as we say in English. I had driven for hours through fields of sunflowers and vines and lavender and I was thirsty. And there, suddenly, a church that looked like a child had drawn it. A bar with men smoking cigarettes and drinking red wine at wooden tables.
Tap-tap-tap-tap-tap…
Madame, how to express my thanks?
She had been a different person. Younger, évidemment. Not the sort to say: “Actually, that was exactly what I did mean.” More the sort to say, “Silly me, you’re right, let’s just get to the hotel.”
Which had nearly happened.
“I’m thirsty,” she’d said. “We could stop?” “Best to get to the hotel,” he’d said. “This is just French farmers selling off junk. Saint-Tropez soon, sweetie pie.”
You’re right, of course. But for some reason, on that day, with the window wound down and lavender and cigarette smoke in the dusty air and with a kitten running out and making him brake in front of the church, she had persisted. “Five minutes. Please.”
What had swung it, probably, was that the transistor radio on her lap which had been crackling incoherently since Toulouse, with the occasional word slipping through – “over” or “wicket” or “average” – picked that moment to find its voice. Something about New Zealand and Foster coming on to bowl. He had smiled, magnanimous and handed her a 20-franc note.
“OK, sweet pea. I’ll wait here.”
Darren. Handsome. Newly promoted. Planning to pop the question in SaintTropez. (He had asked before booking the ferry, if hypothetically speaking, she might say yes.)
Your stall was between the iron gates of your house. You wore a house smock over jeans and your little girl was all curls and freckles and ice lolly melting on to her face.
Tap-tap-tap-tap-tap…
You were selling books – Flaubert and Zola – and saucepans. Copper ones. What caught my attention, though, was the black case with silver latches. You saw me looking and launched into a stream of French I did not yet understand. I apologised.
Tap-tap-tap-tap-tap-tap-tap…
She stops for a moment, remembering. The child giggling at her terrible French and the woman scolding (“Arrête, Cécile!”) while gesturing towards Catherine. Please. Open.
“Typewriter,” the woman had said – though her accent had stretched the word into a different shape. Tipw’itair. “Of my Papa.”
Catherine had opened the case. Thinking back, it is like remembering falling in love.
A gleam of black metal in a smile around inky silver teeth. Red tape between black spools. Milky keys on metal levers.
“Papa dream always to be one w’iter.” The woman waved her hand “’E go to Paris for ’is dream – one w’iter for best seller in France. ’Ere is ’is tip-w’iter.”
In subsequent years, Catherine would remark often how philosophical the French were. This woman’s father had left the countryside to become a bestselling writer. Yet “one w’iter”. One. Among so many.
And this was his typewriter. “How much?” she’d asked.
She, Catherine, had spent her life telling stories to herself, while her parents nagged her to do something useful. At school when she’d confessed her yearning, the careers adviser had suggested a library job. And when she’d shared her secret with Darren, he’d said that was why he loved her: she was such a funny dreamer.
The woman had flashed ten fingers five times. Fifty francs.
Catherine had held out her 20 francs with an apologetic shrug.
“What ’eez your name please?” The little girl pointed to an orange lolly.
“Cécile. Arrête,” the woman looked sternly towards her daughter, but Catherine had answered.
“’Ow old are you?” An orange drip landed on the cover of Madame Bovary.
“Cécile! Tais-toi.”
Twenty years old, Catherine had said. It was a beautiful typewriter. But sadly she wasn’t one writer. And she did not have enough money.
Twenty years old. With a library job and about to be married to Darren. Waiting in the car. Who described this holiday as “an adventure for my sweetie pie”.
What caught my attention was a black case with silver latches. Thinking back, it’s like remembering falling in love…
“Merci, Madame,” she had said. “Merci,
Cécile.”
She’d felt a sense of loss which surprised her. But Cécile had whispered to her mother and the woman had sighed. “My daughter say you must ’av Papa’s tip-w’iter. Twenty franc is good.”
You may not have realised that there was a photograph tucked inside its case. He’s at a table with a bottle of wine and his typewriter.
I know neither his name, nor yours, Madame, but the photograph and typewriter have been my inspiration.
Tap-tap-tap-tap-tap-tap-tap.
The photograph is on her wall. She framed it years back. A pleasant face. No George Orwell glasses or DH Lawrence beard, though. This picture reminds her you need not become the writer, merely
one writer. No miracles. Just a few words, one after the other. Tap-tap-tap-tap-tap.
Darren had gone down on one knee that night, in their hotel near Saint-Tropez Station. She’d said yes, of course. How could she not with the other diners watching?
But at 5.09 she’d taken the first train out of Saint-Tropez. The one rebellious act of her life. Clutching a suitcase and a typewriter. She’d left him a note. Two words. So sorry. What else could she have said?
She’d found Darren on Facebook recently. Handsome, still, if balder and rather jowly. Lots of pictures of young people in cricket whites.
And her? A trove of memories. Grape-picking in the Vaucluse that first summer. Au-pairing in Bordeaux and the outskirts of Paris, where she lives now. No sunflowers, but lavender in her garden. And the typewriter on her desk.
No regrets – and, yes, she is that woman: Piaf and Gainsbourg; a home decorated with flea-market finds; a 2CV rarely out of the garage.
So, she did become one writer. Not a best-seller, quite, but she’s made a good living. And now, teetering from 50s to 60s, nostalgia is taking something of a hold. Those losses, maybe: a lover, a breast, too many friends.
Recently, reading an article about the new wines of Provence, the name materialised: Beaulieu-Sur-Durance. A trip through Google Maps had located the exact house.
You and your lovely daughter gave me so much, Madame. I am sending my first book. I should have done so long ago. With my love and eternal thanks. Catherine x Tap-tap-tap-tap-tap-tap-tap-tap-tap. She adds her telephone number and email address.
A week later, a message arrives. Subject:
Typewriter!!
Dear Catherine Miller. I am sorry to inform you that my mother (Marie) died last year. However, she and I read and loved all your books. Thank you for “Cécile of the Vineyards.” I will treasure your inscription, as this book is important to me, not only because I always believed it must be written by you (remember the impolite child with the iced lolly, demanding your name – I was unlikely to forget it as you were the first actual English person I’d ever met) but because, just maybe, you’d chosen MY name. Also because of your Cécile refusing to believe a girl could not run a wine château. It helped me have confidence in my own decisions (Maman would have said too much confidence).
However, I must make a correction. My grandfather was never a writer. Not one writer. Not any. He was a sommelier. A wine waiter. His dream was only ever wine – as with many from our village – and in Paris, he worked in the best cellar, La Tour d’Argent.
Not best-seller, but best cellar. Papie wrote descriptions of every wine on the typewriter which you own.
But even if Papie himself cared not so much for books, Maman would have been proud that he helped you to become the wonderful novelist that you are.
And me, I have my wine château now, like your own Cécile. I’m sending a link to our website. As you see, our wines are rather admired. Chère Catherine, please do visit when you are next in Provence. The pleasure would be all mine. With fondest regards
Cécile xx
She’d spent her life telling stories to herself. When she’d shared her secret with Darren he’d said that’s why he loved her’
As the first morning light peeked through the gap in the curtains, Alice left her new husband in bed. She wrapped her silk kimono around her; a present from Jeremy, it reminded her yet again just how generous he’d been since their wedding. Even this unexpected second honeymoon had been a surprise. “Just a little trip,” he’d laughed, showing her the booking information. “Just to show how much I love you.”
Alice stepped into the sitting room of their suite and, without opening the curtains, slid back the balcony doors. She inhaled deeply; the briny air felt intoxicating. The grey Atlantic Ocean stretched ahead of her, with not even a bird in the sky. After touring the American and Canadian coastline, they’d left Nova Scotia yesterday for the four-day trip home.
This was her first time on a cruise ship and it had been an instant love for Alice. Her work had never allowed time for holidays: building a successful business from scratch had taken a decade of focus.
But Jeremy was right – sometimes a change in pace was a good thing. While Jeremy loved sightseeing, she felt the real magic was being out at open sea. It felt wild, free and desolate – and now, so far from any coast, perhaps even a little dangerous.
The sea air left her hungry and once she’d thought about the possibility of breakfast, she couldn’t let it go. Of course, she could call the butler even at this ridiculously early hour, but she wouldn’t risk Jeremy being woken – he’d never slept this heavily before and Alice was glad he was finally starting to relax. She dressed quietly. Grabbing her purse and the new Chanel sunglasses Jeremy had just bought her, she slipped out.
In flat sandals, her feet were silent against the thick carpet. From his service station, Ahuja, their butler, was visibly startled to see someone up before seven. Ever polite, he enquired if there was anything Mr or Mrs de Saceedes required?
“No, thank you Ahuja. In fact, if you could ensure no one wakes my husband, I would be grateful.”
My husband! Saying it still felt like a huge thrill. Jeremy was a real catch. He was cultured and knowledgeable – these last few months had been a whirlwind of delight. He was so assured: the result of breeding and money. The classy way he’d smooth money into the palm of the maître d’, his knowledge of the opera, his confidence with a wine list. Not like her – she’d grown up in a deprived area of Portsmouth.
The ship was quiet, but on the lower deck it was quieter still. The show had been excellent last night; she was sure most of the passengers were sleeping off their hangovers and wouldn’t wake for hours.
She leant against the wooden rail and wondered if she could ever remember being this happy.
Next to her, a woman joined her. She wore a silk headscarf and large sunglasses, looking like a beautiful, glamorous figure from the 1950s. Very Jackie O. Alice tried not to wrinkle her nose with annoyance. The deck was empty – why stand so close to her?
She straightened and started to move, deciding to go somewhere else – anywhere else.
The woman reached out and laid long, cool fingers against her arm. Alice snatched her arm back, eyes wide.
“Don’t go.” The woman spoke so quietly, her attention now returned to the horizon.
Alice blinked. The woman was wearing Chanel sunglasses, just like her own. The detail felt odd – wrong. A single dark cloud passed over the sun; a sudden breeze chilled her skin.
“Lean back on to the handrail – just like me,” the woman murmured.
Alice paused, confused. The woman didn’t look like she was talking to her, yet she was. “Do you…?”
“Don’t address me!” The woman’s voice was low, urgent. “Mrs de Saceedes.”
Alice started – how did she know her name? She suddenly didn’t want to know and instead longed to be back in bed, lying warm next to her new husband. Here in the cloud’s shadow, it felt cold, too cold.
“Keep your eyes on the horizon. Please. I have to talk to you.” The woman’s voice remained low. “Your life is in danger.”
Alice’s fingers tightened on the rail, knuckles blanching. She looked around, but the deck was deserted. “I…”
“Don’t speak. There is not enough time.” The woman’s accent was French – elegant. “My name is Estelle Baudelaire. My sister w-was…”
Alice could hear the pain in her voice as she stumbled over her words.
“My sister was Melissa,” Estelle said, lifting her chin and glancing at Alice. “The sunglasses I wear now used to be hers.” She struggled to keep the tears out of her voice. “They were bought for her by her husband, just before her honeymoon. Sadly, she died before she returned. She fell from the cruise ship at night. The coroner ruled it was an accident. He blamed her drinking.”
Alice was glad for the handrail to hold her up. They were at the stern; she looked down at the tumult of water where the huge turbines cut and churned the sea into white rapids, pushing them on and on and on, further into the endless emptiness.
Estelle spoke again. “My sister Melissa was called Mrs de Saceedes too.”
Alice covered her mouth. “Jeremy…” she stumbled. “Jeremy has never been married before. I’m his first wife.”
“No.”
Alice felt fear flood her body.
“My sister was very beautiful,” she glanced at Alice. “Just like you. And she was – just like you, I expect – a very rich woman.” “What are you saying?”
“Excuse me for my impolite question, but I assure you, I only have your safety in mind. Are you a wealthy woman?”
Alice looked around for someone to save her, but there was no one. The red and white lifebuoys pinned to the railings mocked her – they couldn’t save her from this. Instead, they only reminded her of her own fragility: blood and bone. So Alice was stuck, listening to the woman’s words as she destroyed her happiness in less time than it had taken for her and Jeremy’s marriage ceremony to be completed.
The woman was wearing Chanel sunglasses, just like her own. The detail felt wrong. A sudden breeze chilled her skin
***
Glad of the privacy of her sunglasses, she ran all the way to the suite, her sandals hitting the deck like gunfire, as if Jeremy himself were chasing her. Inside, she ran past the anonymous cabin doors with their sounds of hairdryers, voices and TVs. The ship was waking up: she didn’t have long.
The key card opened the lock and she pushed gently against the door. She didn’t want to wake Jeremy. She needed him – desperately, desperately – to stay asleep.
The suite was dark. In the bedroom, Jeremy still lay covered by the Egyptian cotton duvet, an entombed prince.
She crept closer.
His hair lay dark against the pillow; it was just starting to fleck with grey the colour of ash. It only made him more attractive. She walked round to the empty side of the bed and climbed in next to him. The sheets were cold. She picked up the pillow and pressed it down on Jeremy’s face. Hard.
For a moment there was no struggle. Then there was some.
And then there was none.
She, Estelle, knew he was already weakened from the huge dose of Valium she’d laced his food and drink with all night – the advantage of being his waitress. Even Jeremy hadn’t recognised her, but then holidaymakers rarely noticed the waiting staff. She was just another uniform, blending into the background.
But she knew it was him – as soon as he stepped into the ship’s finest restaurant. She never thought she’d see him again, but there he was, laughing with another beautiful woman, so like her sister.
She wiped down her Valium bottle, then pressed it against his fingertips. She placed it next to his night glass. Then she sat there a while, looking at him.
“For Melissa,” she said simply, into the silence.
Before she left, she placed a photograph of her sister in his fist.
***
Alice stared at her online bank details. She couldn’t stop crying and was glad of her sunglasses. Now she understood everything.
Looking up, she saw Estelle standing in the doorway of the ship’s coffee bar, cutting off the light. She gave a little nod.
Alice managed a nod in return; gratitude for the woman who had very possibly saved Alice from taking a little trip of her own.