A Stranger in Paris

by Karen Webb

  ‘Don’t worry,’ she said. ‘I promise I won’t go till you’re grown up and wed.’

  I was nowhere near ready to be wed, and yet she had gone. I loved a man who was shagging women in grass skirts on a tropical island while trying to work out if he was enjoying it.

  Gran couldn’t die. I wasn’t ready. I hadn’t grown up. I hadn’t said goodbye. I’d promised never to leave her alone in care, but always to look after her and be there. But I’d been here, in Paris, in a house far away, with three strange children, looking after them instead.

  I threw open the door to my bedroom. Blinded by tears, it took me a moment to see that I couldn’t throw myself on my bed to howl into the covers as I wanted to. There was something wrong. The bed was lying on its back with its legs in the air like a dead cockroach. The room was perfectly neat and tidy but everything had been turned upside down; my chairs, my desk, the objects on it, even the postcards I’d pinned to the hessian wall.

  I slumped to the floor, next to a pile of shoes. They were shiny with egg white, broken shells slotted neatly into each one. Outside the door I heard giggling. It opened slowly and Delphine stuck her long white face around the jamb. Her eyes were sparkling. It was the first time I’d seen her look so excited. Clémence and Baptiste were behind her. She stopped, surprised to see me looking so upset. The children crept in one by one and came to sit by me on the floor. Clémence slipped her arms around me and gave me a kiss on the cheek, Delphine took my hand in hers, squeezed it briefly and then let it drop. Baptiste sat a little way off on the carpet, looking as if he might cry. They must have thought my grief had been brought on by their antics. I hadn’t the energy to explain to them what this was about.

  ‘We are sorry,’ Delphine said. ‘We don’t want you to go.’

  It felt strange being held by them; strange to be the adult. I saw myself, lying as a child with my head on my grandmother’s pink crimplene dress, and started to sob again. I wasn’t the child any more. The next generation was pushing its way up.

  Life is a casting off.

  It was a line I remembered from a play. Linda says it in Death of a Salesman.

  Life is a casting off, and it had begun with the death of the person I most dreaded losing. It was also the day when I needed to cast away my last foolish dreams of David, the man to whom I’d given my heart without a second thought.

  Chapter 11

  Florence offered me time off work but I didn’t go to gran’s funeral though I regretted this bitterly later on. My family thought I didn’t care. Living it up in Paris. That’s what they said. The truth was I was too devastated to face it and felt too guilty to go. I should have been home to visit Gran, but I’d been wrapped up first in university and then with David. What was the point now she was dead? I’d let her down and I hated myself for it.

  Years later this is still one of my life’s biggest regrets. I learnt that she’d asked for me at the end, when the clouds had shifted and her memory returned just before death.

  ‘Where’s Karen?’ she’d said, opening her eyes suddenly and formulating the question quite clearly.

  On a wild goose chase, pursuing a man who didn’t want me; trying to slot into another family … one that didn’t matter. I’d been too afraid to face the thought of losing her and had broken the first promise I’d ever made to a person I loved – to be there at the end.

  Gran hadn’t lasted long. Once removed from the anchor of her home, death had come quickly.

  She died of Alzheimer’s disease, though no-one had bothered to tell me of her diagnosis at the time. She passed away in a hospital that would later be turned into a block of luxury flats.

  My uncle went to the house, and though my grandfather was still alive, he threw away the things I still long to have kept. Even today. Nothing of value: the old leather purse where she saved my pocket money, the heavy post-war furniture no-one wants these days, the fake silver tea-caddy with the red lining – stage props to the happiest days of my childhood; objects that meant nothing to anyone else. Old tat. That’s what they called it. Though a lifetime later if I could find each and every item in life’s lost property cupboard, I would set each one back in place, piece by piece. I have dreamt of buying the house again, and of peeling back the carpets, the wallpaper, lifting the cement on the drive, to find a single trace of her again.

  With anyone who moves to another country, there is always a sense of guilt. I followed the path of my own life, though however exciting my adventures were, this was the price I would pay. Gran pined a lifetime for her country village although it was only half an hour down the road. Yet without a car, and not knowing how to drive, she may as well have been the other end of the world. Her sisters stayed in the same row of cottages until they died. In the place I know she longed to be.

  Years later I found the cottage where she was born. It was barely big enough to swing a cat. I wondered if one needed to travel so far to find happiness after all. Between them, Gran’s sisters knew only a handful of lanes and a couple of farms, but they knew where they belonged, whereas part of me was always searching.

  * * *

  Wrapped up in grief, the days slipped by. Daylight hours were spent in The Submarine, ironing and listening to Radio 4. When evening came and dinner was done, I crept down to Jessica’s garden cottage, where we drank cheap red wine from screw-top plastic bottles until it stained our tongues purple and made our breath reek. We snacked on day-old baguette and portions of garlic cheese – the only thing I ever found in Jessica’s fridge. She begged me to bring a doggy-bag down from the main house and sulked if I didn’t. She wasn’t averse to sneaking up to the house when Florence was out at physio, filling her bag with biscuits or pieces of fruit and sneaking back across the lawn like one of The Borrowers.

  We’d been in and out of Paris on a limited budget and taken to hanging out in a small restaurant off the Place du Tertre, owned by a man called Jacques. We couldn’t afford to eat, so we ordered wine and pretended we’d had dinner, filling up on the bowl of complimentary peanuts from the bar. Eventually, out of the kindness of his heart, Jacques took to giving us scraps of bread and leftover rations from the plat du jour. Typically this consisted of a portion of mashed potato, a cluster of skinny French fries and a slither of bavette à l’échalotte. I wondered if these were the bits of meat left over on customers’ plates, such was his generosity. The main course was followed by a bowl of crème brûlée, with incinerated sugar on the top. We were unable to communicate much in return. He grinned, revealing a set of short but even teeth, like a row of tiles on a Scrabble board.

  Jacques employed two men in the restaurant. One a sporty looking man called Mathias who arrived and left the restaurant in a purple tracksuit. During working hours, like most waiters in Paris, he wore a smart pair of black trousers and a white shirt with a black apron knotted at the back, slipping into the tracksuit out of hours. We’d nicknamed him ‘Tracker’. The other was a gangly, pale man by the name of Yannick. If he wasn’t anaemic, he must have been a medical miracle, such was the transparency of his skin. The two men were drawn time and again to our table. We couldn’t always understand what they said, but Jessica encouraged them, conscious that this was the only place in Paris where we could get a decent meal for free. Jessica wasn’t interested in either of the waiters, but it suited her purposes to pretend she might be. She had a steely sense of ‘needs-must’ at times. She never crossed the line, but was expert at pretending she just might, when hungry. I was still grieving too much over my loss of Gran and David to care and had no appetite.

  The real reason we visited Montmartre was Jessica’s obsession with Samuel Beckett, or ‘Sammy’ as she called him. She had heard he sometimes ate chez Jacques, as well as drinking at the bar around the corner, so we were on red alert. Jacques’ restaurant, Le Tartempion, was just off the Place du Tertre, in the shadow of the Sacre Coeur. The basilica loomed above us, its giant domes towering over the city, crisp and white like giant meringues. From the terrac
e, we were a stone’s throw from the artists, spinning off their usual caricatures of tourists, and touting for trade as we passed by: Mademoiselle, un petit portrait? Vous êtes anglaise? They knew we were English before we’d opened our mouths: Jessica was still white as candle wax; I’d turned pink in the sun. I didn’t know if it was our skin, our hair or our teeth that gave us away – the French always claim the English have rabbit teeth and big gums – but they always guessed our origins. Maybe we just looked wet behind the ears.

  * * *

  I was in the kitchen making the children’s dinner. Jessica and I were planning the coming weekend and wondering what to do. She wanted to visit Le Musée Rodin, whereas I fancied travelling out to Versailles to see the Hall of Mirrors and walking in the park.

  We were debating the merits of both plans when Florence entered the kitchen.

  ‘Bonsoir, les filles,’ she said turning to address me. I prepared myself to receive orders for one of her usual tasks. It was drum night and I imagined that there would be a long list of things needing doing in her absence. To my horror, she announced that the next day was the last day of school and the start of the Big Summer Holidays. Les grandes vacances. I should have known, but I’d been so wrapped up in my misery of late, that I’d completely forgotten, having also pushed to the back of my mind Bonne-Maman’s threats to take us away to the family château. This was likely to mean six long weeks shut up with the children in the countryside, and little chance of escape into my thoughts, or even The Submarine. I couldn’t even use my French classes at L’institut Catholique as an excuse, as these were not due to start until September. There was no escape.

  Florence announced her plans without further ado.

  ‘Bonne-Maman will arrive late morning. She will be taking you and the children to Trémouillet.’

  ‘Where’s that again?’ I asked, not liking the fact that I could be moved at any time, like a chess piece, according to the will of the players.

  ‘It’s about three hours from here. It’s my mother’s family home. The children love it. There are woods and wild things in the park. It is a little derelict, you understand. We only use it in the summer, but you will have everything you need and the weather should be good, n’est-ce pas?’

  ‘Are you coming?’ I asked, hoping she had changed her plans

  Florence laughed. ‘Mais non. How I would love to have this luxury, but Marcel needs me for the final stage of works to my atelier, and I cannot leave poor Axel to fend for himself.’

  Remembering that Jessica was in the room, Florence turned to her, lest she thought she had been forgotten.

  ‘Jessica, it would be nice while the children are away, if you could help prepare Axel’s dinner. I think the garden has had enough, how do you say, snip-snipping for the moment. It is looking a like a sheep when its wool has been, how do you say, rasé? Shorn, is that it? Yes, shorn. Perhaps you could turn your attentions to the house while your friend is away?’

  Jessica gave her a tight smile. I knew she was quite content snip-snipping in the garden while reading her book. I’d seen how she positioned her chair beneath the trees to read, reaching an indolent arm upwards for a lazy clip of a twig, before turning her page. There was nothing strenuous about Jessica’s form of gardening. I was curious to know how she would get on starching shirts and pairing up socks. Hearing my friend’s list of chores, I felt a sudden surge of excitement. I was going away! It might be quite exciting after all. And what’s more, I’d be living the high life in a château, and seeing a different part of France. I should buy a travel diary so I could write up my adventures. Things were looking up. Cinderella would go to the ball!

  * * *

  The next morning I was surprised to see a gleaming cherry-red hatchback roar up outside the wrought-iron gates. I’d grown so used to seeing Bonne-Maman arrive on her clanking bicycle, that I’d not imagined that she would be driving anything quite so top of the range. In my mind, she was the batty old lady from Bedknobs and Broomsticks, and I’d have been less surprised if she’d pitched up on a flying broomstick.

  Her hair was rolled into a neat little silver-grey bun comme d’habitude, and she wore a sensible summer blouse and skirt, with flat sandals. Around her neck hung a sturdy crucifix, the only piece of jewellery visible. There wasn’t a scrap of make-up on her face, not even a little rouge, as Gran would have said.

  The children were lined up obediently in the hallway. They marched to the car in single file, kissing their mother on the cheek as they exited. Florence clambered down the stone steps, using the hand rail to help her, calling to me to fetch a bottle of water from the kitchen for the journey. I turned back into the house just as the phone started ringing. Florence was already out in the street by the car. It would be impossible for her to swing her way back in time to pick up. With some hesitation, I lifted the receiver and spoke into the headset, imitating the way I had heard Florence speak.

  ‘Oui bonjour, qui est à la pareil ?’

  I heard a voice, which although French, sounded familiar.

  ‘Bonjour, comment ça va?’

  For a wild, heart-wrenching moment, I thought it was David. He’d seen sense and had called to rescue me and take me far away! But then as the man continued speaking, I realised it couldn’t be my ex-boyfriend, or he would have switched to English by now. The caller repeated a form of his earlier question.

  ‘Tout va bien?’

  ‘Oui, très bien merci. Je vais chercher Florence.’

  There was a silence and I wondered if I’d formed my sentence properly. In desperation, I repeated it again slowly in English.

  ‘Just a minute. I will go and get Florence.’

  ‘Mais non, ça va bien. Not Florence. Attendez un instant.’

  The call must be for Axel. But he was out too. At this point the caller had clearly had enough of not being understood, and in hesitant English said:

  ‘Do you like tea?’

  ‘Yes,’ I said, surprised, ‘bien sûr.’

  ‘You will take tea with me then? Tomorrow? High above Paris. We shall drink tea together in the air. On a roof top.’

  The man laughed, as if realising these were not the right words. As he laughed I realised who it was. It was Marcel, the architect and bean-sucking guest; the man who had come down to the cellar to kiss me, when he should have been drinking coffee with Florence and Hugo.

  The car horn beeped impatiently. Bonne-Maman was chomping at the bit. She wanted to turn the magic knob of her automobile and lift us high above the rooftops of the western suburbs of Paris.

  But I didn’t want to go with her. I wanted to drink tea in Paris with Marcel.

  ‘I have to go,’ I said into the receiver. ‘Je dois partir.’

  ‘You are too busy? Quel dommage.’

  There was a pause before he blurted out a stream of French which was so fast I couldn’t catch it. Later I deciphered the words one by one.

  ‘Je vous donne rendez-vous au café de la Samaritaine. Sur le toit du magasin. Demain si vous voulez. A 16h. Vous ne travaillez pas les samedis, je crois?’

  I could answer the last part of the sentence easily enough. No, I didn’t usually work on Saturdays, but no, I couldn’t meet him on the roof top of the shop he was suggesting. Wherever this La Samaritaine place was, I must go to the château with the children. I couldn’t find the words I needed to explain. The car horn beeped again, and the phone clicked off at the other end. Marcel had gone.

  I told Florence it was a wrong number, though I’m not sure why. One thing was sure: Marcel wasn’t looking for the mistress of the house. He’d clearly said so. Even my French was good enough to have picked that up. Instinctively I knew that Florence would not like her luncheon guest and the artistic genius behind her creative space, calling to invite her domestic help for a secret cup of tea on a Paris rooftop.

  At times, I suspected that Florence sent me down to the cellar to iron on purpose when Marcel came to the house. On occasions, he popped over to see her alon
e, carrying great long scrolls of papers covered with fine line drawings. At other times, he was accompanied by scowling Hugo. Florence had not renewed her initial invitation to share lunch together and Marcel had not repeated the experience of sneaking down to The Submarine for a kiss. I always knew when there was to be a luncheon with the men. Florence advised me to make a quick salad, explaining that she would need the kitchen later. Alone was what she really meant. When the doorbell rang, I disappeared into the cellar without a trace; a stage-hand who must never be seen.

  The previous week Marcel had rung the bell when I was on my way underground. I opened the door and he gave me a kiss on each cheek. Florence appeared from out of nowhere, crossing the space between us with giant leaps on her crutches. She pointed to a washing basket at the bottom of the stairs and asked me quite sharply if I would take it down and start my work. I had been in the process of doing precisely this. Florence knew it. It was an exercise in boundaries. These were the minefields which must be avoided daily when sharing a house with another woman. It was akin to being bridesmaid at a wedding – never a good idea to outshine the bride. One must be useful but never indispensable, discreet yet always available, and most importantly, god forbid, never an object of desire.

  Aware of both Marcel and Florence’s watchful gaze, I’d picked up my washing basket that day, my eyes filling with tears at the sharp prick of loneliness. It didn’t take much since Gran’s death. Later when her guests had left, Florence called down to me from the top of the cellar steps and invited me up to drink camomile tea with her on the cold white sofa, next to the penis sculpture. I think she felt guilty and was trying to make it up to me with a cup of tepid gnat’s piss.

  Now, ensconced in the back seat of Bonne-Maman’s car, I thought about the phone call, playing Marcel’s words over in my mind as I watched the suburbs of Paris slip away beneath Bonne-Maman’s capable hands, concrete and tarmacadam blurring into long stretches of green. We shot along at great speed, the roads free of traffic cones or roadworks. Once past the tollgate to the south of Paris, we barely saw another car on the road.