by Ruth Brandon
‘Was that why your father-in-law went to prison?’ Olivier asked.
‘No, that was something else, that happened afterwards. Girardot, the butcher, was going on in the bar about what a great man Pétain was, and in the end Papa couldn’t stand it any more and yelled out, “Pétain n’est qu’un pète et je chie sur lui,” and stamped out. And Girardot reported it to the Kommandantur, and he was arrested.’
It crossed my mind that if you were going to imprison every pubgoer who called the Prime Minister a shit or a fart, the jails would be pretty crowded. ‘He was put in prison just for that?’
‘Eight months. He was lucky. It might have been worse. He came back. He was even awarded a silver medal, after the war, for services to the commune. Girardot was so angry he could barely speak.’
I picked up the photograph of Didier with the older man. ‘Who was this?’
‘That’s one I don’t understand,’ Mamie said. ‘It’s Monsieur de Beaupré – Etienne de Beaupré. You remember him, Francis? He always used to dress like that. But what Didier was doing with him I don’t know.’
‘Something to do with the war,’ I said. ‘If it was in that envelope.’
‘I suppose so. But I can’t imagine what. They were Pétainists, Catholics. Collaborators, all of them.’
Francis said, ‘Mamie, if that’s it we’d better get going. I’ve got work to do. I’ll see you there,’ he said to Olivier.
She shuffled the papers back into the envelope and held it out to me. ‘Take it, if it’ll help you. No, go on, I’d like to think it wasn’t just lying there. And remember,’ she added as we shook hands, holding mine in hers, the palm leathery from a lifetime of milking and haymaking, ‘you can’t trust the Beauprés. Just because she tells you something doesn’t mean it’s true.’
Clutching the envelope, I followed Olivier out to the car. He backed us out of the driveway and we started on the road to La Jaubertie. Glancing at me sideways, he said, ‘I don’t know how useful all this will be. I hope it won’t be a wasted trip.’
I was wondering the same thing – it was hard to see quite what Olivier’s grandma’s wartime memories might have to do with either Rigaut or the Caravaggio. ‘Don’t worry, it’s fascinating,’ I told him. ‘But I hope your uncle’s right about everyone being out at La Jaubertie.’
‘You seem to be putting a lot of effort into this exhibition.’
‘It’s important to me.’
He glanced across at me. ‘I didn’t imagine it was for the money.’
‘Unfortunately not.’
‘Something personal, then?’
‘Sheer ambition,’ I stonewalled.
He nodded: that was something he could understand. ‘Ambition gets you everywhere.’
I said, ‘At least you don’t sound like my ex-boyfriend. He was always complaining I was over-motivated.’
‘So you gave him the boot?’
‘Something like that.’
‘And what does the new one say?’ he inquired.
‘There isn’t a new one. Yet.’
At La Jaubertie, Francis was getting out of his van. He had parked beside a white builder’s lorry – the only vehicle there, apart from our own – and was peering up at the vast main roof. ‘Look at the state it’s in,’ he said. ‘But the old woman won’t spend the money. When I told her what it would cost, if we were going to scaffold it and do it properly, she just said no, too expensive. The money’s there, of course – she just doesn’t want to spend it. It’s that son of hers, if you ask me. He wants all she’s got for his precious career. He doesn’t care about this place. His wife’s got a place of her own down in the Lot, and that’s where they spend all their time. There and Paris.’ He spoke with proprietorial disgust. This was his place as much as anyone’s. Juliette might own it, but without Francis, and all the many Francises before him – he told us that his father and grandfather and great-grandfather, and doubtless an infinity of grandfathers before that, had all worked on this house – it would long since have fallen into ruin.
The roof did indeed look supremely unconvincing. Its tiles, slipped, broken and moss-covered, rippled across it unevenly, as though laid upon a particularly choppy lake. But I could see Juliette’s point. Whatever its state, it wasn’t going to be her worry for very much longer. Let someone else spend the money.
‘Do you know what she thought we should do?’ Francis was saying. ‘Attach ropes to the top beam and hang off them while we changed the tiles. I told her, that beam’s so rotten I wouldn’t hang a mouse off it. And that’s just one of the things that’s got to be renewed.’
‘So what are you doing?’ Olivier asked.
‘Can you believe it, poking the worst tiles out from the inside, then slotting new ones in,’ Francis said. ‘Michel pushes them out and Jeannot goes round with the barrow picking them up. Here he comes,’ he added, as a man appeared round the corner of the house, pushing a barrow piled with broken tiles.
Jeannot gave an almost toothless smile and began decanting his burden into the back of the truck. On cue, at the far end of the house a small shower of tiles crashed to the ground. When I asked whether he wasn’t afraid of getting hurt, he just grinned and explained that he knew where Michel was working. If a tile did hit him on the head, it seemed unlikely much damage would be done.
‘I told her, it’s a waste of money,’ Francis grumbled. ‘But she insisted . . . Anyhow, come up and see.’
He led the way into the house, and up the stone stairs I remembered from my previous visit. It was true, no one seemed to be around – not even the dog Amos. Perhaps he was shut away because of the builders. We climbed a second, wooden stair, to the floor above. The rooms at this level were smaller and darker, filled with dusty old furniture, and streaked with damp. Here and there, the plaster had fallen from the ceiling. ‘You can see how bad the roof is,’ Francis said. ‘She just sacrifices this floor. Look, I’ll show you.’
We followed him along a corridor to one of the small corner towers. It housed a narrow spiral staircase, just wide enough for one person, and lit by arrow-slits. We climbed it, and finally emerged through a stone arch into the roof-space: a vault of enormous beams soaring perhaps eight metres above us like a great upturned boat, with steep, slightly curved ribs and lateral braces. The space was dimly lit by small oeil-de-boeuf windows at the base and slanting rays from an all too visible lacework of sky; dust danced in the sunbeams and rose in clouds with every step. In one corner, up a tall ladder, a fat middle-aged man, his head covered with an old denim flowerpot hat, was poking between the laths. ‘Salut, Michel,’ Francis said. ‘How’s it going?’
‘OK, I suppose,’ said Michel, not turning his head. ‘It’s hard to know which ones to leave. They’re all rotten.’
‘Better leave a few,’ Francis said. ‘Are you replacing them as you go along?’
‘As far as I can. It’s hopeless, really.’
We lingered a few minutes, then returned down the spiral stair. ‘There, I bet you’ve never seen anything like that,’ said Francis with proprietorial pride.
‘Extraordinary,’ I agreed
‘Now I’ll show you the cellars. They’re really something.’
The cellar entrance was through a low door in the other small tower. Aladder-like stair, lit by a single hanging bulb, led down from a roughly concreted landing to emerge in a cavernous space, dimly lit by high, small openings dug down from ground level. The air here smelt of damp and sawdust, and the floor underfoot was soft. As my eyes grew accustomed to the darkness, I made out an under-ground chamber perhaps five metres high, from which an almost semicircular arch led into another similar space. The ground was covered with sawdust, and a great pile of logs was stacked against one wall.
Francis flicked a switch, and three twenty-watt bulbs dimly revealed the cellars’ full extent. They seemed to be dug into the hill, with uneven walls and rough floors; in places, another storey had been inserted; against one wall, green with damp, some blackened cut
stone spoke of an old fireplace. ‘This was the original house,’ Francis said. ‘See those arches? They’re eleventh, twelfth century.’
We picked our way across the ancient chambers. At one point a small stream flowed across the floor: the reason, Francis said, that the house had been built here in the first place. Dusty barrels and stone troughs loomed from the darkness; a wooden stair led up to a platform that must once have been a room. At the far end the floor sloped upwards, merging into a heap of stones: some ancient rubbish heap, awaiting its archaeologist.
We turned back, and emerged into the daylight to find that we were no longer alone in the house. A car had parked next to Olivier’s Peugeot – the red BMW I’d spied from behind the trees my first afternoon in St Front. Three people were getting out of it: a smart woman in her forties wearing shades and an enviably well-cut red dress, Juliette, and Jean-Jacques Rigaut.
My immediate instinct was to rush back down into the cellars and stay there until the coast was clear, but of course that was impossible. Not only would Olivier and Francis think I was mad, but it would make me seem like some sort of criminal – which was exactly how I felt, sneaking secretly round Juliette’s house in her absence. In any case, it was too late: they’d seen us. Francis, who of course knew everyone, greeted them with a jovial ‘Bonjour, messieurs-dames,’ and explained that he’d been showing us the roof; Olivier, who also seemed to know them, was shaking hands. Then they turned to me, and Juliette, sounding understandably astonished, said, ‘Mais c’est Madame Lee!’
Rigaut, who had been standing to one side looking extremely bored, swung round and stared at me.
I held out my hand to Juliette and explained that I’d returned to Meyrignac because a complication had arisen and it seemed easiest to speak in person rather than on the phone. Would it be possible to come and see her again?
‘But of course!’ she cried, with unexpected warmth. She would like nothing more – she didn’t get so many visitors these days, especially ones who wanted to talk about the old days. Rigaut looked thunderous. I wondered if this effusive greeting was some sort of message to us both. Something to do with his letter, perhaps. Or maybe just another round in their mysterious contest.
Juliette turned to the smart woman and introduced us: Madame Lee from the National Gallery in London, my daughter-in-law Madame Nathalie Rigaut. The one with the place in the Lot. We shook hands and smiled at each other politely. Secure behind her shades, she was unread-able. She muttered something polite and vanished.
‘My son, Jean-Jacques,’ Juliette said.
I held out my hand. He looked at it, and after a perceptible pause, during which he continued to stare at me, briefly shook it. Close to he didn’t really resemble Manu, except in build. His face was broader – more like Juliette’s – with dark, intelligent eyes that never really met yours, but seemed rather to be constantly watchful, on the look-out for incoming emergencies. His complexion was weatherbeaten, as though he spent his spare time sailing. Perhaps he did – he was dressed sub-nautically, in a navy and white striped T-shirt and white chinos. His hand, though, felt soft – more used to desks than ropes.
‘So you’re the one who wants to borrow the picture.’ It was a statement, not a question.
I nodded. ‘That’s right.’
‘Unfortunately the answer is no.’
‘So I understand.’
His gaze wandered from my head, doubtless sprinkled with cobwebs from our recent explorations, to the shabby espadrilles on my feet. I stared doggedly back. If he hoped to browbeat me that way, he was in for a disappointment. My days at the auction house had inured me to the little tricks chaps use when they want to make themselves felt. ‘Et alors?’ he said, after a while.
‘I’m afraid I don’t quite understand,’ I returned sweetly, though of course nothing could have been plainer. I’d had my dismissal – why was I here? He was an important man, he didn’t like having to issue orders more than once.
‘I’m sure you do,’ he said.
I shook my head. ‘I’ve come to see your mother. There were some things I wanted to ask her. Voilà tout.’
‘It won’t get you anywhere, madame. As long as you understand that.’
‘It certainly will, monsieur. It will get me another after-noon of conversation with Madame your mother.’ And then we’d see.
He shot Juliette an irritated glance, but she was fiddling with her hearing aid, apparently oblivious to our exchange. When she’d settled it she said, ‘Are you free tomorrow? Then why not come in the morning. Ten o’clock? A demain, alors. Au revoir, messieurs-dames.’
By now it was almost midday. The Rigauts disappeared into the house; Michel and Jeannot drove off in their lorry; Francis took his leave, got into his car and followed them, bound for home and lunch. Olivier and I stood beside the Peugeot, discussing our next move. Did I want to come home to lunch with him? Unwilling to intrude more than necessary into his family holiday, I told him I’d walk back to Les Pruniers – I thought I could remember the way from last time, and I needed to collect myself.
I wandered away from the château in the direction of the trees. As I was crossing the strip of gravel that surrounded the house, I heard a crash. I swung round to see the debris of a tile scattered a few centimetres behind me – doubtless one loosened earlier by Michel. If I’d been walking just a little more slowly, it would have hit me. There was some red tape stretched along the back of the house – I’d noticed it vaguely before, but now realized it must have been put there to warn people away while work was in progress. It didn’t stretch to where I was standing, but no doubt if any-thing had happened the Rigauts would be able to claim they’d done their best, that I’d walked where I shouldn’t have. Not that Rigaut would have been tremendously upset. Judging by his parting glance, he would have been not unhappy to see me brained.
I mopped the sweat away and shakily resumed my walk. Rigaut could give me all the black looks he liked: it would take more than that to stop me now.
10
AWalk in the Woods: St Front, August
For all my bravado, I felt distinctly disturbed as I made my way towards the path. I’d met a number of famous and successful men in my time, but none with such a powerful and intimidating presence as Jean-Jacques Rigaut. I’d stood up to him, but the effort had been almost physical. Of course there had been no actual physical threat. But I’d definitely been glad of the company. He wasn’t a man I’d care to meet alone.
People have different strategies for calming themselves. One of mine is walking. The rhythmic action, the slowly evolving scene, the real yet not excessive sense of physical effort leading to an equally real and welcome fatigue – these things don’t exactly induce tranquillity, but they certainly minimize agitation. And so it was now. By the time I was through the pinewoods and climbing up the opposite ridge, the scented afternoon, the chirrup of the cicadas, and the soft call of wood pigeons were beginning to do their stuff. Above my head swallows wheeled and soared; as I strode along the path, flutters of brown and white fritillaries rose before my feet. Had it not been for a helicopter hovering somewhere overhead, this might have been an unpeopled world.
Five minutes later, the helicopter was still there.
At first I hadn’t really noticed it. Aircraft are part of life; unless you’re on some busy flight path, they just merge into the background. Of course helicopters are more intrusive. But generally they’re passing annoyances – after three minutes they’re off and bothering someone else. This one, though, was different. If it hadn’t been a nonsense, I could have sworn it was following me.
The path at this point was particularly exposed, over a bare chalk hillside. On one side a field of sunflowers awaited harvest, their enormous brown seedheads rattling ominously in the breeze; on the other a slope thick with gorse and juniper was bounded by woods that, a hundred metres ahead, curved to envelop the path. Above my head, the helicopter continued its infernal din. It was flying very low. Squinting upwards, I tr
ied to make out the letters painted on its side, but the sun kept getting into my eyes. All I could see was that it was painted blue. And then I was in the woods, with their fragrant shade and their concealing canopy of leaves, and it couldn’t see me, and I couldn’t see it. The path now was wooded all the way down to the next valley bottom, where there was a clear-ing with a stream, and a field with cows bordered on one side by a small road. Across that, on the other side of a gentle hill and through another small wood, sat Les Pruniers. I hoped the pilot would forget his stupid game and go away to do some proper work.
But although I could no longer see the helicopter, I could still hear it – and the noise of its engines did not recede. On the contrary, it still seemed to be following me. Of course, if that were really its plan – a ludicrous idea, but one that after a certain time couldn’t help imposing itself – nothing would be easier. The woods here, however extensive, weren’t exactly pathless jungle. On the contrary, they were criss-crossed with tracks, all well marked, and all recorded on maps. Whoever was in the ‘copter would know exactly which path I was likely to take, where it led and where it emerged. If I didn’t show up where and when it expected, then the large-scale map I’d used when I first came this way showed all the alternatives. I’d have to come out sometime, and when I did, any hovering aircraft would easily spot me.
But that was ridiculous: pure paranoia. Why would some person in a helicopter have the slightest interest in an unknown Englishwoman in the middle of the French countryside?
Other than the alien noise of the helicopter, the silence around me was almost tangible, my footfalls deadened by decades of leaf mould. But of course silence is rarely absolute, and in my nervous state every small noise became a potential source of terror. The snap of a falling chestnut made me jump out of my skin; the intermittent tattoo of a woodpecker transmuted into a coded message. Behind the trees, always just out of sight – a shadow receding into darkness behind that copse of oaks, the crack of a twig in the ditch to my left – I could almost believe that watchers marked my progress.