1968: INGRID ANALYSES HER FEELINGS
Monday, 2 Sept
After lunch, Madame Pouchyn took us to Ostend. J-M sat in the front and he’s got very good features. If only his hair was longer (at the back it’s shorn!). I closed my eyes and tried to imagine how it felt, taking hold of Charles-Edouard’s hand with mine. I remember his fingers were rough at the ends (not surprising with all the sailing).
Ostend had crowded sunny shopping streets and dumpish ‘SOLDES’.
When we got back I had two seconds to do my hair, then we were off again… to Le Club! I followed J-M in - and there was Charles-Edouard. He always looks older in his anorak. He gave me a beautiful look and said, “bonsoir… ca va?” I didn’t dare look so I looked at Monsieur Pouchyn instead. Then I remembered to congratulate him on coming first in the race. The next thing I knew he was kissing me on the cheek, and he kissed the other too! Everyone was laughing, I was so happy. Later Mme P referred to him as “le nouveau cheri d’Ingrid”…
In the evening we went to see Playtime. It’s a marvellous film but I can’t describe it, there wasn’t a story or anything. It’s like a documentary that takes place over a day, with a coach load of American women tourists and a skyscraper that’s used for every single scene - airport, hospital, office, hotel.
My general impression is that Jacques Tati is a man full of ‘joie de vivre’ and it’s the smallest incidents in life that interest him. There was this Earl’s Court type of exhibition place full of stands, and this chap demonstrating a silent door. After about five minutes he’s furious about something and storms out, banging the door behind him. The door slams - silently. It’s so subtle. Monsieur P loved it, Mme P hated it, and I thought it was absolutely fantastic. When I think Charles-Edouard loved it too, I love him all the more.
Tuesday, 3 Sept
Didn't get to sleep until 2.30 last night, just for thinking about C-E. I’ve got one hope left: that he’ll get my address from Simone.
Simone and me went to the ‘Stade’ to play tennis. Four chronic girls were playing, we were in fits watching them. We tried to put them off but they insisted in persisting until 11. So we waited an hour for nothing.
The word ‘chronic’ - in the derogatory sense, not the medical - came from my father. He relished it. None of my friends used it and nor did their families, as far as I know. ‘Crummy’ was another. So was ‘lousy’, often applied to architects (of which he was one). ‘Ghastly’ is still in use today, or is it on its way out? Ghastly described numerous unpleasantnesses: stomach aches, back aches, dentists, prefects, Engelbert Humperdinck, Tom Jones, and places that were common, like Croydon (or posh, like the Yacht Club at Cannes).
The English language is relentlessly inventive. How interesting that ‘safe’, ‘sick’, and ‘wicked’ have come to mean cool.
After lunch I went to my room and didn’t know what to do. I’m dreading tomorrow. On your last day it hits you.
About 7 we went to the vieux Club. Of course, he wasn’t there. So we went to the new club, and saw Monsieur and Jean-Marie. J-M said they were meeting C-E at 7.30… “et vous êtes invitées”!
C-E arrived with a bottle of champagne so we climbed into the cockpit and celebrated together. It was he who opened the bottle (directing it at me!). No pop, no whoosh: he did it perfectly. (We all drank out of one cup: “D’abord, les innocentes,” said Monsieur, passing it to me!) They discussed the arrangements for the regatta. I looked at him only when he spoke. Then we all got out of the boat and walked along the jetty. I didn’t dare look at him, I was so scared of over-doing it. But somehow I knew he was looking at me (it felt like telepathy). We got to the top of the steps; he shook hands with Simone, and then me. He asked when I was leaving. I said “demain matin.” “Ah,” he said, “c'est touchant ça.” I didn’t dare show I was miserable, I looked disinterested. He got into his little Citroen and he left.
The goodbye was rushed and an anti-climax and horrid. I felt miserable. I still do. All because I didn’t dare give the impression of being as sorry about leaving him as he was about leaving me. The love he gave me at the party was only for one night - it meant nothing. I’m just a friend, someone he’s genuinely sorry to leave. He’s not interested enough to write.
L’amour, what’s the point? All that love was in vain.
Wednesday, 4 Sept
After breakfast Monsieur said he had something “amusant” to tell me. He reminded me, when I first arrived, that he said he would “tu-toyer” me - but that didn’t mean I could tu-toyer him back! It’s very impolite to address someone older than you like that. Why didn’t they tell me before? Now I feel an absolute fool.
I said good-bye to Jean-Marie yawning in his pyjamas. Long drive to Dieppe. Spoke quite a bit at first and my French was pretty good; later we closed our eyes. I’ve decided next year I could do a “stage” at the sailing school; if Charles-Ed is there it will be heaven! I am so lucky he was keen on me. It’s never happened that a boy shows interest in me from the first look to the last. Thus was my mind occupied on the way to Dieppe.
There were big cliffs, like at Dover. We had coffee in a crummy place just below. Then went to the station where we met the other Amitié Internationals. I saw one very tall, very thin boy with long hair, fab clothes, and glasses. Then I had to leave. We all kissed goodbye.
It’s funny being alone. I’ve never done this before. Every decision you make - to sit down or not, to get your passport out or not - is made entirely alone. My case was agonisingly heavy but I made it to the back of the ship, in the sun. I listened to other people’s conversations, and closed my eyes to think of C-E. I feel he’s forgotten me already.
Finally got to Victoria Station at 7. Chump was the first to come up - in just three weeks she’s grown! Kissed them all French style, of course. They were superly cheerful and we went to that nice Italian restaurant in Soho. I had melon, charcoal steak, and a staggering pudding of chocolate and cream eclairs. I brought up C-E as much as possible and chatted away like mad - we all did.
I felt much older than three weeks ago. I didn’t find it necessary to look at the waiters even. Dad asked me if I was sad to have left France and I nearly cried.
Thursday, 5 Sept
Thought about Charles-Edouard in bed, and suddenly ‘got’ him. He and his brother have a sort of Quackers look (!). It’s the wide fish-like mouth and the soft strands of hair. He also looks slightly lost - though lost really isn’t the right word.
My attitude to boys has definitely changed, because in Sutton these boys honked like mad. I was pleased of course, but that was it. Now I have that lovely feeling I have got someone.
Pa is staggered to hear that the French have two three-course meals a day. He said that’s why Mme Pouchyn is so fat. But she’s not fat, she’s a lovely plumpish size and her clothes are fabulous.
The war in Biafra is horrible. On the news they showed a man being shot by a row of soldiers. Then saw this programme about a millionaire, full of glamorous young girls going around with unpleasant men. The wealth made me feel sick - happiness does not revolve around money! Thank god I was born with a brain.
Chump and me danced French rock & roll style to ‘Day-tripper’ and ‘Dizzy Miss Lizzie'. Then we slow-danced together, very tightly, to ‘This Guy’s in Love with You.’
I so miss Charles-Edouard, and it’s not just physical attraction. I want to prove to him I’m a person with thoughts of my own. I’m not just someone good for a snuggle on the sofa.
Friday, 6 Sept
Ma got cross with me because I got up at 9 not 8.30. I don’t know why she’s so moody and depressed, but she did get better as the day went on.
This was not like my mother. And perhaps now I know why. I had spent three unforgettable weeks with a charismatic French family who took me in as one of their own, introduced me to my first teenage party, and celebrated my birthday with a pyramid of crème-filled profiteroles so beautiful it moved me to tears.
In reality, my own family life was just as special, and my generous mother just as good a cook. But she, in spite of her competence, lacked confidence, which I, as her child, could not see. That she was thrown off course by my undying love for my penfriend’s family is quite possible. Her sadness was probably momentary, but I wish I had had the sensitivity to recognise the love that she needed that day.
I wrote letters to Monsieur and Madame, and Simone. I said: “Give my love to everybody, and tell Charles-Edouard I miss him, and I’m coming back next year.”
Doug Gilbert from the office came to lunch. He’s tall and staggering-looking although he’s about 40. He reminds me of Bertrand.
Chump and me had coaching. It was so dark I couldn’t see the ball and my backhands were weedy. He is rather nice, despite the shorn hair. He asked if I went to Calais by hovercraft!
I’m not going to play ‘This Guy’s in Love with You’ any more. It makes me feel like crying.
Saturday, 7 Sept
Lying in bed and thinking of Charles-Edouard, I remembered another thing. He often raised his eyebrows in a questioning way. And when he asked me to dance he’d come up, shoulders half hunched, and say, with a slight smile on his lips, “tu danses?”
At 12 the Crabtrees arrived. They really are nice. Mrs is especially sweet. Andrea came over too and we swam. She and Chump really are keen!
At last Mr and Mrs Lismore came, and Rupert, who’s 19. His hair is quite long, and he’s tall, about 5’11”. He was wearing pale beige jeans, a rust coloured jumper, a pink shirt, and pleasingly French style plimsols (black not white). His features are out of scale but the overall effect is snazz. A Charles-Edouard type I think, with the same sort of humour, intelligent, sympathique… when he put his head down he reminded me so much. We had a staggering lunch on the terrace: pizza, hot and homemade, quiche lorraine, doughy rolls, French bread, a big salad, a tray of fruit, and two iced almond cakes. Rupert gave me quite a lot of good looks (like C-E). He goes to Westminster and will try and get a scholarship to Oxford. He wants to do law. The law in Ireland is quite potty - some of the things he told us could have happened in the 16th-century! He was quite interested in me hoping to do French & Drama at Bristol. We discussed sailing, and plays we’ve seen. He’s going to see ‘Trolius and Cresseda’ at Stratford though his great-aunt doesn’t think it’s suitable (too much sex!).
I find I never have enough to say about politics. I must read the papers more, I didn’t even know that in Tibet (or China, I’ve forgotten which) they’re forcing people to marry outside their own race. We went round the garden, and I walked with him.
After they left we did a fondue supper out on the terrace, by candlelight. Listened to Gilbert Bécaud and felt very nostalgic. ‘Et Maintenant’ came on and I was crying. I went for a walk by myself round the garden and tried to analyse my feelings. Charles-Edouard is so much my type, and yet, at the same time, I seem not to be missing him as much as I’d like. I think I ought to be in love with him.
Sunday 8 Sept
The Regatta is today. I thought of him.
Washed my hair, and it doesn’t look worse for being tousled, it looks staggering. If only it could have looked like this for the party!
Did Chaucer in dribs and drabs, but it got so hot I went and lay on my bed. Thought about Charles-Ed and got his voice clearly. When I think of him saying “mais non…” then I get it! It’s a youthful voice, yet it sounds serious.
But, the thing is, I’m treating C-E as a boyfriend when really he’s only a friend. And yet I have never met such a nice boy. It’s silly to hope he will write: we enjoyed each other’s company at two parties, that’s all. It seems to me a tragedy that we all are too reserved to reveal our feelings, we lock ourselves up behind an outer wall. If human nature wasn’t like that I would have said, “I can’t bear to leave you, please write.”
Every being lives on his own little island, and stays like that for the rest of his life.
Ma and Pa are making such a fuss about us sailing to Calais. If they really wanted to go, they’d go. We could leave on a Friday night and arrive on a Saturday night, get the ferry back, and then pick up the boat the next weekend.
Us two danced madly and Pa said my hair looked gorgeous! He adores Gilbert Bécaud, and ‘This Guy’s in Love with You.’ I adore ‘Hey Jules’ (Beatles) and ‘‘Say a Little Prayer’ (Aretha Franklin). Pa says musicians make life worth living. I think their profession is underrated.
