The Undertaker's Son

by Bev Spicer

  ‘Are they near your parents’ house?’ It was not the right question, but Michel seemed delighted enough with anything this evening.

  ‘Not too close, cherie,’ he laughed. ‘More towards the Côte d’Or – the one I like best is near the hotel. You remember? Le Printemps.’

  ‘Where we went for hot chocolate? Yes, I remember.’ Martha got up to see to a rose that needed tying back.

  Michel brought out dinner, and the subject of houses was dropped. He talked about the work that still needed to be done on Martha’s house, disagreeing with most of her suggestions, until she grew silent and let him continue, not really listening, but thinking about her lesson with Patrice the next day, assessing the health of her olive tree and picturing Angeline and Guy in their small house, with their polite son, wondering whether she should invite them for dinner one evening. Then, as she gazed into the middle distance, aware of the drone of Michel’s voice, she saw once more the man lean in to kiss the woman in the garden of her dream house, feeling a shiver run through her body that shook her, and left her feeling self-conscious.

  ‘What do you say, cherie?’

  Martha stared.

  ‘You weren’t listening, were you!’

  ‘Sorry. Drifted off for a while there. Thinking about lessons. What were you saying?’

  He was hurt, but he wanted to tell her his suggestion, so he said it again, ‘I was thinking we could go and look at a couple of places this week, maybe after work.’

  She had not expected to be cornered quite so easily. ‘If you like,’ she said, nonchalantly, thinking that she would find an excuse not to go with him later.

  Michel cleared away the dishes cheerfully, trying not to sulk about the young man who had been ensconced in the garden with Martha the previous week. When he had come home, there they had been, their heads bent over a book, almost touching, giggling like children as he approached. The man had given him a look. It was the kind of look that passed between men, and that only men understood. Michel had greeted Guy politely and made a show of greeting Martha more affectionately than usual, before standing about in the garden, reluctant to leave them alone. Now, as he loaded the dishwasher, he let his imagination run wild and soon drove himself into a quiet frenzy, made worse by the fact that Martha was relaxing in a chair with a maddening smile on her face.

  ‘Shall we go for a walk, cherie? Or there’s a film on in Saintes we could get tickets for.’ Michel came out of the house, drying his hands on a towel.

  ‘Uh? Oh! A walk, I suppose.’ Martha stared past him, already following the route they would take. The usual walk.

  It was when they arrived at the huge barn that was falling down and Michel was telling her, as he normally did, about how he would rebuild it, that Martha suddenly spoke up. It was not something she had planned to do and it led her into a territory where she really had no idea what would happen next.

  ‘I think we should cool it for a while, Michel.’

  He stopped speaking and turned to look at her face. He didn’t know what to say.

  She looked away to the open fields to her right and then back to him, feeling the distance between them, standing alone in the country lane, awkward and abashed.

  ‘It’s not working.’ The words came out on their own. They were the right words.

  ‘But… I thought…’ He came forward, but she took a step away from him and saw the muscles above his jaw twitch.

  Aeroplanes left silver trails across the sky.

  A tractor appeared at the far end of a large field.

  Martha knew that she had pushed Michel to his limit. She pulled her jacket around her, feeling miserable and, at the same time, ecstatic.

  After a moment or two they continued in silence, surrounded by the sights and sounds of the countryside, which seemed strangely incongruous and yet soothing to Martha. They maintained a distance from each other that was new, and yet they were more aware than ever of each other’s presence, of the history of intimacy between them. Martha was relieved that he had not exploded, she was grateful for his mildness.

  When they got to her door, they stopped. There was nothing they could say to each other for the moment, and so she did not speak when Michel walked on, but put the key in the lock, opened the door, and went inside alone.

  Michel continued past his house and turned away from the village once more, a thousand thoughts going through his head, his colour rising as he pictured her with Guy, intimate and making fun of him. He felt as though he would burst. He had known something would happen between them this evening and he had walked right into it, like a fool. If he had not brought up the subject of moving, if he had let her brood quietly, none of this would have come to a head. He marched on, gritting his teeth.

  Not far ahead, a family group was approaching him, chatting and throwing a stick for their dog. When they were upon him, he looked up and said, ‘Bonsoir, monsieur-dame’. They smiled and returned his greeting cheerfully. Michel looked back after them. The man was younger than he was, and already married with two healthy children. If Michel were not careful, there would be little time for him to find a suitable wife to bear his children – it was the first time such a thought had crossed his mind, and he didn’t like it one little bit.

  Twenty-two

  The fact that his father had taken to his bed again, after finding the threatening letter from the nursing home, made Clement angrier than he had been in his life.

  The small briefcase he carried contained numerous unpaid bills and final demands, and he wanted to fling them into the sea, to get rid of them and go back to his father, telling him not to worry, that everything had been sorted out. When he thought about the lines on his father’s gentle face and the way he shook, spilling his tea and unable to put his food into his mouth unaided; when he thought that all this was made infinitely worse by the letters, one of which he had left carelessly on the sideboard, Clement wanted to find the person responsible and make them see, make them see the suffering they were causing.

  The sky was darkening, doing nothing to lift his mood, his deep, twisting guilt.

  Royan was strangely quiet. There would be a storm soon, a break in the stalled atmosphere that hung heavily over the town. Clement took a few calming breaths and entered the imposing building. Inside the notaire’s offices, a girl stood at a computer, her face lit like a saint’s in a religious painting. Her lips were moving because she was speaking on the telephone, no doubt to another distressed individual in need of the services of Maitre Dumas. Clement waited a little distance away, taking in the evidence of wealth and grandeur around him, confident that with such a force for justice behind him, there would be a way out of his present predicament. He was acutely uncomfortable in such formal surroundings, but, at the same time, grateful for the integrity of the building and all that it represented.

  It was not long before the girl looked up and greeted him.

  ‘Good morning, Monsieur Berger. Maitre Dumas is with a client at the moment, you may sit in the waiting room down the corridor to the right, if you wish.’

  ‘I’ll wait outside, if you wouldn’t mind calling me.’ He looked into the hushed shadows.

  ‘That will be fine.’ She smiled pleasantly. ‘He shouldn’t be long.’

  The girl was friendly. Not at all what he had been expecting. He nodded, unsure whether to return her smile, and went back to the entrance to watch the sky.

  The first drops of rain started to fall and a man jogged past, looking back and forth as he crossed the road. A woman opened an umbrella and carried on up the street in her smart suit and high-heeled shoes. A dog trotted up and peed on the wall of the building, making Clement laugh at the irreverence of it. Rain fell more heavily, and the first fork of lightning zagged its pattern across the sky, followed by a rumble of thunder quite close by. People were trying to get off the street now, panicking in their summer clothes as the drops lashed the shining pavements, bouncing like bullets. Clement had a strong urge to step out into it.
>
  ‘Monsieur Berger? Maitre Dumas is ready now,’ said a voice behind him.

  He turned and there was the girl again, not officious and cold, but sensitive to his mood, waiting patiently for him to accompany her.

  ‘I’ll take you up to his office. It’s certainly a good storm, isn’t it?’ She came forward to look, and he thought it a shame that someone so young and bright (with a skin so pale and perfect) should spend her days in such an austere building.

  ‘I like to watch by the sea.’

  ‘Yes. That would be spectacular.’

  The briefcase and its contents came back to his thoughts and he followed the secretary to the first floor, entering the large room behind her. The notaire did not appear to notice his secretary’s introduction and did not immediately look up at his client. As Estelle left, she smiled. It was a smile of apology for the behaviour of her employer, mixed with a certain assurance that this was the way her employer worked and that there was no cause for concern. Outside, her face glowed with shame.

  Clement waited. The man in front of him was substantial, with a fair complexion and thick blond hair that might have looked more at home on a younger man. He had a broad forehead and a long, angular nose. On the desk, there was a small stack of files, which Clement presumed were the cases he had to deal with that day and he wondered whether it was an interesting job to be able to understand the law and resolve disputes. The man did not look as though he were interested in anything at the moment, as he turned over papers too quickly to have read them, perhaps knowing which parts were pertinent and which padding. He had a musician’s hands.

  Thunder sounded, splitting the silence.

  ‘Ah! Good morning, Monsieur Berger.’ The notaire suddenly pushed aside the contract he had finished reading and rose from his desk, holding out a perfunctory hand and beaming.

  Clement felt the limpness of his hand as it barely grasped his own and then directed him forward, towards a chair set like an island, just too far from the solid desk.

  ‘You have come to discuss the arrangements for your father, I believe?’

  ‘Yes. He could not come himself, he –’

  ‘Yes. No matter. No matter… We can soon sort out this… misunderstanding.’ He smiled a politician’s smile. ‘There is no need to trouble your father, Monsieur Berger. No need at all.’ Dumas sat back in his chair, his pale eyes barely visible.

  ‘I have the latest letter from the nursing home.’ Clement took some papers out of his briefcase. ‘Here it is.’

  ‘Thank you.’ Felix Dumas glanced at the letter, putting it to one side.

  ‘Now, Monsieur Berger, I will be direct. I do not want to mislead you or waste your time, or mine.’ He paused and looked out of the window at the sudden flurry of rain against the glass. ‘These bills must be paid.’

  Clement waited for him to continue, feeling as though this were rather an obvious thing to say.

  ‘Yes. Well. Monsieur Berger, do you have the means to settle the costs of your father’s care?’

  ‘I have said that I do not. That is the reason for my coming here to see you, Maitre Dumas.’

  The men looked at each other across the wide desk.

  ‘I see. Very well. It’s best to be clear about these things from the beginning, I find.’ The notaire scribbled something onto a notepad before continuing. ‘If, as you say, you have no means of payment, we must look to alternative solutions. Does your father own any property?’

  It was a course of action that Clement Berger had already considered. Selling his father’s apartment would easily pay for the care home, but it would destroy what was left of his father in the process, as he would then be forced to remain in the home full time, at least until Clement could rent somewhere locally, which would be expensive. And what of the memories? Surely his father still needed his family home to maintain at least some consciousness of his past life?

  ‘If there is another solution, I would like to hear it.’

  The notaire growled quietly and, after a moment of quiet contemplation, set about informing his client of the choices that lay ahead, of their inherent advantages and disadvantages.

  By the end of the meeting, it was clear that, in the medium to long term, either his father would have to sell his home, or Clement would have to find a job that paid well enough to meet at least part of the costs. There were no relatives in a position to help: he had no brothers or sisters and neither he nor his father was wealthy. Taking in paying tenants would not be practicable - who would be willing to share his weekends with a person made unpredictable and accusatory by illness and medication? A loan could be arranged, but that would simply postpone the problem.

  Reluctantly, and feeling as though the meeting had not thrown up much that he had not already thought of, he made an appointment for the following week to have the apartment valued. It happened that Felix Dumas also specialised in property sales.

  Clement descended the staircase very nearly bereft of hope.

  The secretary was not at her desk.

  The rain had stopped, and the sky had cleared.

  His father was having a game of boules when Clement arrived at Maison Verte that evening. The pitch was dry enough, although there was a great deal of discussion about the effect of the moisture on the play. He joined the game and his father sniggered at his lack of experience, helping him to hold the boule correctly and to throw it in an arc, rather than launch it like a rocket. Clement did not mention his meeting with the notaire; he did not want to spoil his father’s fun. It was very likely that he had forgotten all about the bills. There was no point in worrying him about such things for the moment, especially as Clement still clung to the idea that there might just be a way out of the problem.

  ‘Come, Clement. You must knock Gerard’s boule out of the way!’ His father was himself, and his son took the boule, concentrating hard in an effort not to disappoint him.

  Twenty-three

  Angeline dropped Adrian off at a friend’s house and set out to do her rounds. She looked lovely.

  ‘You smell nice,’ Adrian had said.

  She didn’t usually wear perfume in the daytime. She didn’t normally put on her best clothes and her expensive shoes. Her hair had been washed and hung in large shining curls, her skin was dusted with fine powder and her eyes were exquisitely drawn.

  The day was hot. The summer had arrived and there would be few cool days from now on in Charente-Maritime. Angeline sighed, dreaming of the future, when she would be rich, and life would be easier. It was no good waiting for Guy. He lacked ambition. If she had known this, she would certainly not have married him. Almost certainly. No. It was up to her to do something to make sure that they did not spend the rest of their days scrabbling for money and hearing other people talk about the restaurants they admired and the new furniture they had bought. She put on the radio and listened to U2 singing about a beautiful day. She did not understand much of it, but, as the music soared, it made her feel happy and strong, as though anything were possible if you just reached out and took it.

  She pulled into the driveway of a detached house, fronted by summer roses in full bloom, their scent filling the air, as she got out and went round to the back of the van to look for the bag she needed. There were no neighbours, but you had to be careful not to give cause for idle tongues to wag, and so the van was parked out of sight of the road behind the high privet hedge. At the side door, she put the bag down and adjusted her clothing before knocking lightly.

  A tall middle-aged man opened the door, and Angeline walked past him, her nose in the air in disapproval, leaving the bag on the step. He smiled as much as he could whilst at the same time trying to remain serious on the phone to Madame Herbert, who wanted to see him urgently.

  ‘Yes, Madame Herbert. That will be fine.’ He wound his hand round and round and shrugged his shoulders as Angeline stood in front of him with her hands on her hips, her foot tapping.

  ‘Very well. Yes. All right. Until this afternoon,
then… Yes. A pleasure. I will be sure not to forget. Yes. Good morning. No. At three o’clock, then.’ He pushed the button on his phone and threw his arms around her, kissing her neck and pulling her to him.

  ‘I thought the woman would never hang up!’

  ‘Perhaps she will come round to make sure you don’t forget!’

  ‘I will not answer the door!’

  ‘Nor the telephone?’

  ‘Certainly not!’

  Angeline undid the buttons on his shirt and told him he should not eat so much, otherwise soon he would have a stomach as fat as the village doctor’s. He kissed her and told her that he had no need of food when she was there. That he thought of nothing and no one but her.

  ‘I will leave my husband and child and come to live with you here!’

  ‘We will travel to Tuscany, to my parents’ villa and watch the sunset over the vines. You shall have my name and my heart.’

  Angeline knew that he wanted her and that, at that moment, he meant what he said. She undid his belt and led him towards the stairs.

  As he made love to her, she cast her gaze over the sumptuous furnishings and the elegant décor. She considered the servants and the gardeners, the looks on their faces as she commanded them, their new mistress. She would not care what the neighbours said and, when she wanted to escape their petty gossip, she would fly away to enjoy the Italian sunsets over the expanse of property that would also, one day, be hers. She listened to the grunting and moaning of her enthusiastic lover and smiled into his twisted face that hung down a little and made him look older than he was. It was easy for her to smile when she was dreaming.

  He made coffee for her, but she didn’t want it. He asked if she was hungry, but she was not.

  ‘I must get the van fixed,’ she lied. ‘There is a problem with the engine.’

  ‘Where will you take it?’