"Ten new bedrooms to be built during the winter shut-down, and what about this?” The excitement in his mother's voice was catching. “No more trotting down the corridor in the middle of the night for our guests. As of next spring, they'll all have their own individual, private bathroom!"
"And now the world's opening up to foreign travel, son, what do you think about including couscous on the menu?” Marcel said.
Would that be meat, or some exotic vegetable, he wondered?
"Every room'll have its own mini shampoo and soap."
"Osso buco, perhaps?"
"Hair dryers in the bathrooms."
"Definitely paella—are you all right, son?"
"Yeah."
But there was no fooling his mother. “Oh, Georges.” She laid down her fountain pen. “You're not still upset about Madame Morreau, are you?"
Marcel had brought him up that it was wrong to tell a lie, but for some reason he felt ashamed of saying yes out loud. Madame Morreau had been different from the other guests, somehow. Special. For a start, she was one of the few who weren't wary of this big, shambling young man, who was constantly wandering round the hotel with a distant expression on his face and a toolbox in his hand. And she didn't talk down to him, either. In fact, quite often she had to rebuke that weasel-faced nephew of hers for poking fun at him.
Georges is a wee bit slow, Jean-Paul. You need to make allowances.
Jean-Paul. That was Weasel's name. Jean-Paul. And it was a funny thing, but until Madame Morreau said that, Georges had never thought of himself as slow. And yet, now he came to think of it, he had always been in the tail of any school race. How she knew all that was a mystery to him, but even so, Georges always made a point of quickening his pace when he saw her coming. Especially once Jean-Paul began to mouth Slowpoke at him behind her back.
"A bit,” Georges admitted.
"Don't be, love.” His mother squeezed his hand. “The old dear had a long and happy life, and you should be pleased she died peacefully, snuggled in her pillows.” She turned to Marcel and pulled a face. “Even if it was in our hotel."
"The undertakers were very discreet, I thought."
"Only because you slipped them lorry loads of francs, but it's the chambermaids I'm proudest of. None of them so much as screamed."
"They wouldn't bloody dare,” Marcel muttered under his breath, but Irene wasn't listening.
"The guests had no idea that anything was amiss, and even Madame Morreau's nephew carried himself well, I thought. Considering."
When Georges closed his eyes, he could see Jean-Paul in conversation with the doctor that the hotel had been obliged to call. Saw him showing him the pills Madame Morreau took for her bad heart. Heard him telling how she'd had two seizures this year already.
"Nice boy,” Irene added, with a sigh. “Always so conscientious when he stayed here with his aunt."
"No, he wasn't."
If anyone was an expert on the subject of being chivvied up, it was Georges. But never on account of being lazy.
It's very good of you to do this for me, Georges.
I like doing it, Madame Morreau. Honest.
Unlike some, who wouldn't be seen dead supporting an old lady's arm while she took a walk along the lake.
I don't know where Jean-Paul's got to, I really don't.
Georges did. As soon as she said she wouldn't mind a stroll, Weasel had been off. Greyhounds on a track don't run that fast.
It's so nice to be able to take a walk, while I'm still able. He remembered the sad little smile she'd shot him, as she patted his arm. I'll be in a wheelchair next year, Georges.
That'll be good, though, won't it? I'll be able to push you round the lake. In fact, I'll run.
Will you?Will you, Georges? Her laugh suddenly became happy and girlish, and for a moment he saw how she must have looked sixty years ago. You've no idea how exciting it'd be for an old woman to feel the wind in her hair again.
You bet, he'd promised, and he meant it.
"Jean-Paul thought fetching things and looking after her beneath him,” he told Marcel and Irene.
It wasn't because he sneered at him, or called him names behind her back, that Georges despised the nephew. More the way he scowled at having to trek upstairs to fetch her cardigan because her legs weren't up to it, or screwed up his face when she forgot things. Georges scuffed his foot. He knew all about forgetting things, and saw how much it embarrassed Madame Morreau, being dependent on someone else to put it right. Especially someone who resented doing it....
"I don't think he was even sorry that she died."
Georges had never encountered sudden death before, so he couldn't be certain. But that look on Weasel's face when the doctor signed that piece of paper—
"I wish I could put a name to that expression,” he said, but his parents were back poring over their plans, discussing colour charts and debating whether the floor tiles in the bathrooms would be better white or cream. To them, the incident was closed. But for Georges, the misgivings wouldn't go away, and though the winter gales came lashing in from the Atlantic, bending the pines around the lake and causing them to hiss like angry snakes, his mind remained on aniseed and ruffled hair. On cardigans that smelled of lavender, and happy, girlish giggles.
People imagined Madame Morreau was as well-heeled as the other guests, but Georges knew otherwise. Her suits were quality, but seconds, he'd seen the crossed-out labels. Also, her petticoats had worn thin, her stockings were darned, and her shoes, although good quality and polished to a shine, were almost through to holes. And even he, who didn't understand figures very much, knew that red ink on a bank statement was bad news. Which is why he thanked her so politely for the candy every year, and refused a tip for carrying her bags. She'd had to really scrimp and save for her fortnight at Les Pins, and go without a lot of things to pay for her nephew to come with her. He knew all this, because he'd read it in her diary.
And her diary said nothing about heart attacks and seizures—
"Oh, Georgie. You've let the paste go hard."
Paste? Then he remembered why he was up this blooming ladder. Sticking fresh wallpaper on No. 21. “It's not right, Mum."
"Not now it isn't, love. It's set like concrete in this wretched bucket."
"I don't mean the glue. Madame Morreau."
But by the time he'd trundled down the ladder, both his mother and the tub of paste were gone, and he'd painted the whole of the first-floor corridor and was halfway through emulsioning the ceiling in Reception before it dawned on him.
"You said pillows,” he said, laying down his brush.
"No, I didn't, love. I said windows. Can you wash the windows when you're done? Only Suzette's gone and got herself pregnant, and God only knows who the father is. But the point is, I don't want her up a stepladder, not in her condition."
"You said she died snuggled into her pillows,” Georges said, except she couldn't have. Madame Morreau never used a pillow, stacking all four neatly in a pile beside the bed, and that's where she used to rest her diary when she'd finished writing up her day. On the pile of pillows, with her specs. “She liked to sleep flat,” he added. For her neck.
"Suzette?” Irene looked confused. “Anyway, the thing is, the hotel inspector's coming down to view the new extension, and I would really like to have the whole place looking its best for when he comes. Sparkling from roof down to the cellar!"
Georges tried to imagine the roof sparkling, but couldn't. “Madame Morreau had a good heart."
"Indeed she did, love. She was kind and patient, just like you, and I know you were fond of her, Georgie, but you have to accept that her poor old heart was simply worn out with age."
Was it? All night he couldn't sleep for worrying, because who could he tell? Who'd listen to the ramblings of a daydreaming handyman who couldn't spell and couldn't add up, either?
Who would believe a man who crept in people's rooms at night?
* * * *
"Hey, Carro
t Top!"
The season was in full swing again.
"Fetch me a cold beer, will you? I'm absolutely gasping."
Georges paused from emptying the hedge clippings on the compost. That voice—He peered round the corner and could hardly believe his eyes. Madame Morreau's nephew!
"Yes, you. Gingernut.” Jean-Paul was addressing a girl, whose bare feet were half buried in the sand. “You wouldn't allow a man to die of thirst, would you?"
"She's not staff,” Georges said. “She's—” For the first time he took a good, hard look at her. “She's—"
"Recently moved in across the lake.” Her little snub nose wrinkled in apology. “Sorry. Am I trespassing? Only I was curious to see what our village looked like from this side."
"No. I mean, yes, but—"
He could see how Jean-Paul mistook her for a waitress. Black skirt, white blouse. Red hair tied back from her face.
"What he means is, can't you read?” Weasel pointed to the big, bold sign that proclaimed PrivateProperty. “It specifically says ‘No Carrot Tops Allowed.’”
"Don't call her that.” Georges felt something stir inside. “It's mean."
"True.” The nephew winked, then turned and walked off whistling. “I'll stick with Gingernut instead."
Over in the car park, Georges saw Madame Morreau's ancient Peugeot straddling two bays. The mirror shine had gone, the number plate was black with flies, and rust had begun to creep along the sills. A pair of fluffy dice, one pink, one blue, dangled above the grimy walnut console.
"Thanks for sticking up for me,” the girl said, scuffing her toe deeper into the sand. “But I'm used to being ribbed about my hair."
The teasing still hurt, though. He could tell by the way her skin had turned bright pink, right down to her neck. “Is that why you tie it back? To hide it?"
"Wouldn't you?” The greenest eyes he'd ever seen misted over. “I tried dyeing it, but that made it ten times worse.” This time the nose wrinkled in disgust. “It's horrible hair. I hate it."
"You shouldn't.” For some reason, he had an urge to reach out and feel how its curls would spring about between his fingers. “It's beautiful."
"It's bright red!"
"Like maple leaves in autumn,” Georges said, nodding. “The colour of a robin's breast and squirrels’ fur and sunsets on the lake, and you know what else? Your face. It reminds me of a wren's egg."
"Because of the mass of brown freckles on a very white background?"
"Because it's small and smooth and fragile,” he corrected.
Across the lake? He glanced at the dots that were the village in the distance. She did. She definitely said, across the lake.
"Is it true you know where every swan and heron has its nest?"
Her name was Sandrine and she worked in the boat-hire office that her father had just opened and which, according to her, was doing exceptionally well. Despite her leaving customers lined up outside because she forgot to open up, or else stranded on the open water, having not filled up their gas tanks.
"Are there otters in the lake?” she asked, peering through her binoculars.
"No, but there's a family in the river that feeds into it.” Her legs were long and slim, and covered in the same pretty freckles that covered her face and arms. “I built a hide to watch them."
He could have talked for hours, and the odd thing was, he had the feeling Sandrine would have listened, too. But round the door of Reception, he could see a finger being crooked, beckoning him. An arrogant, bony finger, with a weaselly sneer on the end of it.
"Going to carry my cases for me, Slowpoke?"
Through the office, Georges could see Irene had had to take an urgent phone call, and remembered that although he'd serviced the lift earlier this morning, this was yet another occasion when he'd gone off to cut the hedge without reconnecting the blasted electricity.
"Number Forty-five,” Jean-Paul said, grinning. “Top floor."
In many ways, Georges had inherited his mother's temperament. In many ways, he had not. He chewed his lip. Almost smelled the aniseed.
"Certainly, sir.” A phrase he'd never used before, but one which he'd heard Irene trot out a thousand times each season. “This way, please."
He glanced at the Out of Order sign. Would that have made things worse, or better? Four flights of stairs made for a long, slow climb, but at least they went up separately. In the lift, they'd have been locked in, face-to-face.
"Here we are, sir. Your aunt's old room."
"Nice view.” Jean-Paul let his breath out in an admiring whistle as he stepped out onto the balcony. “Better than that crummy cupboard she used to put me in. I mean, who wants to overlook a bloody car park?"
Georges wanted to tell him that the single rooms weren't crummy, and they weren't much smaller, either. It was because they had ordinary windows, rather than French doors, that they appeared darker.
"The view will be better once the new swimming pool's installed."
"I can't swim, so who cares, and in any case,” Jean-Paul sniffed, “wild horses wouldn't bring me back to this dump."
Georges had the same urge he'd had when he was eight years old and Jacques Dubois kicked down the matchstick train that Georges had spent all winter building. He wanted to punch him on the nose.
"This is the best room in the house,” he said instead.
Madame Morreau used to stay here with her husband before he died, he'd read that in her diary, too. The reason why she scrimped and saved to come back again each year. To relive the happy memories they'd shared.
"Two weeks of R and R in the best room in the house, all paid for in advance? Not bad, eh?” Weasel threw himself down on the bed. “Not quite the Cote d'Azur I'd had in mind, of course. But since the old girl coughed without a penny, it's better than bloody nothing, I suppose."
No money, poor health, and a nephew who couldn't give a damn.
"Y'know, Slowpoke, I'm betting the beds in this place could tell a tale or two.” He chuckled as he bounced up and down on the mattress.
Georges swore his heart stood still. “That one could."
The bouncing stopped. “Oh?” Jean-Paul's eyes narrowed as he advanced across the room. “And just what might you mean by that?"
Never tell a lie if you can help it, son. Marcel's voice echoed in his head. It'll only come back to trip you up.
"Honeymooners,” he said. “The last guests were honeymooners."
Weasel's shoulders went slack again, but for a second Georges saw the same expression cross his face as when the doctor signed the death certificate. At last, he could put a name to it. Relief.
"Will there be anything else?” he asked in the same neutral tone he'd heard the chambermaids use.
"Just that beer—and Slowpoke?” Jean-Paul dipped his hand in his pocket. “A tip for carrying my cases."
His generosity took Georges by surprise. “Thank you,” he said warmly.
"Look both ways before you cross the road."
Weasel seemed to think this was the funniest joke he'd ever heard, while Georges was so ashamed that he'd actually held his hand out to this man that he forgot to switch the lift back on, and once again Marcel had to abandon his canard a l'orange and dash the Brandons to the station, while Irene couldn't understand what a cold beer should be doing on her desk, but was so glad to see it that she downed it in one go.
"He killed her,” Georges told Parmesan, feeding him the carrots that Marcel had earmarked for his julienne vegetables in garlic. “Jean-Paul murdered Madame Morreau, and it isn't right."
It wasn't right that she should die, simply so he could get his hands on her money. It wasn't right that he should run around in her beloved Peugeot, letting it go rusty and not even washing it, or that he should profit from a holiday she'd had to make huge sacrifices for.
"Then to come back to the hotel where he killed her, throwing his weight around, bouncing on the bed where she died, and making tasteless jokes. It's not right, Parmesan. It's n
ot right at all."
And so another night passed in which Georges didn't get a wink of sleep, but this time it was different. Lying on his back, with his hands folded behind his head, he watched the Milky Way swirling across a cloudless sky with only one thought in his head.
She knows what wrens’ eggs look like....
* * * *
The following week Georges took Sandrine to watch the otters from the seclusion of his hide, showed her all the secret places where rare warblers could be found, pointed out the heronry and the favourite perches of the kingfishers, and introduced her to Parmesan at her request.
"I used to slip him aniseed balls."
Sandrine dug around in her handbag and eventually came out with half a roll of extra-strong mints. “Do you think he'd like these?"
Like was a moot point. With the aniseed, he used to kick and swish his tail. The effect of the extra-strong mints made him snicker, buck, and, considering his age and size, practically gallop round the field, his nostrils snorting out peppermint strong enough to fell an oak. But since he kept coming back for more, they made a point of packing them with the carrots, oats, and apples every time they paid a visit.
"I think he's addicted,” she giggled.
"Guess that makes us pushers,” Georges quipped back, because her laugh was as magical as rainbows, hoarfrost, and snow-melt waterfalls, and he was as hooked on its sound as this old plough horse on mints. Sometimes he feared he would drown in those freckles.
And in return for otters, squirrel drays, and badger setts, Sandrine introduced Georges to the Bee Gees, Star Wars, and the thrills of racing powerboats, courtesy of her father's hire business.
"Night fever, night fever,” they'd sing together, Sandrine clicking her fingers, while Georges sped the sleek blue-and-white “Hire Me for 30F an Hour” advertisement past the new resorts that were springing up around the lake.
EQMM, March-April 2009 Page 3