Finally the two staff members smiled and gave in. Gordon paid for the tickets with his credit card and accepted the two boarding cards.
‘You must go straight to the gate.’
‘Of course,’ said Gordon.
As they headed for the International Departure hall, Gordon turned to Mary and said, ‘Now for the big test, are you okay?’
‘I feel sick,’ Mary replied.
They could see the passport control desk up ahead. Gordon said, ‘Keep talking. Say anything you like but keep talking.’
Mary started to chatter, using a series of medical statistics as her chosen subject. The nearer they got to the desk the faster she seemed to speak. They were almost on it when Gordon, still looking at Mary as if totally wrapped up in what she was saying, took out the two covers from his inside pocket and waved them in the general direction of the desk while interrupting Mary. ‘No, no, no,’ he exclaimed, without breaking stride. ‘You simply can’t start that kind of patient on chemotherapy at that point. It’s much better to wait until...’
At no time did either of them look directly at the man on the desk. They walked straight past, both fearing a call to halt but it never came. Ever so gradually, relief replaced fear.
‘I’d better sit down before I fall down,’ whispered Mary. ‘I’m not cut out for this kind of thing.’
‘To be perfectly honest, neither am I,’ confessed Gordon. ‘I hated every second of it.’
Mary looked at him sideways and smiled, ‘You were brilliant, you should change your name to Bond.’
‘Be a change from, Mud,’ he said wryly and she laughed.
The flight was only three minutes late in taking off. Gordon and Mary lapsed into silence and communed with their own thoughts until the aircraft reached cruising height and the flight attendants started a round with the drinks trolley.
‘This is where we have to decide whether we should have a drink or keep our reflexes perfectly honed,’ said Gordon, tongue in cheek.
Mary gave him a look that sufficed as a reply.
‘Two gin and tonics please.’
Mary let out a long sigh of appreciation. ‘I don’t think I’ve ever needed a drink so much in all my life,’ she said, putting her head back on the rest.
‘I’ll drink to that,’ agreed Gordon.
They both sat with their eyes closed for a few minutes, relaxing and savouring the calming effect of the alcohol before Gordon took out the French clinic’s blurb and started to read it. The St Pierre boasted the finest facilities currently available for the discerning client and was equipped for procedures varying from minor to major surgery, it claimed. Prospective patients could avail themselves of the in-house medical teams or appoint their own physicians and surgeons as they saw fit.
‘Do you know Paris?’ asked Mary.
‘Not well. You?’
‘Hardly at all.’
‘There’s a little map on the back,’ said Gordon. ‘This place is in the Rue de Bagneux in Montrouge, just outside the Périphérique ring road on the south side.’
Mary took a look at the map and added, ‘It says that you take the exit at Porte de Orléans. ‘But how do we get there?’
‘Do you have your driving license with you?’
Mary shook her head.
‘Me neither,’ said Gordon. ‘So renting a car is out. Let’s get whatever seems fastest into Paris — bus, train, taxi, you name it — and then play it by ear.’
‘Assuming we get into the country in the first place,’ Mary reminded him. ‘There’s the time factor to consider too,’ she said, looking at her watch. ‘It’s going to be the evening rush hour if and when we do get there.’
‘All we need,’ Gordon sighed.
The flight landed at Charles De Gaulle airport with a large bump due to a crosswind catching the aircraft at the last moment in its approach. Many of the passengers started to talk about it but Mary and Gordon didn’t say a word: they were too focused on other things.
‘I wonder what French jails are like,’ whispered Mary.
Gordon squeezed her hand and tried to assure her that it wouldn’t come to that. He said that they should attempt to go through passport control with the biggest group of people they could find. This meant being neither the first to get off the plane nor the last. Fortunately, they had very little in the way of hand baggage to deal with and no luggage to collect from the carousel at all, so they could afford to be flexible in their timing.
As soon as he saw the Passport Control booths, Gordon knew that everything was going to be all right. The bored-looking officials were just waving people on through with a lazy wave of the hand as passengers held up their passports to them. Gordon held up the two covers, pretending to struggle to open them up as they passed, and suddenly they were into France.
There was a tourist information desk directly opposite as they emerged through customs, again unchallenged. As there was no queue at it, Gordon took the opportunity to ask the quickest way into Paris. The man pointed through the glass doors to the side of his desk and said, ‘There’s an express bus leaving in three minutes,’ he said. ‘It will save you waiting for anything else.’
Gordon took Mary’s hand and they rushed over to the Bureau de Change to change a handful of money before running out through the doors and reaching the steps of the bus just as the doors closed with a hydraulic hiss. To their relief, the driver saw then and opened them up again. They climbed aboard, thanking him, and sat down one row behind him on the other side as the bus moved off.
‘That was a bit of luck,’ said Mary.
‘Something tells me we’re going to need a whole lot more,’ said Gordon, but she was right. Presumably a taxi or train might have been faster had all things been equal but they hadn’t, and there was no telling how long they would have had to wait for either of these other options.
‘How’s your French?’ Gordon asked.
‘Quite good,’ replied Mary.
‘Good enough to ask the driver the quickest way to Montrouge at this time of day?’ he asked.
‘Piece of găteau,’ Mary joked and, still sitting in her seat, she leaned forward and said across the aisle, ‘Monsieur?’
Gordon was impressed as Mary held a fluent conversation with the man, ending in smiles and thanks. ‘Thank God you came,’ he whispered.
Mary said, ‘He reckons the Metro would be quickest at this time of day without a doubt. He told me which line we want and the nearest station to where the bus stops. More than that, he used to be a cab driver; he told me how we get to Rue De Bagneux from our station.’
‘What a star,’ said Gordon.
As they left the bus at Gare de L’Est and stepped out on to the pavement into the darkness of early evening in Paris, Gordon looked about him and found what he was looking for. ‘There!’ he said, pointing to the steps with the Paris Metro sign above them. They hurried down them with Gordon saying, ‘It’s a smell you don’t forget.’
‘Like no other,’ agreed Mary.
They had to queue at the ticket booth but not for long. Most passengers seemed to have season tickets. ‘Where do we want to go?’ asked Gordon.
‘Porte D’Orléans.’
The train was crowded so they had to stand. By the time the train had cleared Montparnasse Bievenue, there were seats to be had. After Denfert Rochereau, it was more than half-empty. ‘Two more stations and then it’s ours,’ said Mary. ‘Port D’Orléans — the end of the line.’
The train emptied and Gordon and Mary made their way to the station exit, pausing there, as fellow passengers dispersed, to look for street signs in order to get their bearings. Gordon examined his small map. Mary said, ‘This should be Boulevard Brun, according to the bus driver.’