Thalia

by Frances Faviell

  ‘Did she complain of Claude?’

  ‘No. She just insists that she would prefer not to come back after Christmas. It’s too bad—just as she’s got into our ways.’

  ‘He is very difficult,’ I said. ‘I don’t seem to be able to teach him anything.’

  When Julie Caron came next day I asked her why she was leaving us. She was picking up some sheets of children’s pictures which she used in teaching Claude and she didn’t reply for a moment, then she said: ‘I find it no longer possible to come here.’

  ‘Is it Claude?’

  ‘No. He’s difficult—but I expect him to be so, what else could one expect? He’s never punished.’

  ‘Shall I speak to him? He’s fairly obedient with me. I won’t read to him or tell him stories if he isn’t. It’s the only way I can manage him.’

  ‘No. It’s useless. I am leaving.’

  I had grown quite fond of Julie. We exchanged English and French conversation in the evenings. She came to the villa one week and I went to her flat in the town the following one. She lived above a small grocer’s shop with her mother, a sour, grumbling old woman who disliked the British. She had a fixed idea that it was they who had started the war which had taken her husband from her. It was, as Julie said, useless arguing with her.

  I asked her now whether or not she wanted to continue the exchange of conversation. She went on packing up the sheets of coloured pictures and didn’t answer for a moment. When she did, she said, without looking at me: ‘It would be better that they cease.’

  I was very upset. I had enjoyed the evenings with her. Apart from the conversation we both loved music and had devoted a lot of our time to playing records of our favourite composers. She must have seen that I was both surprised and hurt, for taking my hand she said quickly: ‘You’ll understand later why it’s impossible. But just now—don’t ask me.’

  ‘Are you taking another job?’

  ‘Possibly. At Rennes, not here.’

  ‘But your mother?’

  She shrugged her shoulders and said nothing. She had smooth black hair, small liquid black eyes and an olive skin. She was short and rather dumpy, but she moved with the quick grace of the Frenchwoman and dressed with care and taste.

  I was as puzzled as Cynthia; she had given me no good reason for leaving.

  ‘Are you in any sort of trouble—I mean is there anything I can do about it?’ I asked, trying to make her look at me. It was this strange unwillingness to face me which forced this question from me. She did look directly at me then.

  ‘No. There is nothing that you can do. Nothing. C’est la vie,’ and she shrugged again, but there were tears in her eyes. I was disturbed, for in spite of the tears her look had been intent and calculating—as if she would sum me up.

  I confessed my failure to discover the reason for her determination to leave. Cynthia was indignant. ‘I suppose it’s Claude. I know he’s naughty. Everyone says that he’s spoiled. All boys are naughty—I suppose her own was a paragon.’

  ‘She says it isn’t Claude.’

  ‘Then what is it? Does she want more money—like all these French?’

  ‘She never mentioned money. She isn’t a mercenary person at all.’

  ‘Oh well, let her go. I’m not going down on my knees to any Frenchwoman to stay on with me. There are plenty of others to be had. She must remain until Christmas—she has to give me proper notice.’

  I asked Marie if she knew what was the matter. She was diffident and evasive. I could understand her unwillingness to discuss her own compatriots with a foreigner—but she had always implied that she disliked Julie Caron and paid her but scant courtesy whenever she encountered her in the house.

  ‘She’s jealous,’ she said, shaking her head.

  ‘Jealous? But of whom?’ I asked astonished.

  ‘Use your head a little—or have you “les araignées au plafond”?’

  This was one of Marie’s favourite expressions. She used it whenever she came upon Thalia and me giggling or frolicking about laughing at nothing. We were enchanted with it until the day Claude accused Cynthia of having the equivalent of ‘bats in the belfry’ and I was obliged to translate it under her withering look. Just now I could not understand what Marie meant.

  ‘Wait. Wait. You’ll soon find out,’ was her cryptic reply.

  She and Cynthia were not getting on at all. There were frequent scenes. Cynthia had a way of putting a command into her voice—which Thalia called her ‘memsahib’ one—which Marie resented. She would toss her apron in temper and scream that she was not accustomed to working as a slave or of being spoken to as an animal, that she came of as proud a race as the Madame. That if the Madame thought that she was one of her Indian slave servants she was mistaken . . . she was a Breton! And Madame had better remember it.

  Cynthia would listen in contemptuous silence—not understanding much of it—a little smile on her beautiful mouth. ‘Poor old thing. She doesn’t know any better.’

  Then, if Marie persisted, she would say angrily: ‘But she had better keep in her place. I won’t stand insolence. I don’t believe you translate all that she is saying, Rachel.’

  I did not; had I done so Marie would have been out with her boxes and I knew that it would be me who would have to cook and clean—for if Marie went Elise would go with her. The niece was completely under her aunt’s domination. Marie, when really roused, was magnificent. Her face would become a brilliant rose—then a darker red—then a deep purplish flush would envelop her; not just her face but her neck and hands too, and one sensed that if she were stripped her entire body would be brick red with indignation. She would scream in a harsh, savage way which reminded me of the seagulls, and her blue eyes would flash and wither with scorn.

  There had been many of these scenes since Cynthia’s return from Paris. I hated being dragged into them. I loved old Marie and felt that much of her resentment was justified—but on the other hand I was there to help Cynthia and certainly to uphold her before her children. If I remained silent and refused to translate she would order me to do so in the same voice which had so upset Marie.

  There were days when neither Thalia nor Marie seemed to be able to do anything right for Cynthia, and on one of these the climax came after a series of small annoyances when Cynthia began complaining as usual about Marie’s cooking. If there was the smallest quantity of butter in any of the food she would be furious. Elise was out, and Marie was handing round the plates at lunch. They were in a pile in her left hand. It was the third time Cynthia had complained during the meal, forcing me to translate for her. At the third complaint Marie’s patience snapped. ‘Do it yourself then! Cook your own vegetables. Drown them in water and enjoy them if you can! But I, I am a cook! I don’t just fill my stomach. I eat. Yes. I have respect for my stomach. And respect for other people’s!’ And she hurled the top plate across the salle-à-manger, following it with a second and a third.

  I watched, in fascinated glee, the plates crash on the parquet floor. Thalia sat smiling. Claude, delighted and excited, jumped from his chair and rushing round the table seized a plate from the pile and flung it through the window. The glass splintered in thousands of pieces and came flying into the room. Marie suddenly came to her senses. She had been shouting some of the unpleasant words which Madeleine had taught me. But at Claude’s action she stopped as if appalled at what she had done, and dropping the last plate in her confusion, fled from the room.

  Cynthia’s eyes were very fixed. Thalia’s glance darted here and there in sheer delight, her face had an expression of almost gloating joy, but I suddenly felt sick . . . sick of it all. Sick of people’s tempers and grumbles and of having to try and be the go-between. I longed to be back in my aunt’s well-ordered dining-room with the prim Janet handing the plates in deft and perfect service. I got up and closed the door after Marie.

  ‘Thalia, help me sweep up these pieces—go and fetch a brush and pan, will you? Sit still, Claude . . . don’t touch anythi
ng. You’ll get cut.’

  ‘Wait!’ commanded Cynthia. The icy calm in her tone struck us all. Claude, who was laughing immoderately at the mess and confusion, stopped at once.

  ‘Claude! Didn’t your father tell you to behave properly to me, to do all you could for me while he was away?’ I had never heard her use this tone to him before.

  ‘Yes,’ he said, frightened now.

  ‘And didn’t you promise to do so?’

  ‘Yes.’ His eyes were scared, it was the first time I had seen any sign of fear in him.

  ‘And do you think that what you have just done is keeping that promise?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Thalia! Fetch me your riding whip from the hall.’

  I stared at her in disbelief. Was she actually intending to punish Claude? When Thalia returned with the whip she handed it to me: ‘You will give Claude two sharp cuts, please, Rachel. Bend down, Claude.’

  ‘No. No,’ I protested in dismay. ‘I couldn’t. I’ve never hit anyone. I don’t think corporal punishment is right.’

  But Claude had dashed away at Cynthia’s words to me and I heard him running down the passage to the garden door. Thalia, at her mother’s insistence, went in pursuit.

  ‘Claude has never been thrashed. But he must learn that he can’t behave like that, especially in front of a servant. He’s going to be a soldier. He must learn discipline. You know how weak my heart is, Rachel. You must do it.’

  ‘No. No. I can’t,’ I cried, and to my horror I burst into tears.

  Thalia returned, dragging Claude after her. She did not appear as elated as I had expected her to be at being allowed to lay hands on her small brother.

  ‘Come here,’ said Cynthia sternly. But Claude remained gazing at her in fascinated horror—as if he were unable to move.

  ‘Come here,’ she repeated. And then there ensued a sickening battle between mother and son. Unable to force him to bend over, she hit him anywhere she could reach him. I could not endure the sight of that small, terrified boy who had never been chastised being treated in such a way, and after several sharp cuts I interposed my body between them, receiving the whip full on my neck.

  Cynthia, at this, dropped it as if it were red-hot. Claude, who had not uttered one cry, now ran to me, and burying his head in my groin began sobbing in the high, hysterical way of the very highly strung. Great shudders ran through his small body and he began shaking all over and breathing in uneven, gasping, choking gulps. I held him tightly but he couldn’t stop, and went on in a terrible monotonous panting as if he were wound up.

  Finally I carried him upstairs with Thalia’s help and put him to bed. His sobbing was absolutely mechanical but it still went on. We covered him up and left him to sob himself to sleep.

  Cynthia called me when I came down. She put up a hand and touched my neck where the whip had caught it.

  ‘I’m sorry, but it had to be done. It has upset me horribly. Get me some aspirins, Rachel, and some eau-de-Cologne.’

  I said nothing. I still felt sick with disgust at the whole scene. Cynthia’s face, when she had been beating Claude, had been so intent, so calm. Even that degrading business of hitting a small child had not broken the beautiful mask, and somehow it made the whole affair more revolting than if she had exhibited some loss of temper.

  ‘I’m sorry about this,’ she said, fingering my neck again when I took her the aspirin. ‘Put something on it.’

  She felt my silence and said: ‘You think I’m a monster. There is a limit. Marie was the last straw. She must go.’

  I was going to the Club with Terence that evening and I determined to ask him about Cynthia. She had been utterly unpredictable and impossible since her return from Paris. Unless there were some good explanation for her behaviour I felt I could not stay any longer with her.

  Marie was locked in her room and I heard her moving about packing her boxes. I knocked and after a time was admitted. Her trunks were almost filled, the dressing-table swept bare of her possessions and the armoire open and empty.

  ‘Don’t go. Please, Marie, don’t go. If you go I can’t stay.’

  For almost an hour I pleaded with her. I had none of Cynthia’s pride and I begged and implored her not to leave me. I loved the old woman. She was good, hard-working and simple. To me she was Brittany with her store of folklore and legends, her superstitions and fears. I felt completely in tune with her. I loved the things she loved, the soil, the sea, the fruits of the earth and of the sea—the wonder of life and the inevitability of death. The one thing I could not share with her was her unshakable, unswerving faith.

  At last she said: ‘And the Madame? Is she willing for me to stay after my behaviour?’

  I said that she would be. Cynthia had intimated that she would accept an apology after having said that Marie must go. She was really quite fond of her, too.

  ‘I am willing to apologize for throwing the plates. That was inexcusable of me. The plates belong to my Madame in Paris, and I will have to replace them. I realize that. But this is the last time. If she isn’t satisfied with my cooking let her get someone else. I can’t stand grumbling and complaints. I’m a good cook—let no one deny it!’

  Cynthia put a chiffon scarf round my neck before I went to the Club to meet Terence. It didn’t suit me, and did not match the dress. Terence told me to take it off. I wanted to see his reactions to the weal across my neck, knowing that Armand would surely notice it immediately.

  ‘It was an accident. I got in the way of a whip,’ I explained.

  ‘Cynthia’s very fond of the whip. Discipline—and all that. Thalia’s had it often.’

  ‘She actually beat Thalia?’ I asked, horrified.

  ‘Frequently in India,’ he said indifferently, ‘but I should have thought she was beyond that now.’

  ‘It was Claude.’

  ‘Good! The little brat’s insufferable. I’ve seen him kicking and hitting his bearer times enough.’

  ‘If he has seen Cynthia beating Thalia it’s small wonder,’ I said disgustedly.

  ‘You know nothing about the life there. The climate can be insufferable—it makes people do things they wouldn’t dream of doing in their own country——’

  ‘Terence,’ I said. ‘You must tell me about Cynthia. I can’t make her out. Since she came back from Paris she’s impossible. She’s restless, always brooding. She’s irritable and unhappy. What happened in Paris? What?’

  ‘Why should you think that I can tell you?’

  ‘Because you went with her.’

  ‘How d’you know that?’ He sounded annoyed.

  ‘Thalia saw you on the station.’

  ‘That peeping Tom! I wonder if you’ve any idea of the trouble she’s caused already? D’you know she put a snake in Cynthia’s hat-box knowing that her mother would thrust her hand in to get out a hat?’

  ‘But it was harmless.’

  ‘It may have been. But she knew Cynthia has this weak heart and that she’s terrified of snakes. She is convinced it was a krait.’

  ‘She loves her mother. She adores her. I can’t believe it’s Thalia’s fault that they don’t get on,’ I said, bewildered.

  ‘She’s got a strangely distorted way of showing love,’ he said shortly.

  ‘But what’s the matter with Cynthia now?’ I insisted.

  ‘There’s no now. It was and is always the same with Cynthia.’

  ‘But what?’

  ‘Oh, for God’s sake use your head. If you can’t see, then I can’t tell you. Come on. Wrap up that neck and we’ll dance.

  ‘Have you seen her since you came back from Paris?’

  ‘Rachel, I’m not going to talk about Cynthia to you.’

  ‘Terence,’ I said desperately, ‘you must tell me. I’m going to marry Armand Tréfours and it’s going to cause a lot of trouble with both Thalia and Cynthia.’

  We were dancing, and he stopped dead. The band was a noisy one and it made hearing difficult.

  ‘Good God! Are
you mad?’ was what I thought he was saying, and from his angry, disconcerted face I knew that I was right.

  ‘No. Not mad. Sane—and terribly happy,’ I said in his ear.

  When the rhythm was somewhat less noisily thumped out and we were a little further away from the band, he said, his hands pressing my shoulders and his body closer to mine than I cared for: ‘D’you mean to tell me you’re seriously in love with that blond runner?’

  I was so angry that I trod heavily on his toe. The music stopped and he pulled me to our table. He drank some wine, then said abruptly: ‘You can’t be serious?’

  ‘I am very serious.’

  He looked intently at me and said: ‘My God! I believe you are. It’s preposterous! You’re totally unsuited for each other. You’re in love with his legs. With his Adonis looks . . . his blond curls. You know nothing about him. Nothing.’

  ‘Terence,’ I pleaded. ‘Don’t. Oh, don’t. I love him. I love him. Terribly . . . terribly.’

  He smoked in silence. ‘It’s your first affair? You needn’t deny it. I know. Damn it all I’ve kissed you—and I knew.’

  ‘Cold porridge,’ I said laughing, but there was no hilarity in it. I felt like crying. No one understood that I loved Armand. That I was quite sick with love for him.

  ‘Well,’ he said at last. ‘I promised that if you wanted a friend I’d be here. But Armand Tréfours! It’s impossible. They’ll never accept you.’

  ‘They have,’ I said curtly.

  ‘Are you sure? I doubt it.’

  ‘And now tell me about Cynthia. You must.’

  ‘No,’ he said curtly. ‘But don’t run away with the idea that she’s not tried to find a solution to Thalia. She has. She realizes her responsibility there.’

  So that was all he was going to tell me. But surely there was more—much more that he knew.

  ‘Was she never in love with Tom?’ I persisted.

  ‘I’ve told you I am not going to discuss Cynthia with you.’ His voice was icy. I dared not ask any more.

  Some friends came up to our table and began talking of the burning topic in the French newspapers—King Edward VIII and Mrs. Simpson. Terence was cool, reluctant to discuss his monarch. I was thrilled and asked several questions when they had gone. Was it true that he was going to marry her?