Perfectly Ordinary People(28)

The food was good, too: simple fare, nothing fancy . . . Just pan-fried fish with butter and parsley sauce served with spicy fried potatoes. We were seated on plastic chairs beneath strip lights at a worn Formica table, but the fish was fresh and locally caught, and the potatoes were crispy and chewy at the same time, a combination that’s not so easy to achieve. I felt relieved to know that restaurants like that still existed. A back-to-basics sort of vibe, but not in the fake London way at all. Just a place you go to eat.

The conversation with Dan’s parents remained clunky, especially compared with the easy chit-chat of my mother’s side of the family, but I liked them all the same. They did, indeed, seem kind, and were genuinely interested in me.

So I summarised, as best I could, where I lived in London, and my French/Irish ascendants, and then asked them how they’d come to be living in Faro.

It turned out that Carolina had been born in Portugal and moved to London with her parents as a child. When Dan’s maternal grandmother had fallen ill the year they’d both retired, they’d taken it as a sign and moved back so they could take care of her.

‘Eventually she died, of course,’ Dan’s mother said, matter-of-factly. ‘But by then we didn’t want to move back, did we? Not back to Croydon. Not after here.’

‘Yes, I can see the attraction,’ I said. ‘I think you’re incredibly lucky to be here.’

‘And your father’s French, then?’ Henry asked me. ‘So you’re immigrants in Britain, like Carolina was? How’s that working out for you?’

‘Well, Dad’s totally integrated,’ I explained. ‘So I never felt like an immigrant at all. You’d never even know Dad was French, actually. Most of the time, I’m not even aware of it. He sounds very much like a Londoner. But Grandpa Christophe can be quite haw-he-haw, especially if he’s tired. Actually, if he’s had a drink, he can sound like that policeman from ’Allo ’Allo!’

‘How old was your dad when he came over?’ Dan asked.

I frowned. ‘I don’t know,’ I said. ‘Young. Five, ten – something like that.’

‘And how did they get on, when they arrived?’ Henry asked. ‘Do you know why they moved to England in the first place?’

I shrugged. ‘I’m afraid I have no idea. We didn’t see them a great deal.’

‘Oh,’ Dan’s mum said. ‘And why would that be?’

I shrugged again, and felt myself blush. ‘I’m afraid I don’t know that either.’

‘Anyway,’ Dan said, addressing his parents. ‘What time am I taking you two to the airport tomorrow? It’s an early one, right?’

I noted from the way his mother dragged her eyes away that he’d changed the subject because I was sounding a bit weird.

After the restaurant, we walked half a mile along the sandy road to the northern end of the isle, where we sat in a fake-Hawaiian beach bar and drank delicious cold beers. And then, mentioning their early start the next morning, Henry and Carolina went home.

Dan headed off to the loo, and while he was gone I pulled my brand-new Nokia from my handbag and clunkily constructed an SMS to Jake. You had to press an unbelievable number of buttons to write anything back then because every letter required multiple presses.

‘HI JAKE; JUST ARRIVED IN FAROBULOUS; QUICK Q: YOU KNOW WHY THE GRAMPS MOVED TO ENGLAND OR EVEN WHEN? I DON’T. IS THAT WEIRD?’

I was quite proud of my eloquent message, specifically the question mark I’d managed to place at the end. But when I clicked on send, the message just sat there on the screen for thirty seconds before a box popped up with ‘SEND FAILED NO COVER’.

As I say, the phone was new, and I’d never tried to use it abroad before. Perhaps it wasn’t even possible to send messages home from Portugal.

As my message appeared to have vanished, and as there was no way I was typing it again, the question would just have to wait until I got home.

Dan returned then, grinning and carrying two more dewy glasses of beer. ‘One more and then home, I reckon,’ he said. ‘I’m shattered.’

‘Sure,’ I said. ‘Me too.’

‘Anything important?’ he asked, as I slipped the phone back into my bag.

‘Nah, I was just seeing if it works here.’

‘And does it?’ Dan asked.

‘Not in any discernible way!’ I laughed, pulling a face. ‘But you know, me and technology . . .’



The next morning, I woke to the sound of waves and screaming seagulls.

I pulled on yesterday’s jeans and jumper and padded my way downstairs to discover an empty house. Dan, I assumed, had taken his parents to the airport. I gave him top marks for having let me sleep in.

Coffee was waiting on a hotplate along with what continental hotels like to call a ‘mixed plate’ – bread, ham, cheese and butter.

I wrinkled my nose. I don’t eat meat if I can help it, and cheese before noon is just madness. But on returning the ham and the cheese to the refrigerator, I found a pot of Nutella-like spread, so all was well.

I wandered around the house, trying to choose the best place for breakfast. There was nowhere to sit in the kitchen and the lounge was too spotless to be a room where anyone might dare eat. But the dining room also had a failing in that the sea view was obscured by a massive dying bush.