Louis For The Weekend

The afternoon was dragging. Louis and I looked at the clock above the whiteboard, and the clock looked back. Everyone was watching us. Somehow the whole class knew about Louis coming to my house. Like it was news.

When the hands of the clock finally formed a right angle, Louis and I were first out of the classroom and onto the sunny playground. We followed Mum to the car and sat together in the back. The travel screens were still buckled to the front headrests from our family holiday to Cornwall a month ago. 

‘Don’t you have these?’

Louis shook his head.

‘You watch films on them,’ I said. ‘What do you do on a long journey or when you’re on holiday?’

Louis shrugged and said, ‘Just read. Or nothing, I suppose. The radio.’

Dad would have enjoyed this. I was glad Mum was driving. I quickly moved the conversation on to dinner. We were having our traditional Friday chicken and chips.

‘Danny!’

Dad was glaring at me across the dining table.

I pointed at Louis. ‘But he’s doing it all weird …’

Louis was holding his knife and fork wrong. Dad had taught me how. Fork in the left hand, knife in the right. Saw; don’t tear. Louis was holding his fork like a dagger. I wanted to help, but the look on Dad’s face shut me up.

Mum asked Louis about his family. Louis swallowed politely and told us about his parents. They were in London for their anniversary and would be back Saturday evening to pick him up for a cycling trip the next day. 

Louis and his family lived two villages away. They moved from France last year. Louis had sat in silence on his first day at school. I was his first friend. Nobody else paid him much attention in the beginning, but he had long hair and he ran fast and he learned English quickly.

My little brother Adam was in a bib. He offered Louis the ketchup bottle. Louis had not asked for it but accepted it gratefully. Mum beamed. Louis was an only child.

‘So was I,’ Dad said with a grim smile when Louis had first joined school. ‘You learn to play on your own. You make your own fun. Certainly don’t need entertaining every minute of the day.’

After dinner we played on the PlayStation and then stayed up late watching a film in my room. Louis did not catch most of the jokes. When Mum came in to turn off the light, Louis set himself up on the air mattress beside my bed and we whispered in the dark until sleep came.

Next morning we woke up early and played Monopoly until ten. I went into Mum and Dad’s bedroom while Louis used the bathroom. Mum and Dad were in bed, Mum sewing and Dad on his laptop. Adam was sitting up in bed between them, playing with his kangaroo toy. When the pipes clicked in the walls and the sound of rushing water stopped, Dad nodded.

‘That’s how long a shower should take.’

I frowned. ‘I’m not slow.’

Dad looked down at me and raised his eyebrows. I felt small and resented Louis as I headed downstairs. 

‘Eat your melon, Danny,’ Louis told me over breakfast. ‘It will give you energy.’

‘Thanks,’ I said. 

Dad smiled at Louis over the top of his book. I scowled and chewed the fruit with venom.

We went into the garden after breakfast.

Louis said, ‘So can we play with knives?’

This was something we did at Louis’ house. We would go to the forest and scrape our names into trees and take strips of bark for our pockets. Louis was good with a blade. Dad had been angry when I told him about it.

‘You don’t know how to use a knife.’

‘But Louis taught me.’

‘No, Danny.’

Louis asked me again, expertly fingering a blade of grass. I grimaced and made up a reason why we should play football instead. Louis looked disappointed and a little confused, but we had a goal in the garden and Louis had brought his gloves.

It was easier to score against Louis; he was smaller than Dad. I caught myself checking the kitchen window whenever I scored, but the glass was dark and I couldn’t tell if anyone was watching. 

The clouds unzipped after lunch and we were housebound for the afternoon. I quietly cursed the rain. I had been looking forward to showing Louis the new village tennis courts. For months I had been telling Louis about how Dad had helped design them and worked with the village to get funding, and now the courts were finally ready. Dad and I had played most evenings since the courts opened a week ago. So I let out a moan as the rain fell in sheets onto the road outside the window of the front room, where Louis and I were playing cards on the carpet.

‘Why don’t you let Adam play?’

Mum plonked my three-year-old brother on the rug next to us.

It was bad enough that we already had an audience for our game of Fish — Dad was reading a newspaper (which he never did), and Mum was ironing with the radio on — but to have to cater for a toddler as well was just unfair.

‘But he doesn’t know how to play,’ I said, looking back at Mum over my shoulder.

‘Then show him how,’ said Dad over my other shoulder, noisily turning a page of his newspaper. 

Before I could complain, Louis shimmied onto the rug next to Adam and showed him the fan of seven cards in his hands and started explaining the game. I groaned, knowing there was at least one smug smile behind me.

Dinner was spaghetti bolognese. Out the back window it was still light, but darkness was on the way. I asked if we could go to the tennis courts.

‘It’s stopped raining,’ I added.

Mum paused and then said, ‘It might be a bit slippery.’

I was stupid for mentioning the rain. 

‘Yeah,’ said Dad, joining in from his side of the table, ‘don’t want you falling over and hurting yourself.’

No! This was the point of the whole weekend — to play Louis at tennis at the new courts Dad helped build. I said this.

‘I didn’t build them,’ Dad said. ‘I just designed them. For free. It’s too wet tonight. Let’s leave it for now.’

But I couldn’t. I knew Louis was desperate to play, he was just being polite. Bravely, I tried again, speaking for the pair of us. I jumped when Dad interrupted me.

 ‘Fine,’ he said sharply. ‘Off you go.’

Dad was looking at me strangely. A resigned sort of smile that was disturbing. 

‘Go on. You know best.’

I looked down.

‘No, it’s okay …’

‘Off you go.’

‘I don’t want to now.’

‘Yes, you do. Come on, out you go.’

Mum sighed. ‘Phil, come on …’ 

Dad silenced her with a look. 

‘Go play tennis with your friend,’ he said.

I had to now. Louis was watching. My heart pounding, I pushed away from the table and led Louis to the hall. Louis called out his thanks for dinner over his shoulder as we stepped outside. 

The tennis courts were a ten-minute walk away, through the village and onto the fields. Louis jogged a little to keep pace with me as we headed down the road towards the village green, the road slick under our feet. Louis was carrying my Dad’s racket. I hadn’t dared to ask if this was OK. I had my racket and a tube of balls. 

We walked in silence. The evening was cool and fresh after the rain. My fingers were still shaky. Tennis seemed pointless now.

We turned down a grassy alley which split into a brambly track between two tall houses. Louis had said nothing since we left the house. I sniffed.

‘I think my Dad likes you better than he likes me,’ I said. 

As I said it, a hot lump formed in my throat. Mortified, I swallowed hard and looked at my shoes. But Louis had not heard me. He was rushing along the edge of the bare brown field, his long hair flying behind him. He looked small against the open landscape. I cleared my throat, hard, and jogged after him.

The courts were in a large cage on a raised mound above the field. I followed Louis up the ramp and onto the courts. They seemed to shimmer in the evening light.

Louis tossed the ball high above his head and brought Dad’s racket down in an elegant arc. The ball hit the net and rolled across the concrete. Louis swore in French and jogged to retrieve it. We were still on our first game, and it was getting dark. Dad and I played much faster. We could get through three whole sets in under an hour. Dad was much better than me, but it was fun because he could make me run all over and do drop shots and lobs. Louis bounced the ball at the baseline for his second serve. I got my racket on the ball but it pinged into the side of the cage with a dull clang. A shower of rainwater fell from the grid fencing as the ball rolled back to me. First game to Louis. We swapped sides.

My serve. I jogged to the baseline with purpose. I wanted to be back home now. Louis had seen the courts. We just needed to finish the set and go.  

Louis was in position at the other end, bent forward, gripping the purple handle of a racket too large for him.

I served — the ball hit the net. I growled and ran for another in the corner of the court. I coughed. There was still something in my throat.

Second serve. I tossed it and swung my racket — and slipped and landed hard on the wet concrete. 

That was it. Louis. Dad. Tennis. The weekend. It was over.

I got furiously to my feet and found myself heaving like a dog. My vision wobbled. Before Louis could react, I ran for the ramp and was on the field, taking a different route back so he could not follow. I heard Louis call my name, a frightened, distant yell from the tennis court as I turned down a tiny path in the hedges and staggered tearfully through the closing darkness.

At the village green, I stopped running. I leaned on a lamppost and breathed rakishly. My right arm stung.

Night had fallen. The light from the lamppost above formed a dim halo on the pavement around my grassy shoes. I found my breath, wiped a cold hand across my eyes and sniffed noisily. I looked up the road and in my mind followed the line of lampposts to my front door. I set off uphill.

My anger was going cold. Louis. The memory of my name, called in his accent, echoed in my head. I crossed the road and a shock of fear stopped me dead. Louis’ parents. They would be back to pick him up soon. They would ask where Louis was. I was the only one who could say. Mum and Dad glared at me in my imagination. I wheeled around and ran back down the hill, past the village green and the old cottages and down the brambly track to the dark field.

The cage was empty. I called out for Louis. My chest was drumming and my legs were weak. Louis was gone. 

The car crunched on the gravel. The brake lights glared bright red. Christine and Adrien knocked and Mum let them in with hugs and cooing. I felt sick. I waited, then ran down the narrow path to the garden. There was no way in without them seeing me. I knocked and the back door swung inwards.

Mum and Dad were drinking wine at the dining table with Christine and Adrien.

‘Bonjour, Danny!’

Mum flapped her arms theatrically. ‘There you are … What happened to your arm?’ She frowned. ‘Is Louis not with you?’

I swallowed. My knees wobbled. I was breathing hard. I thought he would be here. That we had missed each other. But no. Louis was missing.

Christine asked for me.

‘Danny?’

The heat of four adult gazes burned and I looked away. There was Louis’ laundered school uniform, drying on the radiator. I heard Dad set down his wine glass on the table and cross the room. He kneeled so that I had to look him in the eye. There was gentle concern on his face. I recognised him and sobbed. He cupped my hands in his and, softly, asked me where Louis was.