The Boy from France (16 page)

Xavier is gabbling at me in French, so fast that I can’t make out a single word. Now more than ever I really wish my French was better. ‘What is it, Xavier? What’s happened?
Please tell me.’

I try to make him slow down, to tell me in English, but I don’t think he can. He’s gripping my wrists, hard, tight. He seems really panicked, white with shock and fear and
adrenaline.

‘Where ’ave you been?’ he manages to say, eventually. ‘I called for you, but you did not come.’

I start to apologise, to explain that I was out on the high street, doing some early morning shopping for Mum and I didn’t mean to take so long, but stop myself. At this moment, it’s
really not important. I am much more concerned with what’s going on in my street right now, with what might have caused him to be so upset. I am horribly anxious about the fact that
there’s an ambulance, its lights flashing ‘emergency’, parked outside
my
house. There’s really only one thing it can mean and I absolutely, definitely don’t
want it to mean that. I am scared. ‘Is it my mother, Xavier? Has something happened to her?’

Xavier nods. He seems haunted by whatever it is that he’s just witnessed. ‘Zair was an accidont, Veecks. She fell.’

‘Oh God.’ I wrestle my arms from his grip. ‘Did you see what happened? Where is she? Is she in the house? In the ambulance?’ Before he can reply, I start running towards
the ambulance. I sense that Xavier is running behind me but I don’t turn around to check. Desperately, I pull at the ambulance doors to find that they’re locked. Everyone must be in my
house. Perhaps they’re working on Mum now.
How long have they been there? Is she . . .? Could she be . . . dead? Shut up, Vix.
I swing around sharply, twisting my ankle on the kerb,
and fling myself against my front door, practically falling into the hall. ‘Mum!’ I shout. ‘Where are you? Mum!’

Somehow Xavier is by my side. ‘She eez upstairs, in ’er bedroom,’ he says, grabbing me again. ‘Slow down. The firemen are zair wiz her.’

‘Firemen? Is there a fire?’ I stop at the bottom of the stairs, confused, only now aware of the sharp pain in my ankle. I can’t see or smell smoke and there were no fire
engines on the street.

‘No, no fire. They try to ’elp her.’

‘OK, right, that’s good.’ I think I understand. I half remember a conversation with Xavier about how in France you call the fire service in an emergency, not an ambulance. The
firemen there don’t just put out fires, they’re paramedics too. Grimacing against the pain, I start to take the stairs two at a time. Xavier rushes behind. ‘Hello! Mum! Are you
OK? Can anyone hear me?’

A tall, young-looking paramedic greets me on the landing. ‘It’s OK,’ he says. ‘Your mum is safe. We’re just treating her now and soon we’ll take her to
hospital.’

Relief courses through my body. She’s not dead. I take a deep breath. It feels like the first breath I’ve taken for minutes, hours. ‘I want to see her. Can I come in and see
her? Please?’

‘It’s better if you wait outside for a few minutes with your friend while we make her comfortable. I promise you she’s in good hands.’ He nods at Xavier. ‘Are you
the person who called the ambulance and put her in the recovery position?’

‘
Oui
,’ says Xavier. He is shaking a little. I put my arm around his shoulder to comfort him. I’d like him to comfort me back, but he doesn’t.

‘Well done, lad.’

Xavier smiles awkwardly and, for a second, I can see a glimmer of pride shine through his shock. I wonder how he knew what to do. Maybe he learned first aid at school. Thank God he did.

‘Yeah, thank you, Xavier.’

‘Right, well I’ll let you know when we’re ready to take her in,’ says the paramedic. ‘You can come with her in the ambulance. Why don’t you both go and wait
downstairs?’

Much as I want to see Mum I know he’s not going to let me, so I just say, ‘OK, thank you.’

He turns away and is about to go back into the bedroom when I’m struck by a thought. ‘Hold on a second . . . You do know she has MS, right? It’s probably why she
fell.’

‘No . . . We weren’t aware of that.’ He beckons me over and asks me to tell him everything I can about her condition. ‘Thank you,’ he says, when I’ve
finished. ‘It would have been helpful if we’d known this before. It explains why she might have fallen. Your French friend didn’t tell us.’

‘Sorry,’ I say, guiltily. ‘He doesn’t know. He’s just staying here for a few weeks.’

Xavier is still waiting for me at the top of the stairs. We go down to the living room together and perch on the end of the sofas, tensely, ready to spring up as soon as the paramedics bring Mum
downstairs.

‘Veecks, what eez MS?’

He must have overheard me talking to the paramedic. ‘It’s an illness,’ I say matter of factly. I’m not going to lie any more. ‘My mum has it. It’s why she
fell. I’m sorry I didn’t tell you before.’

He looks shocked. ‘So eet was not an accidont? You tell me she ’urt ’er legs and zat eez why you ’elp ’er at ’ome. She falls before?’

‘Yes, she has fallen before. The illness has made her legs not work properly, and now they’re very weak too.’

‘Why did you not tell me, Veecks?’

‘I don’t know. I’m sorry. I was . . . embarrassed.’

He can’t look at me. ‘But why? You left me alone wiz ’er. I was afraid.’

I can’t explain my shame about Mum, or put into words how important it is to me to seem normal, like everyone else; I’m aware it doesn’t make sense. Now I feel stupid. ‘I
really, really am sorry.’

I ask him to tell me exactly what happened and, in stumbling English, he does. He says he was still in his bedroom, getting ready, when he heard Mum calling for me. He didn’t know I was
out, and so didn’t do anything at first. Then he heard a tremendous crash from Mum’s room. He waited a minute, but nobody else went to her aid. It was then that he realised he was alone
in the house, the only one that could help. He pushed open Mum’s bedroom door and found her lying next to her bed, unconscious. She had hit her head on something on the way down. Terrified
she was dead, he felt for her pulse and put her in the recovery position – something he’d learned through football training. Then he tried to call the emergency services from the phone
in her bedroom, but he couldn’t remember the number. (They don’t call 999 in France.) He went running out into the street, shouting for help. ‘Call the firemen! Call the
firemen!’ A neighbour came out, panicking that the house was burning, and he managed to explain what had happened. She helped him call the ambulance.

I feel dreadful. ‘That must have been awful for you, Xavier. I really didn’t mean to put you through that. I only went to the shops to get some stuff for Mum. I wasn’t out for
long. Longer than I should have been but not long.’

He shrugs. ‘You should ’ave told me,’ he repeats. ‘At least I would ’ave been prepared.’

‘I know. Again, I’m sorry.’ I don’t know what else to say. I wish he would look at me, touch me, do something. I can’t work out if he’s angry or still in
shock. What I really need is a hug. I guess he doesn’t feel the same.

Our awkward silence is interrupted by the sound of the paramedics coming down the stairs. I rush out into the hall to find them carrying Mum carefully on a stretcher, cautiously taking each step
so as not to drop or shake her. I wait for them at the bottom, by the front door.

‘Mum? Are you OK?’

She seems drowsy and confused, but when she sees me she tries to smile. I hold her hand for a moment to reassure her.

‘Is she going to be OK?’

‘She’s in good hands, love,’ says the second paramedic, who is older and bigger. ‘She’s come to, now, and she doesn’t seem to have done herself any major
damage, but the hospital will check her over properly. We just need to get her there as soon as possible.’

‘Oh, thank you so much. And it’s still OK if I come in the ambulance?’

‘Yes, love. You’d better lock up and come now though.’

I turn around. Xavier is standing at the doorway to the hall. ‘I have to go in the ambulance with Mum. Will you be OK?’

He shrugs, blankly. ‘
Oui
, I sink.’

We follow the paramedics out on to the street. Rosie and Manon are standing outside on the pavement, waiting for us. They must have heard what was happening and rushed over. I hesitate at the
front door, unsure what to do next. I can’t lock Xavier in the house but he doesn’t have a key and it’s really not safe to leave a house unlocked in Camden Town. And I can’t
leave him there alone, not when he’s in shock. I make a split-second decision. ‘Go with Rosie,’ I tell him. ‘Her mum will look after you till I get back.’ He nods.

‘We can’t wait for you!’ calls the paramedic. ‘If you’re coming, come now.’

‘Go!’ says Rosie. ‘Xavier will be fine.’

‘OK, thanks. Oh God!’ I’m struck by a sudden realisation. ‘Has anyone called my dad? I need to call my dad.’

‘Don’t worry, my mum will do that. She has his mobile number. Just go. We’ll talk later.’

I climb into the back of the ambulance, wincing against the pain of my ankle. It’s starting to stiffen up now. Maybe I’ll ask someone to look at it at the hospital, later. Mum is
lying with her eyes closed, an oxygen mask over her mouth and nose. She seems so fragile and vulnerable; she even appears to have shrunk. I feel that anxious, nauseous sensation again, even though
I know she’s not in immediate danger.

As the ambulance doors shut, I look out on to my street. The last thing I see is Manon’s smiling face, her arms wrapped tightly around Xavier’s back, as she comforts him. Her
expression doesn’t look to me like one of compassion, or sympathy, or even concern. It’s one of jubilation: she thinks she’s finally won. And then the siren comes on and we speed
away to the hospital.

ad drives me home from the hospital late in the evening. Exhausted, we don’t talk much. We’ve been
told that, although Mum doesn’t have any serious injuries from her fall, she’s likely to be kept in for several weeks. Tomorrow or the next day, once she’s over the concussion,
they’ll transfer her to the neurological unit and treat her for her relapse, and then rehabilitate her with physiotherapy. Dad looks drained and anxious and I want to reassure him, but I
don’t know how. I reach over and stroke his arm, uselessly, until he has to change gear, and I snatch my hand away.

We’re almost home, stuck in traffic on Parkway, when he hits me with a bombshell. ‘I’m sorry, Vix, but as you’ve probably guessed, Xavier can’t stay here for the
rest of the exchange. Most of the time now, I’m either going to be with your mum at the hospital or at work, so there will be nobody to look after him.’

No, I haven’t guessed. Maybe I’m stupid, but until he says this, I haven’t even thought of this possibility. I’m so used to coping alone – cooking, cleaning,
shopping – that I figured things could carry on pretty much as normal, just with Mum in hospital, instead of on the sofa or in her bedroom. How am I going to make things up with Xavier, and
spend his last week with him, if he’s not staying at my house?

Before I can open my mouth to say that I can manage fine all by myself, Dad pre-empts me. ‘And don’t even think about suggesting that you stay in the house together, with no adult
supervision. That’s not going to happen. However mature and trustworthy you are – usually – the school wouldn’t allow it. And nor will I. You are only fourteen. I’m
afraid I have already spoken to Miss Long and it’s been agreed that Xavier is going to join one of the other French boys at his English family’s home. They’re coming to pick up
his stuff tomorrow. I’ve also spoken to Sky’s mum and she’s very happy for you to stay there on the nights that I’m not around.’

‘Buh . . .’ I begin, desperately and pointlessly, when I know it’s already a done deal. I want to say how ridiculous it is that I’m suddenly being treated like a child,
when for so long I’ve been the one looking after Mum. If anything had happened during the nights while Dad was away, I’d have had to be the responsible one, the one in charge, the
grown-up. Mum hasn’t looked after me for years. ‘Buh . . .’

‘No buts,’ says Dad. ‘It’s all decided. So you’re just going to have to live with it. I’m sorry.’