by Daisy Waugh
So he sits, drinking, and Daffy stands behind the bar, waiting, not knowing what to do with herself. After half an hour of that, of Skid gazing coldly into space, occasionally demanding more pineau (though never again offering to pay), Daffy slips out to the kitchen to fetch some of her note-books. She can’t leave the bar untended; not with Skid in there and the doors open to the world, but at least she can teach herself some extra French while she waits.
The whispering, as she recites each new French word to herself, desperately trying to block out his malignant presence and Jean Baptiste’s disappointing absence, is irritating enough for Skid to want to leave the bar. He’s about to do that, to down one more free drink and then leave…
‘Daffy! I am sorry I am late!’ At last, the voice of Jean Baptiste. He has changed out of his paint-stained work clothes into cotton trousers, cinnamon-coloured, and a loose-fitting clean white cotton shirt. He’s carrying a huge bunch of yellow sunflowers. ‘For your vases!’ he laughs, handing them to her. He glances briefly at Skid, sitting hunched at the bar, and ignores him. He puts an arm around Daffy’s shoulders, and his mouth close to her ear. ‘You are lovely in the new clothes. Très élégante,’ he murmurs. ‘And…your new bar – it is beautiful!’
She doesn’t have time to respond. Suddenly he vaults over the counter, pulls the notebook from her hands and spins her to face the entrance. There, tripping noisily in behind him, are twenty or thirty people, many of whom Daffy has never seen before. And each one carrying a present.
He squeezes Daffy, still standing behind her, gives her a kiss on both cheeks. ‘Welcome to Montmaur,’ he says. ‘And congratulations for opening the bar. At last!’
‘Oh my goodness! Jean Baptiste, I don’t know what to say. You shouldn’t –’
‘I have bring some friends with me to celebrate!’
Daffy looks around at the friendly faces, so many people smiling at her, and all she can do is grin. The boulangère and her husband are there, with a bottle of wine and another pear tart, and the épicier and his wife, and the old curate, and Maude and Horatio with their children, and various others, so many others; a beautiful woman – olive-skinned, green-eyed and surrounded by beautiful children – whom Jean Baptiste introduces as his sister. She and her husband have a farm about three miles beyond the village – from whence Jean Baptiste filched Daffy’s sunflowers.
‘Et alors!’ he says, laughing at her bewilderment. ‘On a soif, Daffy. We need some drinks! These important guests can’t wait very long. They don’t want to be late for their dinners.’
So she pours them all drinks and, while the sun sets over the church roof, guests spill out onto the terrace. It is probably the happiest two and a half hours of Daffy’s unhappy life. She whizzes about the party, offering hastily cut slices of saucisson, refilling her own glass and everyone else’s, refusing to accept money from anyone, and showing off her new, improved French. She gets a little drunk.
‘It’s extraordinary!’ exclaims Maude. ‘Listening to you now, it’s like listening to a different person. At Emma Rankin’s dinner you could hardly say bonjour! And when was that? Three weeks ago?’
Daffy giggles. ‘Oh God. Don’t mention that awful dinner. I made such an idiot of myself.’
‘Of course you didn’t!’ lies Maude.
Daffy shakes her head. She doesn’t want to have to think about it. Of her husband (who’s not taken her call for five days now) tossing those keys over the table. In front of everyone. Of her having to fish them out of the mayonnaise…It seems, suddenly, as if it happened a thousand years ago. ‘Where is Emma Rankin, anyway? Isn’t she here?’
‘Doesn’t look like it,’ says Maude drily.
Daffy glances at Maude. ‘You don’t like her?’
‘So anyway,’ Maude says, embarrassed, ‘Jean Baptiste has been saying how incredibly quickly you’ve been learning French. You obviously have a natural talent for it.’
‘Me?’ squeals Daffy, who’s never had a natural talent for anything. ‘Seriously, Maude,’ she says, shaking her head, waving her bottle of pineau. ‘It’s all thanks to him. He’s such a wonderful teacher. I swear. And he’s had such awful tragedy in his life…’ She stops, on the edge of tears just thinking of it.
Maude shakes her head, thinks what a sweet woman Daffy is; how much her raspberry-lipped husband doesn’t deserve her. ‘Well, you seem to have cheered him up a little, anyway, Daffy,’ she says truthfully. Jean Baptiste had been whistling to himself when she bumped into him in the market yesterday.
‘Oh, if only!’ Daffy sighs. ‘I would so love to cheer him up…’ Only Daffy could deliver such a line, about such a man, without the faintest double entendre intended. ‘He’s been so kind to me…I actually think Jean Baptiste is probably…I mean he is…the most wonderful man…Apart from Timothy, of course.’
Maude nods absently. ‘Incidentally,’ she says, making it sound very casual, ‘do you have any idea how long that creepy Englishman is intending to stay with you? I think he said his name was Skid.’
‘Isn’t he creepy?’ agrees Daffy fervently, her good-natured feather-brain distracted at once. ‘Isn’t he just the most revolting man you’ve ever met?’
Maude laughs. ‘Watch out,’ she says. ‘He’ll hear you.’
‘God, if you knew how I was longing for him to leave,’ continues Daffy obliviously. ‘I’m beginning to wonder if he ever will.’
Skid is sitting alone at the bar, drinking his pineau in solitary sullenness, watching everything from the eyes in the back of his head. He has decided to monitor Maude and Horatio from afar before approaching them again, and in the meantime he has no intention of making unnecessary small talk with the villagers. ‘Why don’t you chuck him out? After all, it’s your place.’
‘How can I? I’m supposed to be a hotel! I can’t only have people to stay who I like…can I? I’m sure it doesn’t work like that…’
‘No. Probably not.’
‘…Not that he even pays, in fact,’ Daffy continues, on a roll now. ‘He sits there at the bar, drinking my pineau, and sneering at me…Don’t you think that’s dreadful? Who does he think he is? One of my little stray animals?’ She laughs disproportionately, her thin head wobbling a little on her thin, thin shoulders. She hiccups. ‘I’ve got two dogs now. And four cats! Have you met them? I think they’re as lost as I am, Maude. Out here in the middle of I’m not sure where…But we look after each other…’
‘Well, Daffy – you must come over for dinner. I’m sorry. I would have asked you before, but we’ve been frantic, worrying about these wretched TV people…’
‘Oh. Don’t worry about dinner. Far too much trouble!…But perhaps I could drop in one day next week and have a look at your organic veggies? Would that be all right –?’
‘I’ll drop some off for you,’ Maude says quickly.
‘Oh, that would be super! I was thinking I might use them in the restaurant. Sort of thing…Jean Baptiste has been showing me one or two tricks.’
‘Has he indeed?’ Maude giggles. ‘Lucky you!’
Daffy nods. ‘One of these days I’ll be as brilliant at cooking as he is! Well, not really of course. Nobody ever could be…Anyway, where’s your glass, Maude? Don’t you need a top up? I know I do…’
Maude glances across at Horatio, who’s made a beeline for the most attractive woman at the party. As usual. On this occasion it’s Jean Baptiste’s sister, Arielle the fruit farmer, who seems to be enjoying herself as much as he is. Maude doesn’t care. So long as it’s not Emma Rankin. She spots Jean Baptiste making distracted conversation with Monsieur Martinet, the boulanger, but with his eyes fixed on Daffy. He notices Maude, noticing him, and looks quickly away.
‘Perhaps I shouldn’t say it,’ Maude comments, holding out her glass. ‘Perhaps I shouldn’t…But you’ve definitely scored a hit with our friend Jean Baptiste Mersaud over there, in case you hadn’t noticed. He can’t take his eyes off you.’
‘…Pardon?’ Daffy’s pouring loses
its aim, and the pineau splatters onto Maude’s sandal, making Superman, who has appeared miraculously at her feet, gurgle with ecstatic laughter before scampering away again.
Daffy’s still burbling her apologies when Madame Martinet, the boulanger’s wife, taps Daffy on the shoulder. Standing beside her is a young girl of about sixteen wearing badly applied, livid orange lipstick, and smiling broadly. ‘Daffy,’ she says formally, ‘je vous presente ma fille, Sara.’
‘Ooh,’ says Daffy idiotically. Jean Baptiste thinks I’m all right? Jean Baptiste thinks I – me – He likes me? He thinks I’m – He can’t take his eyes off me?
‘Daffy!’ mutters Maude, laughing, giving her a little nudge. ‘Wake up, girl! Madame Martinet wants to introduce her daughter. Daffy, this is Sara…’
At last, Daffy comes to. She looks at Sara, who has Down’s syndrome, and beams at her. ‘Ooh, how lovely!’ she exclaims. ‘Somebody young in the village at last! Une…jeune fille dans la village! C’est bien! Hello Sara. How are you? Comment vas-tu? I love your crazy lipstick! Like the sunset. C’est magnifique!’ Sara smiles at Daffy, nods her head enthusiastically, but says nothing.
‘Vas-y, Sara,’ prompts her mother after a short, blank pause. ‘Dis-le, chérie. Dépêche-toi!’
Another long pause. Daffy waits expectantly ‘…I…want,’ says Sara slowly, ‘very much I want working for you!’
‘Oh!…My goodness…’ Daffy frowns, tries to think what work Sara could possibly do for her. But there is no work, really. Or none that Daffy doesn’t want to do herself. She has discovered that she likes cleaning. It keeps her calm. It keeps her from brooding. And with only Skid in the hotel, who seems to spend most of every day in bed, there is really not enough work to go round. She looks at Sara. ‘…Well how lovely. Of course!’ she says automatically. ‘…Thank you! I would love that! Are you sure you wouldn’t mind, Sara?’
And so it is decided. She will arrive from across the street at eight o’clock each morning, and Daffy will pay her in cash, of course, €6 per hour, though to do what, exactly, Daffy has no idea.
COURT SUMMONS
Skid’s mobile rings at about eight o’clock, just as the other guests are beginning to peel off home for dinner. It’s Emma, sounding a bit low, insisting he come over. Right away. He reminds her he doesn’t have a car, and waits. She says she’ll send Mathilde down to the village to pick him up. ‘Where are you?’ she demands.
‘I’m in the bar, Em. There’s quite a party going on. I’m surprised you’re not here.’
A pause. ‘I wasn’t invited, Smuttie,’ she says quietly. ‘Come over. Quickly. I’ll tell you all about it.’ He slithers down from his stool and away from the party without saying anything to anyone. Nobody sees him go.
By half past eight the last of Daffy’s unexpected guests have taken their leave, and Daffy and Jean Baptiste are left alone. He turns to her, thoroughly pleased with the way things have turned out, delighted to see Daffy looking so happy.
‘It was a good party, non?’ he says, looking at her.
‘It was,’ she replies. It sounds cold. Now that they’re alone, and with Skid’s poison about fortune hunters and Maude’s words still ringing in either ear, Daffy’s so confused she can hardly bring herself to look at him.
He hesitates. ‘Ça va, Daffy?’ he asks, taking a small step towards her. ‘You enjoy the party, I think. You always look very happy.’
‘Yes. Of course I did. I was.’ She picks up a handful of dirty glasses and turns away from him towards the kitchen. ‘Thank you – so much – for organising it.’
‘So?’ he follows her. ‘What is the matter with you?’
‘Nothing.’
‘I have offended you?’
‘No. Not at all.’ At the door to the kitchen she stops to look back at him. He thinks I’m wonderful, she thinks. No he doesn’t. Nobody thinks that. He thinks Emma Rankin is wonderful. He thinks I’m – rich. He’s only after my money. Timothy’s money. I’m MARRIED. He thinks I’m wonderful. What about Emma Rankin? Why won’t he just come over here, just take me in his arms, just wrap me up in those arms and carry me upstairs to one of those empty bedrooms…Why doesn’t he – Or why don’t I? I could. I could take a step. I could walk towards him, now. I could –
‘I’m tired. That’s all. So. If you don’t mind.’
‘That’s fine,’ he shrugs, his face hardening. ‘I am sorry. Alors – je m’en vais, Daffy.’ He turns quickly and leaves her in the bar, drunk, disappointed, remorseful, confused – and with nothing to wrap her arms around but the dirty glasses.
RURAL BLISS
Emma’s got hold of some ecstasy. Actually she’s been holding it for a few weeks now, but since Jean Baptiste refuses point blank to take drugs with her she’s been at a loss for someone to share it with. No longer. Jean Baptiste gave her the old heave-ho at lunchtime.
It came out of nowhere. He appeared at the door, glistening with sweat, exactly as she liked him. He told her he’d finished the hacienda and she’d moved herself towards him, murmuring congratulations and promising so much more. But he pulled away.
He pulled away.
‘…And the thing is, Smuttie darling,’ she says, as they stand there wearing only their underwear, caressing each other in time to some lovely music, in the middle of her vast, empty drawing room, ‘what’s so silly is he adores me, in his own way. He does.’
‘We all do, Emma, poppet. All the men adore you. I adore you.’
‘I know you do.’
‘I adore you especially. And I always have. Ever since…ever. Ever since I was six. You’re very, very special and I adore you.’
‘I know you do. We adore each other. We always, always have. I’ve always had a lovely feeling about you. Always.’
‘I adore you.’ He slides a familiar hand up to her bra, undoes the hook, liberating her large, new, beautiful breasts. ‘Good God,’ he says, tweaking casually at both nipples, full of admiration. ‘You went to town on these, my poppet. They’re stunning.’
‘Well, in for a penny,’ she says carelessly. ‘Jean Baptiste said he would have preferred me before. But he doesn’t know, does he?’
‘Silly old cunt.’
‘In for a penny, in for a pound, I thought. I didn’t hold back. I said, “Make me like Dolly Parton.” And they did…’
He giggles. ‘You never hold back, Emma. That’s what I adore about you.’
And they melt into a puddle on the floor, right there, and so the rutting begins. It’s a long, long, heavenly rut. Both parties enjoy it vastly…‘One forgets,’ murmurs Emma during a mini break, as they sit there naked, smoking cigarettes. ‘One absolutely forgets how marvellous it is, fucking on E…When did you last fuck on E, Smuttie?’
‘Who knows?’ he says. Not especially interested. ‘I must say whoever it was did your tits deserves a sodding Nobel prize, Em. They really are truly miraculous.’
She smiles absently. ‘I adore you, Smuttie,’ she says. ‘I really do worship you. Always have…But I have to say – I don’t really adore you nearly as much as I adored my lovely French builder…’ She sighs. ‘Because I really, really, really adored my French builder, Smuttie…’
‘Ah yes. That paragon of perfection…Doesn’t care for me much…But he is rather wonderful-looking, isn’t he?’ Skid observes helpfully, inhaling a final drag from his cigarette and stubbing it out on the flagstone floor. ‘He’s got that sort of macho peasant swagger about him. Combined with all the saintliness. And the tragedy, of course. Women can never resist a tragedy, can they? Christ, he must be irresistible.’
‘He told me he’s “met someone else”. Can you believe it?’ She laughs. ‘How old-fashioned is that?…Met someone else! I think he’s having it off with that bitch, Maude Haunt.’
‘Who knows?’ he says again. Skid’s not listening. His eyes are glazed. ‘Come here, Em, would you? Never mind him. I want to do something disgusting with those absolutely fucking – monumental – new udders…’
‘I said I wanted them to give me a new identity.’
‘Did you?’ she giggles. ‘Smuttie, you are naughty! What did they say?’
‘They threw me out of the house.’
‘Oh.’ She thinks about that. ‘Well I suppose it’s not a great surprise. Did they look guilty?’
‘They looked bloody uncomfortable…Anyway, I have every intention of asking them again. Since I have nothing to lose, frankly…And a new identity would be really – just the ticket. At this stage…What shall I call myself, Em? I’ve always rather liked the name Humbert. Humbert Humbert de Sull. Sounds good. Dirty but posh. Sounds about right. By the way, will I find marmelade in that rather wonderful ramekin beside you, Em? Could you be extra kind and pass?’
Emma, of course, has already heard news of the planned Haunt documentary. That particular piece of gossip travelled like SARS disease around the village and several miles beyond, long before the Haunts had even formally agreed to participate. She’d not realised, though, that Skid had been present to witness, with his very own dirty-but-posh eyes, Maude’s thirty-odd failed attempts to introduce herself to the camera. Skid takes a certain amount of pleasure in exaggerating the extent of Maude’s ineptitude for Emma’s jealous entertainment. By the time Mathilde brings out fried eggs and a second small jug of freshly squeezed orange juice Emma has tears of laughter streaming down her face.
‘Oh God, isn’t she ghastly?’ gasps Emma, wiping the tears away. ‘You will promise me, won’t you, Smuttie, to find out what the hell she’s doing in that dreary little cottage, and then get her arrested for it. Can you do that for me?…Actually, I’m being serious,’ she says. An idea has just occurred to her. ‘I mean as a sort of task. Like a private detective, Smut. Don’t you think it would be fun?…I’ll give you so much money…’