Free Englishwoman in France by Wendy Robertson

awake, I decide I’ll go earlier down to the library, to use their broadband to file my copy. I want to leave time later to walk by myself down to the canal. The alleys are cool canyons folded under the bright, hot blue of the sky. Some boys kicking a ball shoot it in my direction and call out for me to stop it. I step to one side and let it roll past me. I have reason to hate footballs. Further along, I step into a doorway to avoid an oncoming motorbike which – with scooters – is the only transport that works in these narrow ways in the old town.
    At the end of the alley I step from the cool of the buildings to the oven heat of the market square. At the corner is the sprawling Café Plazza. I sit down at an empty table. I can’t remember the last time I stopped anywhere for coffee, here or at home. My seat is at the back. No-one will notice me here. The café is crowded, busy. I sit there with the sun on my neck, my head shaded by the canopy. It feels familiar. I might have sat here a thousand times before. I even call up some French. ‘
Un café et un verre d’eau, s’il vous plait.
’
    â€˜
Oui Madame!
’
    The waitress is young and shapely, with a wide gold belt that clinches her tight black tee shirt. Then I do this other thing that I’ve never done since Siri was taken. I start to watch the world around me, to attend to what is being said. Now I have one skin less and I can see, hear and feel all of it at once.
    Some local men at the bar behind me are arguing and talking in the deep local accent; in front of me are three generations of a Spanish family with dark strong looks, the grandmother heavy and slack on her chair. They gesticulate and talk as they watch their children play football in the square. Local Gitan people – gypsies – from the old town are deep in conversation, looking serious about their business; an affluent looking couple in designer sailing gear are eating what looks like a mountain of ice cream; three young women share confidences over glasses of wine that glitter in the sun, their toddlers in strollers beside them and tumbling about their feet.
    The waitress brings my coffee, with the bill on a saucer beside it. The coffee is strong and full of flavour.
    An elderly couple, well dressed in the
bourgeois
fashion, sip red wine. On the table beside them are oysters in a smartly labelled box. On top of this is a fancy wrapped cake, ready to take home for their afternoon treat. I notice a small girl with hair so shiny that it’s slipping from its ribbon. Her brown feet are tucked into glittery sandals.
Siri!
Oh my Siri
. I clutch my coffee cup too tightly.
    I notice a man with an orange leather crossover bag carrying a poodle in his arms like a baby. It strikes me how well the young French women walk – straight backs, hips jutting slightly forward. I wonder if they have deportment lessons in their
lycées
. I have a vision of a line of girls walking on tiles, with books on their heads.
    These images whirl together, hitting me all at once; the clatter and noise swells and recedes in my ears. That’s when I notice this old woman sitting at the next table. She has a straw boater planted straight on top of her grey-blonde pony tail and wears neat blue jeans and a battered white linen jacket. She’s pointing to a little white dog beside her feet. I can’t hear her words but she’s pointing at the dog, chastising him the way people do when they don’t really mean it.
    The dog ignores her and wanders across to lift up his storybook face to look at me. I’ve no idea what you do with a dog. I lean down and scratch his neck. ‘Now then, doggie!’ I say, my own ridiculous statement ringing in my ears.
    The old woman catches my glance and smiles. ‘English?’ she says.
    I nod and smile back. She’s not so easy to read. Her neatness, her composure, her nut-brown skin are all distinctly un-English.