Reflections of Sunflowers Read Online Free PDF Page A

are seated and blowing gently, finding their lip. Suddenly there are three trumpets, and two trombones. They are coming from all directions. Another sax player, as large as the other one is small, sits beside him and unpacks his instrument. What time are they due to begin? Eleven o’clock? They seem in no hurry. We order another drink.
    As eleven sounds from the clock tower over the great
Porte de Paris
, a third trombone is greeted by the assembled players, all adjusting their chairs, and blowing little runs and trills. The shady spaces are almost gone and the sun growing stronger. Just as we think they must be complete, the euphonium player makes a spectacular late entrance befitting the size of his gleaming instrument. He is accompanied by his wife who, seeing him settled, takes the car keys and disappears only to return with a tambourine to sit next to the leader. After another exchange of hats and more ribaldry, Sammy Davis seeming a willingbutt, the leader at last taps for attention and counts four.
    They start with a
paso doble
. It is such a relief that they’ve actually begun that it takes a moment to realise that they are not very good. But they are loud. The crowds, pouring through the archway into the boulevard, are momentarily startled and slow down to listen. Some put down their shopping, and fold their arms, others walk on with heads turned to look back. There are a few collisions, for many carry great pots of flowers, canna lilies a metre high, morning glories trailed up a wicker pyramid, giant hibiscus in pink and white. They grin at the musicians who play determinedly on and on, hardly a pause between each number, the music unfamiliar but predictable.
    The temperature rises, the players mop their brows, tilting back the straw boaters. The wife disappears again and returns with a large bottle of Evian. The euphonium drinks first. There is the briefest of pauses before they flip over their laminated dots clipped to the stands and, after a count of three, off they go again. This time it is a waltz and a pair of middle-aged women at the next table get up to dance. The crowd is beginning to enjoy it. As some drift reluctantly away, mindful of chores to be done, others take their place. The sun blazes down. The strip of shade is diminishing. The thought of our cool, blue pool urges us to return home and, as we leave, the proprietorof the Café Tortoni emerges, to a round of applause, with two extra umbrellas to give those on the outside edge a little extra shade. We go home to swim and eat cucumber salad and a large and succulent-looking quiche, which we’ve bought from the
charcuterie
.

C HAPTER F OUR
    The last time we managed a spring visit was in 2001, when we tried a new route, flying very cheaply from Stansted to Bordeaux. The coach ride from Victoria to Stansted felt rather elderly and stately, but I actually enjoyed seeing London from such a high point of view. I also enjoyed the lack of responsibility for getting there on time. It is a long way and we were in the very competent hands of a fresh-faced, chatty, driver, wearing an earring. We Buzzed to Bordeaux; no-frills flying. In fact there was just as much space as on a flight to Antigua, to which we had treated ourselves a few months before, and considerably less junk; no pillows, socks, earphones, or blanket to juggle with, and no tightly wrapped condiments and cutlery to enrage one, only to be dropped, irretrievably, onthe floor or down one’s shirt. This time we simply chose from a tray of delicious sandwiches, which were so well filled that we found it enough to share one, deciding to keep the other to eat later. Alas, we had temporarily forgotten the foot and mouth epidemic. We were not allowed to take our sandwich off the plane. Firm but unexpectedly generous, the stewardess refunded the cost of the uneaten sandwich.
    Our hire car was almost brand new and it was wonderful to be motoring once more along the uncluttered French roads. That April