The Yellow Villa

by Amanda Hampson

  After breakfast, they drive up the narrow cobbled laneways to the upper part of the village and park in one of the hotel spaces. Ben waits outside while she checks in.

  As the sun slides up the twisting lanes and lights up the arch-ways of each of the bastide walls, he thinks about the September evenings when he and Mia walked up here and he wonders if whatever they had recaptured back then was a sort of fantasy. It’s like they were playing a part but now all the brightness seems to have faded, the life gone out of it.

  When Roxy reappears, it takes a couple of blinks to recognise her. Her hair is loose around her shoulders, the bulky jacket exchanged for something lighter. Her face is bright with make-up. He doesn’t really like make-up on women but, in any case, doesn’t remember how she looked without it.

  They walk along the lanes that encircle the town, stopping now and then to gaze out across the green plaid valley. Fields dotted with trees, the occasional house and little threads of roads stretching out to the distant hills. Ben keeps up a commentary of the history of the town: the wars, the plague, fortunes gained and lost. She’s silent, so he assumes she’s either interested or too polite to change the topic. They find themselves in a small park of oak trees, the ground covered in acorns, and sit down on one of the benches. The sun is soft and a strand of morning fog hangs suspended between the hill and the farms below, lifting them above the clouds.

  ‘It’s just unimaginably beautiful here,’ says Roxy, gazing out across the valley. ‘Like an illustration from a storybook. So peaceful. It’s looks like it hasn’t changed in hundreds of years.’

  She’s right. It is a magical place. The sort of place people dream about. The sort of place he and Mia dreamed about. And here it is, laid out at their feet. It’s hard to imagine, sitting here basking in the sun – and Roxy’s admiration of the place – why he’s been feeling so disillusioned about it all.

  ‘So, what brought you here? I suppose that’s the standard question you get asked.’

  ‘That’s easy. My wife, Mia. Well, to be fair, she didn’t make me. It was my idea.’

  Ben knows that he often fails to pick up signals but he does notice Roxy’s interest fade at the mention of Mia. Has he not mentioned Mia up to now? Maybe not. They’re not one of those ‘joined at the hip’ couples who constantly reference each other. She just hasn’t come up before now.

  ‘Kids?’ Roxy asks.

  ‘Nope.’

  She gives him a sideways look. ‘Didn’t want them?’

  ‘No.’ Ben pushes on, changing the subject. ‘So, what made you come and find Dominic right now?’

  ‘I guess a series of things. And, hey – if not now, when?’

  ‘You don’t hold it against him that he wasn’t around when you were growing up?’

  ‘Not really. He wasn’t exactly welcoming today, though.’

  Ben shrugs. ‘He’s a bit eccentric. You don’t know how he’s going to respond to anything.’

  ‘I can see he really likes you; hopefully he’ll feel the same way about me at some point.’

  ‘I like him,’ says Ben.

  ‘So, your wife – Mia? – she won’t mind you showing me the sights?’

  Ben shakes his head. ‘She doesn’t worry about things like that.’

  ‘Really? You must have been together a long time.’

  ‘Hmm, fifteen years.’

  ‘Are you serious? Wow, is that common in Australia?’

  ‘Yeah, we only do monogamy. It’s compulsory, like voting,’ says Ben. ‘Works for us.’

  Roxy laughs. She has a decent sense of humour and it’s a relief to have someone new to talk to – in English. In the last two weeks he’s had conversations with exactly four people apart from Mia. Three months into the adventure and it’s turning out to be duller than he could have ever imagined. He feels physically and mentally dormant. The most basic communication, outside the few people he knows, is painfully difficult and exhausting. He’s starting to wonder if he’s already too old to become fluent in a second language. But if they stay here, the last thing he wants is to be a second-class citizen, dependent on other people because of a communication disability.

  ‘Look, I’m feeling bad for saying we didn’t want kids. I was taking the easy way out,’ says Ben out of the blue.

  ‘Oh, I’m feeling horrible for asking. It’s absolutely none of my business.’

  ‘We did. A lot. But we couldn’t. So that’s it. And don’t ask me whose fault it is —’

  ‘God, I’m not that insensitive!’

  ‘Plenty of people are. Anyway, we don’t discuss that.’

  ‘I’m so sorry. I feel terrible!’ Roxy says.

  ‘Forget it. Anyway, I’m going to head back and get some work done. I’ll see you at Dominic’s around five-ish for drinks.’

  She reminds him to bring Mia and he agrees but already knows Mia won’t want to go.

  Chapter Twenty-six

  Ben goes over to see Dominic practically every day now. To get out of the house – and away from me. I can’t really blame him – we’ve never been together twenty-four hours a day before.

  I don’t mind walking alone. It’s been raining the last few days but today is clear and bright, the cold sharp. I rug up warmly and go out every afternoon to walk around the nearby countryside. At the end of November there were still trees with bright yellow leaves, and long strands of ruby-red vines clinging to the stone walls and shutters. Now the colours are subdued, grass the colour of moss, bare trees like wisps of smoke. I love the changing of the seasons but I’m not sure how we’ll get used to these long, cold winters.

  Today I walk up rue la Peyrade to the town cemetery. Enclosed by mossy stone walls, le cimetière sits on the north side of the hill looking across the countryside towards our house. I’ve always loved cemeteries, a place where the dead and sometimes the living can find some peace. This one is small and mostly has family burial plots, small crypts with the family name carved in stone. It doesn’t take long to find Famille Dupont. Both the elder Duponts are buried here. Also in the family plot are their son, Antoine, who died in 1944; daughter, Mathilde Levant, who died four years ago; and her daughter, Esmée Levant, born in 1950, who died aged six. Esmée is our little girl. What tragedy took her life at only six? Is this what kept Madame Levant here all those years?

  I leave the cemetery and walk on up to the village and the small shop that sells art and craft supplies to buy a new sketch pad and pencils that I really don’t need. As I approach the shop, the woman in the brown hat, Madame Bellamy, walks out and goes off up the street. If I’d met her in the shop, I might have had a chance to talk with her. It’s not so easy to engage with locals, especially older people. At home you can strike up a conversation anywhere with anyone. Here people are more guarded if you just start chatting; maybe being a foreigner makes it worse.

  It’s a nice little shop packed tight with every sort of art material, paints and canvases as well as craft items for making jewellery and wools and yarns. I greet the assistant, a woman about my age with thick dark hair pulled into a ponytail, and she returns the courtesy. I feel her eyes on me as I look around the shop. I find a good weight of sketch pad and a couple of soft graphite pencils and take them to the counter.

  ‘You’re the new owner of the house on rue Albert Bouquillon,’ she says. ‘The Australians.’

  ‘We’re famous, are we?’ I smile.

  She gestures towards the door. ‘My mother – you may have seen her – she takes an interest. I heard you spoke good French.’

  ‘Thank you; I’m not getting too much practice. I haven’t really met any local people to have a conversation with. I’m Mia, by the way.’

  ‘You can have a conversation with me. I’m Chloe,’ she says, swapping to French as she puts my items in a paper bag. ‘I went to Australia last year for three weeks, to Sydney. I loved it! You can come and talk with me any time.’

  ‘Your mother, her name is Madame Bellamy?’

  ‘Yes, do you
know her?’

  ‘I see her walk past the house.’

  Chloe hesitates for a moment. ‘My mother knew Madame Levant all her life. She spent a lot of time in that house. It was the end of an era for her. It’s been very hard for her.’

  ‘Did your mother know the daughter? Madame Levant’s daughter, Esmée?’

  She frowns. ‘I’m not sure why you ask that but please don’t ask my mother about this girl. We don’t speak of her.’

  ‘Oh, I’m so sorry. It was rude of me. I just … it’s none of my business.’

  ‘It’s all right. You couldn’t know. It’s a sensitivity. But if you want to know about the house, I’m sure my mother would be happy to talk to you.’ She hands me the package.

  I give her my number and she promises to be in touch. We part with the usual bonne journée and I walk home feeling more curious than ever about the little girl.

  Late in the afternoon, Ben comes into the summer room and stands looking at the books and records and china that was in the boxes, now spread all over the table. ‘Come on, Mia-Cat, this stuff can wait. I think you should come over to the Harringtons and meet Roxy. She’s expecting to meet you.’

  I would like to put everything aside and go over to the Harringtons for a drink but I’m nervous about my covert operation with Susannah. I’ve sold more than a dozen bottles on her behalf, bringing in around four thousand euros. I didn’t think it through properly when she asked me to do this, and I had no idea how much money would be involved. Now there’s no turning back. Dominic probably has a couple of hundred bottles in his cellar but, the way he goes on, he seems to know them all intimately and it’s only a matter of time before he notices one missing. Sooner or later, he has to figure it out.

  The thought of him turning up here in a rage terrifies me. Ben would be furious with me too. He was a bit annoyed about the conversation at the Van den Bergs. He thinks that I should keep the chair story to myself because it wasn’t that big a deal. He specifically asked me not to tell them about the situation with the electrician. It’s weird the way he’s so protective of Dominic. And undeserved, in my opinion. If there is anyone who can look after himself, it’s Dominic.

  ‘Why would she want to meet me?’ I ask. ‘I thought you said she only arrived this morning. Doesn’t she want to have time with Dominic and Susannah? How do we fit in?’

  ‘Well, just that we’re good friends, I guess.’

  ‘But they’re family. If they’ve never met before, it’s not like a normal social occasion. It doesn’t make any sense to me.’

  Ben shrugs. ‘It does to me. Having someone else there makes it less awkward. Anyway, it’s just a quick drink.’

  ‘It’s never just a quick drink with Dominic. You go, I’ll get dinner ready for when you get back. Ben, don’t you think it’s strange that he never wanted to meet his own daughter?’

  ‘Yeah. But he is odd. No surprises there. I don’t understand why you’re so down on him. It’s not like we have any other friends here right now. Cut him some slack.’

  ‘I don’t understand why you’re so keen on him. What do you talk about when you go over there?’

  ‘Everything. His life. Wine. Food. His book.’

  I look at him in disbelief. ‘Anything that you’re actually interestedin?’

  ‘I am interested,’ says Ben, looking wounded. ‘My dad was like that, just filling you up with information. He didn’t have the sort of education Dominic has, but he was knowledgeable about loads of different subjects.’

  I’ve never said a word to Ben, because he idolised his father, but everything I’ve ever heard about him makes me think he was one of those quiet controlling men. He ruled the family and everything had to be done his way. Olivia is older than Ben and she doesn’t share the same rosy view of her father. Ben’s mother tries to keep everyone happy but I doubt she’s had too many happy times herself.

  ‘Don’t you think we need more friends closer to our age?’

  He gives a defeated shrug. ‘I guess. But where are they?’

  The same old impasse. Around here anyone our age would be French; most of the English speakers are Brits and are of the Harringtons’ vintage. But how long will it be before Ben can hold a real conversation in French? Two or three years? And that’s with a lot of hard work.

  It’s late when Ben staggers into the bedroom and sits down heavily on the bed.

  ‘What happened to you?’

  ‘I messaged you. Yeah, sorry, one thing turned into another.’ He tugs at his jumper, battling to get it over his head, but only gets halfway.

  ‘Are you drunk? Is that mud all over your pants?’

  ‘I got lost coming back across the paddock and fell over,’ he says, flopping backwards on the bed, his head missing the pillow, his jumper trapped around his neck. ‘I’ll have to get the car in the morning.’

  ‘Couldn’t Roxy have given you a lift?’

  ‘She’s way too drunk to drive. She’s still there. Dominic opened a … ah … Chateau Something or other and then something else …’

  ‘I hope Roxy was impressed by all those Chateau Somethings. What about Susannah?’

  ‘Susannah? What about her? What is the nature of your enquiry, madame?’

  ‘Was she getting drunk too?’

  He stares at the ceiling, getting his thoughts in order. ‘Nah, didn’t see her. Hiding upstairs. What time is it now?’

  ‘Nearly ten.’ I lean over and yank his jumper up over his head.

  ‘Shit. I missed the scrum meeting. That’s not good either. Lots of not-good things. Maybe a few good things. I’m not sure.’

  ‘I can’t remember seeing you this drunk in years; do you want a cup of tea or something?’

  ‘I can get it.’ Ben lifts his head and collapses back on to the bed. ‘No. I can’t.’

  I get out of bed and pull my dressing-gown on. These days we keep the tea things in the bedroom to save going all the way downstairs to the kitchen. The milk stays cold on the windowsill.

  I boil the kettle and bring a mug to Ben, helping position him semi-upright with a couple of pillows behind him. He takes the tea with a sweet drunken smile and wraps his frozen hands around the mug. His eyes drift closed and I just manage to grab the mug before he falls asleep.

  Chapter Twenty-seven

  In the privacy of her room, Susannah has begun to quietly sort out her belongings. The incident in the kitchen has hardened her resolve. Now there is no possibility whatsoever of staying here with that hateful, loathsome, vile man. She must make that bid for freedom and home.

  She’s determined that, over the next few days, she will play along pretending all is well while she completes her preparations. Christmas Day will be her last day in France. On Boxing Day she will find an opportunity to slip down to the cellar and pack a couple of dozen bottles. The minute Dominic is safely tucked away in his study working on his book of many lies, she will pack the car and leave.

  Her resolve is strong but her hands tremble uncontrollably as she divides up her clothes, shoes, books, DVDs, photo albums and memorabilia into take or leave boxes. She has to be tough and decisive about the whole endeavour. She removes the dried bouquet of roses from its vase and throws it in the bin. Once she’s home in England, she won’t be reliant on her pathetic little ritual. After a moment she retrieves them. Maxwell went to the trouble to have them specially preserved for her. Few people in her life have been as thoughtful, so it does seem churlish to toss them. She wraps them in an old shirt and packs them away in a box.

  The ideal of England as a green and promised land has grown in her imagination; she longs for her homeland as a soldier returning from war. The white cliffs are a siren call across the channel. Tears spring to her eyes at the thought. The idea of being in a country where she can be understood makes her feel giddy with relief. To not have people raise their voices in frustration or make that awful tutting noise when she can’t understand them. She sees herself settled into Rebecca’s little flat in Chisw
ick. Living her independent life. Pleasing herself what she does without having to endure Dominic’s twenty questions about every decision. That is what’s made her so indecisive, having to justify everything she does to him. Constantly bending to his will. Or was she always like that? Anyway, things will be different. She will rise above her circumstances. She’ll become that strong, independent woman, heroic in her ability to overcome the hurdles put in her way. She just needs to get home.

  Even though she loathes him with every fibre of her being, she feels a tiny bit guilty at leaving Dominic without a car. She could fly but she’d still have to get to Toulouse. Too complicated. If only she could be comfortable with being inconsiderate. Slipping away seems cowardly but at the same time essential. She can’t face another filthy row dragging her back into everything she is determined to leave behind. And she knows that Dominic possesses the power to stop her, to undermine her and make her doubt any decision.

  Tucked away in her handbag is a cheque from the English antique dealer in Toulouse who had included the Jacobean chair in a container going back to the UK where it sold at Sotheby’s auction. Far from ‘priceless’, it did fetch a tidy sum that will be the foundation of her new life. He still hasn’t noticed the chair has gone. She will pay the utility bills – he won’t be left without electricity – and she’ll put on a splendid Christmas Day feast, then take the money and run.

  A dreadful thought occurs. Sometime in the next few days, Dominic will go down to the cellar to select the wine for Christmas Day. In his current mood, elevated by his fantasy of becoming a celebrated author (she overheard him discussing the film rights with Roxy recently), he’s quite likely to want to push the boat out. She’s tried to select from different parts of the cellar, so he won’t notice the odd bottle missing, but should he decide on a particular wine and find it gone … she shudders at the thought. That simply can’t happen. An interim plan is needed.