by Graham Hamer
When the floodlit chateau of Versailles came into view, Ian asked Philippe for news of his sister.
“I don't know. I've not seen her since she arrived back from The States. I know we're only ten miles apart now, but we don't keep in regular contact. She knows where I am if she needs me, and vice-versa. I gather she's doing well in her new job, and she seems much happier now she's away from that awful husband of hers.” He glanced at Ian. “And before you ask- so far as I know she remains unattached with no regular men in her life. She's as available as you are.”
“Ah — er — is it as obvious as that?”
Philippe laughed. “It was obvious to me when we came to visit you last year, but it wouldn't have been obvious to anyone else. Claire and I are very close so the spoken word is often unnecessary.”
“Does it bother you?”
“What?”
“The fact that I like Claire.”
“Good heavens - no. Why ever should it?”
“Well, you know, the big brother bit, and all that.”
“She's a grown woman, Ian. She can make her own mind up about what she does and who she meets. It's true that I'll always be there for her, to help her pick up the pieces if necessary, but I'd rather that there weren't any pieces to pick up. She went through a bad time with her ex-husband and I'd hate to see her have to live through that again.” The car drew to a halt in the private car park beneath the apartment block. “We're here.”
As they entered the apartment, the lights were already lit and the air was warm and rich with the aroma of fresh baguettes. There was no other smell like it, redolent of yeast and dough and cereal, like a farmhouse kitchen. Ian rested his suitcase on the floor in the entrance lobby and kicked off his shoes to save the ivory-coloured carpets; a habit that Philippe seemed to appreciate. As he entered the lounge behind his friend, the most penetrating pair of steel-blue eyes in the world shone at him from the settee, kissing him before they even touched.
“Hello stranger,” she said, as she jumped to her feet.
Ian hugged her in delight. “Claire! I don't believe it. Your lying brother was just telling me how he's not seen you for ages and here you were all the time.”
He disentangled from her arms and playfully punched Philippe's shoulder, seeing the likeness in the smile. Taking her hand in his, Ian stood speechless as he studied the full mouth, pert nose and determined chin, noticing for the first time that a tiny dimple appeared in each cheek as she smiled. But his attention was drawn back to her alluring eyes, which twinkled with delight at the success of their surprise. Fascinated to the point of being mesmerized, he spluttered, “Tu — tu as des yeux tellement pénétrants.”
As if waking from a hypnotic trance, he realised what he'd said, and waited for the expected laughter - in place of which, he found himself being kissed, while Philippe went to the kitchen to check on the baguettes.
* * *
Old Kate Qualtrough leaned an attentive ear to the door panel. It was difficult to know exactly what they were saying because one of the voices was so weak. Frank's house was a little bit tidy; certainly much better than his brother Richard's, so her mission of mercy would soon be finished. It was the smell that bothered her. She'd smelt it before when her father had died. It was the smell of sickness, the smell of a body decaying before its time. If only they'd speak up a little. She strained harder, holding her hand over her unoccupied ear, her lips working to mouth the conversation to herself.
“Don't you worry, Frank old chap, these quacks will soon have you up and about again. There's nothing wrong with you that a good holiday won't cure —.
Sorry, you'll have to speak up, old boy, I can't hear you —.
Cancer? Well you don't want to believe everything they tell you. Hey, did I tell you what I was planning to do on that land we bought off that farmer next to Headland View? —
No? Well, Ronald knows a guy who knows one of the planners. He reckons that if we put a couple of good bungs out, we can get planning for two hundred and thirty grot-boxes on there. Of course, we've got to get contracts signed on the last ones at Headland View first, otherwise no-one will want to buy them, but think of it Frank, two hundred and thirty times a lot of money. Or better still, we get the planning and just sell the land. No fuss, no mess, just plenty of profit, old boy. What? —
Hang on, let me just lean a bit closer, then I'll be able to hear you —
That's better. Now what's that about your money? —
Well come on, Frank, you're being a bit sentimental now aren't you? First of all you aren't going to die, and second - well, even if you are, what do you want to leave your stash to Denise for? I mean what's she done for you? We don't even know whether she's your daughter or mine, old chap. And why should we even care? She buggered off with that Gidman boy and we've never set eyes on her since. Eh? —
Well okay, maybe she does have a bit more of your temperament than mine, but you still can't be certain can you? And anyway, what about me, old boy? I mean, I've done all I can to help you and it seems a bit ungrateful to leave all those millions to a kid who can't even be bothered to come and visit you on your death bed —
All right, I admit that I don't actually need the money, Frank, but that's beside the point. Just think; if you leave it all to her, who do you think will benefit? The Gidman boy of course. You seem to be forgetting what his bloody father did to us. I mean, what about my bloody car. Cost me a fortune to have it re-sprayed. No! I tell you, old chap, leaving your money to that girl would be a mistake. Pardon? —
Well all right, old boy, don't go getting upset. Calm yourself down now —.
Yes, yes, of course I'll make the arrangements for you. Listen, you rest now and save your energy. I'll go and kick the bloody solicitor out of bed and get him to draw a will up for you, then I'll come back tomorrow and you can sign it. What? —
Yes, of course, old boy, of course it will be all legal and that. Don't you go worrying; I'll sort it all out for you. Now, do you need anything before I go? Cup of tea, anything like that? No? All right old chap, I'll pop back in the morning and put your mind at rest for you. You know you can trust me don't you.”
Aunt Kate moved away from the door and busied herself flicking a duster around the wilting pot plant.
* * *
“So,” Claire said, with a wiggle of her toes, “can I assume that you've no plans for tomorrow?”
Ian drained his glass and placed it on the low table next to him. “None at all,” he said. “At Philippe's kind invitation, I'll stay here tonight then, tomorrow evening, collect the key to the firm's apartment and dump my things there for the next few weeks. Why, what's the plan?”
“Well, tomorrow being Sunday, we thought you might like to visit the Grandes Eaux.” She pronounced it 'gronzo', rolling both words into one. “Then, since Philippe has some meeting to attend, you can have dinner with me at my apartment in the evening.”
“Perfect,” Ian said. “The only problem is - who, or what is the Gronzo?”
She laughed “Grandes Eaux. Two separate words. They're the fountain displays here in Versailles. They're in the gardens of the chateau and they turn them on for an hour or so each Sunday afternoon in the summer. There are hundreds of ornate fountains and waterfalls, all accompanied by baroque music from speakers hidden in the trees. There's Apollo's Bath, Diana's Fountain, the Colonnade, the —”
“Whoa, Claire, that's enough,” Philippe said, laughing. “If you describe it all to Ian, he'll have nothing to see. Anyway, I imagine the dinner needs a bit of attention doesn't it?”
She jumped up from her place on the settee, next to their guest. “Oh yes. Good job you reminded me. I get a bit er — bit carried away sometimes, Ian.”
Philippe grinned at him. “If your friendship develops you'll have to get used to reminding her of things. She can be a bit forgetful can Claire.”
Ian returned the grin. “Talking of which, I nearly forgot. Do you mind if I use your phone?”
&nb
sp; “You don't have a mobile?”
“No. Don't want one either - bloody things. I just want to give Pete and Denise a ring. I promised I'd let them know when I'd arrived okay. Poor old man. I get treated like a bloody kid sometimes.”
“Of course. Be my guest. How's Pete getting on by the way?”
“He's fine. He's now the assistant maintenance technician at Three Leggs. How's that for a fancy-sounding title?”
“And what of Sean himself?”
“Couldn't be better. Mind you, he's so into his diving that we see less and less of him as the months go by. Like I said on the way here, he's already thinking of easing away from the business soon - go and lie in the sun under fifty feet of tropical sea.”
As Philippe flipped through his collection of discs, choosing something suitable for the evening, Ian stood up to make his call. On impulse, he poked his head around the kitchen door. Claire was busy, turning tiny cubes of potato in a large frying pan, making sure that they were browned on all sides. He gazed at her for a moment, not wishing to interrupt her routine, but fascinated by her flowing movements. It was as if she were liquid, each gesture following on smoothly from the last, each movement precise, economical and perfectly balanced. Her face was a little fuller now than when they had met a year before - the tiredness replaced by a healthy tan and a contented smile.
SUNDAY 25 MAY
“Good morning Frank, old chap, how are you feeling this morning? Ye Gods, it smells awful in here, can't you do something about opening the window? Ronald, throw that window open, will you Let's have some fresh air. Right, Frank, I got the solicitor to draw your will up. He didn't much like doing it at a weekend, but I applied a little fiscal pressure on him. Just as you said - everything left to Denise. The only little change I made was to add a bit about you leaving your shares in Bishops Road Developments to me. I know it was a bit presumptuous of me, old boy, but since it represents the company that I founded, I didn't think you'd mind. After all, there's plenty left for the girl, isn't there. What? —
Ah well, that's very kind of you to say so, old boy. Now then, down to the details of the will. Do you want to read it? —
Your glasses? No idea, old chap, when did you last have them? —
Ronald, have a look around and see if you can find Frank's glasses for him, will you? —
No? Well not to worry. Shall I read it to you Frank? —
Okay, it says - I Frank Winfield Tweedle being of sound body and mind - your mind is sound isn't it, Frank? I know the old body's letting you down a bit, but there's bugger all wrong with the mind is there? So, I Frank Winfield Tweedle being of sound body and mind and currently residing at blah, blah, blah, do hereby bequeath my forty nine shares in Bishops Road Developments Limited to my brother, Richard Anthony Tweedle. The residue of my estate, I leave exclusively to my only niece, Denise Pamela Tweedle. So signed and witnessed etc. etc —There, that's it —
Well I know it's a bit simple, Frank, but it would be impossible to make it complicated, wouldn't it. I mean all you've done is leave me your shares and everything else to Denise. Pardon? —
Who? Ronald? Well don't you worry about old Ron, here. He's here to witness it for you, so he can't be a beneficiary. I'll make sure he's all right though, won't I Ronald?
A second witness? No problem, I'll get someone to do that later.
Now, all it needs is your signature, Frank. Here you go, let's get the old arm out of bed — That's it, nice and gentle. Now, just place your moniker right there at the end of my finger. Yes, yes, that's it, right there —
No, well don't worry that it's a bit scratchy, old boy, as long as we have an independent witness, any mark made by you will be sufficient —
So, there you are, Frank. All signed sealed and delivered. No problems. I'll take it to the solicitor's office in the morning. Pardon? —
Ah well, that's very kind of you to say so, old chap. It's been nothing really. Nothing that anyone wouldn't do for his own brother. So, do you want me to close the window as we go, or shall I leave it open until the nurse calls? What time's she due, by the way? —
You had two nurses yesterday? Well, they really are looking after you, aren't they, old boy. Oh well, I guess one of them will be here soon, so Ronald and I will just toddle along. I'll call in again tomorrow and see how you're doing, alright?”
As Richard Tweedle's car disappeared up the road, another car pulled in front of Frank Tweedle's house. A pretty young nurse with the cherry red fingernails and long, black hair stepped out and adjusted her dress. It was time for Mr Tweedle's morphine injection, poor man. She must hurry though, because the other nurse might arrive soon.
* * *
“Come in, Ian, and make yourself at home,” Claire said. “I'm just going to get some food on the go, then we can sit down and have a little aperitif together. Choose some music for us. The stereo is over there and the CDs are in the wall unit over there. You can come through to the kitchen and keep me company once you've found out where everything is.”
Ian let go of her hand and entered her lounge through the ornate double doors. His first impression was of unaccustomed smells that somehow seemed as familiar as his own fingertips – her perfume, dried flowers, ground coffee beans and freshly-laundered clothes His second impression was of space. The apartment's main room was much larger than he had imagined, with two tall windows, split down the middle and opening inwards in typical French style. Crossing the room to the nearest window, he glanced across the boulevard, then down to the early evening traffic, which was light - taking a Sunday rest before Monday's renewed onslaught. It all felt so very — well, so very French. Tree lined avenues, ornate green Morris columns, Métro stations, shop signs with all the names he had learnt at school as a teenager - la boulangerie - la boucherie - la brasserie - all had confirmed where he was, and who he was with.
He turned back to scan the room. It was tidy but lived in. A newspaper lay folded on the settee. Not neatly folded, just folded. The central light was an ornate fitting, with chiselled leaves and graceful, sweeping branches, but only eight of its nine bulb-holders were occupied; the other awaiting it's owner's pleasure. But it didn't matter; it added homeliness and comfort to the elegance of the building. Despite its size and elaborate architecture, the room was intimate and unassuming, setting its visitor at ease.
A wide, arched opening linked the sitting room to the dining area where six exquisitely formed chairs guarded an oval dining table made from solid mahogany; the polished surface reflecting the remains of the evening light. Three large bookcases took up the length of one wall. None of them matched but all were of a similar style, rather like the ones he'd seen in some of Britain's stately homes - tall, carved, and very full of books. He'd heard once that it was possible to tell a person's character from the books they read, so he stepped to the nearest set of shelves to survey the titles. Molière and Ellis Peters rubbed shoulders with Robert Van Guilk and Daniel Rops. An illustrated volume of the paintings of Gustav Klimt sat next to a ponderous tome by Antoine Blondin. There was certainly nothing regular about her reading habits. As he wondered what Freud would have made of it, her voice from the kitchen interrupted his thoughts.
“What's happened to the music, Ian?”
“Sorry,” he called back. “I was just looking at all your books.”
Claire's head appeared round the kitchen door. Her eyes twinkled and her cheeks wore dimple-indents. “Why? Were you planning to do some reading this evening?”
* * *
“I'm so sorry, Richard. It all happened so suddenly, didn't it? He seemed a little better this morning, and now - well, now he's —”
“He's bloody dead,” Richard said. “And let's cut the grief, you look as though you've been practicing it in front of a mirror. Come on in, old chap, don't stand on the doorstep all night.”
Scott followed him across the hallway.
“So, the flabby bugger's heart gave out before the Big C got him,” Richard said, as they ent
ered the living room. “Perhaps it was a combination of the two, who knows? Anyway, he's dead and gone and not a care in the world now. It looks like we were just in time this morning.”
“Seems that way,” Scott said.
“Sit down, old boy, sit down.” Richard rubbed his hands together and crossed to the battered bureau in the alcove next to the fireplace. The roll top was already up, exposing an untidy muddle of papers and documents, which he pushed to one side. He reached to the back of the shelf and withdrew a thick envelope.
“Well thank you. Quite unnecessary,” Scott said, grabbing the package before it was withdrawn.
“Just a little bonus on me. It was handy having you at Frank's this morning, added a touch of realism, don't you think?”
“Good job he couldn't actually read the will.”
Richard laughed, stopping as he began to cough. He pointed to the low table next to the settee. “He'd have had a hell of a job, I brought his glasses back with me yesterday.”
Scott followed the direction of the pointing finger. He cackled and scratched his crotch when he saw Frank's spectacle case next to the overflowing ashtray. “You wicked bugger, Mr Tweedle.”
Richard lit a fresh cigarette. “After that fracas with the old man's will, that's how I like it, old chap. Certainty!” He left the room, returning a moment later with a bottle of brandy and poured generous measures into two glasses. He looked up through half-closed eyes. “We got a good result today, Ronald, old boy. I've just been doing a few calculations and I reckon I'm worth a tidy sum - quite a tidy sum indeed. And if I win the appeal on the old man's will, I'll be worth a bundle more. We can stop playing now and get in the big league. Let's bung whoever we need to bung, and get the outline planning on that land next to Headland View, then sell it for a quick profit. I've had enough of playing at being builder; I think we can start looking at broader horizons.”