by Kathy Shuker
‘No, I know. But you don’t have to find it amusing either.’
Angela walked out, abandoning her breakfast. In the hall, she stood for a moment, thinking, uncertain what to do or say. Perhaps she should do nothing; perhaps any intervention on her part would only make things worse. Peter was being manipulated, she was sure of it, but confronting him might make him take sides. She felt out of her depth, scared even. Then her phone rang and the sight of the name of the caller on the screen made her smile. She quickly answered it.
‘You got my message then,’ she said, walking through to the sitting room. ‘Yes, we’re home. Patricia’s not well.’ The caller’s voice buzzed in her ear. ‘No, it’s nothing serious but she’s not up to doing anything.’ She listened then smiled again. ‘That sounds good. Wait a minute.’ She closed the door onto the hallway. ‘No, I’d love to.’ She laughed at the reply. ‘No, just tell me what time and where.’
*
Tom is growing but is still very small. Everyone is worried about him. Denise thinks he’s not normal and he’s going to be backward. I asked papa what that meant exactly but he didn’t explain. Aunt Celia said the nurse didn’t know what she was talking about but she often says things like that. I put a snail in Denise’s bed yesterday. She told papa. He was very cross and said I was too old to be playing silly games. She said if I do it again she’ll leave. Sami found me crying in the garden and gave me some sweets – a kind I hadn’t seen before. I didn’t like them much but it was nice of him. He’s a strange man. He never speaks but I’ve noticed him watching. I know he adored maman. Maybe he misses her too.
Terri sighed. Josie was a consistently unhappy but naughty child. She moved on to the next month.
Tom was taken to an expert in children’s illnesses yesterday. The doctor said Tom had been damaged at birth. I overheard papa talking to Aunt Celia about it. Tom won’t ever be normal. This morning I saw papa standing in the nursery, looking down into the cot. I thought he looked miserable so I went in and tried to hold his hand but he told me to leave. He’s more interested in the baby than he is in me. I told him that the baby should have died, like maman. I said it wasn’t fair that she died and Tom lived. He was furious and shook me, said I must never say that again. He was frightening and I’ve got bruises on my arms. I hid in my room for ages afterwards.
Terri closed the diary and laid it on her bedside table. She was used to Josephine’s handwriting now which, with the passing months, was already starting to mature, and the dictionary had often helped with the translations. But it was harrowing to read. Josephine showed a warm personality sprinkled with generous doses of impulsiveness, sullenness and outright rebellion. There had been a catalogue of minor attention-seeking pranks as well as the brooding – and more disturbing - resentment of Tom. Peter’s famous temper had shown itself several times in the pages; he’d been an occasionally kind but more often insensitive or absent father.
Terri thought of him at the ‘film night’ which he had been so keen on organising. He’d been amusing and he’d been generous; they’d all had a good time. Then she thought of him when she had first arrived at Le Chant: cantankerous and sarcastic. It was hard to reconcile all the different sides of him. But what would it have been like for him, bereft after losing his wife, trying to bring up his little girl by himself? Her train of thought sidestepped. What had it been like for her father?
Too often the diaries made her think of her own childhood – sometimes Josephine’s loneliness and confusion mirrored her own too closely - and Terri frequently questioned what she was doing. Why read it? Why live it all again? But she couldn’t stop reading the diaries now; she had to follow the story through.
Chapter 14
So the film night had gone well; Luc was a little amazed at just how well. He hoped it had marked a turning point in his relationship with Terri and that she was beginning to trust him. Four days later, when the village celebrated its Saint’s Day with its biggest festival of the year, he asked her if she’d like to go with him. Despite his optimism, he was a little surprised when she readily agreed. Apparently she’d seen posters for it pinned to every tree and notice board for weeks, and even the usually taciturn Corinne had been enthusing about it.
It fell on a Wednesday, starting mid-afternoon, and Luc managed to persuade Peter to let them leave early. Setting off on the woodland path through to the village, Luc felt a nervous excitement develop in the pit of his stomach. It almost made him laugh: he hadn’t felt like this in years. He was reminded of afternoons skipped from school when he was a kid, sneaked trips to the cinema or football matches, or just to mess about; he’d had his pocket money withdrawn for an entire month once when his father had found out.
Terri flicked him a brief, bright glance, eyes shining. Maybe she thought it was a stolen moment too.
It was just after four when they emerged into Ste. Marguerite des Pins. The streets were already jammed with locals and tourists, all browsing the market stalls squeezed down the old medieval streets.
They idled the stalls, jostled by the crowd, pausing here and there before pushing their way on again. Every kind of local craft and produce was on show: lavender goods, pottery, hats, jewellery, linens, pictures and santons; olives, biscuits, pastries, bread, olive oil and wine. The hot air was heavy with perfume and the smell of food; it vibrated with noise and chatter. Somewhere a jazz band was playing and the music bounced and resonated down the narrow streets. Luc watched Terri with amusement and some frustration as she stopped at nearly every stall, treating herself to perfumed soaps and pot pourri, a beaded necklace and a silk scarf. It was a fête, she protested when he complained, and she wasn’t spending his money. They could split up if he preferred. He didn’t.
They ate ice-cream and drank home-pressed fruit juice, and ended up at the bottom of the village sitting on wooden benches in the gritty boulodrome watching a traditional pétanque competition. Later they pressed with everyone else to see the Saint’s Day parade passing by: a woman, dressed in sackcloth with a large wooden cross hanging round her neck, led a huge purple dragon by a yellow ribbon. Behind her, brightly costumed children marched to the beat of a pipe and drum band.
‘What’s it all about?’ Terri asked him.
‘That’s St. Margaret. She was thrown in a dungeon by a Roman governor for refusing to renounce her Christian faith. Then she was tortured but still refused to recant.’
‘So what’s the significance of the dragon?’
‘I think it represents the devil and she overcame it with the sign of the cross - something like that anyway. She was still put to death though.’ He nodded, his eyes flicking across the scene. ‘I must paint this sometime. It’d make a great image.’
When the procession had gone past, they eased their way back up to the square and dined early at a restaurant opposite the church. A stage had been built to one side of the square ready for music and dancing later in the evening and from their table on the terrace they watched the band setting up.
‘I should’ve gone to the exhibition,’ said Terri, glancing around the heaving terrace as the waitress walked away with their order. ‘I forgot.’
Luc frowned. ‘What exhibition?’
‘The Art Society exhibition.’
‘Why on earth would you want to see that? Don’t you get enough of that every day?’
‘I helped Celia choose which paintings she’d submit. She’ll probably expect me to know all about it.’
‘Non? Vraiment? How did that happen?’
‘She asked me.’
‘Why?
‘Because I have impeccable taste?’
He smiled pityingly. ‘She probably doesn’t even remember you came to see her.’
‘Of course she will. She’s not as batty as she makes out.’
Luc looked at her curiously. ‘What makes you say that?’
‘Oh, I don’t know...something about her,’ Terri said vaguely.
Over the meal they discussed places they’d visited and where else t
hey’d like to travel. Making conversation with her felt easy at last, comfortable, even one on one, like this. He talked about America and a cousin who lived there whom he’d not yet managed to visit, and of his brother, Jean-Pierre, who lived in Canada. His brother was coming over to Paris the following week and Luc had arranged a few days off to go and see him. Terri kept asking him questions about Jean-Pierre: Were they similar? Did he miss not having him closer? Did they get on when they were growing up? He sensed her avid fascination with the idea of a sibling, what it would be like to have one.
‘No, we’re not remotely the same,’ he told her. ‘He’s an economist, not arty at all. We get on but I couldn’t say we’re close exactly.’ He shrugged. ‘But he’s my brother. He’s...’ Luc struggled to articulate it. ‘...he’s always been there. He’s a couple of years older than me and he’s just part of me too, in a way, part of my life.’ He grinned. ‘After all, we’ve shared so many arguments.’
Terri didn’t smile. She was looking at him blankly, chewing her lip.
‘And does your father get on with him?’ she asked.
‘With Jean-Pierre? Oh yes,’ he said lightly. ‘No problem there.’
She nodded, saying nothing, giving no clue to what she was thinking. They finished eating and Luc ordered coffee; Terri asked for tea.
‘Tell me,’ he said, stirring a sugar lump into his espresso. ‘Why did you never talk about your father?’
‘What was there to say?’
‘I don’t know...People usually talk more about their family. You seem very interested in mine.’
She was silent for a long moment. She appeared to be working up to an answer, and he waited. If he pushed too hard, he was sure she’d withdraw.
‘I didn’t see a lot of him, not latterly anyway.’ She took a mouthful of black tea. ‘My father had a new lady in his life.’
‘And you didn’t like her?’
‘It wasn’t that exactly. I didn’t know her well enough to say. It just felt...awkward.’
‘What was he like, your father?’
‘You met him,’ she said defensively.
‘Only briefly.’
She sighed. ‘He was patient. About some things anyway. I suppose you have to be to be a conservator. He would take days just to mend a tiny section of canvas. And he liked to read...biographies and travel books and art books.’ She shrugged. ‘He was very...self-contained.’
He gave an amused, indulgent smile. ‘That’s where you get it from then.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘You’re very independent.’
‘Why do men always say that like it’s an insult?’
‘I didn’t mean it as an insult. It’s just a fact. You are.’ The smile faded and he nodded reflectively. ‘I think it’s a good thing. I’d much rather a girl was her own person. Why would I want to be with someone who always liked what I liked or did what I wanted to do?’
‘Well I think you’re unusual.’
‘I’m guessing Oliver didn’t like it?’
She shook her head. ‘But he wasn’t the first. Some men seem to feel threatened if you have a mind of your own.’
‘More fool them,’ said Luc. ‘Are you happy to finish this?’ He held up the bottle of wine. She hesitated, then nodded. ‘I think you said once,’ he remarked, dividing the wine between them, ‘that your mother fell ill and died when you were very young. Do you remember much about her?’
‘Not really.’ Terri finished her tea and sat, fingering the glass of wine. ‘She wasn’t ill, you know. I just say that because...I dunno: it’s easier. The truth is...she killed herself.’ She paused. ‘She left home when I was six, but she killed herself two years later. I found out by mistake. I overheard dad and grandma talking.’
‘Mon dieu, that must have been tough.’
‘Yes, it was.’ Still she wouldn’t meet his eye. ‘My father couldn’t cope with being left with a daughter he barely understood. Yes, it was difficult.’
‘But you said your grandmother helped out?’
‘Well, she called it helping. She came to live with us eventually. It wasn’t great but I guess we’d have struggled without her. Dad had no idea about the house. He lived for his work.’ She glanced up at him. ‘Anyway you know all about difficult families.’
‘Yes, but nothing like that.’ Luc took a mouthful of wine, put the glass down and casually rubbed a stain off its base. ‘So has Celia been telling any more stories lately? I’m surprised you think she’s sensible.’
‘Not sensible exactly. Just not as foolish as she seems.’
‘She stills seems cuckoo to me. Are you starting to think her comments about your eyes have some significance, that maybe one of your parents was related to Madeleine after all?’
‘No.’
‘What about your mother: do you know much about her?’
‘Some...enough.’ Terri’s tone had definitely hardened. ‘Why?’
‘Just a thought. Peter is a changed man since you came to work here.’
‘You think?’
‘Definitely. That’s what made me wonder. But it’s a good change.’ Luc lifted his wine glass towards her. ‘I salute you. He can be almost human on a good day.’
Terri grinned, raising her glass too. ‘It’s my charm.’ She promptly changed the subject.
The band struck up at a volume which precluded conversation, and a few minutes later they watched the first people brave the square and start to dance. More quickly followed and soon it was a heaving mass of jigging bodies. Though not yet fully dark, multi-coloured lights had come on, glowing dimly, strung between the trees and posts around the square. They left the restaurant and stood among the people watching at the side. There was a buzz of happiness in the air and Luc noticed Terri, smiling, tapping a foot along in time to the music. A moment later, he grabbed her hand and pulled her onto the dance floor and they too danced and bobbed with the throbbing crowd.
It was dark by the time they left the party and walked back through the whispering woods, both of them silent, lost in their own thoughts. Terri was hugging her arms against her chest, her cardigan slung loosely round her shoulders. An awkwardness had now settled on them as if the intimacy and laughter of the day had been an aberration, a mistake perhaps. Luc flicked a torch side to side in front of them as they padded across the dusty ground, hearing the odd rustle from the tree canopy above or from the obscure blackness of the undergrowth. Terri looked preoccupied. He noticed her flick glances into the darkness occasionally and wondered - as he often did - what she was thinking about. Oliver maybe. Maybe not. He still couldn’t read her.
When they reached the clearing he offered to walk her back to the house but she refused.
‘Then you should take the torch.’ He held it out.
‘I’ll be fine.’
‘Of course you will, but you might need the torch.’
She stretched her hand out for it, brushing his fingers as she took it and he noticed her start a little as if a charge of electricity had passed between them. He’d felt it too and he leaned forward, put a hand behind her head and pressed his mouth to hers greedily, his tongue exploring insistently inside her mouth. Immediately he could feel her respond, putting her arms round him, pressing her body close against his. His lips strayed down to her neck and she tipped her head back, moaning softly.
‘Stay,’ he murmured, stroking her hair back from her face. ‘Please stay.’
But suddenly she was pushing him away, almost fighting him off and he let her go, looking at her in surprise.
‘What’s the matter?’
‘No,’ she said. ‘No, I can’t.’ She took a step backwards, breathing heavily. She actually looked frightened and he was shocked. ‘I didn’t intend this. Can we go slow, Luc...please.? I’m not ready for more yet. Or maybe not at all.’
‘Sure.’ He released a slow, almost inaudible sigh and forced a smile. ‘Sure, I can do slow. Comme un escargot.’
She stared at him a moment, th
en slipped quickly away across the clearing.
*
Balancing three mugs on the tray, Terri left the kitchen and crossed the studio. She automatically glanced towards Luc’s work station as she passed. It was still empty. Luc’s ‘few days’ in Paris had turned out to be a whole week. Long into the night, after the fête, she had lain awake in bed, going over the events of the day, trying to analyse what was going on between them. She had no idea. Part of her regretted not staying the night, much of her was relieved that she’d had the sense to leave. That last violent encounter with Oliver, when he had tried to drunkenly make love to her, when his anger at her refusal had turned so quickly to brutality, felt as if it would always haunt her. But now, after a dreary weekend, and well into a new week, she thought the place felt absurdly empty without Luc. She was aware that their friendship had jolted a step forward but what significance that had and where it might lead she was reluctant to examine.
She silently placed a mug of coffee down on Peter’s work table and he surprised her by looking round.
‘Ah, Terri,’ he said. ‘Thank you. Nicole says the merchandising samples have arrived.’
‘Yes, they have. They’re in my office. Are you going to take a look?’
‘Yes, I’ll drop by in a few minutes.’
She moved on, dropped off a caffeine-free drink by Nicole’s computer – Nicole progressed through a seemingly endless chain of special healthy diets - and took her own coffee into her office, closing the door behind her. Sitting at her desk again, feeling lethargic in limb and mind, she read a note she’d made to remind herself that the security man was returning that morning. The alarm had gone off a couple of times for no apparent reason and he had promised to sort it out. She hoped he would; Peter had been vociferously furious at having his concentration disturbed.
Her thoughts settled on Peter. Her feelings towards him had become more and more ambivalent. Over the weekend she had reached the end of Josephine’s first diary and started on the second; they were still painful to read. When she was twelve years old, Peter had sent his daughter away to boarding school in England. A couple of weeks before she left, she had written: