The Boy from France (4 page)

‘Allo,’ says Xavier. ‘You are Veeck’s farser? You speak good
Français
.’ I wonder if he’s going to kiss Dad too, the way I’ve seen the
French boys kissing each other, but he doesn’t. They shake hands.

‘Yes,’ says Dad, looking pleased with himself. ‘Call me John. It’s a pleasure to meet you, Xavier. Let me take your bags.’

‘No, no, eez OK. I can carry my own. Sanks.’ He picks up his enormous duffle bag and sweeps it over his shoulder, as if it’s no heavier than a jacket. Dad shrugs. I know he
likes to feel useful.

‘Right, then,’ he says. ‘Let’s find the others and head home.’ He waves Rosie’s dad over. Rosie and Manon follow close behind. Rosie grins at me. I catch her
looking Xavier up and down and smiling, approvingly.

‘Hey, Vix,’ she says, putting her arm around my shoulder. She turns to Manon. ‘This is Manon. Manon, Vix.’

‘Allo,’ says Manon. She looks me up and down, the same way Rosie did to Xavier. It makes me feel uncomfortable. ‘I stay ’ere wiz Rosie.’

‘Hello. This is Xavier. He’s staying with me.’

Xavier smiles at me and nods at Manon. ‘Allo.’

‘Do you two know each other?’ asks Rosie.

‘
Mais oui,
’ says Manon. She leans over to kiss Xavier. ‘I know eem a leetle. We go to zee same school in Nice.’

‘She eez a very big school,’ says Xavier. ‘Many students.’

We all stand around, awkwardly, for a few moments, smiling at each other.

‘Right,’ says Dad. ‘Let’s go to the bus stop. It’s just outside.’ He notices that Manon has two wheelie suitcases and offers to take one of them. It’s
pink and only has a short handle, so he has to bend his knees as he walks. He looks ridiculous.

‘We take zee bus now?’ says Manon. She seems a little put out. I don’t blame her. I guess she’s probably tired, after travelling all day.

‘Yes, it goes to the end of our street,’ Rosie says. ‘It’s not far. Just five minutes up the road.’

‘Ah, all of us go togezzer? You leeve wiz Veecks?’

Rosie laughs. ‘Kind of. But no, not in the same house, we’re just a few doors down from each other. We’ve been neighbours – and best friends – since we were
little.’ She grins at me.

‘Ah, OK. Excellent.’ Manon glances at Xavier. She seems happy. Xavier, not so much. But perhaps I’m only imagining that.

While we wait for the bus, Rosie chats to me, leaving Xavier and Manon to talk in French. They chatter away ridiculously fast and I can’t make out anything they’re saying, apart from
‘
oui
’ and ‘
non
’ and ‘
merci
’. I wonder if they’re talking about me or about Rosie.

Rosie leans in towards me. ‘I told you he’d be hot,’ she whispers. ‘And he’s hotter than even I expected. Sky is going to be crazy jealous!’

I realise I’m beaming, in spite of myself. It’s ridiculous: Xavier and I have barely said two words to each other yet – I know nothing about him. We might not get on. He could
be boring. He might even be a French serial killer, for all I know. To tell the truth, I kind of wish he wasn’t so good-looking. Every time he smiles at me I go blank. It’s the whole
accent thing too – it’s so cute. ‘He is very good-looking,’ I concede. ‘I’m sure I’ll get over it, though. Once I get to know him.’

‘Heh,’ says Rosie. ‘I’m one hundred per cent sure you won’t!’

um is waiting for us by the front door when we arrive home. She acts as if she’s heard us coming and has only
just got here, but I know that she’ll really have been standing here for a while. She has arranged herself in position, her body balanced against the wall so she can stand without falling,
her stick tucked away, just out of sight. Whenever she meets someone new she’s embarrassed about her stick, which is silly – and I’ve told her – but I guess I’d feel
the same. I don’t know if anybody’s mentioned to Xavier that she’s disabled; maybe that’s what Dad was chatting to the exchange programme organisers about. I haven’t
said anything, and I won’t, not unless he asks and I absolutely have to. I know quite a lot about her illness now – too much – because I’ve been reading about it on the web.
I know she’s probably going to get worse, but I’m trying not to think about that.

‘Hello, Xavier,’ says Mum, brightly, as we come in. You’d think she didn’t have a worry in the world. Dad takes Xavier’s bags straight upstairs. I’ve made the
spare room up for him, as comfortably as I can. I’ve even put up an old French poster, which I found tucked away behind the bookshelf, to make him feel at home. I hope he likes it.

‘Allo,
Madame
,’ says Xavier. He leans right over to kiss her, which is good, because it means she doesn’t need to take her arm away from the wall and risk losing her
balance. ‘
Enchanté!
’

Mum blushes, just like I did. I don’t think I’ve ever seen her blush before. Xavier’s French charm has instantly won her over, too.

‘It’s lovely to meet you,’ she says. ‘Please call me Barbara. I hope you had a good journey and that you’ll have a wonderful time staying here with us. I know
Victoria will look after you. Now please come into the living room and sit down. I’ll go and make some tea.’

She waits for us to pass, so that Xavier won’t see her picking up her stick, then goes slowly into the kitchen. Dad follows close behind, to help her.

‘Victoria? Like zee Queen Victoria?’ says Xavier to me, as we enter the living room. ‘I am incorrect? Your name, he ees not Veecks?’

‘Vix is really a nickname, a shortening,’ I explain, as we sit down on the sofa. ‘Only my mum calls me Victoria.’

‘Ah. Me too, eef you like, I can call you Victoria?’

‘Don’t you dare,’ I say. ‘I hate it. Even most of my teachers call me Vix now.’

‘Ah,
oui
?’

‘
Oui
. Actually, I thought you were called Ex-avier when I first saw your name. How dumb is that! Now I know your name is pronounced just like xylophone.’ As soon as
I’ve said it, I feel like an idiot.

‘Zye le Fone? Who is zees? A friend?’

‘No, no. Xylophone, the instrument. You know, the one with keys that you hit with sticks.’

‘Ah! Gzee-lophone!’

I laugh. ‘I do love your accent. It makes everything sound better, somehow.’

He looks crestfallen. ‘I have zee axont? I believe I speak zee good Engleesh, wiv zee good axont. You can tell I am
Français
? It is obveeowse?’

‘Yes.’ I giggle. ‘You do have an accent. But don’t worry about it – it’s cute, very charming. Most people love a French accent, honestly – especially
girls.’

He raises an eyebrow. ‘Ah,
bon
?’

I look down at the floor, bashfully. I wish I hadn’t mentioned other girls. ‘Yes. And I shouldn’t laugh, not when your English is so much better than my French.’

‘I am sure you speak good
Français
.’

‘Nah, I’m rubbish. I’m supposed to practise with you.’

‘OK.’ He smiles. ‘You will learn me better
Anglais
– wiv zee better axont – and I will learn you
Français
.’

‘Deal.’

Dad’s standing at the door, carrying a tray of tea and biscuits. I don’t think we’ve ever had tea from a teapot, in proper china cups with saucers, before. Usually we have
teabags in chipped mugs, with water poured straight from the kettle. What are my parents thinking?

‘Have you ever had English tea, Xavier?’ says Dad. ‘I suppose you’re more used to coffee. I used to get a wonderful cup of coffee in a café in the Left Bank.
Proper coffee. I remember it well.’

‘
Mais oui
, of course. We have tea also.’

Dad sets the tray down on a table. ‘Good, good. Shall I be mother?’

I cringe. Xavier appears confused again. I shrug at him and roll my eyes. I think the ‘my parents are aliens from another planet’ expression translates internationally.

Mum shuffles in with her stick and lowers herself into the armchair. She looks exhausted. I’m sure Xavier must have clocked the stick by now, but he’s far too polite to say
anything.

‘Sank you, Barbara, for your ’ospitalitee,’ he says. ‘I like very much your ’ome.’

She grins at him. ‘It’s our pleasure to have you.’

We drink our tea and eat our biscuits and smile at each other a lot, awkwardly. Mum asks Xavier about his journey and Dad talks about his time in Paris. Xavier tries to appear interested, but it
turns out that he’s only been there once, on a school trip, so he doesn’t have much to say about it. I wish Mum and Dad would leave us alone – I’m not used to getting to
know someone new in front of my parents; I’m nervous enough as it is.

‘So,’ says Dad, finally, ‘I thought we’d get a takeaway tonight. Save cooking, and it would be nice for Xavier too.’

‘Eengleesh food?’ says Xavier. ‘Cool. I want to try very much.’

‘Ah, well, I was actually going to suggest an Indian – which is sort of English food now, you know – or a Chinese.’ Dad laughs. ‘But we can have something properly
English if you prefer. Um, how about fish and chips?’

‘Ah
bon
, feesh and sheep?’ says Xavier. ‘It sounds strange, but I weel try.’

I giggle. ‘Not sheep, chips! Fries! Like
frites
. And we can have mushy peas too, if you like,’ I say.

‘Mooshy pizz? Why not!’

Mum turns her nose up at that idea. ‘Poor Xavier,’ she says. ‘He’s come all the way from France, which has the best food in the world, and on his first night we’re
giving him mushy peas! He’s going to think everything they say about British cuisine is true.’

But she’s overruled.

Dad goes to fetch the fish and chips from Pang’s on Kentish Town Road, which is half a Chinese takeaway and half a fish and chip shop. I’ve tried fish and chips from several
different places in Camden and I like Pang’s the best. Dad always enjoys chatting to Mr Pang and, because he likes our family, he always gives us the freshest fish and the newest batch of
chips. The portions are enormous. While Dad’s gone, I show Xavier around the house, pointing out the kitchen and the bathroom, and checking he has everything he needs. He seems happy with his
room, even though it’s very bare and a bit girly, with flouncy curtains and a floral bedspread. I hope I haven’t forgotten anything.

We hear the front door open. ‘Fish and chips!’ calls Dad, from downstairs. ‘Come and get it!’

‘Come on,’ I say to Xavier. He holds the bedroom door open for me and lets me through first. None of the English boys I know would ever do that.

We eat at the kitchen table. I prefer to eat fish and chips straight out the wrapping, but Mum insists on plates. Xavier watches curiously as I drench my chips in vinegar, then does the same. He
tries a chip. ‘Mmm,’ he says. Next he takes a forkful of his fish. ‘Mmm,’ he says again. ‘Feesh and sheep eez gude!’ he declares. He tries the peas, tentatively.
They’re luminous green and very runny, which must be a little off-putting. He pushes them around his plate with his fork.

‘And how do you like your mushy peas?’ I say.

He makes a funny expression, a sort of furrowed-eyebrow, pouty sneer, which makes him look particularly French. ‘Um, they are gude also, I sink.’

I laugh. ‘They’re an acquired taste. You don’t have to eat them, honestly. Don’t worry.’

He polishes off the lot anyway. And when he notices that I’ve left some of my chips, he helps himself to those too.

‘That’s what I like to see,’ says Dad. ‘A hearty appetite!

Throughout the meal my phone has been beeping constantly. I don’t need to look at it to know that I’ll have messages from Sky and Rosie, wanting to know how things are going with
Xavier. Mum asks me to turn my phone off but, instead, I put it on silent and, when nobody’s looking, check it quickly under the table.

Rosie says Xavier is v hot! x
reads Sky’s first text.

How ru getting on? x
reads Rosie’s.

A few minutes later:
Wot r u doing? Tl me! Sx

And then:
Vix txt me! Rx

Vix! Gt back 2 me!!! Sx

I say I’m going to the loo and quickly text them back, telling them things are going well and that I’ll talk to them properly later, when I’m alone. I wonder how Rosie is
getting on with Manon.