by Bev Spicer
The walk was about five miles each way, just right. She had on a pair of shorts and a tee shirt, sports socks and shoes, and a cap. Her legs were already tanned and she liked to keep them that way, her skin a rich, golden colour only possible from regular and gentle exposure to the sun. As she walked in the temporary shade of the coastal trees and bushes, with the sea moving against the rocks on her right, she thought about Patrice Dumas. They had had six lessons together in all and the boy had certainly improved quickly. During the last lesson, just before he left, he had thanked her and asked whether he might be able to come during the summer, when he was not away, and if it were convenient to her. There had been something in his eyes that had made her say yes, even though she liked to keep the months of July and August free of lessons.
His father had sent an advance cheque until the end of June, so she knew that Patrice had not yet asked his permission to carry through his studies. Felix Dumas still did not call at the house, but waited on the other side of the square at the allotted time. Patrice usually cast his eyes downwards as he walked away from her, moving sluggishly, as though he were embarrassed to be observed. It must be difficult for a young man to rely so heavily on his father for transport. She had wondered why on earth Patrice didn’t come by bike, but had not thought it a good idea to ask – the boy seemed to brood when she asked him questions, as though he could not answer her without criticising his father. It was a shame for the boy, who was mature and sensible, as far as she could see. So, she had said that he could come in the summer, if he wanted to.
The sound of the sea made such gentle reflection easy.
A man jogged towards her, and Martha looked up, noticing him at close quarters. He was of average height and build, with thin mousy hair and a longish pointed nose. There was something about him that made her turn and watch, something that had struck her in the middle of her chest as he had passed by. Martha shuddered. What lingered in her memory was the disquieting remoteness in his eyes.
The coastal road wound round small bays and tiny beaches with scattered housing along the way, most of it closed up and belonging to people who would come only for the summer. Martha liked to think about which of them she would have as her own – she would not come in August, but would keep it open the rest of the year and come when she felt like it, to watch the sea and go walking, or to sit on a bench and read. But she knew that the houses were worth too much even for her budget and so she let them go, happy to think of her own lovely house in her own pretty village. After all, in the wintertime, the coastal towns and villages were deserted – she preferred St. Martin-le-Vieux, with its yearly cycle of life and events; its fayres and brocantes, its markets and celebrations. It was true that she did not know many of the villagers well, but she felt that she could be quietly accepted and looked upon kindly by the people who knew of her remotely.
There were some people on the beach and along the front at Pontaillac by the time she got there. It was midi. The large square building housing the casino dominated the beach, behind which there were numerous cafes and restaurants slowly filling up with customers. But Martha was not tempted, as she had already decided she would stop to eat at a place she knew a little further along the coast.
She got to the top of the main street and came upon her favourite house. The one she would buy, if she could. It was three-storey, white, with huge windows looking out directly onto the sea. It had an enormous roof terrace. Today, there was a couple at the back of the house, amongst the palm trees, relaxing on sun loungers and Martha wondered whether they owned the place, or whether it was rented out to people with money for such luxury. If she had been in a braver mood, she would have called to them and found a pretext to look around, but, just then, the man leaned over and kissed the woman on the mouth, his hand holding hers. They were older than Martha, although not by many years. This was her first thought, but what lay beneath was a more personal memory, of another time and place, when she had been kissed in this way. She knew that she was staring, but she could not turn away immediately because, now that she remembered, she wanted to recall how it had felt. The couple did not rush; the contact between them was an insinuation, totally consuming them. And, when they pulled away from each other, she saw the radiance of their smiles and felt a jolt of regret.
The woman looked over, still not fully aware of her surroundings, and Martha coloured as she lowered her gaze and resumed her walk, hoping that she had not spoiled their privacy, feeling that they would be generous towards the lonely figure who had been caught up in their quiet passion for each other.
As she continued past the mish-mash of empty houses, each with its own design, she could not look at them in the same way any more. They seemed just a little tragic: demonstrations of dreams that had gone awry and of love that had been outgrown. She sought refuge from them by looking out to sea again, doing her best to ignore the diminishing swell of emotion in her chest.
Martha walked more slowly, blinking back the tears that were welling in her eyes. All at once, there seemed to be something missing from her life. Something that was essential and yet almost impossible to come by. She did not want to give it a name, even though, inside her head, she had already found one that might fit.
Nineteen
Angeline did not work on a Saturday, even though there were customers waiting who would happily pay her extra at the weekend. Her friends could not understand why she did not take their money. Angeline told them that you had to keep some days for yourself, for your family, but they were not convinced.
‘You could just do the mornings. Think of the money you would make!’
She thought of the money and decided that she would put up her prices.
Guy arrived at midi and they ate a simple meal, as dinner would be more substantial than usual.
‘Do you think I should make a mousse au chocolat or a tiramisu?’
‘Mousse au chocolat!’ cried Adrian.
Angeline waited for her husband to answer, knowing that he would agree with their son, not because he thought it the better choice, but because he did not want to disappoint the boy.
‘You have your answer,’ Guy replied, smiling.
‘I will do both.’
During the afternoon, she sliced veal and onion to bake in the oven with cream and butter. She added mushrooms and herbs, salt and pepper. Beans were topped and tailed and left in a bowl of water to keep their colour. Bread was fetched from the boulangerie, crusty and still warm. For a starter, there was a simple green salad, with a rich olive oil dressing. The desserts chilled in the fridge and the aperitifs lay covered on a tray. The Englishwoman would see that they lived well and were not in need of charity.
An hour before her guest was due to arrive, Angeline Roche showered and put on her good clothes, some sweet perfume, and made her face up carefully. She massaged just a little olive oil into her hair and put in a slide so that it curled around her ear on one side. Her mother had told her that she should have her ears pierced so that she could wear the beautiful gold earrings that her grandmother had left to her, and now she regretted that she had not done so.
‘Maman, you are like a princess!’ said Adrian, when she came into the kitchen to find him sneaking a look at the hors d’oeuvres.
‘Thank you, darling.’
It was always her son who made her feel most beautiful.
She pulled back the cloth and he took a piece of Parma ham, putting his head back and rolling his eyes with pleasure.
‘Now!’ she said, ‘Into the shower with you, and put on your clean clothes!’
The boy complained, asking who it was that was coming to dinner. Whether it was the queen of England, or just an ordinary teacher. But he went anyway and did as his mother asked, singing and splashing, so that his mother smiled to herself while she got the table ready for their guest.
Guy was late. He lumbered in and took off his work jacket, looking as though he had completely forgotten about the dinner. Angeline followed him into the s
hower, making sure he didn’t wander off and do something else. He barred the door when she came in with him and she squealed that he would mess her clothes if he didn’t stop. She kissed him quickly and escaped, her beautiful mouth smiling as she vanished into the kitchen to put the final touches to her table.
When the knocker sounded, Adrian ran to the door and opened it, greeting Martha politely and asking her to please come in.
‘Maman is in the kitchen,’ he told her.
‘Thank you, Adrian. Will you show me the way?’ Martha was delighted by the boy’s resemblance to Guy and appreciated instantly that an effort had been made in her honour.
Angeline Roche advanced to meet her, holding out a hand, as she considered the occasion rather formal, after all, Martha was a qualified teacher and so commanded a good deal of respect.
‘Welcome to our home. Please come in.’
‘Hello, I’m Martha. Lovely to meet you.’ She slipped off her jacket and Adrian took it away.
The two women had a moment of mutual observation, each secretly pleased with themselves for different reasons.
‘Hi Martha,’ said Guy, coming down the stairs, rubbing his wet hair with a towel.
‘Hi Guy,’ she replied, moving towards him.
Angeline Roche watched the way her husband greeted the Englishwoman, aware that they were on more familiar terms, which was only natural after spending so much time in each other’s company.
‘Would you like an aperitif,’ offered Angeline, seeing that her husband had not suggested it.
‘I’d love a glass of wine. Red or white, I don’t mind which.’
‘I’ll get you one,’ said Guy.
The meal went off rather more informally than Angeline had wanted it to, but, by the time they said goodnight, she was convinced that this woman was not a threat to her or her marriage and she did not object to her husband continuing his English classes. It was true that Martha was not old and still very pretty, but she was not the type of woman who might tempt her husband, of this Angeline was sure.
‘Well?’ asked Guy, when Martha had gone.
‘Well what!’ Angeline dodged his arms at first and then allowed him to hold her so that his face was close enough for her to see the glint in his eyes.
‘Do you like her?’
‘I like her! I like her!’ cried Adrian, jumping around them like a jack-in-the-box.
‘She’s quite nice, I suppose,’ admitted Angeline, at which her husband kissed her, while their son started up a new chant:
‘We like the English teacher! She’s quite nice!’
‘I’ll do the dishes in the morning, cherie,’ she murmured.
‘Up to bed now, my boy. Maman and Papa are tired.’
‘Yes, Papa. Goodnight!’
Martha drove back to St. Martin in a happy mood. She had seen the love between Guy and his wife, and their devotion to Adrian. She remembered the couple she had seen kissing that afternoon and thought that it was important to hold such feelings sacrosanct. She turned up the radio and drove faster into the night.
Twenty
Felix Dumas was pleased with his son. It was not always easy to bring up a child, especially when its mother had run away and brought shame on the family. They had been left to cope. He was lucky to have such a good boy. Patrice was doing well at school and now that he was taking extra English classes, in addition to Maths and Spanish, he was forging ahead, getting better and better results. Soon he would be top of the class in most subjects. After that, one of the grand universities would be sure to offer him a place, and his future would be assured.
He pulled up outside his practice and sat for a moment, still basking in his good fortune, straightening a strand of hair in the rear view mirror. It occurred to him that perhaps he had had something to do with his son’s success; that it had not been simply a question of luck. He nodded to himself as he recounted the efforts he had made to facilitate his son’s brilliant education, his extra-curricular activities, his private interests and personal friendships. Yes, it was true; he had played his part. Felix shot a modest look at himself and opened the door of his BMW. Striding across the car park, he exuded an air of purpose, and an intensity that comes from the knowledge that, for people like him, the world was a place without fear of failure. His coat flapped, his hair moved in the breeze, but his resolve remained steady as a rock. Just as his own father had taken care to choose the right path for him, he would be sure to do the same for Patrice. His son would be nobody’s fool, that was certain. He believed that Patrice would have no need of the residual unorthodox methods of business that Felix still amused himself with. Perhaps this fascination with acting outside the law would at last become redundant. Perhaps.
Estelle was at her desk, looking lovely as usual with her neat suit and elegant hairstyle. He had chosen well. The entrance was a little gloomy. He must do something to brighten it up.
‘Good morning, Maitre.’
‘And good morning to you, Estelle,’ the notaire replied, aware of the richness of his voice in the beautifully restored, high-ceilinged building. ‘Give me a moment to sort out my papers for the first appointment, will you? Then you may show the clients up.’
‘Yes, Maitre. Monsieur and Madame Binoche are here already.’
He did not reply, but nodded once and moved past Estelle, taking the stairs two at a time up to his spacious office. Of course his clients were already here. They would not be late for such an important meeting. He took off his coat and opened up the file that his secretary had placed ready on his desk. Very straightforward, a house signing. Felix looked at the clock. It was ten past ten. Still time for a cup of coffee to be sent up and a quick phone call to be made. He had allowed two hours for the meeting and could have it finished in one and a half. That would suit him very well indeed.
Estelle brought up coffee and enquired whether she should show Monsieur and Madame Binoche to the notaire’s office, as they were hoping not to miss a lunch appointment with their daughter, who was visiting for a couple of days, from her job in the Alps.
‘Ah, yes. A pretty little thing, as I remember. I believe she wanted to be a doctor, wasn’t that right?’ Felix examined his fingernails.
‘I have no idea, sir,’ replied Estelle.
At this rather curt reply, Maitre Dumas looked up sharply to find that his secretary was smiling appealingly, as usual.
‘You may bring them up in a quarter of an hour,’ he instructed, his slightly crooked smile making him seem even more insincere.
Estelle acknowledged his words and turned to go.
The instant she was outside the closed office door, she grimaced and shuddered, wondering how she could bear to work for such a monster of a man, who took such pleasure in gloating over the disappointments of other people, and disregarded their polite requests with such disdain.
‘I am terribly sorry Monsieur and Madame Binoche, but Maitre Dumas is too busy to see you right away. I will take you up as soon as I can.’
‘Thank you, dear. That’s perfectly all right,’ they replied, understanding that they must wait without complaint, and insensitive to the sarcasm in her apology. ‘By the way, Sylvie sends her regards. She’s very impressed with your new career. As are we,’ they added, nodding to each other and raising their eyebrows.
‘Please thank her for me. She is very kind. I hope that we shall see each other one day.’
The couple nodded again, taking each other’s hand.
Estelle went back to her desk, remembering the dark-haired girl she had known at lycée, who had wanted to be a doctor but who had become pregnant and had cut short her education to look after the child. She wished her well and thought that, at that moment, she would willingly change places with her if she could.
Felix Dumas concluded the business with his clients a little before one o’clock, hoping that they would at least be able to take a coffee with their daughter and assuring them that he was at their service for any future necessity. When they had lef
t, he wandered over to ‘Les Saveurs’ and had a delicious lunch, sitting in a covered courtyard, where other well-dressed customers conversed in muted tones.
The afternoon had been reserved to settle a petty dispute between a nursing home and a resident who had not paid his bill. It would be tedious. But it was part of a notaire’s work and it paid extremely well for the amount of effort involved: a simple agreement to be signed by both parties – a couple of hours’ work at most. Later, Felix would take his son for an English lesson with the woman who came to the door looking as though she had been working in the garden all day. Nevertheless, Patrice seemed to like the lessons, and his marks were certainly improving. Martha Burton would do for the time being.
Twenty-one
Michel came back full of stories about his family. His aunt was the best cook in the world, he had eaten like a king; his father had built a new shed in the garden that was truly the work of an artisan; his beautiful sister was designing handbags for a well-known Italian store, and his brother was working on an invention to store and recycle water that would revolutionise the gardening world.
Martha thought he was unbearable after a while, like a loveable, clumsy puppy, who would not quieten down and got on your nerves before long.
‘I’ve been looking at houses too,’ Michel added, suddenly.
They were in the garden, before dinner, trying out a new wine from one of the caves his father had recommended. Martha was a little taken aback by his casual comment, acknowledging it with a small grunt that passed for interest.
‘Yes. There are some impressive properties on the market at the moment.’ Michel poured more wine and contemplated his glass.