By the time we stood
inside the Bock Casemates,
cannons inside caves,
pointing through holes in the cliff,
at lower Luxembourg’s grand mansions,
mazes of hedges, churchyards,
quiet streets in the rain,
we had been back to Germany,
for GPs, paediatricians, dentists, prescriptions,
for his father,
for Inge.
We picked up
his father,
his father's wife in Thuringia for dinner,
at the same hotel restaurant
we’ve been eating at for 20 years.
I stop at the entrance,
unload Opa, Oma,
unload the babies,
vacate the driver's seat,
he parks the car at the hotel car charger.
By the time he joins us at the table,
the waitress serves ice-cold lager
from the restaurant's brewery
I've ordered for him and Opa.
Knödel, cabbage, red, duck, crispy.
Bratwurst, schnitzel, sirloin with Pfifferlinge
for Opa and Oma and the girls.
Supplément of Knödel and gravy for him and me.
Glasses of German reds,
dry for him,
lieblich for Papa.
Chinese lunch with Inge.
She said to him:
“Even before my hip replacements I never limped along like you.
How coo you manage you hold the pain?”
Baby Two had needed an MRI
to check for torn ligaments
in the ankle she injured
pushing herself at taekwondo championships in Lisbon.
After months of waiting,
her baby sister was seen by specialists
at the Christian children’s hospital in Hamburg.
Three men and one woman in white coats.
A Schwester in scrubs.
All looking at the venous malformation
in her right index finger
she’s had since birth.
A black mat beneath her hand.
Lights switched off.
Flash.
Another angle.
Another flash.
Cameras clicking.
Consultations in German.
Husband nodding.
Doctors apologising,
switching to English.
“Sorry for my English, we need more scans, more thinking,
you need to come back in December.
We will have best radiology machine in Germany.
We see.
We will take care of your daughter.”
By the time we checked into our hotel room near LUX,
his three women occupying the bathroom,
he went back down to reset the car.
Rain poured black, lightning lit up sheets of water, thunder did not roll in from a distance. It was here.
I called him.
He said:
“I got pinned by the storm.
I’m watching Netflix in the car.
I’ll do some more work and have a beer in the lobby.
You and the girls sleep first.”
By the time he sat
on a bench beside a fountain,
he had followed us through the caves,
stumbling, limping.
Eyes moist, wearing a poncho in the rain.
By the time I’m back behind the wheel,
driving my family towards Bordeaux,
I have bought a fridge magnet,
a latte, for access to the café toilet,
salads from Monoprix.
While I'm driving he feeds me
curried chicken couscous,
hummus, baby spinach salad.
I have him take a photo.
I say:
“To remember to make more food like this at home.”
We cancelled dinner by the Loire,
kept driving,
mostly me,
his macbook in his lap,
his right hand on my thigh,
working, dozing, talking with me
about
houses we’ve viewed,
suburbs we like,
flight paths,
the drive to school.
Keeping me awake.
Me saying:
"I know I thought we could wait,
get everything in order.
You can’t wait,
not for funding,
not for finding a house,
you need to call and schedule the surgery.”
By the time we got home,
there was little night left.
Baby Two and I didn’t sleep
before he drove us to the airport in the dark
for the first flight to London,
leaving him with 2 dogs, 2 cats,
babies one and three.
Kissing him goodbye,
I whispered in his ear:
“you need to buy food,
my Auchan card is in your wallet,
I left you something on your pillow.”
