‘You know what it’s like here, better than I do. If we’re not careful, it will be all round Giverny.’
‘Oh la, la! But what can we do? I have been impatient for this moment. I could not wait to see you again.’ He seized her hands and pulling her against him, kissed her, daringly, she thought, considering they were in broad daylight.
‘Cherie, mon amour.’
She tried to break away. ‘Oh do be careful, someone might see us. There’s nothing to be done, Michel, don’t you see? This place is impossible, there are eyes everywhere.’
‘No.’ He clung to her. ‘I want to be alone with you. I want to make love again. Dieu. It was so wonderful. Please, Judith,’ he went on, ‘Remember how you touched me, remember how you loved it when you got so wet and I came inside you? How did it feel?’ As he spoke he was stroking her breast, ‘I want you,’ he murmured.
She sighed. He was going to be difficult.
‘Please, Judith.’
‘Listen Michel, I want to talk to you, just talk, do you understand?’
‘Very well we will talk.’ He smiled at her. ‘Then maybe you will change your mind.’
She shrugged. ‘But I don’t know where.’
‘Near the river? There are those trees and bushes. no-one would see us there.’
‘Okay, let’s go.’
He hurried her down the street, away from Hotel Baudy, past la Musardiere and the door to Le Pressoir, they crossed the road. They plunged into a thicket of trees, shadowy now as the day died.
‘Here,’ he said.
‘No, a little further.’
They pushed through some undergrowth and arrived in a clearing, silent but for the sleepy chirping of birds.
‘Here will do,’ Michel said. He turned to her. ‘Oh Judith, cherie, I love you. I haven’t stopped thinking about you since that night. You are magnificent.’
His eyes shone with excitement and she realised she was losing control. She spoke sharply. ‘I said I wanted to talk to you.’
‘Yes, yes, we will talk,’ he muttered, ‘later, later, first we make love.’
‘Michel!’
If she had expected the kisses, the tender caresses of the time before, she was to be disillusioned. Michel seemed to have no time for anything like that. He held her tightly and pushed his hand into her dress, pumping at her breasts, his fingers squeezing hard on her nipples, making her cry out, which only seemed to excite him more. He moaned and pushed her by the shoulders to the ground. She could hear his quick breathing as he pulled down her knickers, roughly rubbing his fingers over her clitoris, all in silence, in an awful hurry with none of the words he had used before. In spite of herself, she felt the moisture welling up as he pushed his fingers further inside her.
Then he spoke. ‘You are ready?’
‘No Michel, I don’t like it, not like this. You should use a condom, you really should. It’s not safe!’ She tried to shield herself with her hand but he pushed it away.
‘Yes, yes, ready. You are ready for me.’
She made to raise herself but before she could, he had unbuttoned his trousers and pushed his great penis inside her almost savagely.
‘Good,’ he grunted. ‘So good.’
Nothing mattered to him it seemed but to get inside her and thrust, thrust, thrust before he cried out and collapsed on top of her.
She lay still until he rolled away and when finally she sat up, he was sitting a little distance away, smoking a cigarette.
‘Can I have one?’ she asked.
He handed her the packet.
Judith pulled at the cigarette angrily.
‘What’s the matter, Judith?’ he asked, at last.
She threw the cigarette away and standing up, arranged her clothes. ‘I must go.’
‘Oh no, not yet, please.’
‘Yes Michel, I must. And that’s the end of it, no more of this.’
‘The end?’
‘Surely you understood?’
‘Understood what?’’
‘That it couldn’t go on.’
‘But why not? We love each other. I have spoken to my parents and they would like to meet you.’
At the thought of entering the Duval’s farmhouse, Judith smiled. ‘How could you have ever imagined I would meet your parents? Your family belongs to a completely different world to mine.’
His face clouded over.
‘You said you would take me to America. We would drive in a limousine on Fifth Avenue.’
‘Oh Michel, I said a lot of things but you must have realised I was only teasing you.’
In the twilight, she saw the gleam of his eyes staring at her. She began to get annoyed. Why couldn’t he understand?
‘It was just a bit of summer fun.’
‘What? What are you saying? Judith, please.’
She didn’t know what to add so started to walk back towards the road and he followed. Here she paused for a moment.
‘Understood?’
He shook his head. ‘Why did you make love to me if you didn’t feel anything? Why did you treat me like a dog?’
His words hit home and for a moment there was silence. When she spoke, her tone had changed and was filled with regret.
‘Michel, I tell you it is not possible. It is not that I do not like you, you are very nice but I could never take you home and present you to my family as a fiancé. They expect me to marry into another local family, someone of my own class.’
‘The same as mine.’
‘In a way yes, I with money, you without but whatever, we don’t mix.’
He gave a great sigh then said, ‘Very well, Judith, but you should remember something in all this, you’re not a virgin, any more. I wonder how that would go down with your smart friends, with Madame Blanche, the old man.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Maybe I’ll spread that news around.’
‘If you do that, then you are truly a son of a bitch.’
‘You’ve treated me like one, why shouldn’t I behave like one?’
‘I am sorry,’ she said again and walked away.
– THIRTY-SIX –
BLANCHE
O
n Saturday morning at precisely ten o’clock, Blanche opened the door and found Judith waiting there. She thought the young woman looked paler than usual and was quite plainly dressed, apprehensive, one might say. Then she dismissed the idea because it had no bearing on this encounter.
‘Good morning, madame.’ Judith’s voice also sounded subdued.
‘Good morning, mademoiselle, if you would please follow me.’
She led the way into the dining room, it was far enough away from the studio to prevent Monet from overhearing. She had ordered coffee to be served in half an hour, believing this gave her enough time to say what she had to say. They sat on two of the chairs that ranged round the room and Blanche caught Judith give a swift glance to the Japanese geisha girls, as if seeking their support.
‘What a beautiful morning,’ she began. ‘As I walked along the road, I couldn’t believe how blue the sky was and I saw the most gorgeous deep red rose.’
Certainly,’ agreed Blanche. ‘But we are not here to talk about the weather.’
Judith widened her eyes. ‘Ah, and what are we here for, madame?’
Self-possessed as always, this young woman, Blanche thought. We’ll see about that. She pulled down the cuffs of her blouse feeling she was preparing for a fight.
‘I will come straight to the point. You are no longer welcome as a visitor to the house and certainly not to see my stepfather.’ Her words hung on the air, unremarked by the geisha girls, bent on continuing their secret, inner lives.
‘Why?’ asked Judith.
‘I don’t think there is need to go into reasons.’
‘Oh isn’t there?’ Judith glared at her. ‘You can’t just summon me here, dismiss me without telling me why.’
&nbs
p; Oh dear, thought Blanche, I knew it wasn’t going to be easy, not with someone like Judith, unaccustomed to people denying her anything.
‘I think you’ll find I can,’ she replied. ‘You have been admitted here as a special favour and now, I am sorry to say, that favour has to be withdrawn.’
Judith seemed unable to sit still any longer. She rose and walked about the room. ‘Because you are jealous of me, madame, that is what it is, isn’t it?’
Yes, of course I am, Blanche said silently. Jealous of her young strength and power, the way she looks, her expectations of life. Why not admit it? I am jealous.
She gave a short laugh. ‘How do you come to that conclusion?’
‘Monet needs me. Since I have been coming here, he has regained his enthusiasm for life. You told me yourself how much he enjoys my company. He is working well and I make him laugh, I encourage him to do something about his eyes. Whereas you, madame, make him fearful.’
I who have dedicated my life to him, then and now, taking on the role of assistant, house keeper and almost surrogate wife! Blanche was angry now. ‘Oh I see, little Joan of Arc come to save us from ourselves. You are a romantic, mademoiselle, and you know what happens to romantics? They are doomed.’
Now it was she who rose and gesticulated with her arms.
‘It is time you woke up and saw yourself as you really are. You have no idea of this culture neither do you belong here. You are just a parasite, a nouveau riche. You lie, you have told both my stepfather and me a pack of lies, pretending you were a painter, that you admired my work. I don’t know why you came here, not for any artistic reason that’s for sure. What you have succeeded in doing is upset people.’ She paused to take breath.
Judith moved to gather up her bag. ‘How dare you speak to me like this, you provincial, old woman. I’m not staying here to be insulted.’
Blanche shook her head. ‘I haven’t finished with you yet. There is something I wish to know: have you been consorting with the young under gardener, with
Michel?’
‘What?’
‘You heard what I said. Have you?’
Judith had closed her eyes for a moment, now she opened them and glared at Blanche. ‘An under gardener! What on earth would I be doing with someone like that?’
This threw Blanche for a moment. Was the girl telling the truth or was she a good actress?
‘It has been known,’ she continued, ‘young ladies leading innocent young men on. My laundry maid believes you have been seen with him.’
‘And you’re going to take the word of a servant against mine?’
Blanche remembered Lilli’s anxiety, her own sudden conviction it was true. ‘She is more than a servant, mademoiselle. She is a beautiful, young woman who was walking out with Michel until something happened, a short while ago. I do not intend anyone to ruin that for her.’
Judith’s smile mocked her. ‘Well, that’s just dandy,’ she said. ‘Condolences to them both for a life of struggle ahead and bringing all those God damn children into this world.’
There came a knock on the door and Annette stumped in with a tray. ‘Coffee, madame.’
‘No coffee for me,’ Judith said.
Blanche smiled at Annette. ‘I don’t think we’ll be needing it after all, thank you, Annette.’
As the door closed, she spoke with a fresh vehemence.
‘You are not welcome in this house, mademoiselle. I shall instruct the servants not to admit you.’
Judith rose. ‘The only person you’ll be hurting is your stepfather.’ She moved towards the door. ‘But at least, you’ll have him back in your power, which I can imagine is your intention.’
How am I going to break it to him? Blanche thought.
‘He doesn’t want you to come again. He has told me you are a disturbing influence,’ she lied.
– THIRTY-SEVEN –
CLAUDE
A
ugust and the garden burns with colour. There is a fine show of dahlias: the vibrant vermilion of Bishop of Llandaff, exquisite Clair de Lune with its lemon yellow outer petals and paler inner segments, and the pastel baby pom pom, which always touches his heart. One of his favourite asters is out, a mass of lavender blue; it makes a cool contrast to the hotter shades. Claude walks down the main path, stepping over the carpet of nasturtiums, yellow, red and orange. They sprawl, they creep, invade space wherever they can, clamber over other plants, but he loves their good-natured growing. It is impossible to feel down hearted on a morning such as this, full of activity, demanding his attention.
‘Lovely aren’t they, m’sieur?’ Breuil has come to stand beside him and together the two men share this vision, explosion of colour, array of varieties.
‘No sign of any aphids,’ Claude remarks with satisfaction. ‘Remember last year, the trouble we had. It broke my heart to see the damage those little beasts did.’
‘Ah, you can thank young Michel for that.’
‘Michel? Didn’t know he was an expert on pest control.’
‘You’d be surprised. He’s come up with a wonderful solution, something his father uses on the farm.’
Claude thinks back to the last conversation he had with the young man. Gardening seemed to be the last thing on his mind, boy wanted to travel, he’d said.
‘Saponaria,’ Breuil is saying. ‘Natural and most effective.’
‘The highly invasive rock plant, hmm.’
‘Yes, but that’s the beauty of it. You always have a plentiful supply. What you do is mix up the leaves, or roots for that matter, with water. Sieve to obtain the liquid and then spray it on the plants.’
‘And it works?’
‘You can see for yourself. Not an aphid in sight, the soapy water kills them.’
Claude beams at the unblemished pompom, its bright cherry red centre, and thinks of Michel with new respect.
‘So you’re pleased with him, are you?’
‘It’s like this: he was eager at the start, interested to learn and he picked things up quickly. I told you myself how promising he was.’
‘And you don’t say those things lightly,’ Claude smiles.
‘I have my standards, m’sieur.’ As if to demonstrate, he leans over and nips off a couple of fading flowers.
‘I know you do and very admirable they are.’
‘Thank you. As I say, he promised well but then, some weeks ago, he began to appear distracted, forgetful. I had to pull him up on several things left undone. I was beginning to think…’ he shrugs. ‘Ah well, as it turns out…’
‘He seems to have come to his senses?’ Claude suggests.
‘Exactly that.’
‘Good, I like the young man. He has had the strength to rebel against his family’s wishes.’ Claude remembers the brush he had with Michel’s father when he had the first small pond dug: all that nonsense about his ‘strange plants’ and how they might poison the water. ‘Old man Duval is something of a tyrant. It can’t have been easy for him.’
A breeze stirs the cosmos and sets them aquiver like pale pink and white butterflies.
‘I think he has the makings of a good gardener. Encourage him all you can, Breuil. We’ll none of us be around forever.’
How impossible it seems, to leave all this beauty and step into the void, he has no time for religious hopes of a life hereafter. Nature in all its variety uplifts his soul, astonishes so that the mind is entirely filled with the experience and is the experience. This is the nearest he comes to worship.
That time on Belle Isle as he watched the mountainous waves rise and fall, dash themselves furiously against steep cliffs, toss the spray high into the air, what ecstasy to see that sea in fury. Desolation when it calmed too quickly. He sees himself dressed in oilskins, the wind trying to snatch his palette and brushes from his hand, sea soaked, tempest battered in the grip of the sublime. Terror on the edge of beauty.
It is foolish to allow himself to think of ex
tinction when he has work to do, important work. Probably my crowning achievement, he tells himself sternly as he leaves Breuil and goes in search of Michel.
He enters the water garden and goes to stand on the Japanese bridge, gazing down into the water where clouds are reflected, so that above and below, sky and water commingle. Near the edge of the pond, the light is dim and the muted surface of the water reflects the dense curtain of foliage that shades its rim. His mind shifts and meditates on the changing light and colour, how he will capture it, how he will present his concept of water without horizon or bank.
‘M’sieur?’
He shakes his head as if to clear it of the mist of his thoughts. A young man is standing on the far side of the pond with a box of something in his arms. It is Michel.
‘Well then, what have you got there?’
‘The iris, m’sieur, ready for planting.’
‘I’ll be right with you.’
Breuil has made it perfectly plain he thinks there are sufficient iris in these gardens, but Claude knows better. The rhizomes bring a smile to his face, irresistibly they remind him of turds, the dark, rather skinny turds the kitchen cat sometimes leaves in the garden. He thinks it is amazing what will spring from them. There will be one variety that is dark as printer’s ink with a hint of maroon in the ebony black tints. Another will produce deep purple falls and a white standard. A third will yield an apricot fall edged with white and tipped with tangerine beards.
‘Nice and moist,’ he murmurs. ‘Feel them, Michel, just as they should be. They should never be allowed to dry out.’
‘Yes, m’sieur.’
‘Now I suppose you have never planted iris before, true? This is how you do it: the iris rhizome needs to be planted so the top surface of each bulb is exposed to air and sunlight. My method is to make a depression in the soil and fashion a little mound in the centre. I set the iris bulb on the mound, spread out the roots and use my hands to pull soil up around the sides of each bulb, leaving the surface so I can see it. Have a go.’
The boy is quick to understand and Claude watches, nodding his approval as the second rhizome is put into place.
‘And how about you, Michel?’ Claude remembers Breuil’s remark about distraction. ‘Have you managed to convince those parents of yours that you are doing a serious job?’
Monet's Angels Page 29