Lausanne

I’m not sure whose idea it was to go to Switzerland. It may have been Nick’s. He spoke the best French, enough to move things about, move people about, but not enough to know how to say, ‘my guitar string has broken, where would be the cheapest place to get another?’ I’d been surprised how good he was on the guitar. Surprised how good a group they were. Beatles numbers mainly. Adam and Chrissy, those boyos from the Welsh valleys. Nick was the lead. He approached the waiters and café owners, those with tables outside on the pavement. He took his guitar. Held it and himself like a passport. Chrissy, all smiles, sometime wandered across and joined in the conversation. Sometimes they’d nod towards Adam and me with the pile of rucksacks at our feet. We’d be included in the conversation that way. Adam wasn’t bad, could string a few sentences together, make himself understood, but was reliant on his friends. I’d a French phrasebook I’d bought on the Channel Ferry from Portsmouth that I could open up and point at.

I was a bad influence on Adam. If the owners’ of the cafe gave us the go-ahead we’d leave our bags where we could see them, taking just the guitar. The proprietor and sometimes a waiter would watch, as if we were backing in a truck and move the barrier back six inches from the pavement to let us in. We’d stand in a huddle. They’d move the barrier six inches back to its former position. Then we were in. Allowed to entertain. Adam would look at my face and burst out laughing. He was a good singer. I couldn’t hit a note with a Kalashnikov in both hands. I’d look at him laughing at me and I’d become infected, and give up trying to mime. Chrissy could play the guitar and Nick took centre stage. With his tousled black hair and brown ‘Love me Do’ twinkle in his eyes he was as familiar to his audience as Elvis movies. And he could do that as well, the crooner, the bad boy, made good, made bad, which was good for our business. Chrissy was more the straight guy- horizontal mop top, not too long, not too short, the kind of haircut that would go unnoticed after having been to the barbers. He was thin as a crisp and the kind of English (Welsh) boy that certain kinds of middle class mothers would allow their daughters to marry as long as they agreed to get divorced shortly afterwards. He was a child’s drawing of eyes, nose and mouth; all straight lines and remarkable in his unremarkableness. They certainly wouldn’t have allowed their daughters to marry Adam. With his streaky blond hair, no nonsense features and frank gaze he might have passed muster as a ‘Devil in Disguise,’ but then there was his arm. He was always crouched and on the half turn so that people wouldn’t look at his arm, which, of course, had the opposite effect. I was the hat man. My job was to hit the punters for money when we finished singing. Well, when they finished. Being direct suited me. A hat waved under a person’s nose until they put something in worked wonders for our finances. Not being able to understand the insults shouted at me was a bonus. It also helped that I looked as if there was going to be a fight I’d be the one to win.

Perhaps Adam liked me because I made no mention of his arm when we first met. I was walking along Rue du Vincentte and away from the station at Carcasomme. Adam, Nick and Chrissy were coming the other way. I’d have walked past, but I heard their Welsh lilt; they were talking about sleeping in the station. ‘There’s no point mate,’ I said to Chrissy who was in the lead, ‘the police are in there with their dogs, examining tickets and moving folk on. Bastards.’

‘Where are you going to?’ Adam asked.

We all had rucksacks on our backs. It was the common currency of strangers. Mine was the most decrepit, little more than an old fashioned school satchel with leather straps. One of them had frayed and snapped. I’d a needle and thread and tried sewing it on the boat, but the needle kept bending. My thumb kept bleeding when I’d tried to force the needle through leather and my temper snapped. The other strap looked like giving out too. I feared carrying my rucksack about like a three year old child in a papoose, with two hands around its waist, and pulled in close to my chest. I’d a sleeping-bag perched in a black plastic bag, like a hat, wired into the top of the rucksack.

I hadn’t noticed Nick at first, but in a glance took in his guitar case and the way he carried his rucksack. He was about the same height as me, but thinner, with high cheek bones. I should really have hated him because he didn’t have spots, or bad skin, and wasn’t going prematurely bald and all the girls would love him. ‘I’m Nick,’ he held out his hand. He’d a mouth that could hold a smile. It was like instant Karma. He smiled and one rebounded back to him. It may also have been intonation of the Welsh language, and soft memories of home, but I’m sure he could have charmed a lamp post. He made the introductions. ‘This is Adam and Chrissy.’

Adam had a rucksack with a frame, tied into his waist and also scaled his body like scaffolding. I didn’t notice his arm at first. Chrissy had a Berghaus that fitted snuggly on his back like a tortoise shell. It was all pockets and zips and I fully expected him to pull out a camping stove.

‘I don’t know,’ I said, ‘I’m going to start walking away from the town centre, towards the motorways, to see if I can get a lift. There’s more likely to be places to kip down on the outskirts.

‘Mind if we tag along?’ Nick asked.

I shrugged, was glad of the company. Adam pulled a bottle of red out of his rucksack and we passed it around as we walked. I’d some Laughing Cow cheese, which was tasted like Dairylea, but was easy to steal out of the Super Marché. I’d no bread. Stealing diamonds would be more difficult than stealing a long baguette. We passed over a bridge and came into a commercial area. The first place we tried had too many lights. We kept walking. There were lots of overgrown bushes and evergreen shrubs bullying out into a pathway around a single storey building. A short passage to a back entrance doorway had us unpacking our sleeping bags. It was dark, but we could see by the streetlights and we had shelter in case it rained during the night.

The next morning we scrounged enough to get breakfast. I was part of a group. We’d no real plans other than to get enough money to buy food and drink. It was warm enough to wash in the nearest river. At first we thought we should hitch-hike and meet in another city in the South of France. We figured that no one would pick up four hitch-hikers the one time. It would be difficult enough getting a lift for two of us. I told them about the coloured people I’d seen on the slip roads. None of them seemed to wait for a lift. They walked along the hard shoulder of the motorway and away into the distant sun.

‘Why don’t we get the train? Adam sometimes clowned around, but he looked serious. ‘I got on a train between Paris and Lyon and the Inspector couldn’t understand what I said. He just wrote me out a ticket.’

‘Didn’t he boot you off?’ I asked.

‘No. He didn’t do anything.’

‘Maybe we could just do that then. Just get on a train and go somewhere else.’ Nick looked out across the town, his hand drifting across and patting his guitar case as if to reassure it.

‘It’s a daft idea.’ Chrissy’s eyebrows shot up. ‘We’re doing fine here.’ He took a slug of wine and his face screwed up in disgust, like a blanket being shaken, and was back to normal as he swallowed.

I wasn’t sure. ‘I’m goin’ South, towards Italy. I’ve never been to Italy.’

‘I’ve been. Once. I wouldn’t mind going back.’ Nick was enthusiastic. ‘What about Switzerland? I’ve never been to Switzerland.’

‘Fuck that,’ said Adam. ‘We’d never get into Switzerland.’ He looked at me. I looked at him. He started laughing. ‘Switzerland it is.’

The train was not a high speed LGV. It was old fashioned train stock. Our plan was to split up. The train had compartments with doors that could be pulled open and shut-over, with seats facing each other in companionable silence. I sat with Adam in one compartment. Nick with Chrissy sat further up the train in another. Adam and me would have no problems with kidding on we didn’t speak the language. I put my ‘How to speak French!’ book to the bottom of my rucksack. We drank red wine and he told me about his accident. ‘The surgeon said he’d have to take it off. The nerves were shot. It was just a matter of arranging the operation.’ He held his arm tenderly, as if in a sling and he didn't want it to hear.

‘Fuck that,’ I said, ‘there’s no way they’d take my arm.’

Adam took a swig and leaned forward, and I leaned forward too, so that our hair was almost shaking hands. ‘That’s what I said too,’ he whispered, and took a swig, passing me the bottle.

‘Does it hurt?’ I whispered too.

‘Nah,’ he grabbed back the bottle and took a long drink finishing it. ‘Don’t feel a thing.’ He tapped on his injured arm with his good hand and there was a dull thudding sound.

I started laughing. It took the flicker of a second for me to realise that he’d been stamping his foot against the train floor as he hit his hand. He laughed at me laughing. ‘Maybe they’ll be able to do something.’

‘That’s what I thought,’ he said.

‘And if you’ve not got an arm they can’t do fuck all.’

‘Yeh,’ he said.

My brain was muddled. The train bumped along and seemed to stop at every lean-to and people got on and people got off. Chrissy and Nick wandered up and down the train, popping into our carriage to get a bottle opener, to get matches, to get a snack and then they sat and played guitar for a while and sang. They forgot to go back to their own carriage.

My eyes wandered out into the blur of countryside and closed. The next thing I knew Chrissy was shaking me. ‘The next stop is Lausanne.’ He was sweating, his eyes agitated, one hand holding the other to prevent it from shaking and he spoke as if he’d been sucking on helium.

‘Hasn’t anyone got on to check your tickets? To check your passport, or anything?’ He looked at Adam and Nick.

‘No,’ Chrissie said.

I wished he hadn’t woken me up. Had let me sleep through. I sat up straight, needing to pee, but scared to go in case somebody arrested me. I looked up and down the carriageway. Compared to earlier there were very few people on the train. Some women and a few couples. Nobody under forty. My mouth was dry. ‘The next stop is Switzerland?’

‘Yeh,’ said Nick, licking his lips and trying to sound casual.

The train stopped as he spoke. It sat for about a minute. Then it started going backwards towards the French side. We looked at each other and out the window as if it offered a route of escape. The other passengers didn’t seem unduly perturbed. The train stopped further back and sat for a minute again as if thinking. There was a clanking noise and the train rattled and gained speed as it moved forward. Within ten minutes we were in Lausanne station. God bless Sunday service. There was no-one to meet us. Lake Lausanne was a short walk away.