The Undertaker's Son

by Bev Spicer

  Guy stayed a little while and told her that he was married, with a boy of seven, and that he wanted to learn English so that he could help his son with his homework and perhaps get a job in a big hotel, working mostly in the gardens, but being on hand to assist with foreign guests.

  Martha said it would be an unusual job to have.

  ‘I like to talk to people,’ he said. ‘Especially foreigners – they are lucky to travel so much.’

  ‘Where would you go, if you could?’

  He considered a few places. ‘America!’

  It was not what she was expecting him to say and he saw that she was surprised, which made him smile again. His expression softened and he asked, ‘May I call you Martha?’

  ‘Yes, you may. I don’t feel like a mademoiselle. Never have.’

  ‘So, Martha, what do you do here?’ He meant in France. He meant why had she come.

  ‘I teach English.’

  Guy’s eyes widened a little and made her feel just a little reckless.

  When he had finished his coffee, he put down his cup and told her to call at the centre and ask for him, when she was ready to make her choice. They shook hands on the doorstep and she waved as he drove off.

  Madame Bonnard leaned out to close the shutters at her bedroom window as Martha watched the black smoke belching from the exhaust pipe of Guy’s van and pondered the fact that this man had just sold her an olive tree.

  A student would be coming for a lesson at 11.30, so she tidied round a little and got her materials ready, all the time thinking of Guy and Michel, of how different they made her feel. She thought about her ex-husband too. People were all so very different. How on earth could she expect to find someone to suit her completely? Perhaps she should not expect so much. Perhaps she was too idealistic, too fussy. Perhaps she did not need anyone at all.

  Martha put on some music and finished off the housework, singing along and dancing so that, soon, she had distracted herself from her thoughts of men and could be happy.

  Eight

  The walk had been invigorating and, on the way back, Claude Cousteau had climbed down onto the rocks and watched the sea until his mind tuned in to the sound of the waves and the rushing of the water, heaving back and forth, slick and rolling. The power of the moon exerted itself, invisible and irresistible. Closing his eyes and concentrating hard, he could sense the connection, feeling himself caught up in the same gravity that pulled on the ocean.

  Solitude made him calm. It was only people that made the world a difficult place to be. Most people led such trivial lives. Others had carved out a career for themselves after years of study. Squinting against the glare of the sun on the water, he pictured Felix Dumas at his desk, concluding an important piece of business, shaking the hand of a client, his back straight, his gaze direct. This was a man who knew his profession, a man of standing in the community, a man of importance. It was an honour to know him and to be of assistance to such a person.

  The first time he had met Dumas, Claude had been with his father. It had been a hot afternoon in the Dumas’ holiday home in Verona. The garden had been decorated with hundreds of lights for the party that would take place that evening. A party to celebrate a son’s success and blessed passage into a career in which justice would be upheld and the rights of ordinary people defended. The maid had brought real lemonade and home-baked sweet biscuits and, while his father had spoken with Felix’s father, conducting some business or other, which was the reason for the visit, Claude had wandered amongst the cherry trees looking up at the fat fruit and imagining himself in a kind of fairyland.

  ‘You must be Claude,’ said Felix, coming upon him suddenly so that he stopped in his tracks and almost dropped his glass. ‘My name is Felix Dumas. I am very pleased to meet you!’ The young man, beautifully dressed and with a smile so bright it shone, even in the shadows, held out a hand.

  ‘Enchanted.’ Claude glanced up at the immaculate young gentleman and then down at the scrubbed whiteness of his own bony knees beneath his short trousers.

  ‘How old are you, Claude?’ enquired Felix, taking out a cigarette and tapping it on a packet trimmed with gold.

  ‘Thirteen,’ he replied, apologetically, wishing he were older and blushing despite his efforts not to, wondering whether the gold on the cigarette packet could be real.

  ‘Ah! An excellent age. Excellent! Not a care in the world at thirteen! Come, let me show you my stream.’

  Claude looked back to where his father, wearing a heavy suit and an ill-fitting shirt, with a tie that looked as though it might strangle him, was listening and nodding as Maitre Dumas senior, sitting back in his chair and looking as though he were the sun shining down on one of his minor planets, moved his lips to an elegant rhythm, no doubt bestowing wisdom and kindness on his shabby, obsequious visitor.

  ‘Come along,’ Felix laughed. ‘They’ll be there for hours! Leave your glass against a tree. There!’

  The garden sloped as they left the shade of the cherry trees, passed through an orchard and came to a meadow of wild flowers. Claude bit his lip, trying to avoid crushing the delicate blooms; Felix laughed, striding down towards an enormous oak beside a jumble of rocks and pebbles, glinting beneath a jumping stream.

  ‘Which one would you like?’ He balanced his cigarette on a rock and opened up a large chest in which there lay a quantity of toy boats, some worn and some brightly painted, all with sails attached to masts and with a delicate thread holding the triangular cloth in place.

  Claude gasped and looked up into the face of the young Dumas, wondering how it could be that he possessed such childish things and, at the same time, wanting more than anything to touch the exquisite boats, to take them out and examine them.

  ‘You can have first pick,’ Felix crouched down with the boy, laughing once again at the rapture in his expression.

  Claude took a medium-sized yacht, narrow and elegant, with a tall sail. It was light in his hands as he turned it. Felix selected a dark blue, larger boat, with two sails, quickly closing the chest, putting out his cigarette, and going down to the edge of the stream.

  ‘First one to the bridge gets an ice cream!’ He stepped into the centre of the splashing waters, perched precariously on flat rocks, his trousers already wet. ‘Come on!’

  Claude followed, unafraid and grinning, balancing his boat and waiting for the signal, his blood pounding in his ears and the smell of the water filling his nostrils.

  ‘One, two, three, go!’

  The boats bobbed and rocked, then, caught by the current, shot off, the blue one ahead. Claude held his breath as his yacht skimmed the surface of the water and avoided the shallows, where the rival boat had momentarily snagged. They were not allowed to touch the boats, but they could manipulate the current and Felix set about splashing and pushing the waters to free his vessel.

  The afternoon rang out with their boyish cries, as they raced and raced again, each winning and losing, neither caring too much about the finish line but rushing back to the start again and again, until Felix’s father appeared at the edge of the meadow and beckoned them back to the house with a single wave.

  That had been the first time Claude had met Felix Dumas.

  Claude had helped his friend in the past, and now, he had the irresistible feeling that Felix was once more in need of his help.

  After many years of faithful service to noble clients, the noblest of them all might require Claude’s assistance. It would be an honour to be of service to such a man. Of course, the notaire had not been explicit. His gracious letter, which Claude had opened and read aloud to his own grief stricken mother, had expressed Felix’s kind condolences on the death of her husband, assuring Madame Cousteau that he would be at her disposal, now that her husband, his father’s dearest friend, had passed away. Felix Dumas had gone on to offer his best wishes to Claude, extending him the same warm sympathies on the death of his beloved father.

  The letter was accomplished, delivering an unspoken messa
ge that business was good, despite the onset of a difficult economic period. But Claude had sensed that all was not quite well with his friend. He had an intuition for when people were in trouble. Keeping his ear to the ground, and calling on his contacts to do the same, Claude had become convinced that he might, once more, be of service to the only person in the world who had truly shown an interest in him.

  It would only be a matter of time before the telephone rang and instructions were issued. After that, it would be up to him to carry out his duty, cleanly and anonymously, making sure that Felix Dumas’ wishes were fulfilled, and allowing the latter to continue his life undisturbed by those who sought to harass him.

  That was partly why Claude was in France again. For the sake of his friend and benefactor; for the man who had once offered him an alternative path in life.

  At the same time, although he chose not to acknowledge it, Claude Cousteau had been drawn back to the region where his father had spent his youth. Away from his family home, he could understand why his father had been so at ease in a place like this. It lacked sophistication. It was cosmopolitan. It was a town where you could live your life and never see a curtain moved aside or hear a conversation come to an abrupt halt in the village shop.

  And now that his father had gone, Claude could be free of the tension that had dogged him for most of his life, while he had endeavoured to make him proud. His father had wanted the best for his son, but his ambitions had been blind, his aspirations too high. Only Felix Dumas had finally understood Claude, had looked inside him and accepted him for whom he was. Only Felix Dumas had recognised his purity of heart, his loyalty and tenacity. Only Felix Dumas set a value on these qualities.

  So, here Claude was, away from his beloved Italy, a stranger amongst people who did not speak his language and did not know his worth. He had left his mother to the care of others, had observed his father’s funeral from afar. Then, he had put Felix Dumas’ letter in his pocket and come to Royan, to an apartment the notaire had put at his disposal.

  The sea was the same sea, the sky the same sky, and the loyalty in Claude Cousteau’s heart as vital to him as the air he breathed, no matter where he found himself on Earth.

  More resolved than ever, he climbed back to the path and resumed his walk. He would spend the afternoon at the gym and later, when the crowds had dissipated, he would come down to the sea and swim.

  It might be days, weeks or even months before Felix Dumas needed him. In the meantime, he would hone his body and mind. Waiting and ready.

  Nine

  After Michel had left the next morning, Martha went out into the village to do some shopping at the market. She bought two fillets of sole, picked out by the lady who served her.

  ‘Four euros. Put them in a pan with a little butter and a splash of white wine.’

  The villagers watched the Englishwoman doing her best to understand.

  Martha went over to the vegetable stall next.

  ‘Good morning, madame. What would you like today?’ The stall owner spoke kindly and slowly, making allowances for her.

  ‘Good morning. I’ll take some carrots, onions and a few mushrooms.’ It was wonderful to be able to buy such fresh produce locally.

  A group of cyclists dressed in garish lycra circled the market and went on their way.

  On days like these, it was clear that life had changed for the better. Martha loved the way that just going out for some fish and vegetables could turn into a social event. Her French friends laughed and told her that, of course, life was for living. You had to make the best of it. What was the point in rushing around all the time?

  No doubt the sunshine helped: another beautiful day, with the promise of many more to come. In England, much as she adored the place, you could never be sure of the weather, hoping for the best on a sunny morning, but expecting the worst. How many times, when she had finished work for the week and had woken up on a Saturday with the sun streaming through the window, had she and Marcus decided to drive to Shrewsbury or Ludlow and sit by the river with a picnic, or go out for lunch at one of their favourite pubs, only to look out of the window an hour later and see that it had clouded over and started to drizzle? Too many times, was the answer to that question. No, she most definitely did not miss the British weather, even when Jane told her that it was beautiful and that British summers were the best in the world.

  Martha bought half a baguette at the boulangerie and took her purchases back to the house. After she had taught her student, then eaten a light lunch of mushrooms on toasted baguette, she grabbed her swimming stuff and set off for Saintes. She had heard that there was a new pool just opened and she thought she might go and have a look. The one she went to normally was all right, but it wasn’t very clean in the changing rooms, which put her off. After that, she would go to her favourite café with its tranquil courtyard in front of the museum.

  Saintes was much nearer to St. Martin-le-Vieux anyway, just fifteen kilometres to the north, so it would be less time-consuming. Martha hated wasting time. When she had been working in England, she had never had a minute to spare and now, when she thought about it, she did twice as much with her day in France, and still had time to sit in the garden with a friend to have a leisurely aperitif before dinner. Aperitifs were the best way to entertain. And, often, dinner might be forgotten altogether – if the nibbles were good enough. It just depended on everyone’s mood. Marcus would have hated it!

  The pool was difficult to find at first. She knew that it was behind the new HyperU and yet, where was it? Eventually, following the signs for Le Centre Aquatique and ending up in a car park at the back of the hypermarket for the second time, she got out and asked a woman who looked as though she had been swimming. It was below the level of the car park and accessible via a ramp and a longish walk past the athletics ground. There was dust and there were lorries. The place was not finished. But she saw the slides and a huge building that must house the pool.

  By this time, her excitement had worn off a little. She was wondering why going for a swim had to be so complicated, but as soon as she got into the water, she felt marvellous. Martha swam up and down, enjoying the feel of the water and stretching out her body. Then, it was time for one of the aqua gym classes, so she went to shower and change in one of the beautiful purpose-built cubicles, where the water was hot and the tiles pristine. She was so glad she had come. She would make it a habit.

  Outside, she noticed a tall young man whom she had seen in the pool. He stood uneasily, shuffling his feet and kicking the odd stone, looking this way and that as though he were waiting for someone. Martha finally realised, when he started walking slightly behind her, that it was her he had been waiting for and that he was building up the courage to approach her.

  ‘Excuse me?’ he asked, at last.

  ‘Yes,’ replied Martha, stopping and folding her arms.

  ‘I wanted… I was wondering… Are you the lady who gives English lessons in St. Martin-le-Vieux?’ The boy was young, about sixteen or seventeen, and he was blushing.

  Martha softened her voice. ‘Yes. Yes, I am. Sorry, I didn’t mean to sound so abrupt.’

  The boy nodded and spoke a little more confidently. ‘Well, Madame, I wanted to know, that is, my father asked me to find out about lessons. I need them to improve my marks at lycée. My English is not very good.’ The boy waited politely for her response, looking as though he would not breathe again until she had said she would do it.

  ‘I see. Well, would you like to take my card and you can call me to arrange a visit – how would that be? I should be in this afternoon and tomorrow morning. Okay?’

  She left the boy looking at the card and waved at him as she passed him in her car a few minutes later. If he were serious about lessons, he would call.

  She already had two students, but one more would be all right. She smiled as she drove back home, feeling enlivened by the swim and pleased to have met the boy – she hadn’t asked his name.

  Ten
/>   When Martha got in, the telephone was ringing. It was Guy Roche from the garden centre and he wanted to know whether she could call in that afternoon because someone was interested in buying the olive tree that she had been looking at. Martha thought about what she had said to the boy about being in all afternoon and decided that he would call again if he were really interested. She didn’t want to lose her olive tree.

  ‘Thanks for phoning. It was kind,’ she said, as Guy advanced and shook her hand, smiling all over his face.

  ‘It’s my pleasure. You saw it first, after all. Shall we go and take another look – you might change your mind and choose another.’

  ‘I don’t think so,’ said Martha, trying to keep up with him.

  ‘Oh, it happens. Believe me! There was a woman last Wednesday who had reserved a tree weeks ago. It was the most perfect tree in the world. None better. It was amazing. We delivered it and, guess what?’ He turned to Martha, his eyes wide and the corners of his mouth twitching.

  Martha grinned.

  ‘Yes. Yes! She didn’t want it any more. Said it was the wrong tree. We had made a mistake. I showed her the ribbon, with her name on it. But…’ He trailed off, looking over the top of Martha’s head at a young assistant who was talking to an elderly couple. Then he stopped, abruptly. ‘I’ll be back in a minute. Just carry on. I’ll join you…’

  And, with that, he ran off towards the group, clutching his pocket so that his cigarettes wouldn’t fall out.

  Looking after him as he moved easily away from her, Martha thought about what he had said, and replayed in her head how he had allowed the woman to disagree with him, never thinking of embarrassing her. Guy was nice; he was fun. He was young and optimistic. Like her!

  There seemed to be more olive trees than before, and suddenly she couldn’t remember exactly where hers had been. She didn’t want Guy to arrive back before she had located it, so she tried to remember, but the more she thought about it and the more she searched, the less sure she was. Perhaps it had been sold! Perhaps Guy would say that she was like the customer he had told her about; that she couldn’t even remember which one she had chosen! It occurred to Martha that gossip was all right as long as it was about other people.