Colin is nodding.
“No need to help with the washing up,” I tell him thinking this is why he is nodding.
He shakes his head.
“No, I was going to say something about the hawthorn. I was telling Fred the tree is an emblem of hope.”
“We say the opposite,” I tell him.
“Fred has told me.”
Now, Fred is the one who is nodding.
“I told him, Miss. I told him to uproot a hawthorn - even just to cut one single branch from it - brings ill-luck. I told him, Miss, how I heard this hawthorn cry once. It was on a Good Friday, Miss, you may remember. I thought it was a kitten which got itself trapped in the tree and was mewing, but no, there was no kitten in the tree. It was the tree which was crying. Miss, I told your parents about it.”
Yes, I remember. My mother telephoned me to Paris to tell me about it and from that day on whenever I came to Le Presbytère for a weekend, I never passed the tree without putting both my hands flat against the trunk and remaining in that position for a few minutes. Ill-luck was the last thing I needed.
“Hell, Bella!” Jean-Louis always said when he saw me holding the tree. “You are a scientist, for goodness sake!”
“Doctor. Just a doctor,” I used to reply.
“I’ll choose to believe the tree is an emblem of hope. It’s more comforting,” I tell Colin.
He smiles.
“Would you like to know why it’s supposed to be that?”
“Yes, please. Why?”
“Jesus’ crown of thorns was apparently from a hawthorn tree and because his death was not in vain - the Resurrection you know - the tree thus represents hope. And the staff of Joseph of Arithmathea in whose garden and family tomb Jesus was laid to rest - buried - was also from a hawthorn.”
“Whichever it is, Colin, that tree has to be trimmed today,” states Fred.
Ill-luck is still the last thing I need.
-0-
I watch Fred and Colin. I do not stand in front of a window to do so, but do so when I pass in front of a window. They are back wearing the green plastic aprons. Fred too is wearing a baseball cap; on his are the words I hate NY. It must belong to Colin. The matey habit of sharing clothes is not something we do in my family; what we need, we buy, but never will we borrow clothes from relatives or friends. Marion, when she was still Marius’s girlfriend, once tried to persuade me to wear one of her very high-heeled pumps to a farewell party for one of Chartreux Hospital’s surgeons. The look of astonishment on Marius’s face warned her she should not expect me to accept her offer. Now, she knows what the situation is and even should she need a warmer jersey on a weekend here at Le Presbytère, she will not ask if I could help her out, but she will walk around shivering, slapping her arms in an effort to warm herself up.
Fred is sitting in the Japanese seiza position - he always does so effortlessly when gardening - cleaning up flower beds. I watch him cutting back our geraniums, pelargoniums, carnations, daisies and bell flowers which had all summer looked like coloured ribbons which have fallen from the hair of a little girl.
Where is Colin? Ah, he is at the bottom of the garden, close to the gate, and he is pushing a wheelbarrow this way.
I stand a little back from my bedroom window so as not to be seen, and I watch him.
He is picking up faded flower petals, yellowed leaves, twigs and branches which Fred must have thrown down on the ground. The wheelbarrow looks heavy because he keeps on stopping to wipe his brow and to take his cap off to brush his fingers through his hair which is wet with perspiration.
He looks up and I am not quick enough to pull back, and he sees me. He mouths something which looks like the word hello and he again lifts his cap, this time in greeting, but not to miss the opportunity to yet again sweep a hand through his wet hair.
My telephone rings and I can see the two men have heard the ring because both look up at the house.
“Bella,” says Marion, “how are you?”
The niceties having been said, she tells me they also will not be spending the November 1, All Saints’ Day, weekend with me.
“We’re going down to Monte Carlo. One of your brother’s colleagues is getting engaged and throwing a party down there. Sorry, Bella, I do hope you have not been hoping we will be at Le Presbytère that weekend.”
“Not at all, Marion. Give Prince Rainier my love when you see him.”
I tried not to sound sarcastic - or bitter.
Her reply is a snort. She is a keen reader of gossip magazines and the tabloids and she can tell you every shenanigan a celebrity has got up to.
While I was on the phone both Fred and Colin, as I can see, have left the front garden. They must be in the back garden because I can hear the lawnmower’s grating drone which always scares the birds who start flying between the trees, their wings flapping fearfully, just as they do when my neighbour, the Dutch Mr Amster, starts aiming at them with his slingshot.
Looking through the window of one of the bedrooms which look over the back garden, I see Fred is instructing Colin on the technicalities of the lawnmower. I am sure Fred is making this uncomplicated instrument out to be nothing short of a Mirage fighter jet. Colin is listening with interest, but maybe he is just having Fred on. Not knowing Colin - not knowing him at all - I do not know whether he is the type who would mock a simple man: Jean-Louis would have. He would have said to Fred, “Now, this is miraculous! What an invention! Who invented it, by the way? Einstein? Darwin? Van Gogh? Marcel Dassault?” Fred, who had not heard of any of those men, would have picked whichever name he had managed to catch, and Jean-Louis would have slapped him on the back, calling him a good sort.
Colin is now mowing the lawn, and Fred, wearing a safety helmet, mufflers, gloves, all of these padded, and large protective glasses, looking as if he is set to step from a space craft into space, has put a ladder up against the hawthorn tree.
I am not superstitious, I murmur to myself.
I walk under ladders; I break mirrors; I open an umbrella indoors; I spill salt; I have had black cats cross my path; I have put a baguette down upside down, and it has happened that I have left a white tablecloth on a table overnight and no one had died.
Fred, holding our chainsaw with both hands, starts to climb up the ladder. Halfway up he stops and pulls the chainsaw’s starting cord and the engine kicks and spouts into motion. Colin stops mowing the lawn and is watching Fred. Balancing himself by pushing his knees against the ladder, Fred tests the speed of the chainsaw’s blade by making a couple of small incisions in the branch nearest to him; wood splinters fly into the air - and my heart starts to race in fear. Obviously satisfied that the blade’s running at the right speed, Fred begins to carve into the branch, the chainsaw’s engine sounding like that of a helicopter preparing for take off. The branch plunges to the ground and he looks down to see where it has fallen. Soon, several branches lie on the ground, and he cuts the chainsaw’s engine and slowly descends the ladder. At the bottom, having taken off the gloves, he gives Colin the thumbs up sign.
The wood will be stored in Le Presbytère’s wood shed to dry out and ought to be ready for burning when Samy comes back just before Christmas to check if the boiler is still in good working order.
I really am not superstitious. No ill-luck with befall me because Fred has cut branches from my hawthorn tree.
-0-
I wait in the courtyard with more coffee and what has been left over of the amandine, while Fred and Colin get cleaned up. Colin’s doing so in his bathroom; Fred, as he always does, is doing so under the tap in the scullery off the kitchen. After a few minutes Fred steps out into the courtyard.
“Miss Bella, about Paula’s birthday, which, as you know, is in a few days’ time. Colin will be coming to our party. He’s a great guy, Miss, not at all a snob despite he’s so learnt and writes newspapers and books and such stuff.”
“That’s nice, Fred, him coming to your party.”
“Will you come t
oo, Miss? Paula and I talked about it this morning and we thought it would be nice to have you join us. It’s not going to be anything posh. Just the usual, in fact. We’re going to grill a few sausages, open a few bottles of wine, have some beer. A bit of music too. Just as we always do.”
Colin joined us while Fred was talking.
My parents never socialised with the staff, only ever having gone to their homes when there was a death in their family. I have however broken this unwritten rule of theirs, having attended the christenings of their children and their anniversary celebrations, never having wanted to hurt their feelings. Of late, though, I have been declining all invitations politely, yet the invitations have not ceased.
“You wouldn’t miss me, Fred,” I say.
Colin looks from me to Fred.
“Come on, Miss,” says Fred. “Come and join us. My boys will be coming from Le Havre and you’ve not seen them for a while, and believe me, they are big men now. Handsome too, like you would not believe it.”
Trying to think of a noncommittal reply to offer Fred, I look at Colin but he holds both his hands up in the air to indicate his neutrality on the matter.
“I’ve whipped some cream to have with what’s left of the amandine,” I say. “Shall we sit down?”
I point to one of the courtyard’s small mosaic tables where I had set out the coffee things.
Don’t be such a wet, Bella, is what Marius will say about the birthday party, but Marion’s comment will be quite the opposite: Not with the staff, no, Bella, you should not mix with the staff. If I do not know what to say to Fred it is not because I am a snob like Marion, but because I am doubtful about the wisdom of attending the party with Colin. I will have to drive him to Fred’s place and drive him back here again. And what about the dancing at the party? Unlike Jean-Louis’ parties this one will not be for just watching the kids dance, but for dancing the waltz and the foxtrot and the sensual tango to Fred and Paula’s record collection of accordion music. Miss, if you should come across the latest Yvette Horner compilation, please get one for us. I will fix up with you on your return. How many times have I not heard Fred say this before I set off on a trip to Paris?
“Marion may be coming up for a few days, but leave it with me and I will get back to you, Fred,” I lie.
“Mrs Marion can come too.”
“I will tell her.”
Fred shakes his head.
“Come to think of it, Miss, Mrs Marion won’t have a nice time. But you Miss, you will. I’ll see to it that you will.”
I offer Fred an apologetic smile. I touch his arm.
Colin is looking down into his coffee cup.
At the door, I offer Fred my hand.
“Thanks. I’ll give you a ring. About the party.”
As I close the front door, I hear Colin running up the stairs to his bedroom.
-0-
I wake up from a vivid dream in the middle of the night.
In the dream I was back at my Paris apartment. I was standing at the window of the living room, looking out, but holding the lace curtain in front of me because I did not want anyone passing by on the street to see I was back because the apartment no longer belonged to me and I was trespassing. Then, I heard the sound of marching feet. First, the sound was muffled, coming from a distance, but quickly it grew louder, and I waited anxiously for the marchers to appear. Next, a voice shouted out Achtung! and soldiers in their field-grey Wehrmacht uniforms stepped into view. They were marching ten abreast and doing the goosestep - I thought, oh so many of them - and my father, holding a huge Swastika banner, which was blowing in the wind, was marching ahead of them. He swung round, saw me at the window and waved the banner at me as if it were a starting flag at a race, and immediately I started to waltz across my living room floor, all the time thinking I should not make a noise because my neighbours should not know I was back. Just then a key turned in the front door’s lock and Marius walked in and he said to me, “Oh Bella, you are such a wet! Why dance alone when you can dance with Colin Lerwick?”
Awake, my heart pounding, I lie very still: I can still hear music. Have I forgotten to silence the clock? But no: Colin either has a radio on or he is playing a CD. I have pins and needles in my right leg, but I do not want to move my legs in case the bed creaks and will reveal to him that I am awake. That his music, has woken me up.
He is listening to Dvorak’s New World Symphony. Not very loud, but Le Presbytère’s walls are not thick.
My father always said we do not have to make decisions; they will be made for us.
I want to get to know this man who listens to Dvorak in the middle of the night.
I will go to Paula’s birthday party.
-0-
Chapter Twenty-Three
It is the hour of the evening when colour starts to disappear so that sea, sky and land are all a murky brown.
I am driving to Sainte-Marie-sur-Brecque to Paula’s birthday party. Colin sits beside me. Fred was delighted when I told him on the telephone I will be honoured to be part of their party.
“Miss, Amandine’s baked Paula a most beautiful birthday cake, but it’s a secret, she’s not to know.”
He sounded as excited as a child.
Colin, when I told him that, as I will be attending the party, I could give him a lift, showed little interest in my offer, saying he would hate himself if I were to put myself out further on his behalf. He appeared more concerned about what gift he should buy Paula.
“Would it be in order if I take her some chocolate?”
“That’s a wonderful idea,” I replied.
I was going to give her perfume.
Colin is sitting with his arms folded over his chest, his eyes on the road ahead of us. He looks uncomfortable, even a little apprehensive. Could it be because he does not trust my driving skill or is it because of the party, having to be with people who would be speaking French all evening? I cannot tell.
We reach the village. It is dark, the world no longer brown, but black. After my years living in Paris, it took me a little time to get accustomed to how black a night is up here in Normandy - in the countryside this is; a Paris night is never really dark and unless one’s curtains are thick, it is necessary to close the shutters for real blackness.
Fred and Paula’s house is on the northern edge of the village, on Rue Carolles, a short street of white-washed cottages with grey-slated roofs standing in the middle of immaculately-mowed lawns so green one doubts their authenticity. It is here on this street where the village’s bourgeoisie live, and if ever I doubt my generosity as far as the wages of Le Presbytère’s staff is concerned, I take comfort in the fact if my gardener can live here, I am paying him well. Shooting a glance at Colin I can see astonishment on his face, and he looks down at the box of chocolates he has bought for Paula at a confectionery in Avranches as if he is doubting its suitability.
“Are you sure we’ve come to the right house, Bella?”
He fingers the box on his lap as if he is contemplating leaving it in the car.
“Yes, this is Fred’s house, and Paula will love those.”
I point to the box.
Fred is at the front door.
“Miss!”
“Good evening, Fred.”
“Monsieur,” he greets Colin, the comradeship of the day of the gardening gone, but only for a moment, because suddenly, with a bellow of a laugh, he throws his arms around Colin.
“Mate,” murmurs Colin, obviously embarrassed at the enthusiastic welcome. Maybe also fearing Fred’s going to grab him round the shoulders and plant a kiss on each of his cheeks.
Paula is out in the back garden as her voice, always high-pitched and with amazing potency, reveals. Fred calls her and she runs into the house and her greeting of a kiss on each of my cheeks is respectfully subdued.
“Happy birthday, Paula. May you have many more with your family around you.”
I always add this bit about having the family around when I wish some
one a happy birthday. Or rather, I have been doing so since my mother’s death: her dying, in a way, having robbed me of a family, because Marius, married and a father, has his own family.
I push my gift of perfume into Paula’s hands, calloused from years of working in the village’s drycleaners.
Fred introduces her to Colin.
“How do you do, Mr Colin,” she says.
She offers him a limp hand to shake: her handshake always in total contrast to her voice.
Clumsily, he hands her the box of chocolates.
“Oh my! Thank you! But a gift is not necessary.”
Yet, again, she offers him a limp hand to shake.
Fred and Paula’s house is surprisingly small for its appearance of luxury, the purpose of each room clearly defined by furniture and decoration. In the dining room prints of fruit and vegetable still lifes hang on the walls and on a sideboard - covered in a white crocheted cloth - stand a bowl of plastic fruit and two red glass vases in which pink plastic roses are arranged, the taller of these at the back, green plastic sprigs between them. The pictures on the living room walls are Impressionist reproductions painted in oil on canvas and which look very real. Monet’s Irises hangs on one wall and, as if in competition, Van Gogh’s hangs on the facing wall. A white Chinese paper ball lamp hangs from the ceiling in the middle of the room, throwing a circle of light over the shimmering, plum-coloured, polyester rug on the floor. I know the house’s three bedrooms are all pink and yellow and fluffy, and the kitchen is a copy of that of Le Presbytère - Fred’s handiwork - but on a much smaller and less expensive scale.
Fred and Paula lead the way to the back garden. Coals are smouldering in a stone and brick barbeque, also a copy of the one at Le Presbytère, and which I know is also Fred’s handiwork, him having nearly set himself alight when he lit the fire for the first time.
All the members of my staff are out in the garden. All greet me with a wave of the hand. Gertrude does so by engulfing me in her muscled arms as if I am drowning and she has to pull me out of the water, and she plants not just one kiss on each of my cheeks, but two.
Bella...A French Life Page 15