A Stranger in Paris

by Karen Webb

  ‘Deal!’ said Jessica, banging her glass down too. She reached across the table and they clasped hands.

  Jessica glanced over to the sink where I was busy scrubbing pans. ‘I’m moving into the cottage and helping out with the gardening until Florence is better,’ she announced. ‘I might be doing a bit of painting, too.’

  The cottage, I discovered, was a house at the bottom of the garden. The first I’d heard of any such place. I was soon to discover that this was a small stone building, in a row of neat, white houses in the street behind which led to the station. It was not a grand turn-of-the-century house like the main house, but it served its purpose. Monsieur Blanchard explained that when he and his wife heard it had come onto the market, they decided it would be silly not to buy it, as the two gardens backed onto one another and it effectively removed any issue of vis-à-vis with the neighbours: a sizeable chunk of money to pay for peace and quiet. The main door was in the street on the other side, a short walk around the block. The easiest and most direct way into to the cottage was across the lawn from the terrace at the back of the house. As we crossed the gardens I felt a rising sense of curiosity and adventure.

  Monsieur Blanchard led the way, shining his torch across the lawn, and through the overgrown brambles at the bottom of the garden, as we followed behind. We were all wearing rubber boots, fished out from the top of the cellar stairs. The evening had taken on a Famous Five feel by now. Even Monsieur Blanchard had adopted a spirit of adventure. He fiddled with the door key until it finally opened, flicked on a switch in the electric box and illuminated the building.

  The room was spacious with a patchy undercoat of white paint. The internal walls had been removed, so that there was no longer a separate hallway, kitchen, or sitting room. Lines across the floor traced a pathway across the black-and-white turn-of-the-century floor tiles, where once there had been partitions.

  The furniture was plain and simple. A white armchair, a scrubbed pine table, a set of bookshelves and a bed in the corner made up with white sheets, four big fluffy pillows, and a raspberry throw.

  ‘We wanted the feel of a loft,’ Monsieur Blanchard said. ‘Florence wanted to house political refugees here. I thought it better to stick the au pair here, to give us some privacy.’ (I prickled at the implication that I would want to get in their way!) ‘And finally, since we could not agree, the house sits empty. Jessica may use it, in return for the jobs she has promised she will do.’

  ‘Jobs?’ I asked.

  Jessica waved her hand vaguely, ‘Oh, giving this place a fresh coat of paint, a little light gardening, helping you in the house if you need me’, and then in a much lower voice, so only I could hear, ‘not that I’ll have an overabundance of spare time for you, what with my novel writing and all.’

  Chapter 9

  I was back in the submarine ironing, Jenny Murray crackling away on Woman’s Hour. I was feeling tearful. David hadn’t written a single letter. Surely if he had, Rafi would have forwarded it on. Not only this but it was day two, and I hadn’t been into Paris yet. There had been no mention of money, or payment, and I wondered if I was expected to wait until the end of the month.

  Jessica, meanwhile, had settled in like a pig in muck. Florence merely smiled when Axel told her over breakfast that morning that he had effectively complied with her wishes and housed a refugee. Florence, showing immediate concern for the well-being of said refugee, ordered me down to the cottage with a basket of freshly washed towels, in case ‘the poor girl’ (la pauvre) had been ejected from her previous family without any, arming me with a bag of goodies, including tea and coffee, milk, bread and jam. There was no mention as to why Jessica was homeless, or any reference made to the fact that the situation was of her own making. Carrying a wicker basket of victuals across the lawn that morning like Little Red Riding Hood, I was struck by the beauty of the cottage in the early morning sunshine.

  There was a small gateway hewn into the Blanchard’s main garden wall, carving a narrow passageway through the stone. The wall was covered in flouncy pink roses like the Secret Garden and so well camouflaged I hadn’t noticed it. The robin was back, tame as anything, bobbing across the soft mossy lawn, taking flight to the nearest branch as it saw me. Two blackbirds chirruped cheerfully from a tree above, reminding me that bird song was the same the world over. It was an unexpectedly bucolic scene, so close to Paris.

  Jessica was stirring, bleary-eyed, beneath the crisp white linen sheets. Her mascara lay in streaks beneath her eyes and on the pillow. The strict black nanny’s dress she had worn, hung over the back of the chair like an afterthought.

  Propping herself up on her pillows, like a convalescent in a nursing home, she grabbed my wicker basket, examining the contents hungrily.

  It occurred to me that Jessica had the better deal. Whereas my room was adjacent to the children’s, and within a floor’s reach of the Blanchards themselves should they need me, Jessica had a whole cottage to herself, so far from their daily needs she wouldn’t have heard them if they’d been murdered in their beds. My friend’s new home was equipped with a kettle, a fridge and a coffee machine. She had acquired total independence on the back of being my friend. This would have been a perfect place for David and me to hang out at the weekends.

  ‘What did he say you have to do exactly?’ I asked.

  ‘Not much. Paint this place, when I feel up to it, and help with the garden.’

  ‘When you feel up to it? You’ve not been ill! You’ve been fired! Is that it?’

  ‘Yup!’ she said, stretching out lazily beneath the quilt, ‘I think he quite likes me. He had a twinkle in his eye. A certain je ne sais quoi. I think I’ll do very well in the house of Axel Blanchard.’

  * * *

  I’d been up since seven o’clock and had already overseen the children’s breakfast and re-ironed Axel’s work shirt, which I’d discovered hanging ominously on my bedroom door-handle in silent protest at the standard of my work. Admittedly the collar was a bit scrunched, and I’d pressed the iron into the wrong fold and completely forgotten the cuffs. I sneaked back down to The Submarine in shame, correcting my mistakes, hanging the now twice-ironed shirt back onto the Master’s own bedroom door handle. This done, I woke the children and gave them breakfast: cereal, with a dozen boxes all spread out over the table as they liked to mix up concoctions in their bowls. After this I walked them to school, came home to tidy the kitchen and, at the request of Fuschia, carried a breakfast tray laden with tea and goodies to Florence’s room.

  These tasks had been completed before Jessica had opened a sleepy eye. I thought back to my friend’s lazy breakfast in bed, as I slammed the iron down hard on Axel’s cuffs and collars. I didn’t think I could bear the humiliation of finding another shirt hanging on my door handle in the morning. I hung the finished piece, a striped blue and white number, with an all-white collar, reminiscent of the sort of shirts men in Wall Street wear and considered it with the same pride I had once reserved for a perfectly balanced essay on the metaphysical poets. It was amazing how utterly useless my education felt in my new role as a washerwoman. Were there any famous washerwomen in any of the books I had read? The only image which came to mind was Toad disguised in washerwoman clothes when he escaped from prison in The Wind in the Willows. In contrast, Jessica was a gardener, and gardeners held a far more prominent place in literature. There was D.H. Lawrence for a start, with the gardener stealing the heart of Lady Chatterley. And getting up to all sorts in the process.

  Being ‘in service’ took some getting used to, after the high hopes of university and long before the advent of Downton Abbey. There was a readjustment to be made. My grandmother had gone to work as a maid in a big Edwardian home at the age of fourteen. There was a picture of her pinning sheets onto a washing line wearing a mop cap and frilly apron. I felt a pang of sorrow. I’d not seen Gran for a while. She’d been unwell and the last time I was home, my parents had argued and refused to drive me there. All too soon the holidays were o
ver and I had left without seeing her. I felt the usual sense of stomach-wrenching anguish at the thought of losing her. She had given me all the love my own mother never could.

  The laundry basket beside me was still full. I reached for a pair of crumpled jeans – Axel’s judging by the length of the legs. I flattened them out onto the ironing board and began my work, blinking back the tears. What was I doing here? I should be at home taking care of my grandmother. I’d promised her when I was a little girl: I’ll always look after you when you are old. You’ll never be alone or go into a home.

  There was a lump in the pocket. The lining must have doubled up inside. Surprised, I pull out a crumpled note – 500 French francs. I flattened it and applied the iron gently to the surface, the faces of Pierre and Florence Curie staring back at me in green print. It was the equivalent of fifty pounds, or thereabouts; more than enough to buy a ticket into Paris.

  Jessica had explained that morning that I needed a carte orange, a monthly train pass that allowed unlimited transport in and out of the city, on any train, day or night. I needed to have my photograph taken in one of the booths at Monoprix, the local supermarket. The carte orange was quite costly but an absolute necessity. It wasn’t as if the family had bothered to ask if I needed an advance! I’d been working non-stop, with no mention of any time off. Anyway, what kind of man left 500 francs in his pocket without noticing it was gone? The kind of man who buys a house just to make sure no-one else can, replied my inner devil. Perhaps I could borrow it for a few days and then put it back when they paid me. I could go into Paris, search for David and find out if there was any point staying here in this ridiculous job. If there wasn’t I might as well go back home. Wherever that was. No-one would know if I took this forgotten note. I folded it neatly in my pocket. As I came up the stairs carrying a big basket of ironed clothes, I met Florence. She was leaning on one crutch in the hallway, the morning mail in her hand. I put the basket down and fished the 500-franc note from my pocket. I couldn’t do it. Even borrowing it for a short time felt wrong. I’d never stolen anything in my life. I’d just have to stay indoors until they decided to pay me.

  ‘I found this,’ I said, ‘in the pocket of the trousers of Monsieur Blanchard.’ It was funny when I spoke English to the French, how I twisted the words of my sentences around so they made sense.

  Florence took the note and smiled. She slipped it into her pocket without a word and carried on down the hallway calling to me to bring her coffee in the salon.

  * * *

  That night, after le goûter, Clémence came to me all smiles and kisses. Delphine watched disapprovingly. Clémence said something in rapid French so I threw Delphine a questioning glance. It was exhausting not understanding what was being said, and I found that as the day progressed, my head hurt more and more from straining to comprehend.

  ‘She says you can stay,’ said Delphine with a shrug. ‘You passed the test.’

  I didn’t understand. Clémence said something else and pulled me by the hand, dragging me up the stairs to her mother’s wing of the house. I stopped at the door. I didn’t want to go in. Florence might be in bed. I hadn’t been to this part of the house before, and even the children were not welcome here.

  Clémence tugged at my hand,’Viens,’ she said. ‘Maman veut te voir.’

  I allowed her to pull me inside. The first room, which was a library, served as an antechamber. Bookshelves lined the walls, laden with the kind of thick, heavily bound editions which collected dust and which no-one ever seemed to read. There was a wooden ladder propped against the shelf, hooked to a rail which ran the length of the room. The room had two comfortable winged-back armchairs, and an oriental rug thrown over the parquet floor in red, pink and gold. A large ornate desk sat in the middle of the room. I didn’t know enough about antiques to know from which period it originated, but it had a leather top with gold edges, gently bowed legs and tiny golden tips at its feet like dainty slippers.

  Florence was sitting at the desk, her crutches flayed out beside her. Her hair was scraped back in a sensible knot, and she had removed her African beads. Her face was pale, and she had the weary look of someone who had been mining coal all day. She smiled weakly and opened a golden drawer before her. The drawer was heavy and she tugged it, using both hands. She beckoned me to her side. Inside the drawer was a row of wooden slats: fifty or more perhaps. Between each of the wooden slats lay a bundle of notes. Many were the colour of the 500-franc note retrieved from Axel’s jeans, others so high in value I didn’t recognise them. I’d never seen so much money. Not even at Barclay’s. There must have been 100,000 francs at least – more perhaps. It was like Monopoly money, stashed in its box at the end of the game. Florence plucked two green notes from a middle section and handed them to me. Their absence in the compartment barely left a dent.

  ‘This is for now,’ she said, ‘You must make it last for a couple of weeks. I will give you more at the end of the month. By then we will both know if we are happy with each other, n’est-ce pas?’

  She closed the drawer, retrieved her sticks, and hobbled into the bedroom. Down a corridor I glimpsed the open door of a bathroom, and beyond it the bedroom with a large, comfortable-looking bed, piled high with white pillows. Florence turned and gave a sharp nod. This was my signal to leave. With the children’s goûter sitting heavy in their stomachs, I now needed to think about dinner.

  I set about peeling some carrots and potatoes. Delphine remained at the kitchen table. There wasn’t any reason for her to be there, but she watched me impassively. I remembered her earlier comment about my having passed some sort of test and decided to ask her.

  She smiled. ‘In Papa’s trousers, the ones you washed, there was some money,’ she said. ‘My parents always play this trick when there is a new girl. To see if you take the money – to see if you are honest.’

  I flushed red, even though I knew I’d passed the test. Thank god I didn’t do anything stupid.

  ‘But what if I hadn’t seen it?’ I said, ‘I might not have.’

  ‘Then it would still be there,’ she said, ‘and you would not be ironing the trousers correctly. Either you are a thief or you are no good at your job.’

  ‘Have some girls failed the test?’

  ‘Failed?’

  ‘Yes, you know – not passed; taken the money.’

  ‘Of course,’ she laughed. ‘Papa drives those girls away the very same day.’

  Straight to prison. Do not pass ‘Go’.

  I could see I was going to have to watch my step in the house of Axel Blanchard.

  Chapter 10

  It was Saturday lunchtime, the start of my weekend. My time off! I was going to see David. I wouldn’t phone beforehand. I’d go there and catch him by surprise. If I called, he might tell me not to come. I was going to find his apartment, and knock on the door. If he wasn’t in, I’d find out when he’d be back. I opened my Collin’s pocket dictionary and wrote out exactly what I wanted to say, allowing for all possible outcomes.

  I called into the garden cottage on my way out. Jessica had only just got up. She was sitting drinking coffee in an armchair, folded up in a long white nightdress, reading a crumpled Penguin edition of Madame Bovary. I noticed that there was much scoring and underlining of favourite passages, and notes written in the margin in her cramped and spidery handwriting. She said she was going to potter in the garden and prune the roses, so she wouldn’t come to the station with me. But she told me what to do and where to go. There was a Monoprix on my way. I needed to go in there, get my photo taken, and then go to the RER fast-train station, which was about a fifteen-minute walk. At the guichet I needed to ask for ‘une carte orange, trois zones, s’il vous plaît.’ I was living outside Paris so it was important I got a three-zone ticket in order to get home safely again.

  This was my first big adventure into the city alone, and I was keenly wired. I’d washed my hair. It’d grown past my shoulders and was blonde from the summer sun. I clipped up the m
iddle section and brushed down the sides. This made me look too young and schoolgirlish, so when I got to Monoprix, I bought some bright red lipstick and blusher. I always felt better equipped to face the world with my blusher in place.

  I found a photo booth and used the mirror inside to make myself up. The girl at the till had given me some loose change, so the whole process was simple enough. When I look at the pictures today I see a startled looking girl with eyes full of hope, and very red lips and cheeks. As I pulled the still warm picture into my hand that day, I wondered how I would feel by sunset. Would it be a day of joy or sadness? I wondered if David would take me in his arms and kiss me passionately, happy that I had followed him to France. What greater proof of love could I have given?

  I was wearing my long baggy tent dress from Aberystwyth, and flat shoes for walking. As I passed the French women in the street I felt decidedly English. French women had that neat way of dressing which was beyond me: tight little jeans and jackets nipped in at the waist, with a silk scarf slotted in the collar. Students my age wore ubiquitous long scarves which they wrapped around their necks several times, as if to hold their heads on – not just the girls, but the boys too. I found myself staring at the men more than the women. The aesthetically knotted white scarves reminded me of Lawrence of Arabia. Or Yasser Arafat. Some men carried neat black leather bags, with long shoulder straps which were quite girlie. David had a bag like this. He wore it over his shoulders and kept his purse and comb inside. I couldn’t imagine the Ifor Evans rugby lot carrying handbags. The lads stuffed fivers into the back pockets of their jeans and kept loose change at the front, consciously padding out their tackle. David had a neat little leather wallet for bank notes and a special squishy leather purse, like a small sausage with a zip down the middle, in which he kept his loose change. Like most Frenchmen, he didn’t drink to get smashed but sipped wine with his meals. He didn’t qualify a good night out by the number of times he’d vomited, whereas my old rugby chums would knock back ten pints, heave the last two up on the beach and then head back for more – a bulimic manner of drinking punctuated by a traditional feast of chips and curry sauce between rounds to line the stomach for more.