Frank glanced at the woman next to him as he took his seat. She was bundled up against the cold and so only her fur-encircled face was visible. She had a small, pert, upturned nose and sensuous lips on which she wore light-red lipstick. Someone had painted a small red, white and blue French flag on her cheek. A wisp of brown hair jutted from under her parka and fluttered in the breeze. Her brown eyes measured him as she smiled. ‘I’ve been waiting for you.’
‘For me?’ he asked.
‘For someone to sit ‘ere,’ she indicated Frank’s seat with a nod of her head. ‘I need a body to stop the wind that blows on me,’ she explained in a charming French accent. ‘Preferably, a man’s body.’ She smiled mischievously.
Frank sat down and the brown hair stilled. ‘It is a little chilly,’ he conceded.
‘For you, the day will get even chillier,’ she said with an impish grin.
‘Why’s that, then?’
‘Because Les Bleus will win, of course!’
‘Umm.’ Frank gave the woman an insincere smile as he banged his gloved hands together to generate some warmth.
‘Oh yes, you will see,’ the woman advised him with confidence.
The track-suited footballers stood and waited while the Royal Marine Band played the respective national anthems. Some English players tried to keep warm by jumping up and down during the playing of ‘La Marseillaise’. The French players remained respectfully motionless for the band’s rendition of ‘God Save the Queen’.
The woman turned to Frank. ‘Your team is very eager to start, no?’
‘You don’t blame them for wanting to get on with it on a day like this, do you?’
The woman looked away and Frank felt a measure of guilt for the lack of respect shown by the English players.
Each team played an attacking game and play moved continuously from one end of the pitch to the other. Both sides thundered the ball against goal posts and crossbars. The crunching tackles were crisp and clean. The two goalkeepers made miraculous saves and the crowd constantly roared both teams on. As the game progressed and the seemingly inevitable goals had not been scored, the roar of the crowd increased and tension mounted on the field and in the stands. Frank’s neighbour clapped her gloved hands together in excitement and screamed encouragement to the French team.
‘Allez, Les Bleus!’
Frank was not to be outdone, ‘Come on, England!’
An English player was injured and the game stalled whilst a trainer and stretcher-bearers ran onto the field. Frank looked at the woman at his side and saw her exhale her tension. She relaxed her hands in her lap and twisted her head to return Frank’s gaze.
‘C’est fantastique, non? Oh, sorry. This is a fantastic game, no?’
Frank smiled. ‘I understood you. Yeah, it’s a great game.’ He looked at his watch. ‘It’ll be halftime soon and I’ll be going to get myself a cup of tea. Would you like one?’ He hadn’t meant to offer the woman a drink; the words had involuntarily escaped his mouth
‘Do they have coffee?’
‘I don’t know, but do you really want English coffee?’
The woman’s laughter was delightful and made Frank instantly forget she supported the opposition. ‘You are correct. Tea would be nice with a little milk and no sugar, s’il vous plait?’
‘Yeah, no problem.’
The second half of the game created more tension as time elapsed without a score. A French striker wasted an opportunity to put his country ahead and was called ‘stupide’. The ball was kicked straight down the pitch and an Englishman who found himself with an equal opportunity received his equal share of derision for his miss. The woman turned to Frank with relief in her eyes and a gloved hand covering her wide-open mouth. He smiled and raised his eyebrows.
Still, the game went from end to end and the cacophony of sound created by the spectators reached a fevered pitch. It was almost a relief when France scored and released the pressure valve for the eighty thousand fans in the stadium. Frank’s anxiety subsided into a feeling of chagrin. He realised he had been tensing muscles all over his body and found the relaxing of them a pleasant counter to his disappointment of the French goal.
The woman lightly beat her small fists on Frank’s knee. ‘Allez, Les Bleus,’ she cried with a joy that would have been infectious, had it been for a different reason.
Frank gave the woman a begrudging smile, took hold of her gloved hands and moved them so that she could beat on her own legs.
Play restarted after the French players completed their celebration of the goal. The English forwards stormed the French defences and Frank, along with other fans, bellowed his support. ‘Come on, England!’
French fans started to sing ‘La Marseillaise’ and their English counterparts sang ‘God Save the Queen’. Suddenly, England scored and the home fans erupted. Frank was on his feet in an instant.
‘Yeahhhhhhhhh!’ he roared. His companion was unable to see anything and so she too stood and banged her hands together. The fact that the woman applauded an English goal was not lost on Frank. He was confused.
‘That was a goal for us,’ he shouted.
‘I know, but it was a good one and so I clap my hands for the man who scored it.’
Frank smiled again. ‘Thank you.’ The woman had a knack of making him smile.
Although both teams continued the onslaught of each other’s goal, the score remained tied after the ninety-minute mark. The fourth official held up his board to indicate three minutes of extra time. Again the roar of the crowd swelled to urge on their teams for a last attempt to win the game.
Frank’s overused vocal chords were sore with strain. ‘Come on, England!’
With barely a minute of added time remaining, the French scored again. Their supporters exploded with cheers. ‘La Marseillaise’ rang out whilst the suddenly silent England fans headed for the exits. Ten seconds after the game restarted, the referee blew the final whistle. The French players ran a lap of honour around the stadium. The disconsolate English players put their hands above their heads and applauded their remaining supporters as they made their way to the dressing rooms.
Frank turned to his left and held out his right hand. ‘That was a great game that ended with the wrong result. Justice will be served when we play in Paris.’
The woman took his hand and shook it. ‘Of course. We shall win again. What is your name?’
‘Me? Frank. You?’
‘Me, also,’ she smiled. ‘I am Francoise. I am happy to have sat with you, Frank. Au revoir.’
Frank was reading the menu in a small Italian restaurant when a female voice said,
‘Frank? Is it you?’
He looked up to see the smiling face of Francoise. He grinned and stood up to greet
her. ‘Francoise! What are you doing here? I would have thought you’d be dining in a French restaurant tonight. Please, sit down.’
‘Sank you. I never dine in a French restaurant when I am in England. That way I preserve my love for my food. Me, I am surprised to see you too. You do not dine at ’ome tonight?’
Frank pulled out a chair and helped the woman take a seat at the table. A waiter took possession of Francoise’s coat, scarf and gloves, then disappeared. ‘Nah. I felt a little flat after the high tension of this afternoon’s game and felt I needed to eat out.’
‘It is lucky for both of us then. We shall eat together, yes?’
‘I’d love to. Would you like to share a bottle of wine?’
Francoise smiled. ‘Provided it is not English wine!’
‘Will Italian wine be acceptable? Perhaps some Chianti?’
Frank inspected the woman he was now seeing properly for the first time that day. She was lovely. Her hair was short, almost boyish. Her shapely physique was well defined by a blue mohair sweater with an extravagant collar. A black suede skirt reached her knees above black leather boots. Frank realised he had been staring and was slightly embarrassed until he saw Francoise sizing him up in a similar fashion. Well, that was okay. He was five feet, ten inches tall and in good physical shape. Women had told him he was good looking. Furthermore, he felt good in his Italian suit and English shirt.
Throughout the meal, the two told of their jobs, likes, dislikes, memories and more. Francoise’s laughter captivated him and provided a stage for his self-deprecating humour. Before the main course arrived, Frank moved his chair next to the woman, stating his eyesight was too poor to see her properly across the three-foot expanse of white tablecloth. Her response was a smile that contained all the messages Frank wanted to see.
After cheese and biscuits, Francoise leaned to her left and bent to pick her handbag up from the floor. As she returned to an upright position, Frank caught her chin in his hand and arrested her movement. He turned her face and kissed her tenderly on her mouth. The kiss lasted just two seconds, but the texture of Francoise’s lips, combined with the warmth of her cheek and the smell of her perfume were like magic. As he pulled his face away, he saw Francoise open her eyes.
‘Ooh la la,’ she breathed. ‘We must do more of that.’
As the game had been played in England but won by France, they decided that splitting the bill in half was the fairest way of handling payment for their meal. The couple walked five blocks to the hotel where Francoise was staying. They stopped in two recessed shop doorways to rehearse the kiss and reached the hotel in a state of high excitement.
The sex was as passionate as had been the football game. Like the game, their adventures moved from one end of the king-sized bed to the other. The main difference was that each usurped the cries of encouragement the other had used at the game. Francoise cried, ‘Come on England’ and Frank urged, ‘Allez, Les Bleus’. In the shower, Frank da-de-dahed ‘La Marseillaise’ and Francois implored God to save Frank’s gracious queen.
When they awoke in the morning, the mood had changed. Two heads lay on two pillows and four eyes gazed at each other. Francoise slowly moved across the space that separated their bodies and snuggled into Frank’s chest. He gently rolled her onto her back, positioning himself above her as he did so. Slowly, slowly he moved inside Francoise as she twisted languidly beneath him. As the minutes went by, the couple began to awake to the need in them and the pace quickened.
‘Come on England,’ Francoise whispered softly in Frank’s ear.
‘Any minute now. How about you?’
‘I am ready, mon cherie. Tell me when.’
‘How about NOW!’ and he slammed himself into Francoise’s body again and again and again.
‘Mon Dieu!’ she cried out as spasms racked her flesh. ‘Mon Dieu, Frank!’
They had breakfast in the room and then made love again. Tears welled up in Francoise’s eyes and Frank gently wiped them away.
‘Is something wrong?’
Francoise wrapped her arms around Frank’s neck. ‘Nothing is wrong, mon cherie. Everysing is perfect.’
The pair took a taxi to the Tate Gallery and strolled hand in hand through the halls gazing at each other and glancing at the art on the walls. When they had been inside long enough, they took another taxi, this time to Hyde Park. Again, they strolled hand in hand, hardly noticing what happened around them. It began to snow and Françoise took off a glove, held out her hand, fingers splayed, and allowed the cold flakes to melt on her warm skin. They came to an open, concreted space beside a frozen lake. Ducks waddled on the ice and the snow fell silently on the lovers.
‘Shall we dance?’ Francoise asked.
‘We have no music…’ but he saw the look in her eyes. ‘I’ll have to sing for us,’ he said as he took her in his arms. The only tune that came immediately to mind was a song from the film ‘Doctor Zhivago’. He hummed a few silent bars in his mind to make sure he had it right, then started to sing,
‘Somewhere my love.’ He didn’t know any more words so he dah-de-dahed his way through the rest of the tune. They waltzed around the concrete dance floor, making circles in the snow. Francoise sang a sweet accompaniment, adding an occasional word. After a while, they stopped singing. They continued to move smoothly to the music that played in their heads as they circled their exclusive dance floor. They swayed in perfect harmony, silent except for the sound of the snow pushed around by their feet. Francoise gazed up into the face of her lover and he looked down into her beautiful brown eyes.
A young man walked towards them with a boom-box on his shoulder. Hip-hop music blasted from the machine, forcing the disappointed couple to stop dancing. As the boy neared them, Francoise called out. Then, fearing he would not hear her over the noise, she waved her arms to get the youth’s attention. He stopped, turned off the music and lowered the radio.
‘S’up?’ he asked.
‘Would you play somesing romantic for us? We were dancing to a lovely tune in our minds and you broke our spell. I sink you owe us a waltz on your radio, non?’
‘You nuts or summat’?’
‘No, monsieur, just romantic. Aren’t you ever romantic?’
The youth was uncomfortable with the question. ‘What’s it to you?’
‘Come, play for us some nice music. Just for a little while. S’il vous plait.’
The youth hoisted his radio to face level, switched it on and turned the dial. Snatches of conversation, odd musical notes, static and other noises followed one another as the needle progressed along the station bar. Frank and Francoise watched the youth and waited, holding each other as the snow fell on them.
‘Me mum likes this station,’ the boy said. The deejay was announcing a request for a song by Anne Murray. ‘Yeah, this is the one.’ The boy put the radio on the ground, positioning it so that the speakers faced Frank and Francoise. As the music started, he retreated to a bench, wiped the snow off the backrest and sat on it, his feet resting on the seat.
‘Can I have this dance for the rest of my life?’
Francoise tilted back her head and gazed up into Frank’s eyes, seemingly asking him the question put by the Canadian songstress.
Snowflakes fell on Francoise’s eyelashes and Frank bent to kiss them away.
He opened his mouth to say something, but his dance partner put two gloved fingers on his lips.
‘Shhh. Just hold me.’
Again they made wide circles in the snow. They danced as one, completely wrapped in their emotions.
Tears fell from Francoise’s eyes and Frank gently kissed them away. She released an arm and brushed the droplets from his lips. The youth sat silently and watched them.
When the song was finished, the youth picked up his boom-box and started to walk away.
‘See ya.’
‘Merci monsieur,’ Francoise called at his departing back.
‘Thanks, man,’ Frank shouted.
Francoise pulled back her coat sleeve to reveal her wristwatch.
‘We must leave now, mon cherie. The train, it departs in one and a half hours from now.’
Frank didn’t want to end the mood. ‘Isn’t there a later train?’
‘Non, mon cherie. I ‘ave to go to work tomorrow an’ I ‘ave a long way to go and a lot of things to do.’
Frank nodded his head. ‘Okay, I understand.’ He cupped Francoise’s chin and kissed her as he had in the restaurant the night before. ‘Yesterday was wonderful and today has been so good I can’t think of an adjective that would adequately describe it. It’s just that it’s been, I dunno, the shortest day.’
On the train back to Huddersfield, Frank thought how wonderful the weekend had been, save for England’s defeat. He remembered how beautiful Francoise had looked and how great the sex had been. Anne Murray’s song played in his head. ‘Can I have this dance for the rest of my life?’ He turned to his wife, put his arm around her and gave her a kiss.
‘I love you, Liz. I want you to know that I’ve had a wonderful weekend. How about you?’
‘The best, thank you sweetheart. I like it when we have these weekends away. They’re so much fun. Next month, when we go to the Wagnerian opera at Covent Garden, I think I’ll drop Francoise and become a Brunhilda.’
About the author
Peter Lingard, born a Brit, served in the Royal Marines, was an accountant, a barman and a farm worker. He once lived in the US where he owned a freight forwarding business. An Aussie now because the sun frequently shines and the natives communicate in English.
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