A Stranger in Paris

by Karen Webb

  ‘Ça va, là-dedans?’ Florence called, with a hint of impatience.

  ‘Ça va bien!’ I replied, willing her not to hobble in.

  I weighed up the situation. There were only two possible places the water could go. I must have chosen the wrong one. I took out the wet filter and stuffed it into the bin, and started again, this time pouring the water into the side vents, wondering the whole time how, with the coffee and the water separated in this manner, the two would ever meet.

  I was as relieved as if I’d delivered one of Madame Blanchard’s children, when minutes later with much gurgling and glugging, a jet of hot coffee gushed into the jug. I returned proudly to the salon balancing the coffee jug on a tray. Naturellement the coffee was too strong, and Hugo spat it back out into his cup in disgust.

  ‘Fuck! What is this shit?’

  So, he could speak English after all.

  Marcel politely drained his cup and swallowed with a slight shake of the head, grabbing a black chocolate from the bowl and knocking it to the back of his throat like an aspirin. Florence put her cup down and sucked on the end of her spoon.

  ‘Ma chèrie,’ she said, ‘why don’t you do some ironing now. This is usually what the au pair girls do until it is time to collect the children from school. Fuschia will accompany you today as they do not know you, and I cannot walk so well.’

  Florence explained that Fuschia had set up the ironing board in the basement, and that I would find the stairs to the lower level at the end of the hallway.

  Dismissed, I left the room in time to hear Hugo mutter something beneath his breath which set the other two off laughing.

  Red-faced, I located the door to the cellar half-hidden behind a coat-rack, and clicked on the light. The steps curved downwards into the smell of warm leather. The stone stairwell was littered with pairs of boots and trainers. Wicker baskets of sprouting potatoes nestled in the dark, next to bicycle pumps and various other objects: a skateboard, straw hats on pegs, an old gardening coat, and other paraphernalia from the Blanchard household. I followed the winding stairs downwards to the cellar; deep into the bowels of the family home.

  Here, beneath the house, a network of pipes ran across the ceilings and along the wall from the boiler. I touched one. It was boiling hot. The room smelt, not unpleasantly, of engine oil; the same smell Dad carried on his white work overalls when he came home from the airport. It made me want to cry. A single light bulb flickered on. It was a strangely warm and comforting refuge, like a nest or a submarine, far removed from the upstairs world of domesticity and orders.

  In my dreams, I’d considered climbing the Eiffel Tower in Paris, holding David’s hand, or dancing like Fred Astaire and Ginger Rogers down the Champs Elysées. Instead, for now at least, I was happy to be in a basement room, somewhere west of Paris, far from the sound of Hugo’s sarcastic laugh.

  I thought about all the other jeune fille au pairs who had stood here: au pairs with eggs in their shoes, or salt in their tea instead of sugar. There was an old radio hanging on a hook on the wall. I switched it on. To my surprise, Radio 4 crackled out. It was Jenny Murray – Woman’s Hour.

  The girl before me must have been English too, and I slipped into her place. The crackling and whistling signal wasn’t good, but still it felt like home. The water pipes babbled and the boiler clicked on.

  I leant against the ironing board and considered the immense pile of washing in the basket. Just as I feared, the first thing to greet me was a pair of Axel Blanchard’s underpants. It seemed strange to consider them. They were blue and red, and slightly ridiculous with jaunty white sailing boats around the waistband. I imagined how they lay beneath his sober suit the whole day, while he sat in board-meetings wearing the secret flamboyant pants that no-one saw; no-one except Florence, and now me. As I started to sort the clothes from the basket I thought of my best friend Scarlett who would be in Milan by now, starting work at her new language school. I wasn’t sure when I’d see Paris or be given a day off or manage to attend the French lessons I’d enrolled in at l’Institut Catholique on the rue de Rennes. Wherever that was.

  I arranged a mountain of socks into pairs, realising that socks were the same the world over: grey and worn at the heel, and most often bereft of a partner – it didn’t matter how big in business you were, or how many articles there were written about you in magazines. There was usually a potato in your heel.

  After a time, the folding became therapeutic: sorting out the lives of others before I could begin my own. I was familiar with the children’s clothing before meeting them, sensing the personality behind Clémence’s girlish princess pinks or Delphine’s green tomboy jerseys, almost indistinguishable from Baptiste’s own.

  The radio crackled out a travel piece on cruises. I imagined the pounding of the sea in the glugging pipes above my head, safe in my warm and oily submarine.

  I closed my eyes, lost in thought, until with a shiver I sensed I might no longer be alone. I was not.

  There was a shadow on the wall of a trilby hat. Beneath it, the broad-shouldered form of a man. It was Marcel. He moved down the stairs and across the room to the ironing board, ducking beneath the low ceiling and pipes. Surfacing before me, he removed his hat and gave a theatrical bow.

  Then, before I had time to comprehend, he kissed me gently, stepped back, replaced his hat and smiled.

  ‘Au revoir, mademoiselle,’ he said, and was gone, bounding up the stone steps, two at a time.

  Chapter 6

  A few minutes before four o’clock, an alarm clock, positioned on the water pipes above my head, let out a shrill ring. I pressed the off button and heard the door at the top of the cellar steps grind open. Fuschia’s thick, homely legs appeared step by step, as she padded down in her worn espadrilles.

  I had been ironing for two hours, pounding hot metal onto cuffs and collars, turning the children’s sweatshirts inside out as I learnt the hard way, that the images stuck to the bottom of the iron if you didn’t. Lost in thought to the crackle of my radio (and except for one interruption involving an architect in a trilby) I’d blotted out the world upstairs. Surely I wouldn’t have to meet these unruly, egg-breaking children, let alone take care of them.

  The idea of my taking care of three children seemed suddenly absurd. Children were an unknown species to me. I didn’t as yet have a maternal bone in my body. These would grow later.

  I consoled myself that in a few weeks, once I’d found David, I’d be gone. This was a temporary blip.

  Fuschia approached the ironing board, the shadow of her bulky frame rising before me. One of Axel’s socks, hanging on the line above her head, tickled the top of her turban.

  ‘C’est l’heure de l’école. On y va?’

  She smiled encouragingly and pointed to the clock.

  I knew what she was saying: it was school-time; time to meet my wards. But my feet had rooted to the floor.

  ‘On y va,’ I said, with a heavy heart.

  We clanged the wrought-iron gate shut and set off. Fuschia was wearing a light rain-coat over a colourful, long green dress that matched her turban. She carried a black bag which she swung jauntily. It was enormous, and looked more like an old briefcase than a handbag. One of Axel’s cast-offs perhaps?

  Outside the school gates a determined crowd had gathered and was waiting with intent. Mothers stared anxiously at the gates. I was at a disadvantage as I didn’t know who I was looking for and didn’t want to rush up and hug the wrong children. There weren’t any men present, unless you counted the policeman brandishing the STOP sign on the zebra crossing.

  The other mothers were quick to check me out. This was a French habit which would become familiar over the years: a hard stare from top to bottom and back up again, taking in every item of clothing, breast size and hair style. A woman with a pushchair nudged her friend and said with a disparaging look: ‘Une jeune fille au pair.’

  The two women were dressed neatly in prim blue dresses and those kitten-heel shoes suit
able for church on Sundays. Both women were wearing scarves, Hermès no doubt.

  At the back of the crowd two tall blonde girls were laughing and speaking loudly in a language which wasn’t French. German perhaps? Or Dutch?

  They must have been au pairs too. The crowd was divided into women who had given birth and were waiting for their progeny, and those who hadn’t but were living the experience at the expense of their host families.

  The gates opened, and a swarm of children emerged, laden down with huge satchels on their backs. One boy, who looked about six, was bent double. Surely, he couldn’t have that much homework. There wasn’t a single child without a heavy bag strapped to its back like paramilitary army kit. The locker concept had not hit France, nor was it endorsed over the years, to protect children from spinal strain, despite yearly articles of woe from paediatricians.

  The children wore the solemn look of wartime refugees in their neat shorts and socks. They did not wear school uniforms and yet their clothes were less colourful and childlike than the clothes of English children; there were less Disney motifs or cutesy anthropomorphic mice. Most were dressed as miniature adults. Later I learnt this was very ‘western suburbs of Paris’: the plaid skirts for girls in traditional blues and greens; the neat little shirts and shorts for the boys – all procured from shops such as Cyrillus or Tartine et Chocolat. Though Florence was far from traditional herself, her children were turned out in keeping with her class and social situation.

  A skinny, blonde girl with fine straight hair skidded to a halt in front of Fuschia and kissed her on the cheek. Her pale almond eyes were perfectly set in a heart-shaped face.

  There was no mistaking her angelic features. Clémence was every inch her mother’s child.

  I knew, from the application in The Lady magazine that she was six years old, but she checked me out from top to bottom, as if I was being assessed for the position by the head of Human Resources.

  ‘Je suis Clémence,’ she said, sweetly but knowingly, as if aware of her charms. I felt her small hand as it slipped into mine.

  Fuschia prodded me and pointed to the railings near the park. A taller version of Clémence scowled by the gate in the shadow of an oak.

  ‘Et voici ma sœur,’ Clémence said, pointing to her sister, ‘elle s’appelle Delphine.’

  I was wondering whether to go over to Delphine and say hello, when a dark-haired boy with a mass of black curly hair bounced up and threw his bag down, almost breaking my toe. His face hadn’t yet grown to accommodate his new teeth, lending him a toothy, cheeky look. His dark brown eyes, with their thick brush lashes, and his full rosebud lips, would break hearts one day.

  He kissed me hard on the cheek, almost knocking me over. I wasn’t entirely comfortable with all this hand-holding and cheek-kissing. My family wasn’t tactile at the best of times.

  ‘Je suis Baptiste,’ he said.

  The set of three was complete: Clémence, holding my hand; Baptiste, charming as hell and looking nothing like his father; and Delphine, sulking.

  To my alarm, Fuschia raised her hand to bid us au revoir and headed off towards the station, her oversized espadrilles flapping the pavement.

  I wondered in panic if I could remember the way home, but Clémence (I could almost kiss her) liked to take charge and pulled me down the street. Baptiste followed by my side, head down as he shuffled a pack of cards. I looked behind and saw that Delphine was following us. She was tall and angular, much like her father. She stuck out her tongue.

  Clémence explained: ‘Elle pense qu’elle est assez grande pour rentrer seule.’ The youngest girl was right. Her elder sister was big enough to walk home by herself and had every reason to sulk. To be honest she looked more capable than I was. I felt a little afraid of her.

  Back at the house the plates from lunchtime were piled neatly by the kitchen sink, unwashed. I gathered these were waiting for me, and I felt a prick of annoyance that while I’d been busy ironing and picking up her kids, Florence hadn’t thought to wash up.

  The children ran around the kitchen pulling open doors, extracting boxes of breakfast cereal, banging milk onto the table, and taking out packets of cheese and jars of jam. There was half a baguette left from lunchtime which they tore into pieces like hyenas. I watched in amazement. This was easy. The children were making their own dinner! Clémence opened the coffee cupboard and took out a tablet of chocolate, breaking it into three chunks, which she distributed so that each child could insert a piece into their morsel of bread.

  ‘Pain au chocolat,’ Olivier explained, with his mouth full.

  I sat down and watched. Delphine had cut herself a chunk of cheese which she spread with cherry jam. She spoke in rapid French to her brother and sister without looking at me, and I was certain she was speaking quickly so that I wouldn’t understand.

  Florence must still be resting. I hadn’t seen her since lunchtime. I knew Marcel had left (my stomach lurched at the thought of his secret goodbye kiss), but had Moody Hugo gone? Surely, he wouldn’t be lurking upstairs with Axel Blanchard due home so soon – even if he was a friend. I couldn’t imagine any of the men I knew being pleased to return home after a hard day at the office, to find a glowering hulk of a man in their private chambers.

  The gates outside creaked open. I looked through the window and saw a grey-haired lady wheeling in an enormous bicycle. The wicker basket at the front was piled high with shopping.

  ‘Mamie!’ Mathilda screamed, throwing her head back and spreading her arms out rigidly as if she was having a fit. She ran to open the door, while I brushed myself down.

  The lady parked her bike by the hedge and attached a metal chain. With her neat grey bun, tweed skirt and jacket, tan tights (despite the warm weather) and sensible shoes, she looked as if she was off to audition for the part of Miss Marple.

  I opened the door, and she held out a bag of croissants and pains au chocolat. I took the bag and shook her hand.

  ‘I’m Bonne-Maman,’ she said, which was clearly not just jam with a pretty patterned lid, but a way of addressing grandmothers, ‘the mother of Florence. I am come to see how you are settling in and how my daughter is doing.’

  The children’s grandmother, who told me her name was Françoise, took immediate possession of the kitchen in much the same way as her daughter had at lunchtime. She cast a disapproving look at the pile of food in the middle of the table, the puddle of milk slopped out of its carton, the cheese wrappers and dirty knives, the pat of butter streaked with jam.

  Bonne-Maman stripped off her tweed jacket, and rolled up the sleeves of her turquoise chemise, barking out orders until, within minutes, the kitchen table had been tidied with military precision. The food was not put away, but rearranged tidily on the table, with small plates, knives and plastic beakers. I gathered that I was at fault for allowing the children to eat like pigs at a trough. Once satisfied, Françoise distributed her pastries and offered me the last pain au chocolat.

  ‘To keep you strong,’ she said, ‘we don’t want you having a malaise like the last girl.’

  It was clear from the old woman’s tone that my strength must be kept up not for my benefit, but to ensure that I remained strong and ox-like to preserve Florence’s own health. She filled a glass full of milk, and insisted I drink it. I wasn’t used to the French habit of drinking sterilised milk, gagging at its latent odour, but she waited until I had drunk the whole glass as if I was one of the children. She was fattening me up like a Russian peasant, so I could better plough the fields. Soon she would be checking the density of my bones.

  I was surprised that French dinner was so pastry-orientated. I had imagined meats and vegetables, but it was a huge relief. Even I could manage dinners like this one. I had been worried it would be snails, rabbit, or offal.

  Once we had finished the children were sent to their rooms to complete their homework. Even Clémence had a colouring project which she had to finish. Bonne-Maman sat at the table and watched me tidy up.

 
‘Soon it is les grandes vacances and I will be taking you to Trémouillet,’ she said. ‘It is where we always spend la Toussaint in autumn, and a fortnight in the summer, before we go down to Aix-en-Provence to open up the house there.’

  It was the first I’ve heard of a trip away and I’d no idea where Trémouillet was. I’d forgotten the school year was ending soon, and that the children would shortly be a permanent fixture in my life. No more solitary ironing in the submarine.

  ‘C’est où ça?’ I asked in my best French.

  ‘Trémouillet is not a town,’ she said in English, ‘it is the family château. Sadly, we are not able to go there so often, but the guardian and his wife, Monsieur et Madame Villard, manage it perfectly.’

  ‘You own a château you don’t live in?’

  ‘Our lives are in Paris, but the children enjoy it from time to time. It is a pretty place with a moat. Medieval in origin. You will be most fulfilled. There is a large kitchen for the preparation of jams and foods.’

  She looked at me expectantly.

  ‘We have copper pans for the preparation of cherry jam and other jellies. And bien évidemment there will be the courgettes and aubergines to make ratatouille for winter.’ In autumn there will be mushrooms to collect, and we will teach you to identify those which make a good omelette with garlic from the “Trumpets of Death”.

  Did Bonne-Maman really imagine I’d be bottling jams and stocking up the winter pantry?

  ‘Will Florence and Axel be coming?’ I asked quickly. Only they knew the exact terms of my contract.

  She laughed.

  ‘Mais non. Axel has much work to do and Florence is busy with her atelier. I take the children every year, before I must hand them over to Mamie’. She saw my look of confusion. ‘I am Bonne-Maman Françoise, and the other grandmother is Mamie Colette. The mother of Axel.’ She said this with a sniff and shake of her head.

  ‘And where does Mamie Colette live?’ I asked.

  ‘She lives in Paris,’ the old woman said, shaking her head, ‘at the foot of the Tour Eiffel. Never will she leave the city. She does not know the joy of mushroom picking or hunting for deer in open air. For her a truffle is something you order Chez Fauchon, whereas at the château, we have our own pigs to root for them and woods grown especially for the truffles that were planted by my grandfather. Des truffières.’