The Yellow Villa

by Amanda Hampson

  He rarely wasted time commenting on decor or atmosphere as these were, to some extent, a matter of personal taste. Besides, critiquing the decor of restaurants in Britain would be shooting fish in a barrel. He had a particular loathing of anything resembling a ‘theme’ but was aware that many places he felt lacked a single redeeming visual feature, the hoi polloi considered utterly charming. The French had the right idea in this regard: pack as many patrons as possible into a small shabby room in which the decor has never been updated – ever!

  As he pecks away at his typewriter, fingers stiff with cold, body aching from the blows of the previous day, it begins to dawn on him that he is a heroic figure, pushing on undaunted and undefeated towards his goal. Perhaps he can incorporate this endeavour into his future author talks, travelling the country – the world! – inspiring others to tell their stories, although preferably not to him. He might have to tone it down a bit, though; perhaps reconfigure his current injuries as an accident. Although, Susannah might be sectioned by then, so he’d be free to talk about her looney behaviour with impunity. In fictional terms he is a Jane Eyre persona being terrorised by the wife in the attic, or on the patio, in this case. Although, in fact, the mad wife is his wife, which makes him the long-suffering Rochester character.

  Susannah’s increasingly erratic behaviour is not just a distraction but a bloody worry. She’s always had the potential for derangement and frequently insists it’s him making her crazy. Perhaps she’s festering a real mental illness, or even dementia? ‘Early onset’ seems to be the term on everyone’s lips these days. Yes, they are in dire straits but it’s hard to conceive that someone could get quite so overwrought about a financial situation. One that will naturally right itself, eventually. And it’s not as though he isn’t trying to help it along by being productive and getting on with things.

  He wonders exactly how long the book should be. Hugging the duvet around him, one hand clamped on his tender ribcage, he gets up from his desk and searches the shelves for an unambitious-sized volume. A quick calculation suggests around seventy thousand words. He does the arithmetic on a scrap of paper and discovers that’s the equivalent of writing just over one hundred and sixteen columns. Put that way it seems a little wearing but achievable, especially since he doesn’t have to dine out one hundred and sixteen times in order to write about it. Actually, inserting ten of his best reviews would equal around six thousand words, and subtracted from seventy thousand equals sixty-four thousand. Less the couple of thousand or so he has already written and he only has sixty-odd thousand words to go.

  What sort of advances are publishers paying these days? An upfront commitment would give him the requisite kick in the pants. He thinks of all the people he knows with some connection to publishing and notes down half-a-dozen names, then crosses off the ones who probably would not take a call from him. One name remains: Martin Marlborough. While Martin probably has as much reason to bear a grudge as the others, it just isn’t in his nature.

  He finds Martin’s details in the Rolodex and is halfway through dialling when he realises there’s no dial tone. How the hell is he supposed to sell the blasted book without a telephone? He screws up the piece of paper and throws it in the fire. The slight twisting movement sends a dagger of pain through his torso. He takes a slug of Scotch and feels the liquid warming his atrophied limbs. As he begins to tap gamely at the keys, he feels for a brief moment more like Hemingway than Rochester.

  Chapter Twenty-two

  The villa has a long, narrow attic and it’s empty apart from a few boxes that look as if they were left here when the house was sold. One box is neatly packed with records, mostly flat LP size but also some cylindrical ones, mainly classical music, but no record player. Other boxes contain books and magazines. Not as interesting as I might have hoped – it seems like whoever packed them just didn’t have the heart to throw them away.

  I carry the boxes downstairs and unpack the contents onto the table in the summer room, which is not very summery right now but not too bad with the heating and warm clothes on. The books are mostly French classics: Flaubert, Voltaire, Guy de Maupassant and Camus, all beautifully leather-bound, and I feel some satisfaction in replacing them on the book shelves where they belong.

  The doorbell clangs and I open it to find Enzo, the electrician’s offsider, standing on the doorstep. He refuses my invitation to come in, but says he needs a word with Monsieur Tinker. I message Ben and a moment later he comes downstairs and we embark on a difficult conversation. It seems that Enzo has been sent by Monsieur Morel to collect three hundred euro outstanding on the account.

  ‘Tell him that’s not right, it’s fully paid,’ says Ben.

  In a bold move, Enzo decides to break out his English. ‘Non. This … hmm, supplémentaire … matériaux … câbles … Monsieur Harrington say he pay. He does not. You pay, Monsieur Tinker.’

  ‘He’s saying that the materials —’

  ‘Yes, I get it,’ Ben interrupts me. Worse, he launches into French: ‘But Monsieur Morel wrote … écrit … the … le euro … on a piece of paper … what’s a piece of paper? Papier … ahhh …en tranche … Where the hell is that bit of paper?’

  Enzo’s increasingly pained expression is not helping Ben find the words he needs.

  ‘Ben, stop – you’re just confusing things,’ I say quietly. ‘En tranche is a slice, not a piece. Please, let me do this?’

  ‘Fine.’ And without another word, he goes back upstairs.

  Now we speak in French and Enzo explains that it was Monsieur Morel’s idea that he speak directly with Monsieur Tinker, not his, so now he can speak freely. ‘I think there was a miscommunication about the estimate from the beginning,’ he explains. ‘It only covered the labour for the job, not the materials. I have been to the Harringtons’ house three times, but they don’t answer the door. So … this is where it lands. Monsieur Morel is retired, and he only agreed to do the job because Harrington already owed him money. He thought he was going to get paid; he didn’t expect to be owed more at the end of it.’

  ‘Of course we will pay the three hundred. I don’t understand why Monsieur Harrington would have done that. We should have paid it right from the beginning. It’s not his responsibility. If you can come back, maybe tomorrow, we’ll have the cash for you. And please tell Monsieur Morel that we’re sorry, we really had no idea.’

  ‘Very good. Thank you. That Harrington – phuff – he’s like a rooster, always crowing about something. Typical roastbeefs. I prefer Australians,’ he says with a wink as he turns away.

  When he’s gone, I go upstairs to see what’s bothering Ben, who is now back on his computer as if nothing happened. ‘I’ve told him we’ll give him the cash tomorrow.’

  ‘Cool,’ he says without taking his eyes off the screen.

  ‘So what do you reckon that was about? Why would Dominic do that?’

  ‘Don’t know. Embarrassed that he made a mistake?’

  ‘I guess so, but he could have just admitted it. Seems ridiculous.’

  Ben glances up at me. ‘Or honourable. He guaranteed the quote.’

  ‘I suppose so. It’s a lot of money and our responsibility.’

  Ben taps away on his keyboard as if waiting for me to leave. ‘You don’t always have to think the worst of him, you know.’

  ‘Ben, are you okay? I’ve told you I can help you more with your French, if that’s what’s upsetting you.’

  ‘I don’t really want to be one of your students.’

  ‘No, I know … but …’

  He gives a sigh and pushes his chair back from the desk. ‘Sorry. It’s just so frustrating. I feel like I’m only half here, and the other half is over there on the project. When this is done, I’ll start proper lessons. Okay?’

  I kiss the top of his head. He’s never mad for long.

  As I turn away, I catch sight of a figure hurrying across the fields. After a moment I realise that it’s Susannah. She comes closer, practically running alon
g our perimeter wall like a fugitive. Ben’s monitors block his view but he notices me looking at something and asks what’s up. Some instinct to protect Susannah makes me tell him it’s nothing, and I hurry downstairs to open the front door before she rings the bell.

  She’s clutching an overnight bag to her chest and looking wrung out. ‘Oh, don’t worry, I haven’t come to stay,’ she says, attempting a feeble laugh. ‘I did want to ask a favour, though.’ She glances down the road. ‘Was that the electrician’s mate I saw leaving?’

  ‘Yes, we’re just settling the last of the bill. All taken care of now.’ I catch a look of relief on her face. It’s difficult to believe that the dishevelled-looking woman standing on my doorstep is the same one who arrived in that stunning blue dress only a couple of months ago. Bundled up in layers of shabby clothes, she looks grey and haggard. I invite her in, make us both tea and take her to the summer room.

  ‘I wouldn’t ask you this if I wasn’t absolutely desperate. I just can’t think of any other solution. I don’t know what you’ll think of me …’ Susannah opens the bag to reveal four bottles of wine wrapped up in tea towels. ‘Do you think it would be possible to sell these on the internet?’

  ‘Of course, I can put them on eBay for you. Or there are probably dedicated sites for auctioning wine. Let’s have a look …’ I sit down at my computer and do a quick search. ‘Actually, let me just see if there’s any indication of prices.’

  Susannah sits quietly watching me as I key in the details of the first bottle. She keeps glancing uneasily at the door. ‘Is Ben here?’

  ‘He’s working upstairs, why?’

  ‘Dominic doesn’t know. You won’t tell, will you? Some are worth a lot more than others. I just selected a few at random.’

  To keep a secret from Dominic, I’ll also have to keep it from Ben. How can I refuse when she’s clearly so desperate? ‘Shouldn’t you talk to Dominic about it? I mean, if you really need the money … Susannah, this Chateau Michaud is worth seven hundred euros!’

  Susannah leans towards me, the words tumbling out of her. ‘Mia, we’re living in poverty with a gold mine in the cellar … there’s no money for food … heating … Dominic has no sense of reality. He thinks money comes and goes magically … he thinks I’m being hysterical. I am hysterical! With worry. That restaurant he wanted to take you to – Grégoire’s – it’s the most expensive restaurant in Toulouse, we’d be lucky to get out for under eight hundred euros. The cards are full, the bank’s empty … he can’t seem to grasp that. And then that business with the electrician … I’m so sorry … I feel terribly embarrassed.’

  Feeling a strange mix of compassion, obligation and general awkwardness, I reach out to give her a comforting pat, only to find my hand firmly clasped.

  ‘I have no one to turn to. Not a soul. The Van den Bergs probably told you we have no friends here. Not one. Dominic offended so many people, they closed ranks on us …’

  ‘Susannah, the Van den Bergs are lovely people … they —’

  ‘Of course they are! They’re all lovely, it’s not them!’

  ‘Listen, leave the bottles with me. I can put them up for auction and let you know how it goes.’

  ‘Oh, I’d be so grateful if you could. So grateful.’

  ‘You need to give me your bank account details – I can open the auction account in your name and —’

  ‘Is that necessary? I don’t really want … couldn’t you give me the cash?’

  ‘If the money goes into our joint account, Ben’s going to ask questions. Also the wine doesn’t belong to me. If Dominic finds out I could be accused of stealing. I want to help you, Susannah, but I don’t want to get into legal trouble.’

  ‘No, no, of course not. I’m sorry. Is there any way around it at all? No? All right. I’ll bring you the details or perhaps I’ll call you. I have to be so careful.’

  ‘I’ll get it all set up in your name and wait for your details.’ I pause. ‘Are you sure that you want to do this?’

  Susannah nods blindly, desperately. She wraps up the bottles carefully and puts them back in the bag. ‘Better keep these somewhere … you know … hidden.’

  She heaves a sigh as though a weight has been lifted off her shoulders, and looks about her. ‘This is such a beautiful room. So spacious and light.’ She picks up a book off the table, giving it a cursory look. ‘Shame they’re not in English, it’s so hard to get books here. You’ve probably realised by now that I don’t speak French at all, apart from a word or two. It’s a wonder Dominic hasn’t brought it up yet, he likes to make a joke of it. I have tried. I just don’t … perhaps it’s confidence … I don’t know. It doesn’t seem to stick.’

  ‘It’s not easy, Ben’s having a hard time of it too. When we were growing up, Eva only spoke to us kids in French. I loved the language and loved speaking a different language. But when they got to high school, both my brothers decided it was embarrassing and pretended not to understand. It’s so much harder to learn when you’re older.’

  ‘Let alone ancient like me,’ adds Susannah.

  I touch her arm. ‘Don’t be so hard on yourself.’

  The line of her mouth tightens. ‘Actually, I think the time has come to be harder on myself. I’ve been too easy on myself. Too compliant and let things slide. I need to toughen up. I better go … I’m so sorry to drag you into this.’

  ‘I can let you out the side gate, if you’re going home cross-country.’

  ‘Oh God, you saw me. I just didn’t want … how awful for you … you must have wondered …’

  ‘It’s fine,’ I assure her.

  We leave by the French doors and cross the garden. I open the gate that leads out to the back fields. She looks so pitiful, poor woman. I give her a hug and she fixes me with a tragic look. ‘Mia, you don’t have to come to us for Christmas. I wouldn’t blame you if you didn’t want to.’

  ‘We’ll be there. I promise.’

  Susannah smiles but it fades quickly and she looks worried. ‘One other thing: you know recently Ben’s come up to have coffee with Dominic a few times. I don’t think … I don’t know … just be careful, will you?’ And with that she sets off across the paddock, hugging her coat to her against the cold wind.

  Chapter Twenty-three

  Trying to be practical, Susannah makes lists. She writes a new list every day, but will then uncover an almost identical list she doesn’t recall writing. Surrounded by plans but no further ahead. The prospect of leaving France terrifies her for countless reasons that weigh her down and infiltrate her dreams. Fear lands with a thump on her chest in the night and she wakes with a shudder, gasping for air. The spectre of being alone in the world clutches at her heart. She sees herself lying among dank, stained sheets, in a dusty room, incapacitated and forgotten. Slipping from this world to the next without a comforting hand to guide her. No one to hear her last sigh. No one mourning her death.

  She’s acutely aware that every problem she faces will be her problem, her responsibility alone. She married Maxwell at twenty-two; she has always been someone else’s responsibility. In her more rational moments, she reasons that Dominic is the cause of most of her problems and she is responsible by default. She tries to count her blessings but they seem insubstantial – not enough to see her through. As she often does in desperate times, she makes a mental list of the people who love her: Lou and Chou, Maxwell and Reggie. Rebecca loves her grudgingly and Simon tolerates her – so they only count for half each. Dominic does not feature on the list. It doesn’t seem a lot to be going on with but it’s something. Perhaps there are other friends in London who will allow her back into their lives if she’s on her own.

  While she’s not proud of attacking Dominic with a broom, it made her realise that she is teetering on the brink. With Mia’s support, she feels a little more stable and has had to forcibly restrain herself from apologising to him in an attempt to make things more pleasant. He needs to know that she has a limit.

  Nestled beside
her in bed, the dogs now leap up, yapping frantically. Susannah pulls her coat on over her pyjamas, pushes her feet into slippers and goes out to the top of the stairs. She can hear someone knocking on the front door. Dominic must be able to hear it from his study!

  As she rushes downstairs to open the door, she’s aware how neglected the house looks. The kitchen has dirty dishes piled on the benches. The fireplace hasn’t been cleaned in days and the living room stinks of wet ash. It’s probably just Monsieur Bonnet who lives further down the lane. He has a great regard for the British that harks back to the war and occasionally rewards them with vegetables from his garden. Ben doesn’t use the front door. Dominic practically lives in his study these days, so it’s easier for Ben to tap on the French windows and enter the room directly from the courtyard. What Susannah is not expecting to see is a young woman clad in jeans, boots and a puffer jacket. Her blonde hair is in a topknot, and there are silver hoops in her ears. English.

  ‘Yes?’ asks Susannah as the pugs rush through her legs to bark at the stranger. She’s assuming the woman is lost since her car is visible, pulled off to the side of the lane.