The Boy from France Read Online Free Page B

one with keys that you hit with sticks.’
    ‘Ah! Gzee-lophone!’
    I laugh. ‘I do love your accent. It makes everything sound better, somehow.’
    He looks crestfallen. ‘I have zee axont? I believe I speak zee good Engleesh, wiv zee good axont. You can tell I am
Français
? It is obveeowse?’
    ‘Yes.’ I giggle. ‘You do have an accent. But don’t worry about it – it’s cute, very charming. Most people love a French accent, honestly – especially
girls.’
    He raises an eyebrow. ‘Ah,
bon
?’
    I look down at the floor, bashfully. I wish I hadn’t mentioned other girls. ‘Yes. And I shouldn’t laugh, not when your English is so much better than my French.’
    ‘I am sure you speak good
Français
.’
    ‘Nah, I’m rubbish. I’m supposed to practise with you.’
    ‘OK.’ He smiles. ‘You will learn me better
Anglais
– wiv zee better axont – and I will learn you
Français
.’
    ‘Deal.’
    Dad’s standing at the door, carrying a tray of tea and biscuits. I don’t think we’ve ever had tea from a teapot, in proper china cups with saucers, before. Usually we have
teabags in chipped mugs, with water poured straight from the kettle. What are my parents thinking?
    ‘Have you ever had English tea, Xavier?’ says Dad. ‘I suppose you’re more used to coffee. I used to get a wonderful cup of coffee in a café in the Left Bank.
Proper coffee. I remember it well.’
    ‘
Mais oui
, of course. We have tea also.’
    Dad sets the tray down on a table. ‘Good, good. Shall I be mother?’
    I cringe. Xavier appears confused again. I shrug at him and roll my eyes. I think the ‘my parents are aliens from another planet’ expression translates internationally.
    Mum shuffles in with her stick and lowers herself into the armchair. She looks exhausted. I’m sure Xavier must have clocked the stick by now, but he’s far too polite to say
anything.
    ‘Sank you, Barbara, for your ’ospitalitee,’ he says. ‘I like very much your ’ome.’
    She grins at him. ‘It’s our pleasure to have you.’
    We drink our tea and eat our biscuits and smile at each other a lot, awkwardly. Mum asks Xavier about his journey and Dad talks about his time in Paris. Xavier tries to appear interested, but it
turns out that he’s only been there once, on a school trip, so he doesn’t have much to say about it. I wish Mum and Dad would leave us alone – I’m not used to getting to
know someone new in front of my parents; I’m nervous enough as it is.
    ‘So,’ says Dad, finally, ‘I thought we’d get a takeaway tonight. Save cooking, and it would be nice for Xavier too.’
    ‘Eengleesh food?’ says Xavier. ‘Cool. I want to try very much.’
    ‘Ah, well, I was actually going to suggest an Indian – which is sort of English food now, you know – or a Chinese.’ Dad laughs. ‘But we can have something properly
English if you prefer. Um, how about fish and chips?’
    ‘Ah
bon
, feesh and sheep?’ says Xavier. ‘It sounds strange, but I weel try.’
    I giggle. ‘Not sheep, chips! Fries! Like
frites
. And we can have mushy peas too, if you like,’ I say.
    ‘Mooshy pizz? Why not!’
    Mum turns her nose up at that idea. ‘Poor Xavier,’ she says. ‘He’s come all the way from France, which has the best food in the world, and on his first night we’re
giving him mushy peas! He’s going to think everything they say about British cuisine is true.’
    But she’s overruled.
    Dad goes to fetch the fish and chips from Pang’s on Kentish Town Road, which is half a Chinese takeaway and half a fish and chip shop. I’ve tried fish and chips from several
different places in Camden and I like Pang’s the best. Dad always enjoys chatting to Mr Pang and, because he likes our family, he always gives us the freshest fish and the newest batch of
chips. The portions are enormous. While Dad’s gone, I show Xavier around the house, pointing out the kitchen and the bathroom, and checking he has everything he needs.