Broken homes

There were two spots we used to go to during lunchtimes. Jacques’ parents were renovating a house. A real renovation, starting from the shell; bricks-and-mortar type stuff. There was some old gym equipment left by the previous owners on the second floor. It was one of those cable machines with multiple exercise options. The whole place was heaped in dust, but we’d go there after having a kebab at Maxime’s dad’s restaurant. We used to remove all our school clothes at the entrance of the gym room, work out wearing only our boxers and shoes, then get dressed and go back to school for showers.

The family never seemed to be getting anywhere with the renovations; that was another thing. Jacques was the son of an English couple who’d moved to the Alps and raised him French. Every time we went, the dad would be outside in the garden, moving piles of rubble around, but the interior remained derelict the entire time I was there. Maxime used to just chill and talk to us as we did push-ups and pull-ups. He couldn’t be bothered with all the faffing around with clothes.

The other spot where we used to hang out during lunchtimes was an abandoned house. Properly abandoned. The kind you see in WWII movies, where the wall’s blown out by shellfire and the second floor just hangs there in empty space, strangely exposed to the world like the cross-section of a doll’s house. We’d clamber up there and relax on a couple of sofas. The smokers would get out their hashish, crumble some off and light up.

I remember one afternoon when Jacques’ best mate, Charles – who’d only joined our group a couple of times – smoked far too much. I think he was dealing with some trouble at home. Later that day, at the back of computer class, he collapsed. His face slammed onto the keyboard, and then his limp body fell to the ground. As those of us around him leapt off our high stools to help, the IT teacher rushed over, asking what had happened. While someone explained, Charles murmured quietly on the floor, as if enveloped in the most comforting of dreams. Then came the absurdity of the teacher gently taking Charles by the ankles and dragging his semi-conscious body down the aisles of computers to the front of the room, across the floor and out of the door, holding it open with his heel. We slowly returned to our chairs, watching with fascination.

---