by Teresa Crane
Could you?
Chapter Eight
Considering his circumstances – or some might well think even because of them – Michel Brosette was an exceptionally well-adjusted young man; easy-going, intelligent and slow to anger, though his temper, once roused, could be as fierce as any. Half-brother to Eloise, born to a young second wife who had died bearing him, he hardly remembered the father who had hated him for being the cause of her death. Brought up by a distant and penurious relative who, though kindly enough, took him in as much for the money his father was prepared to offer as for any desire to care for a child, he had very early on in life developed a temperate self-sufficiency that had stood him in good stead ever since.
His aunt Jeanne, with whom he had spent most of those first formative thirteen or fourteen years of his life, had been a worn, quiet woman married to an even quieter man; a schoolteacher whose only loves in life were the books that he scraped and saved to buy, and hoarded in a tiny boxroom in the attics of the house in a nondescript village by the River Somme in which they lived. From the time of his first memories Michel had always loved what he still thought of as ‘the book room’. The schoolteacher, though reserved to the point of aloofness, had nevertheless recognised in the boy a quick intelligence and eagerness to learn that he was more than willing to encourage. Certainly Michel, when he thought about it – which was, truthfully, not that often – considered him to be far more a father than the stern and unsmiling man who visited occasionally, put the fear of God into the small child who barely recognised his blood kinship to the gentleman he called ‘M’sieur’, and then left again. The one real relationship that had lit up his young life had been with Eloise, the younger, softer, vividly beautiful Eloise that he remembered from those pre-war years. Eloise it had been who insisted that her small half-brother accompany her for the summer months that she spent in the glorious countryside of the Lot valley where her maternal grandmother’s house was set, Eloise who had cossetted and played with him, bandaged grazed knees and wiped away childish tears. An Eloise of warmth and laughter, of a gay and restless energy that had drawn the world to her and coaxed it to smile. As a child, he had adored her. It had been the war that had changed her.
But then, the war had changed everything.
Before Michel Brosette had reached his sixteenth birthday, what world he had was taken from him; his father’s business ruined and the man himself dead of it, the schoolteacher’s house with its dusty silences and its ‘book room’ swept away in the tide of war, the two people who, staunchly conscientious, had cared for him since the day of his birth, crushed to death in its ruins, himself evacuated to yet another unknown and distant relation, this time in the far safety of England.
And Eloise – where did Eloise go in those years? He knew she had worked as a nurse. Knew too of her passion for an English war correspondent, Peter Martin, who had been killed towards the end, in 1918. In the confusion of the war and its immediate aftermath, Michel had lost touch with her. She had turned up in his life again late in 1919, arriving in England with no warning, a child of perhaps six months in her arms, the posthumous son of the man she had loved, who already showed traces of the likeness to his father that was to become so marked as he grew older. The English relatives, their only son dead in the trenches of Ypres, had happily welcomed yet another extension to their family, and the Martin family, too, once contacted, had been overjoyed at the discovery of a grandson they had not known existed and had readily agreed to help support and educate him. Michel, by this time training to be a teacher himself, was the only one to recognise the extraordinary changes that had occurred in his sister; but, then, there could hardly be any surprise in that. Who had come through those unprecedentedly terrible years unchanged? Now, teaching French to the boys of St Edmund’s School near Chichester, the boy, his nephew, was amongst his pupils.
It had surprised him, but only mildly, when Eloise had announced her abrupt decision to come here to Italy for the summer; it was not the first time she had unexpectedly disappeared for a few days or a few weeks, though never for so long before. On her grandmother’s death she had inherited a sum, not large, but enough to support her and to preserve her independence. She was a restless soul, and sometimes, he knew, grew homesick for her native France. Why she had chosen Italy this time was beyond him – and, questioned, true to form she had smiled and said nothing – but he was content nevertheless. The prospect of a summer here, in the drowsy warmth of the south, had always been a pleasant one. Now it was more so. Standing at the window of his small rented room in Umberto’s house, listening to Umberto’s womenfolk squabbling and laughing in the kitchen below, he smiled to himself. The English girl in the strange old house on the hillside had attracted, warmed and amused him. He looked forward to getting to know her better.
*
‘Good morning.’
Poppy jumped, and turned from the shallow marble sink where she was working her way through washing a pile of Robbie’s cot sheets. The kitchen smelled dank and soapy. She was hot, untidy and had managed to soak the front of her light summer dress in suds. One of the shoes she had kicked off lay under the table, the other had landed near the kitchen door.
Smiling, Michel bent to pick it up.
‘I – good morning.’ Poppy tried to push her hair from her eyes and only managed to smear her face with soapy water. She squeezed her eyes shut for a moment against the sting of it. ‘Blast!’
Michel reached for a small towel that hung by the sink and handed it to her.
‘Thank you.’ She buried her face in it for an unnecessarily long time, trying to regain her composure. ‘Blast it!’ she repeated to herself, silently, ‘Oh, blast it!’ And it was not her sore eye that she cursed so vehemently. Ever since her first meeting with this young man a couple of days before she had been at first surprised, then a little irritated and finally downright embarrassed at how absurdly often she had found herself thinking about him. Laying no claim to sophistication, even she knew that there was more to a man than a pleasant smile, an attractive voice and a way of looking at you as if you were the only person in the room. But no matter how she castigated and mocked herself, she could not deny how much she had looked forward to seeing him again as, surely under the circumstances, she must. And now look! Red-faced, bare-legged, soaking wet! ‘Oh, blast!’ she muttered again, aloud, the words still muffled by the towel.
‘You’ve hurt yourself?’ His voice was concerned.
She forced herself to come out from her hiding-place. ‘No, just got soap in my eye, that’s all. It does sting so, doesn’t it?’
He smiled his wide, friendly smile and, helpless, she smiled back.
‘I came out for a walk,’ he said after a moment. ‘Eloise said it would be all right for me to walk up to the tower. I was passing the door—’ He shrugged, the movement so eloquently Gallic that despite her mortification Poppy almost laughed aloud. ‘I thought just to say hello, but I see you are busy – perhaps another time?’ He half-turned to the door.
‘No—’ Even to Poppy’s own ears the word came out with a positively embarrassing haste. The colour in her already fiery cheeks deepened. She gave up all hope of dignity and rubbed her wet hands on her skirt. ‘There’s no need to go – I was just about to put the kettle on. Won’t you stop for a cup of tea?’
He hesitated, glancing at the washing that sprawled in a sloppy, dripping heap upon the draining-board, waiting to be rinsed.
‘Oh, don’t worry about that!’ She made a dismissive gesture. ‘I was beginning to wish I’d never started the beastly job anyway. There’s the rest of the day not touched. It can wait.’
‘Well, if you really don’t mind?’
‘I’m positively grateful.’
He laughed. ‘Then I’d be delighted.’
‘Good. I’ll tell you what – why not sit outside, out of this horrible smell? I’ll bring the tea out in two minutes.’ She hesitated. ‘Is tea really all right? You wouldn’t prefer something else?�
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‘Tea will be absolutely fine.’ He was gravely courteous, but there was an amused gleam in his eyes. She turned quickly to the kettle. If her cheeks got any warmer they might well burst into flame.
A few minutes later she joined him outside at the shaded table, with a tray of tea and a plate of custard creams. At the sight of it he could not resist laughter. ‘We might be in the drawing-room of an English country house!’
She grinned and reached for the teapot, glancing at him interestedly. ‘Your English is incredibly good.’ She wrinkled her nose a little. ‘You should hear my French. Or, rather you shouldn’t.’
He laughed again. ‘There’s no surprise in that. I’ve lived in England for half of my life.’
‘Do you like it?’
He smiled at the frank question. ‘Very much. I think of it as home.’ There was the shrug again. ‘Insofar as I think of anywhere as my home.’
Poppy leaned her elbows on the table and her chin upon her cupped hands, head cocked intently. ‘What a strange – what a sad – thing to say. I’m sorry, I’m afraid you’ll think me incredibly nosy, and I don’t mean to pry, truly I don’t – but please, do tell me why you should feel like that?’
*
The tea had long cooled and they were still absorbedly talking an hour or so later when the sound of footsteps on the gravel distracted them. A moment later the sturdy figure of Eloise’s son appeared around the corner of the house, dressed in open-necked shirt and shorts, a leather football under his arm. He stopped, a little hesitant, when he saw them.
‘Peter.’ His uncle held out a hand to him. ‘What are you doing here?’
‘I came up to find the little boy.’ The child smiled diffidently at Poppy. ‘I thought he might like to play.’
‘He’s gone for a walk with his mother. I’m sure they’ll be back soon.’ Poppy picked up the plate and offered it. ‘Would you like a biscuit?’
‘Yes, please.’ He chose one carefully. ‘Thank you.’
Poppy patted a chair encouragingly. ‘Come and sit down while you wait.’
The boy glanced at his uncle, who nodded, smiling.
‘Are you enjoying your holiday?’
‘Very much, thank you.’ He was softly spoken, gravely polite. ‘Do you think Robbie would like to play football with me? I know he’s littler than me, but I’d be very careful.’
‘I’m sure he would.’ Her voice was warm. ‘The poor little lad doesn’t have any proper playmates. It’ll make a lovely change for him to have someone a bit closer to his own age to play with.’
‘I’ll take care of him.’
She smiled at the earnest words. ‘I’m sure you will. Ah – here they are.’
The small figure that had scampered, laughing, around the corner flung himself breathless into Poppy’s lap. ‘Hide from Mummy! Hide from Mummy!’
It was an oft-played game. ‘Quick. Under the table.’
Poppy spread her skirts.
Robbie scrambled under the table. ‘Tuck your leg in, soppy,’ Poppy said, and the child giggled delightedly.
A moment later Isobel appeared and stood looking in mock concern about her. ‘Has anyone seen Robbie? I can’t find him anywhere. Hello, Michel. How nice to see you. And Peter – have you seen little Robbie?’
Solemnly they all shook their heads. From beneath the table came another stifled giggle.
Isobel sat down heavily, carefully avoiding putting her feet under the table. ‘Well, I can’t go looking for him just now. He’s quite exhausted me, the little tinker. It’s a shame he isn’t here – he could have had this last biscuit. Oh, well. Perhaps I’d better eat it for him.’
‘Boo!’ The table rocked precariously as Robbie scrambled from beneath it. ‘Robbie’s here! Robbie’s here!’
Isobel stopped with the biscuit half-way to her mouth. ‘Where on earth did you pop out from?’
‘I hided,’ the child said proudly.
Smiling, Isobel reached for him and pulled him to her, handing him the biscuit, laying her cheek on the fair curly head. Robbie’s bright eyes, however, had found the football that Peter held in his lap. He wriggled free, stood looking hopefully, if a little shyly, from the ball to the older boy’s face.
‘Would you like to play?’ Peter asked, a straightforward question with no touch of condescension.
The smaller child hesitated for a moment, then nodded warily.
‘Come on, then. Let’s go out into the field.’ Peter held out his hand. ‘There’s more room there. We don’t want to break any windows, do we?’
Robbie beamed suddenly, the thought clearly intriguing him. ‘Yes,’ he said.
In the laughter that followed, the older boy took the younger’s hand. ‘We’ll only be half an hour or so,’ he said politely to Isobel. ‘I won’t tire him out.’
‘I wish you would.’ Isobel’s words were heartfelt and provoked more laughter. As she watched the two children walk away, she turned to Michel. ‘What a charming child.’
‘Yes. He is.’ He shrugged. ‘A little old-fashioned, perhaps. A little too serious for his age. He’s an extraordinarily sensitive child. One has to handle him carefully. His feelings run very deep for one so young; he’s very easily hurt.’
‘I think he’s lovely.’ Poppy looked at her sister. ‘Would you like me to make fresh tea?’
Isobel shook her head. ‘I don’t feel like tea. I think perhaps I’ll have a glass of milk and lie down for a while.’
Michel stood up, looked down at Poppy. ‘Do you feel like a walk? Would you care to show me the way to this tower that I have heard so much about?’
Poppy hesitated, glanced towards the kitchen door. ‘The washing—’ she said lamely.
Isobel looked from one to the other, dark-ringed eyes gleaming in sudden, amused interest. ‘Don’t be silly, Poppy. You sound like Cinderella! The washing can wait. Off you go.’ She hauled herself up from the chair, and sent her sister a sly glance before turning away, ‘Just make sure you’re back before midnight. I’m sure Michel is much too sensible to want to go through all that glass slipper nonsense!’ As she looked back before she went indoors she had the unexpected satisfaction of seeing her normally down-to-earth sister blush every bit as brightly as her namesake.
*
‘Please, Eloise.’ The soft-voiced plea echoed dully in the warm shadows of the bedroom; the bulky figure on the bed moved restlessly. ‘Please,’ she said again.
The long-boned, elegant woman who stood silhouetted by the window did not turn. ‘Where is everyone?’ Eloise asked in casual curiosity, as if the words had not been spoken. Smoke wreathed to the ceiling.
‘Peter’s playing football with Robbie in the field beside the house – didn’t you see them? Kit’s working, I think. And Poppy and Michel have gone for a walk. Eloise—’
This time Eloise did turn. ‘Have they indeed?’ Her voice was musing, amused.
‘Eloise!’
The other woman reached out to an ashtray on the windowsill and, with elaborate care, extinguished her cigarette. Then at the foot of the bed, she stood looking down at Isobel. The younger woman’s hair was tangled and dark with sweat, her face drawn.
There was a long silence. Then, with no word, Eloise very slowly undid the large buckle on her shoulder-bag and felt inside it. Bright blue eyes watched her feverishly. The narrow hand stopped for a moment. In apparent doubt, the sleek head shook slightly. ‘I don’t know if—’
‘Please!’ The single word was the embodiment of desperation.
Eloise shrugged, extracted a small phial from the bag. ‘Isobel, my dear, I did warn you from the first—’
‘I know. I know!’ Isobel’s eyes were fixed on the phial. ‘But please – for now – I need it! Eloise, you don’t know how I feel without it! It helps me so. I’ll give it up. I promise you. After the baby. But for now—’
Eloise took a long, spuriously sorrowful, breath. A gleam of light caught the pale, translucent eyes. She held out the phial.
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nbsp; Isobel took it in a trembling hand, clasped it to her breast, her eyes closed.
‘Try not to use it quite so quickly this time,’ Eloise said, gently but not kindly.
The eyes didn’t open. ‘I will. I promise,’ Isobel said.
Eloise smiled.
The house was dark, shuttered against the sun. Eloise stopped at the top of the steps that ran down to the kitchens to light another cigarette. She was still smiling. Lightly she ran down the steps, through the smaller kitchen and into the suffocating warmth of the large one.
‘What are you trying to do, Eloise?’ The quiet voice arrested her movements as suddenly as if a switch had been thrown. ‘Destroy her? Destroy us? Destroy me?’ The silence that followed the words was profound. Outside, the cicadas rasped, and a dog barked sharply. Kit was sitting at the table. He leaned back in his chair, tilting his head to look at her. For a long moment she stood, perfectly still and poised, watching him. ‘It helps her,’ she said.
‘No, it bloody well doesn’t!’ The chair-legs scraped as he came to his feet, and his long-fingered hand smacked the table. ‘You know damned well it doesn’t!’ She was completely unmoved. Her smile was pleasant. ‘Then stop her.’
He sat down again, dropped his head into his hands. ‘What the hell is it that you want, Eloise?’
He felt her move closer to him, felt the soft touch of her hand on his hair, smelled the distinctive, musky perfume of her. ‘Nothing you can give me, Kit,’ she said softly. ‘What I want I must take. In my own good time. When I decide how to take it.’ Her quiet footsteps crossed the kitchen floor and receded into the afternoon’s silence.
Kit did not lift his head.
*
‘Umberto is taking us to the city tomorrow.’ Michel swiped with a stout stick at some brambles that had encroached upon the path ahead, held them aside for Poppy to pass. ‘Peter and me, that is. I wondered – would you like to come with us?’