Of Love and of Loss

A little girl with flaxen hair in pigtails, a gap where her front teeth used to be, a hand-knitted cardigan.
Not a girly girl - a tomboy, always on a rope swing, climbing trees; a rebel, a naughty girl, too often over her mother's knee. 
Her name? Virginie.

I was with her little brother in a park today. Such an odd couple we made, sitting in the dappled shade of one of the small parks off Rue Luxembourg near the flash glasshouse of the European Parliament. 
I had time to spare, French class not due to start until 9am, so the park beckoned; one corner of it, where the sun shines early in the morning slanting long shadows across sandy paths. A rare moment when there is nothing to be done except sit and, perhaps, write a little.

It's quiet in here. Close by, on the other side of the railings, smart women click clack on heels and the teenage girls are all casual prettiness, perfect mussy hair and flat shoes. The teenage boys have that lop-sided shuffle and cocky-cum-gawky rolling gait while most of the older men are in suits - identikit beings in jackets and trousers albeit in varying shades of blue. They move with that important 'should have been there 5 minutes ago' briskness.

I clock Virginie's brother immediately, walking more slowly than all the others. As the rat race rushes about him he turns into the park, to a bench, to the only bench in the sun, my bench. 
Seventies, possibly 60s, difficult to tell. He doesn't look like he's slept well - shadows under the eyes, stubble round his chin, unkempt grey receding hair. A bit of a tremor to his hands and an unevenness to his gait. Perhaps he hasn't slept at all. Perhaps he doesn't have a bed to sleep in. 

He sits at the opposite end of the bench and I see the suit he wears is not so smart. A little frayed at the cuffs and the ankles. The odd faint stain here and there. He must be hot in that overcoat.
I'm uncomfortable that he has chosen to sit so near. But there is no threat from him, none at all.
I keep writing but I'm constantly aware of him. He sits for a while, doing nothing, but glances across several times. I nod - a polite acknowledgement - and am not surprised when he speaks.

He points at the book. 
What am I doing, he wants to know. What am I writing about? 
I pause, just for a second, considering a myriad of options. But can't bring myself to lie. 
'I am writing to my son,' I say. 'He died and I like to write to him.'
 I immediately regret it. It comes out more abruptly than I intended. 
I think I said it half hoping it might shut him up, make him go away.

He doesn't do any of the things I might have expected. He doesn't say he is sorry for my loss, or ask any questions or apologise or redden with embarrassment; he may have crumpled a little, I'm not sure. But he doesn't go away. He simply sits back against the bench.

A blackcap chatters deep in the foliage of the nearest tree. I'm aware of its song filling a sudden, odd vacuum that wasn't there before.
I shouldn't have said what I said. I start to stand up, language failing where an apology should be, but he holds out his arm and flaps his hand, motioning me to sit again, asking me to wait. Something he wants me to see.

He leans forward, loosens the cords of  his shopping trolley - a grubby, tartan-patterned two-wheeled contraption he'd pulled into the park behind him.
I see that it quite possibly contains all that is left in his world.
A thin duvet comes out first, then a pillow, odds and sods of clothing, he piles them on to the bench; some packets of biscuits, cans of beer, and then, arm right in, shoulder deep, he hits somewhere near the bottom and emerges, a little frazzled, holding a book.

A photo album.
He nods encouraging me to take it. I don't want it but I have been rude already. So I hold it while he starts gathering his things again. He sees me doing nothing with it and gestures at me enthusiastically, using his hands to mime the opening of a book.
It feels wrong and intrusive and I am embarrassed by all his things. By the pieces of his life. By what people might think. The pillow is now on the ground and it will get dirty. But he seems not to care.

The album is barely whole. The sticky bits no longer sticky, the cellophane torn, some of the pages browning, others missing. It is held together by a few bits of fake leather and threads of brittle cotton.
But in the middle, still stuck under the cellophane, two photos. 
Two children, beaming faces, a boy and a girl.

In both pictures the girl is hugging the boy. She is a few years older, possibly 12, maybe 13. She is clearly in charge, holding the little boy tightly across his middle. She has long hair in pigtails, a gap in her front teeth, a slouchy cardigan straight from a knitting pattern. The boy is mop-haired, thin cheeks, a shirt that looks too big for him.
The pictures are black and white and it is impossible to date them. This man's grandchildren, perhaps?
But no.

He leans over and prods the photograph. The boy in the picture is him...and the girl holding him fast, his sister, Virginie. 'My Virginie,' he says. And he pats that part of his chest where his heart beats.
'God took her,' he said. A pause. He visibly gathers himself. Not long after the photographs were taken. A fever of some sort. He shrugs at the detail.....'what does it matter what they called it. She died.'

Then: 'It is the worst......to lose a part of you. It is the very worst. Nothing is the same.' 
This shabby man speaks with such dignity and I don't know what to say for a moment. Then I ask about her and he tells me how she liked to run and how he always tried to keep up with her. And how she was disobedient and wild. And he laughs out loud.


We communicate clumsily, using Franglais and sign language. I tell him she is beautiful. I think I say the right things...but it goes to show that in the face of another's grief, we are all made mute, clumsy - even when we have a similar story to tell.

The world scurries around us, yet for a few moments this noisy city is forgotten, the years peeling back as I see Virginie, her life and death, played out in this man's eyes.
Virginie. Who was always in trouble, the big sister who refused to be the tidy, pretty, home-spun girl his mother wanted her to be.

He pulls out a handkerchief from a pocket and mops his eyes and I'm not sure whether he's rheumy or tearful. I wonder at the hold this long-dead sibling, this little Cathy Earnshaw, has on him, still. 

I try to picture him as a little boy on little legs chasing the sister he adored. I wonder, did her death at the beginning of his life ultimately lead to him being here on this bench, worn and frayed and sad, with a shopping trolley for a home. I wonder about his mother and his father. Where are their photographs? But he has told me what he wants to tell me and will say no more.

He tells me I am saying her name wrong though. I am saying VirginiA. I ask him to spell it and he is delighted when I write it in my book.

Then he starts packing his things away and I give him back the album. He asks me your name and I misunderstand  and give him my name instead.
'Votre fils, Nicholas?' he says (with no pronunciation of the 'S')
'Thomas,' I say. Digging into my bag I show him your picture. 'Voici Thomas'.
'Thomas, Thomas, Thomas,' he says, looking at the photograph. 'Bonjour Thomas!'

And then. 'It is hard..no?' And I want to say yes, it is hard, but that because of you, Thomas, I meet people and hear such stories. But my French fails and I just say 'Oui, mais pas encore'.
There is a little more talk about other things of no importance....and I can tell he wants to be off. He pushes himself up and fastens the trolley. I sit there, feeling useless. Should I offer him money? I can't bear that it might humiliate him. He pats my hand and his palm is raspy and dry.
He says something - I can't fathom it so I say just say 'thank you'. And off he goes.
Near the railings, before leaving the park he turns and gives a mock bow before he sets off for who knows where.

Where is he now, I wonder?
 Perhaps in another park, on another bench, talking about the sister he loved and lost? Making friends of strangers just to have the chance to say her name out loud?