Finding the silver lining

By Jeanne Sélène

In the midst of a burn-out, Amélie, forty-years old, single and childless, finds herself, not of her own making, on the trails of Normandy in the company of a donkey. Will she manage to find a little peace?In the midst of a burn-out, Amélie, forty-years old, single and childless, finds herself, not of her own making, on the trails of Normandy in the company of a donkey. Will she manage to find a little peace?

• Language: English
• Publisher: BadPress
• Release date: Nov 25, 2021
• ISBN: 9781071533727

Book preview

Finding the silver lining

22 May

Burn out.

I can hear the taunts from here...

Burn out...

I shake my head with resignation.

With my eighteen teaching hours a week and two month summer holiday, I won’t escape the smirks of my friends.

I hate school. Even during my childhood I thought I would die there every day of the week. I seriously wonder why on earth I became a teacher. Adolescents bore me. I can't stand the sound of chairs on the tiles. The smell of whiteboard pen makes me sick... I don't want to go back. The thought of confronting 3C fills me with dread. Keeping stoic in the face of Kevin’s stupid pranks... Kevin, of course! Like something from The Onion. Can you believe there were still parents choosing that name for their kids beyond the year 2000, and making sure that they lived up to the stereotype? It's fascinating, when you think about it.

So at least this enforced break will let me avoid Anatole-France Secondary School for a while. And hear my fill of commentary on public servants, I’m sure. It's my first sick leave in more than fifteen years of work, but that won’t make them any less judgemental.

No, really, I need a way to avoid my friends this weekend, or I’ll lash out at them. I feel ready to bite. In any case, I’m not up for table tennis tonight. Can't be bothered. I'll order a pizza and stream a mindless romance. It's a while since I've seen The City of Angels. A bit of Nicholas Cage at thirty won't hurt, given the state of things.

31 May

Blasted Mothers’ Day! The weather is perfect and I’m going to be stuck at the table half the day instead of enjoying the banks of the Loire.

I drive out of the apartments and turn into rue Voltaire. And of course here’s a loser crossing without looking! I slam on the breaks and lean on the horn. Further on, a red light. My fingers drum the wheel nervously. Since my father left, my mother is a bit disconnected and I’m dreading this lunch. She’ll drown me in her middle-class environmentalism and I’ll have to swallow her watery quinoa. She’s going to have to learn to cook one day. Perhaps I should’ve given her some lessons as a gift? I glance at the cumquat plant in its plastic wrap. The pink curling ribbon shivers at each gear change. I’ve never been good at choosing gifts. The quays are practically deserted, and my little runabout chews up the kilometres with ease. As I cross the river on the D142, a train passes on the bridge to my right. I catch myself dreaming of escape. Me, who’s always hated travelling. My childhood camping holidays were always a disaster and I’ve been on a plane once since for a week-end in Rome with my boyfriend at the time. We spent two days getting on each other’s nerves. A miserable failure... I collect failures.

As I pass the sign announcing we’re in Vernou, it’s suddenly darker. I shiver. A bad omen, certainly. I can feel the rotten day shaping up. I cast an eye at the clock on the dashboard. It’s not yet midday; I’m early. Impulsively, I flick on the indicator and turn into rue Aristide-Briand. The gate to the hotel is closed. That’s rare. In the park, a young man in body hugging sports gear is running along the path. The headphones he is wearing are bulky and colourful, but cordless. When I think of my old Walkman, and how proud I was that the headphones were practically invisible once they were wedged into my ears! The constant ringing in my right eardrum reminds me of the 90s when I listened to Nirvana at top volume as I wrote endless letters to my best friend. Not the brightest idea of the century. Hello tinnitus... It’s enough to drive you mad! 

A bit further on, I break as if there were a stop sign painted on the ground. At the crossroads, a water tower looms above several steps, lost amongst hectares of vines. I let out a sigh and close my eyes. I want to go walking in the Val César woods, but time is getting on. I can’t go by this place without thinking of my first joint. Marie-Laure’s older brother was an occasional dealer and she’d managed to nick a scrap of resin. The drug had no effect at all – though it’s true we had no idea of the art of rolling a spliff – but how we laughed! Rotten bloody cancer. Chemo, removal, coffin, cremation. There it is. That’s life these days. Twenty-five years old, a bloke too stupid to know his luck, a young kid. The grim reaper doesn’t care. When your name is on the list, you don’t get a say.

I feel like a cigarette now and I haven’t smoked for twenty years. I still get it every now and then. Especially when I think of Marie-Laure...

I leave the woods behind me and my wheels straddle the railway, just after the Vouvray tunnel. The black mouth, strangled with a jumble of electric wires, seems ready to swallow me. I pull my attention back to my driving and get back on the Chateau-Renault road, heading towards Bois Soulage. Soulage – soothing. Soothing Wood! That wood hasn’t ever soothed many people... The road to the house is still damp. The storm was violent last night. It’s hard to believe, with the sun that’s shining on this Sunday.

I pull on the hand break and take a deep breath before getting out of the car. I paste a suitable smile onto my tired face, grab the strap of my handbag and seize the shrub. A fruit falls and rolls under the passenger seat. In any case, it isn’t even in season. Industrial florists are magicians – or witches perhaps? I slam the door with my hip and lock it, fumbling with my keys.

My mother has heard me. She arrives at a trot to open the gate. She is wearing white plastic clogs like a hospital nurse. They’re ugly, those things. I’m sure they squeak when you walk on tiles or lino.

She offers me her cheek and I plant a quick kiss. The skin of her face is slack with age but she has hardly any wrinkles. She is still beautiful, very beautiful. Her eyes sparkle as she turns towards Claude, her new partner. He is tall and his wide shoulders make him look like a bouncer. His piercing blue stare is of a benevolence that’s almost too much. He’s fishy this guy, too perfect to be true.

Once he’s kissed me, he relieves me of the plant, gushing with generous thanks. It’s sickly sweet and I force back a wince.

Inside, order reigns. You’d think we were in a show home. It smells of papier d’Arménie. On the coffee table, three bowls preside: the first full of green olives, the second, pistachios, and the last, peanuts in their shells.  I seat myself on the corner sofa and the cat immediately comes over to leave his hairs on my dress. He never misses a trick, this one! I scratch him behind the ears and he begins to purr and knead my thighs enthusiastically. I’m fond of this scoundrel, despite his long fur and sharp claws.

My mother and Claude talk incessantly. I listen with half an ear, distractedly, and scoop up a handful of pistachios. They’ve forgotten the dish for the shells and I daren’t disturb the tomcat who’s now curled in a ball on my lap. The mojito they’ve served me is too sweet, but the fresh mint is a treat. My hosts’ conversation reaches me as if through fog. I’m bombarded by a multitude of childhood memories. I feel as if I’m in a Bénabar song.