Familiar Rooms in Darkness

by Caro Fraser

  By the time they reached Limoges, all the restaurants were closed. Spirits sank even lower. They drove on down the autoroute to the next service point and bought ham and salad baguettes and bottled water.

  ‘Should we pick up a few things for the evening?’ suggested Megan to Adam, as they climbed back into the car.

  ‘No need,’ said Adam. ‘Apparently the couple who look after the place are going to leave some things for us. Bread, milk, the makings of dinner, a few bottles of decent wine.’ He glanced at Compton-King. ‘Where are you staying?’

  ‘I haven’t booked anything yet.’ He rummaged around, found a Logis guide and chucked it at Bruno. ‘Have a look in there – I’ve marked our area – and get on the mobile and book us something up.’

  ‘I’ve just had a thought,’ said Adam. ‘We’re probably going to get to Cahors too late for me to pick up our hire car.’

  ‘No problemo,’ said Compton-King. ‘I’ll drive you to wherever you’re staying.’

  ‘I was hoping you’d say that. In which case, why don’t you stay the night at the gite? It’s got four beds. Saves everyone a lot of trouble.’

  Compton-King paused, considering. ‘Good idea. Come on, let’s get motoring.’

  The delay outside Limoges meant that they didn’t reach Cahors until early evening, and there they hit another patch of slow traffic. By now the air had cooled off, however, and as the journey’s end seemed almost in sight, everyone was in a better mood. Bruno sat next to Compton-King with the directions to the gite on his knee. He studied them closely, but failed to mention the first turn-off, so that half an hour later they had to turn back and retrace part of their route. The road was winding and slow. It grew dark, and it was hard to read signs; they lost their bearings twice.

  A little after ten, however, they found the sign for Les Pointoises, and in relief and triumph they rolled up the lane towards a huddle of buildings picked out by the beam of the Bentley’s headlamps. Compton-King switched off the engine. All was silent.

  ‘It’s very dark,’ said Megan. ‘Which of the gites are we supposed to be using?’

  Adam pulled some papers from his pocket and leafed through them, then read out, ‘Key to number four under geranium pot next to barbecue.’

  There was a thoughtful silence.

  ‘We should have got a torch at the service station,’ said Megan.

  ‘I’ve got a lighter,’ said Bruno.

  ‘But we don’t know which house it is. There are about six of them.’

  ‘Isn’t there anyone else staying here? Someone we can ask?’

  ‘I can’t see any lights on.’

  ‘Come on,’ said Compton-King, getting out of the car. ‘Bring your lighter, Bruno.’

  There followed a painful ten minutes during which they groped around in the darkness by the feeble flicker of Bruno’s lighter, speaking in low voices until it became evident that the complex was deserted and that there was no need. At last, after Compton-King had barked his shins on a low wall and Adam had almost fallen in the swimming pool, they found the right barbecue, and the right pot. Finding the door, and then the keyhole, took a little while longer.

  ‘I’m dying for a pee,’ muttered Megan in the darkness, as Adam prodded at the lock with the key.

  ‘All I want is some food and sleep,’ said Adam. ‘At least we’re here… Got it!’ There was the sound of a lock turning, and a door opening.

  Adam stepped inside, groped for a light switch, and clicked it on.

  They stood in the doorway, surveying a low-ceilinged kitchen, illuminated by a naked bulb, and containing cupboards, a small cooker and fridge, a sink, and a cheap table with three chairs. It felt as though nobody had been in for some time, certainly not to dust or lay in provisions. Adam went to the fridge and opened it. Nothing.

  ‘Are you sure it’s the right house?’ asked Megan.

  Adam glanced at the tag on the key. ‘Number four. This is the one. Sorry, everyone. Looks like no supper.’

  They went through to the living room, which was small and box-like, cheaply furnished with a sofa and two armchairs, a pine coffee table, and some tatty lamps. ‘God,’ said Adam. ‘I had expected something a bit better than this.’

  Compton-King glanced at Adam’s stricken face. ‘Don’t worry. We’re all exhausted. Maybe we should just get to bed.’

  ‘What makes you think it’s going to look any better in the morning?’ muttered Megan. ‘It’s an absolute dump.’

  ‘I am truly sorry,’ said Adam.

  Megan shrugged.

  With the help of Bruno’s lighter, they retrieved their bags from the boot of the Bentley. Trooping upstairs, they were unsurprised to find that the mattresses on each bed were thin and lumpy, with only sheets and one blanket each, and no spare pillows. Notwithstanding the heat of the day, the temperature beneath the clear starry sky had dropped. It was going to be a chilly night.

  Adam and Megan took the double bed. Despite the cold, Megan stayed resolutely on her side of the bed, sullen and angry.

  ‘How could you book such a poxy place? It has to be totally the worst gite in all of France!’

  ‘I’ve said I’m sorry,’ said Adam. ‘We’ll sort it out in the morning. If necessary, we’ll find somewhere else.’

  ‘If necessary? I’ll say it’s necessary. A horrible trip, and a horrible house…’

  Adam lay in the dark, listening to Megan grumbling, waiting for sleep, envying Bruno his big sheepskin coat. Megan was right. The place was a dump, and he was to blame. He ruminated on the situation, realizing that this was the first occasion on which something had gone wrong for himself and Megan. So far, their existence in London had been untested by disaster, untroubled by anything more than the most minor domestic trauma. This evening her defection had been almost instant, putting him in the wrong, instead of trying to make the best of it and being affectionate and cheerful. Even Compton-King had tried to be both of those things. He couldn’t help wondering if certain other unappealing truths about their relationship were going to surface during this holiday.

  12

  Adam woke a little before nine. Ready to make the peace with Megan, he rolled over, but found her side of the bed empty. He lay there for some minutes, staring at the thin shafts of light piercing the shutters, trawling over the events of the journey and their arrival last night. Suddenly his thoughts were broken by the sound of high-pitched screaming. He bounded out of bed and down the corridor to the bathroom, from where the screams came. He found Megan dancing around on the tiles in the middle of the bathroom, clutching a towel and emitting squeals of disgust. Behind a plastic shower curtain came the sound of running water.

  ‘What on earth’s the matter?’ asked Adam.

  ‘Oh, God, just take a look!’ Megan, pointing at the shower, retreated to the furthest corner of the bathroom.

  Adam advanced on the shower cubicle and pulled back the curtain. Looking down, he saw that the water from the showerhead, which should have been running away, was being regurgitated from the drain in throaty belches of brownish sludge, filling up the cubicle basin and beginning to spill out on to the tiled floor. The smell was revolting.

  ‘Oh, Christ!’ said Adam, moving quickly back.

  ‘What is it?’ Megan was shivering in horror in the corner, trying to dry herself.

  Compton-King’s large, unshaven face appeared round the door. ‘Trouble, boys and girls?’ He looked down and saw the tide of brown liquid seeping quickly over the tiles. ‘Shit.’

  ‘Literally,’ said Adam. ‘It must be the septic tank backing up.’

  ‘Switch the shower off !’ squealed Megan. ‘It’s going to flood the place!’

  Adam inched his way barefoot round the brown, spreading tide, pulled back the shower curtain with one hand, and tried to lean over to switch the shower off. In so doing, he put his full weight on the shower curtain, which parted from its rail in a brisk ripping tinkle, and fell over. The edge of the shower basin caught him hard on his ribs,
and he found himself wrist-deep in the stuff which was burping from the drain. The combination of the smell from the drain and the pain in his ribs made his gorge rise, and for a moment he thought he might be sick. He struggled to his feet and let the stream of tepid water from the shower rinse the worst of the muck from his hands and arms, then shakily he turned the shower off.

  He stood there, T-shirt and boxer shorts clinging to his body, in a pool of sewage, his chest aching. The drain gave a series of deep, effluvial burps, then all was silent. To Megan’s yips of disgust, Adam stepped from the burgeoning cesspool and padded over to the washbasin. He teetered around it for a minute or two, rinsing one leg, then the other, keeping a wary eye on the plughole in case it threatened to regurgitate as well. ‘I should probably have a typhus injection or something.’

  Megan made her way round the creeping puddle and fled to the bedroom.

  Adam and Compton-King surveyed the horror. ‘Well, that about settles it,’ said Adam. ‘We can’t stay here.’ He shivered momentarily. ‘Chuck us a towel.’

  Compton-King peered into the linen cupboard and pulled out a diminutive guest towel. ‘Looks like this’ll have to do.’

  Adam took the towel and mopped himself ineffectually. ‘God, what a mess… Maybe Megan and I can move into one of the other villas.’

  ‘Not much point in that, as I imagine they all share this same, wonderful fosse septique.’

  Adam sighed. ‘I’m going to get dressed.’

  ‘I’ll drive to the town down the road and get us some breakfast,’ said Compton-King, trying to look bright. ‘There must be a supermarket.’

  ‘Great. Thanks a lot. I’ll ring the people who look after the place and get someone to sort this out.’

  Adam came downstairs ten minutes later and rang the caretakers. No reply. He went into the kitchen and found Bruno and Megan sitting at the table. Megan’s expression was as miserable as he’d ever seen it. Bruno, on the other hand, looked serene. He was smoking a large spliff, his matted hair dripping water on to the T-shirt which he’d been wearing since Saturday.

  ‘Just been for a swim,’ he remarked. ‘Pool’s not bad.’

  ‘About the only thing round here that isn’t,’ muttered Megan.

  ‘Yeah.’ Bruno gave an otherworldly glance at his surroundings. ‘Rick said it would be really cool, but this is tragic. I mean–’ he gave a disbelieving laugh, ‘I’m a fucking rock star!’

  Megan and Adam stared at him wordlessly, then Megan reached out a hand for the spliff. Skank nodded and passed it to her.

  That’s it, start the day by getting stoned with this moron, thought Adam. He wandered out into the early heat of the day. The swimming pool lay, inert and blue, in the centre of the complex of shabby villas, the rest of which were locked and shuttered. Hardly surprising that no one wanted to rent them. They were shoddy and ugly, with threadbare patches of lawn leading to the pool. Adam wandered from house to house, inspecting the barbecue areas, the shrivelled patches of geraniums which nobody had bothered to water recently, the dilapidated sun loungers and rickety pool umbrellas, wondering how he could possibly have been so unlucky as to finish up renting this. It was clear that they couldn’t spend the next two weeks here.

  Wandering back to the house twenty minutes later, he could hear the sound of the Bentley’s engine in the distance. Food at last. Everybody had been utterly famished since yesterday. He went back to the kitchen to help unload groceries and put some breakfast together.

  But Compton-King had returned with nothing more than two baguettes and a bag of croissants. He put them apologetically on the kitchen table.

  ‘Is that it?’ Bruno looked dazedly at the bread.

  ‘I couldn’t find a supermarket that was open. Managed to find a baker’s. Best I could do.’

  Megan took a croissant from the bag and began to eat it.

  ‘They’re better warmed up,’ said Adam in a conciliatory fashion.

  ‘I don’t care. I’m too hungry. And fed up. Anyway, the oven probably doesn’t work. Nothing else seems to.’ She glanced up at Adam, her eyes a little glazed from her smoke, and handed him a croissant. He took it and ate it dejectedly. Bruno broke off a large lump of baguette and chewed it.

  ‘What are we going to do for the rest of the day?’ asked Megan. ‘We can’t live off this.’

  ‘We’ll have to go out and find somewhere for lunch,’ said Adam. ‘And some shops, if possible.’

  ‘And then what?’ Megan turned her angry gaze on him. ‘Come back here? To this horrible place? You can’t go upstairs without wanting to throw up!’

  ‘Megan–’ began Adam. But she got up, ignoring him, grabbed another croissant from the bag and stomped from the kitchen.

  Adam followed her outside. ‘Look,’ he said, ‘you’ve made it perfectly clear that you blame me for all of this. But do you really think it helps? Do you think I want to hear you telling me every other second how bad it is, and how fed up you are? Could we try to be a little less selfish, perhaps? How about supporting me, instead of whining on about everything?’

  ‘Don’t start having a go at me! This was meant to be a pleasant break for both of us, but what happens? First you agree to drive down with two people I’ve never met in my life, in a bloody awful car that doesn’t work properly. Then I find you haven’t even bothered to take the time to book somewhere decent – and you expect me to be perfectly fine about it! Do you know what? I wish I’d never agreed to come with you! I wish I’d stayed in London!’

  ‘You don’t know how entirely and sincerely I agree with that sentiment,’ retorted Adam. He went back into the house.

  Compton-King was wearing the insouciant expression of someone pretending not to have overheard someone else’s row. ‘Look,’ said Adam apologetically, ‘it was really good of you to drive us down here. But there’s not much sense in you hanging around. You’ll want to get on.’

  ‘You still have to pick up your hire car,’ pointed out Compton-King. ‘I’ll drive you into Cahors.’

  Adam scratched his head. ‘I hadn’t thought about that. If you’re sure you don’t mind, that would be great.’

  Adam and Compton-King set off for Cahors in the Bentley. Megan and Bruno stayed behind, sitting in the sun by the edge of the swimming pool, their legs dangling in the water.

  ‘You and Adam been going out long?’ asked Bruno.

  ‘A couple of years,’ said Megan moodily. She had never felt so hostile towards Adam, ever, and it wasn’t a feeling she liked. She could tell he felt the same way at the moment, and that merely heightened her own brooding animosity. She should want to make it up with him, but she didn’t. She frankly didn’t care.

  ‘Right.’ Bruno nodded philosophically.

  Megan rounded on him. ‘What d’you mean – right?’

  ‘Sorry?’ Bruno was startled.

  ‘You said it in a certain way. “Right”, you said, and then nodded in that significant way.’

  ‘Easy!’ Bruno held up a defensive hand. ‘Why don’t you just chill a bit? Relax. I just meant that two years was probably long enough to start getting on each other’s nerves.’ Megan said nothing, just stared at the sunlight dancing on the water. Bruno contemplated her expression. He smiled, put out a finger and lifted a lock of hair from her face. ‘You look so bloody miserable. Come on, give us a smile.’

  Megan sighed, and gave a small smile in spite of herself. She cast a tentative glance at Bruno. He had nice eyes. Smiley eyes. He was young and carefree. Suddenly she wanted to be like that, too.

  ‘That’s better,’ said Bruno. He dipped his hand in his T-shirt pocket and pulled out a battered spliff and lit it. ‘There you go.’ He handed it to Megan. ‘Now, tell me all about you and Adam.’

  After a mellow hour of smoking and talking, Megan began to feel better. Not about Adam, but about herself, about life. It was nice to make a new friend. Her continuing sense of resentment against Adam made her feel justified in having a moan about him. And Bruno was easy to b
e with. It was a pleasant change to talk to someone with a less serious agenda, not wrapped up in books and literary articles. There was an aimlessness about Bruno which she found quite refreshing.

  ‘How old are you?’ she asked.

  ‘Twenty-nine.’

  ‘I thought you were younger.’

  ‘It’s my childlike persona,’ said Bruno. He shifted himself on to the grass and lay back. ‘Nah, actually it’s being in the band. In a band you never grow up.’

  Megan reflected on this, thinking how pleasant it would be to be able to resist all those pressures to behave like a grown-up. Perhaps it was to do with being in her thirties, perhaps it was to do with being around Adam, so solitary and serious… Whatever it was, she liked the idea that it wasn’t necessarily too late to have fun.

  ‘What are you going to do?’ Compton-King asked Adam, as they drove into Cahors.

  ‘About that wretched house? Try the caretakers again. Not that they’re going to be able to make the place habitable, even if I manage to get hold of them. I suppose I’ll end up ringing the gite company and telling them I’m going to sue them rotten. What else can I do? I’ll just have to try and wring some compensation out of them when we get back to London.’ Adam sighed and ran weary fingers through his hair. ‘I can think of something to tide us over for today, at least. Harry Day’s daughter has a house not far from here. The one who was in the Orton play. She’s staying there at the moment. Harry left the house to her and her brother.’

  Compton-King nodded. ‘Bella. Gorgeous girl.’

  ‘Do you know her?’