by Bev Spicer
After a few more minutes, she stopped in front of a medium sized tree with two main branches and a gnarled trunk; she walked around it and stood back from it, squinting at it as she had done before. Then she noticed that there was a ribbon round the trunk and thought, ‘Damn! It’s not the one. It’s sold.’
‘Found it?’ asked Guy, running up beside her, not in the slightest out of breath, despite the cigarette hanging from his lip.
‘I thought it was this one. I was sure it was…’ she stepped forward to look at the name on the ribbon.
‘I took the liberty of reserving it for you. I didn’t know your surname.’
He drew hard on the remainder of his cigarette and, letting it fall, stubbed it out with his shoe, before taking out another. His smile was crooked as he cupped his hands around the lighter.
‘I nearly…’ said Martha.
‘I know. I was testing you!’
‘You…!’
‘Don’t worry, you did well!’
As they walked back to reception to fill out the order, it was as though they had been friends for years. Martha told him that she was a History teacher by profession and that she had come to France to start a new life after divorcing a pig of a husband who had betrayed her trust.
Guy was sympathetic, but did not ask for details. Instead, he looked straight ahead and said that a strong marriage was important; a strong partner to help you when life was difficult. He took out his wallet and showed her a photograph of a beautiful woman and a child of about six or seven, both smiling. Martha couldn’t imagine that Guy would ever have any difficulties in his own life. He was the most cheerful person she had met, and his wife and son were important to him – that was clear. If there was anything wrong with him, it was that he smoked too much. As soon as one cigarette was finished, out came another. Even in the fresh air, he carried the tang of tobacco around with him.
By the time the paperwork was completed and the delivery date set, Martha truly believed she had made a friend. And when Guy had jokingly said that he would expect a reduction if she taught him some English, she offered to teach him for free. It would be her pleasure. She wanted to help.
The tree had cost four hundred and eighty euros, which was more than she had expected to pay. Some things in France were expensive. But Guy had explained that the tree was over sixty years old and had been grown in southern Spain, where the climate was perfect, before being selected and transported to France. If you thought about it, four hundred and eighty euros was a small price to pay for such care and attention.
The tree arrived the following week. Guy accompanied Martha into the garden and advised her on how to plant it, saying that he was sorry he could not stay to help, but he had other deliveries to make and had no time. Then she had had a moment of panic. Just for a second, she had felt there was something less sincere in his demeanour, and it crossed her mind as he was leaving that perhaps she was really just another customer and that, now he had made a sale, she would not see him again. The thought was a depressing one. She had been fooled before and she didn’t quite trust herself any more. Guy had said he wanted lessons, but he had not mentioned it again after that; had not made an appointment.
Martha stood at the kitchen window and gazed out into the garden. Now she came to think of it, the olive tree did look different, not as leafy and healthy looking. She could have sworn it was not the same one she had chosen. There it was, precarious in its pot, listing to one side, waiting for someone to put it in place. And then she wondered how on earth she and Michel would be able to move it. And what if it died? She almost wished she hadn’t bought the dratted thing.
A knock on the door brought her out of her stupor. The shadow in the glass was man-sized, but not of any man she recognised.
‘Good morning, madame,’ said the boy. ‘I rang twice and left a message, but perhaps I dialled the wrong number…’
‘Oh! I’m sorry. I had to go out unexpectedly. Please, come in.’
It was the boy who had followed her from the swimming pool and asked for English lessons. Martha quickly thought about which room was the tidiest and led him through to the lounge, inviting him to sit down and offering him something to drink. His name was Patrice Dumas and he lived in a hamlet just off the Royan road; he was studying for his baccalaureate and wanted to specialise in languages.
‘I am in my first year at lycée and English is my weakest subject. My father wants me to have private lessons and you were recommended to him…’ The boy was unused to asking for help and came to a dead end.
‘Do you want to have private lessons?’ Martha asked, smiling.
The boy blushed. ‘I don’t know, Madame Burton. I have a lot to do. If it helps, I suppose, yes.’
Martha liked his candid admission. ‘We can try for a while. How about that? Then you can decide whether it’s helping or not. Let’s say six lessons and then you decide. All right?’
The boy seemed relieved and told her that his father would accompany him on the first lesson, which was arranged for the following Friday afternoon. When he had gone, Martha busied herself with some painting in one of the unfinished bedrooms, listening to the radio and trying not to think any longer about the olive tree or Guy.
Eleven
‘Don’t worry, cherie. I will get Christophe and Jean to help us!’
‘Thank you, Michel.’ It was difficult not to cry, all of a sudden, after an afternoon spent going over what had happened and imagining how gullible she had been. Michel was the antidote to her self-doubt and she threw her arms around his neck and kissed him.
‘Eh? I like it! You must buy an olive tree every day!’ he laughed.
‘Do you think the tree was too expensive?’
‘No! It is a beautiful tree. Look at its majestic trunk, its graceful branches. For this you must pay a higher price, cherie!’
Martha knew that he was humouring her a little, enjoying her weakness and his strength.
‘It is a nice tree, I suppose.’
‘You’ll see! When it is in its place, it will be wonderful!’ Michel laughed and left her then to change into some old clothes before his friends arrived.
Martha set about making some aperos for them all, for when the job had been done and they could drink and eat together in the garden and go over how they had accomplished such a great task. She felt uneasy still, but reasoned that soon, she would have forgotten all about her foolish thoughts, as long as the tree looked all right next to the decking, as long as she didn’t hate it.
Christophe and Jean arrived, greeting Michel loudly and slapping him on the back, making jokes that she couldn’t understand. When they came into the kitchen, their manner changed instantly, as they greeted her politely and with a reverence she found unnerving.
She watched them in the garden, working out how to get the tree out of the pot, laughing and joking with each other and not making a great deal of progress. She wanted to join them; to be the same as them, unconcerned and relaxed.
‘Perhaps we should water it in the pot?’ she suggested, standing with her hands on her hips.
For a moment, the men became quiet, noticing her change of clothes, seeing that she wanted to be a part of the group. Then, although they were still not as they had been when she had watched them from the kitchen, they let her join them and gradually became themselves in front of her.
‘If we water it in the pot, it will be even heavier!’ said Michel, eventually.
‘Yes, but she’s right, you know. The soil is dry. It’s stuck to the pot.’ Christophe scratched his head.
‘We can cut the pot,’ offered Jean, ‘ if you have the right kind of tool for the job!’ At this the men eyed Martha shyly.
‘Oh, he has a very good tool!’ she said, wanting to break the ice once and for all.
At this, the men guffawed and clutched their stomachs, slapping Michel on the back and nodding shyly at Martha.
After that, it was easier to get on with the job and, surprisingly, the innue
ndo ceased, more or less.
They watered the soil and, laying the tree carefully on its side, rolled the pot gently back and forth to loosen the roots and tease it out little by little. Martha brought beers and they mopped their brows with their sleeves, wiped their hands on their trousers, before drinking.
‘Where do you want it planted?’ Michel asked, and they all looked at her, as though this important question should have been broached much earlier.
‘Next to the vine, I think, in front of the decking. If the soil is easy enough to dig.’ This last comment set them flexing their muscles and joking again, while Martha got out the spades and a large, robust garden fork to loosen the earth first. She brought a broom to sweep away the pebbles and some shears to cut the special permeable cloth that was supposed to keep weeds from growing.
Soon the hole was dug and they argued for a while about whether it was the right size to take the tree, while Martha crept off to the house and came back with a tape measure, which she slipped into Michel’s hand.
‘Perhaps, you idiots, we should measure the hole?’ Michel held out the tape measure and winked at Martha, to hoots of derision from his friends.
The hole was too wide and not deep enough, but twenty minutes later it was ready. It took all their strength to lift the tree, cursing and laughing all the while, listening to Martha telling them to turn it this way and that, as she strode around the garden, viewing it from different angles and finally gave them the thumbs up. They filled in the hole, leaving the tree roots level with the ground, as Guy had instructed, then Martha filled a watering can three times and soaked the roots. The olive tree would need to be watered regularly in the hot dry weather, Guy had said, until it had established itself.
The men went to wash their hands and faces and to get more beer from the fridge. Martha brought out smoked salmon nibbles, houmous and raw vegetables to dip, prawns with a rosé sauce, and cheesy Wotsits, which Michel adored. There was fresh bread and Camembert too, to satisfy the men’s appetites. And, as the blue of the early summer sky paled, then darkened, they passed the time commenting on the tree, agreeing that it looked very fine where it was and that it would soon fill out and grow new leaves and perhaps some olives for bottling. They promised to ask their mothers the best way to bottle olives and proceeded to tell anecdotes about their childhood and how it had been so different then, with the allotments and the fresh fruit and vegetables. How they had helped their grandfathers picking beans and peas and even helped their grandmothers shell and cut them in the kitchen, listening to stories of their own youth.
The men mellowed with the evening, becoming philosophical, looking up at the sky and watching for the first stars, enjoying the silence as much as the conversation.
When they reluctantly agreed that it was late and they should leave, they returned a little to their loutish behaviour, joking about what their wives would say they had been up to, shushing each other and promising not to tell, as they moved unsteadily along the hall and carefully opened the front door, trying to keep quiet so as not to disturb the other people in the square.
Michel and Martha stood at the front door and waved to them as they slunk away, holding onto each other and giggling like schoolboys.
It had been a very pleasant evening, leaving them all tired and satisfied. The clock in the kitchen said two a.m. and, outside the back door, in the light of the moon, the olive tree looked lovely. It had been the right decision to buy it, and with this thought, Martha wondered whether she had imagined all the things she had thought about Guy. He was probably a very nice man, aware that the tree would bring happiness to his new customer. Martha shook her head – she should beware of reading too much into things. Life was simple, if you let it be, especially after several glasses of wine and a good deal of fun.
Michel was already asleep on the bed, his shirt removed but his trousers still on. Martha undressed and lay down next to him, closing her eyes and thinking of her new tree, alone and mysterious in the night.
Twelve
Guy pushed his wife gently in the back, making her moan a little. He was tired and had a headache.
‘Coffee…’ he murmured.
She shifted once more and stretched her arms above her head, yawning and mumbling something inaudible.
‘Coffee…’ His tone was petulant, insistent.
Angeline Roche’s soft body stiffened a little and her eyes blinked open in the grey light of the curtained bedroom.
‘What time is it?’ She tried to make out the hands of her wristwatch.
‘Uh?’
In the next room, the sound of a children’s television programme blared. Adrian was awake.
At last, Angeline made out the time. The alarm would go off in ten minutes.
Guy pushed her again, harder this time, to force her out of bed.
‘Okay! I’m going. Don’t be so grumpy!’ She kissed him on the cheek and dodged his arm as he turned onto his back, still complaining.
She switched off the alarm so that it would not disturb her husband sooner than necessary, slipped on a robe and stooped to retrieve her slippers from under the bed, her long dark hair falling forward, wafting a complex morning musk, which she inhaled with quiet, lingering pleasure. She surveyed her husband’s tanned face, his expression softening as he drifted off to sleep again. Angeline half-wished he would not always wake up in such a bad mood, but knew that it was only a reluctance to begin the day without her care and attention. This, she could offer him willingly: a simple coffee and a croissant to show him her love.
Looking out at the pale blue sky behind the thin curtains, she sighed, her thoughts turning to more practical concerns. It would be another hot day. What would she do with Adrian while she worked? She had a lot to do. If she didn’t get the laundry finished in time she would lose customers. Adrian would help her a little and then he would slip away and be stuck in front of the television or playing on his Playstation. Most of his friends had gone to stay with their grandparents and wouldn’t be back for weeks. Adrian’s grandmother did not want him. She had too busy a life and had made it clear from the start that she would not provide childcare during the school holidays. Angeline shrugged. Let her have her life! And Guy’s parents had died before Adrian had been born. She and Guy would have to provide for their son alone, to be sure that he would not feel the gap.
Downstairs, it was quiet. Only Ziggy’s soft mewing disturbed the peace as she stretched and waited for her first caress.
‘Good morning, my princess! Oh, did you have a good sleep? Or have you been out hunting? Yes? That’s good. Some milk? Come, then.’ The cat jumped down from the sofa and followed its mistress to the fridge, weaving in and out of her legs, purring.
The kitchen was small, but immaculately kept, and the table was already laid up for breakfast. Angeline took croissants from the freezer and lit the oven. She set the kettle on the stove to boil water for the coffee pot, spooning three heaped teaspoons into it and setting it to warm next to the gas flame. There would be hot chocolate for Adrian and herself, thick and creamy, with plenty of sugar.
In the downstairs bathroom, she washed her face and straightened her hair a little, turning her head this way and that before giving herself a big smile. She was happy with how she looked. She was young and, people said, very beautiful. At least she could thank her mother for this!
The kettle whistled and Adrian came downstairs in his pyjamas, approached the table sleepily and sat down, immediately starting a game on his Nintendo DS.
‘Switch that off at the table,’ she told him, softly.
‘Yes, Maman.’
Angeline kissed the top of his head, putting the game into her pocket.
‘Is there pain au chocolat today?’
‘Not today,’ she murmured, sorry that she had not got up earlier and fetched some from the boulangerie.
The boy looked disappointed, so she got out the jar of Nutella that she kept on the top shelf and put it on the table, much to his delight.
‘Thank you, Maman!’ He turned the jar and read the label, his chin resting in his hands.
They grinned at each other then, and Angeline gave a small laugh because it was so easy to make her son happy.
‘Breakfast!’ she called, a few minutes later. And, as there was no sign of life, she nodded and Adrian rushed up the stairs, into his parents’ room, jumping on his father and kissing him.
‘Time to get up, lazy bones!’
‘All right! All right! I’m up! Look!’ he replied, not moving.
‘Lazy bones! Lazy bones!’ Adrian ducked down to put his nose just in front of his father’s so that, when he opened his eyes, he saw his son’s bright round eyes and smelled his young skin.
Guy loved his son. He lunged forward to tickle him until he begged for mercy.
‘Go on! Go!’ he laughed. ‘Before I come and snip off your nose!’
Adrian squealed and ran away, stumbling down the stairs. There was the sound of more laughter from the kitchen.
The croissants were done – crisp on the outside and buttery soft in the centre. Angeline always bought them from the village boulangerie, even though they were more expensive than the supermarket croissants. Her mother had taught her to freeze them and bake them so that they were even better than fresh. Angeline was sure that her mother had done this more for convenience, but she had become used to the ritual and could not break it now. She carried them to the table and Guy drank the coffee she put before him, taking out a pack of cigarettes, ignoring her frown. Instead, he finished his first cup of coffee and glanced over to the pot.