by Bev Spicer
As Angeline Roche drove away to her next customer, she dreamed that, one day, she would live in such a house and have servants of her own. In fact, she did not regard her future success in terms of a dream. A dream suggested that it might be unattainable in some way. No, it was a plan; something she would engineer by using her genius for making her service second to none and therefore indispensable. Her client-base would grow and she would expand her business, taking on staff, assuming a strictly managerial role, conversing with her customers as a professional, no longer at their beck and call, but on an equal footing. Yes. This was what she would achieve. And soon.
She finished her rounds and went back to the house, where, after she had counted her money and recorded it in her accounts, she coaxed Adrian into the kitchen to help her make a cake for his father. While they chatted, she glanced at the clock and wondered about her husband, sitting with the Englishwoman, learning a language he would never need. It was doubtful whether a hotel groundsman would ever use such a skill, but, Angeline reminded herself, it was Guy who must choose the things he did in his life, just as she did in her own.
Sixteen
The rain had been pouring down all day. Clement Berger looked at his watch and stared out of his apartment window at the dull sea and the ever-present ferries moving like large slugs across its opaque surface. Actually, it wasn’t his apartment, it was his father’s, but it was the place where he had been brought up and which he had called home for as far back as he could remember. At present, he had no address of his own, despite the fact that he was coming up for thirty and had, until recently, been earning a decent salary as a journalist for a weekly magazine. Now he was unemployed and broke, forced to give up his small flat and run back to his parents’ home. Funny how life could change so suddenly.
‘Did you make tea, Clement?’ called his father.
‘Just doing it, Papa,’ he replied, still gazing out at the rain, watching the droplets run and merge on the glass.
‘Is it lunchtime soon?’
Clement went in to his father and crouched beside his chair, taking his hand. ‘We just had lunch, Papa. Fish, and some green beans. Are you still hungry?’
‘Not really. Have you seen the cat? I’m worried she might get hurt.’ He leaned forward and whispered, ‘There are snipers in the garden.’
Clement reassured his father that the cat was fine and that the snipers had moved on. He put a blanket around the not-yet-old man’s knees and selected a quiz show on the television for him to watch while he waited for his tea.
On the sideboard, Clement glanced at the letter from the nursing home and then back into the lounge where his father sat, smirking at the game-show host and, at the same time, seeming just a little terrified of him.
There was some chocolate cake left over from the day before. Clement cut a piece and put it on his father’s favourite plate.
‘All right, Papa?’ he said, pulling up a chair for himself and setting the tray down on a low table.
‘I’m a little hungry, now. Is there any cake?’
‘Yes, Papa. This is for you.’
He beamed and held out a shaking hand to take the plate his son offered him. As he raised the cake to his mouth, a rivulet of saliva trailed over his bottom lip and landed on his shirt. Too late, Clement placed a strategic napkin and gently guided the plate into a more suitable position. He watched his father eating in slow motion and wondered whether he would ever come back to how he was before. Each time Clement brought him home for the weekend, he seemed further away from reality and more afraid of imaginary threats. The whites of his eyes had yellowed and become too large, so that his irises looked lost inside them, like the eye of a cow or a horse as it panicked and bridled in the face of danger.
It was too late to go out for a walk along the beach now, even if the weather did clear up. Yesterday had been warm and sunny but his father had slept and had not wanted to leave the apartment for fear of the soldiers on the stairs. Instead, he had sat stroking the cat and played chess with Clement, recounting stories of a war he had never seen, remembering his own father’s life as though it were his own.
And when the news came on and François Hollande told the nation that he would bring social change to France and reverse the damage done by Sarkozy, Clement’s father made him change the channel, saying that he did not want to listen to such a traitor; that Hollande was a puppet of the regime and would find out their names and have them shot.
So Clement stuck to quiz shows. His father laughed when the audience laughed, answered the questions too late and threw up his hands when the advertisements came on to interrupt his train of thought.
At six o’clock, Clement took his father back to the nursing home and left him with his favourite nurse, who waved goodbye, nodding and smiling to reassure him that his father would be fine, that he would be safe and cared for. It was true that he seemed, if not happier there, then more confident. The apartment had become foreign to him. Each time he entered, he did not know where he was. At times, Clement knew that he thought it was a hotel room and was surprised to find the kitchen, telling his son that he should ring down to reception and have them do something, that it wasn’t safe to be there. Then, he would go into his own world and stare at the television, or a photograph of his wife, or the pattern in the carpet until, for a while, he seemed to know where he was.
He had been diagnosed with Parkinson’s syndrome just after his wife had died. It had progressed so that he shook and dribbled all the time and was unsteady on his feet. As a result, the doctors had prescribed pills: all sorts of them. And the pills had brought on hallucinations. Many a time, Clement had argued that his father would be better off without them, but the doctors had insisted that, without them, his condition would deteriorate rapidly and that he would not be able to move around safely. There was a choice to be made and the man who should make it had receded into a place where he could not be reached for any length of time.
The sun was out when Clement left the nursing home, mocking him with its yellow buttery warmth. He went down to the sea front and followed the coastal path round to Pontaillac, past the smaller sandy coves, deserted now. He descended the steps to the beach, aware of his solitude and the indifference of the ocean before him. There was no need to talk, no need to think. No one was waiting in the next room, trying to get back to the person he used to be. And for a precious slice of time, Clement allowed himself to be swallowed up by the vastness of the panorama, which seemed to take over his body and bring him a profound sense of relief.
A solitary figure, poised as if for flight, on an outcrop of rocks further down the beach, caught his interest for a moment and then he resumed his private thoughts, letting the rhythms of the open water soothe him.
Seventeen
It was inconvenient, but to be expected in his line of work.
Claude Cousteau prepared his overnight bag and selected the papers he would be travelling under. His contact had insisted that he follow the instructions he would receive in Verona to the letter. It was an important client. There would be no room for compromise.
Claude disliked not knowing how his clients wished him to work. It would be irritating to have to use a knife or, even worse, a garrotte. Claude considered these methods old fashioned and messy. What was more, he did not enjoy mutilating his targets, it was not a thrill he sought to see them disfigured or brutalised. On the other hand, he hoped he would feel the life drain out of his victim and sense the moment when the heart, if not the brain, finally gave out. And then, the exquisite lifting of the spirit; its separation from the body, subtle, yet overwhelming. He closed his eyes, remembering.
The night was moonless, the road quiet, and his second-hand Peugeot unremarkable, turning no heads as he parked in the long-stay car park and took out his bag. On the plane, he read the newspaper and drank a coke, trying to ignore the overweight passenger in the seat next to him, who couldn’t help spilling over onto his seat and who, by way of apology, it seemed
to Claude, proceeded to engage him in minute conversation.
Eventually, in self-defence, Claude pretended to fall asleep. The buoyancy of the plane relaxed him and he drifted back to his childhood, remembering a second visit to the Dumas residence, at the age of sixteen…
His father had parked right outside the main entrance, as the driveway was not clogged with cars this time. No celebration was being held, and the place did not seem the same. It was as though it were less alive, but infinitely more beautiful.
Monsieur Dumas appeared shortly before the maid, shooing her away and greeting his guests effusively. He wore a cream-coloured suit and a silk cravat in a shade of blue that resembled the delicate petals of a cornflower. The man was too perfect to be real.
Once inside, they sat in ornate armchairs, while their host enquired politely about his father’s health and then moved on to the question of Claude’s studies – the reason for the visit. The maid returned with a tray of tea and a glass of lemonade.
‘When you have had enough of old men’s chatter, perhaps you would like to see the apple orchard?’ suggested Dumas.
It was all Claude could do to answer, trembling over his choice of words in order to address the two statements successfully.
‘I would love to see the orchard!’ he said, timidly.
‘Ha! Of course you would. Felix is about, I believe. Why don’t you sneak up on him?’
Outside, Claude felt the sweat on the backs of his legs evaporate and he began to relax a little, listening to the breeze coming up from the meadow, his senses alert to even the smallest sounds as he continued his walk down to the orchard, catching the scent of apples on the warm autumnal air. Before him, the branches swung heavily with fruit. It was difficult to tell whether the fruit was ripe enough to be harvested. There would only be one way to find out. He stretched out a hand…
‘Good enough to eat, eh?’ Felix Dumas, older and smarter than Claude remembered, moved almost as though he were floating a little above the ground.
‘Oh! Good afternoon, Maitre Dumas.’ Claude dropped the apple he had plucked, holding his breath as it rolled towards Felix Dumas’ brown leather shoe.
‘Call me Felix, for goodness sake! Here! Try this one,’ replied his host, selecting another apple and handing it to his terrified guest.
‘Thank you.’
The man and the boy observed each other, Claude with an expression of restrained panic and Felix with the kind of smile that oozed benevolence, his handsome face exuding a wholesome glow. As during their first meeting, Claude was overwhelmed, and fought to keep his composure in the presence of a man who seemed to grow in stature and in beauty, yes, beauty, even as he stood there in the shadows of the fruit-laden trees.
‘So, Claude, you want to study Law?’ Felix Dumas was amused and yet keen to encourage his future apprentice to speak without fear.
‘I…My father wishes me to try something… respectable,’ Claude answered, looking directly at his better.
‘Your father? Respectable? Of course!’ Felix laughed. ‘He has been a good friend to my father in the past. I am sure we can come to some arrangement.’
Claude had never thought of his father’s being a friend to the proprietor of such a palatial residence, who must surely move in very different circles. To have such a person as a friend would be beyond belief.
Felix Dumas led the way, down towards the stream and Claude wanted more than anything to open the chest that still stood beside the oak tree, but Felix seemed not to notice it this time and carried on along the narrow path, towards the bridge. It worried the young boy that perhaps the smart notaire had forgotten all about the boats and the racing.
Claude relived the afternoon, biting into the apple at last, casting frequent glances behind him, half listening to his host as he described the benefits of a career in Law.
The plane jerked and Claude opened his eyes. It struck him for the first time, that Felix Dumas had known about the alternative that awaited his young protégé, if he did not take up the help that was offered. Felix Dumas had wanted to save him! It was not just a question of generosity towards a boy he hardly knew, it was the offer of an honourable life, a chance to rub shoulders as equals, the opportunity to reject the path his father had reluctantly planned for him, and branch out.
The air hostess came nearer, offering drinks and snacks, in a voice honey-sweet but weighed down with routine. Her neck was slender and fragile.
‘I’ll take a scotch, young lady!’ cried Claude’s fellow passenger suddenly. ‘And whatever this fine fellow would like!’
Claude realised that the patient smile on the young girl’s face was for him.
‘Nothing for me, thank you.’
A look passed between the man and the girl.
Her neck would be oh so easy to break. And the enormous lump beside him? It would be better to finish him with a single, clean shot. Claude imagined his surprise, his body slumping to the floor – it would be difficult to move him, afterwards.
Conversation became impossible to avoid, now that the contact had become personal, and so Claude feigned interest in the perfume salesman, who was bent on launching his new and unique product on the Italian people, whom he pronounced to be the most stylish of the Europeans, and the most beautiful.
A fat tongue flicked out and wet his lips as he described the sophisticated women who would choose his product, how it would increase their powers of attraction and render them even more irresistible. The sales pitch made the fat man sweat. He didn’t seem to notice the expression on his neighbour’s face, which held a level of contempt only possible when laced with a deep-seated desire to do harm.
At last, the plane touched down and Claude disappeared into the crowd. Any contact with the public was always potentially awkward, but, with his new identity, it would be unlikely to cause any problems, and he doubted whether the man or the hostess would give him a moment’s thought. Their lives would carry on without him and he would become a vague memory.
The taxi driver paid his passenger little attention, pre-occupied as he was with the rush-hour traffic. He said that the streets were infernal and the tourists ripe for the picking. Did Claude agree that there should be two fares – one for the foreigners and one for his fellow Italians? Of course. It was only right and natural, did he not think? No need for a tip. No. It was a pleasure to transport a countryman. Goodnight and good luck.
Claude walked away, harbouring a complex loathing for this fawning hypocrite of a man, with his constant flow of bigotry, his lucky charms and brash display of signs bearing expressions of welcome in a selection of languages.
There was an hour and a half before the scheduled rendezvous with the client’s representative; just time to check into his hotel and close his eyes for a few minutes. Then, he would go out into the early evening, his pulse steady and his heart unmoved by the task he would perform.
Eighteen
The end of the school year approached, and the summer holidays loomed. Martha’s students would stop coming and she would have the long sunny days to herself, to do as she pleased.
Her divorce settlement was still mostly intact; even the purchase of the house and its renovation hadn’t made much of a dent in it. If she didn’t work for the next fifteen years, perhaps even twenty, she would be able to live well. In the meantime, she would enjoy herself and carry on with her teaching, until she decided on something more challenging.
Michel had gone away for a couple of days, to visit his family, so Martha was on her own, and happy to be so. His absence excited her, making anything possible now that he was not there to hold her back.
It was a great day for a walk by the sea and, without a second thought, she packed a small bag with the things she might need, pleasing herself and no one else. There would be only one compromise: it was the evening that Guy had invited her to come to his house for dinner. She had not really wanted to accept, but there had been no easy way out of it. He had seemed nervous, and she wondered whe
ther it had been his own idea, or his wife’s. It irritated her that she should be checked out, but she understood. She would probably have done the same thing herself! At least she would not have to go with Michel, or explain why she did not want him to accompany her.
As Martha drove away from the square, the village was lit with the glow of her optimism. There may be troubles in the wider world, but here she was safe and free. Nothing bad would happen in Saint Martin, at least nothing to compare to the horrors that she read about in the news.
Someone nipped into her parking space immediately, as it was a market day and there were a lot of people milling about buying vegetables, cheese and wine from the local sellers. Ordinary people, leading ordinary lives. Martha waved at some of the people she knew and wove her way carefully through the careless pedestrians, who took ownership of the roads and did not bother to look when crossing. She smiled and wondered what would happen in England if this were to happen. There would certainly be some honking of horns and probably some shaking of fists.
The drive to the coast took around half an hour. It was a pleasant route, with good roads and beautiful scenery. She listened to Muse on her CD player, singing along and feeling alive, the day stretching out before her, with all its possibilities. She had chosen to begin her walk in Vaux-sur-mer – one of her favourite places. She parked on the road and walked down to the beach, where a few early holidaymakers were sitting on their towels, reading, laughing, luxuriating in the heat of the morning sun. The cafes were getting ready for lunch; tables laid with place mats flapping in the breeze, upturned glasses, plastic menus; all vying with each other to catch the eye of an undecided customer. Martha breathed in the sea air and wandered along the beach towards the coastal path, which rose up through a forested area and round the headland towards the larger town of Royan, with its shops and restaurants.