by Anne Doughty
Each time she went up for a weekend to Liskeyborough to see William and her grandparents, she’d cycle over to see Charlie. He’d talk history and politics, show her the books he was reading, the notes he’d made, the figures he was putting together. He’d fry them bacon and egg for their tea, a better cook than Granda Scott had ever been. Always when they sat after their meal he would say. ‘Ach, sure I miss him something desperate. Even all the years I couldn’t leave Kate to go and see him, sure I knew he was there. I could hear him every morning, unless the wind was up, or in the opposite direction.’
She missed Charlie, as much as she missed Granda Scott and the forge, but at least she could write and tell him about her first. He’d be every bit as pleased as that morning when they’d celebrated with tea and Margaret’s cake.
‘I hope you like your champagne, Clare.’
‘Yes, yes, I do,’ she said quickly, ‘I’m just fascinated by the bubbles. But it tastes wonderful as well.’
‘Good, then you must drink some more to put us in the mood for Marie-Claude’s specialité de maison.’
He exchanged glances with Marie-Claude as she put her empty glass down and went to see that all was ready in the dining room.
‘Marie-Claude has told me what an unhappy time you’ve had, Clare,’ he said, sitting down beside her. ‘I hope you’ll let us both help you. Tell me what sort of job you want and I’ll see what I can find. I know a lot of people.’
‘Oh, that is kind of you,’ was all she could manage to say without risking her eyes misting over again.
She sipped her champagne to steady herself and talked about the possibilities of interpreting and translating. Gerard listened intently and took in all she was saying. What Clare did not know was why Gerard had such a particular wish to help her.
Since little Michelle had followed her brother to a boarding school, Marie-Claude had been suffering bouts of depression. Nothing he could do had had the slightest effect. She’d refused to see a doctor, grown silent and withdrawn, didn’t even want to make love to him, though she never said as much. He’d gone away depressed and downcast himself, only to return and find Marie-Claude transformed. She looked as if she had been away on a long, relaxing holiday. He had no doubt at all in his mind what had brought about the transformation.
The meal was excellent, long and leisurely, their talk full of shared memories of the times they’d spent together. Gerard recalled Clare’s first encounter with Philippe, when he was going through a difficult phase after being bullied at school. How she’d invented extraordinary games of skill which kept him absorbed for hours and gave him great satisfaction. What a relief it had brought to everyone, particularly Michelle, who’d found her brother very hard to cope with when his tantrums disrupted her quiet world, full of books and dreams and strange absorbing fantasies.
They spoke of some of the happiest times at Deauville. The early morning walks when the racehorses were being exercised, the boat trips, the expeditions along the coast, the games on the beach, the magnificent sunsets over the sea. They’d made friends with other families, some of whom still sent Christmas cards and little notes telling Marie-Claude of their children’s progress and enquiring for ‘the little Irish girl who told stories’.
By the time Gerard rose to make their coffee, the light was fading fast, deep shadows lengthening in the gardens below. On this edge of the city, a stillness spread like a gentle tide as evening turned towards night.
Gerard put the tray down, looked round the shadowy space by the window where they always dined when they were not entertaining and began pouring coffee.
‘My goodness, Mosey Jackson would be pleased. Look how quickly the light is going and it’s not nearly The Quatorze yet.’
‘Oh Gerard, you’ve got it wrong,’ Marie-Claude laughed. ‘It’s not The Quatorze, it’s The Twelfth. Isn’t it, Clare?’
Clare shook her head in disbelief.
‘I can’t believe you’ve remembered Mosey Jackson. When did I tell you about him? I don’t remember.’
‘It was our first year in Deauville and a lovely dusk like tonight,’ said Marie-Claude quickly. ‘You said that every year, as soon as Midsummer was passed, Mosey would meet your grandfather and say cheerfully that once The Twelfth was over the nights would soon be dropping down. Winter would be just round the corner.’
Clare smiled wryly and nodded.
‘And your poor grandfather got very depressed by this, year after year,’ broke in Gerard, ‘until he suddenly realised that what Mosey was thinking of was all the oil he was going to sell for the lamps once the dark evenings came.’
Clare laughed, amused that he should remember her words so exactly.
‘And he sold candles too,’ Marie-Claude added.
She nodded to Gerard, who bent forward and lit the small floating candles she’d placed in the centre of the table in a bowl of water sprinkled with rose petals.
‘The children still talk about him,’ she went on, as the tiny lights flickered and grew stronger, lighting up their faces with a soft glow. ‘Do you remember, Gerard, Michelle made him a character in the last play she wrote for the Nativity at her school here.’
‘She did?’ asked Clare in bewilderment.
‘Oh yes. In Michelle’s Nativity it was Mosey Jackson who provided light for the stable.’
Gerard’s efforts on Clare’s behalf bore fruit very quickly. Less than a week later, she found herself walking up the steps of a major French bank and into a marble banking hall, whose chandeliers and pillars reminded her more of the Palace of Versailles than of the Botanic Avenue branch of the Ulster Bank where she’d had her account.
‘I have an appointment with Madame Japolsky at ten o’clock,’ she said to the elegant young woman at the reception desk.
‘Mademoiselle Clare ’Amilton, n’est-ce-pas?’
Clare noticed the young woman sweep her dark eyes casually across her new costume. The glance was so brief and yet Clare was certain she missed no detail of its cut, nor the match of the gloves, bag and scarf on which Marie-Claude had lavished so much time.
Clare followed her up an impressive staircase, along a heavily carpeted landing with enormous palm trees in oriental pots, and into a waiting room with an antique desk, a selection of fragile-looking gilt chairs and a wide view over the Place de l’Opéra.
‘I shall tell Madame that you have arrived,’ said the young woman, speaking English for the first time.
Clare perched on the edge of one of the chairs, then remembered what Marie-Claude had told her about sitting properly. To be at all times aware of her body position, ensuring that her head, neck and bottom were all in the same straight line. She thought of well brought-up young ladies practising with their back boards and smiled to herself. But she had to admit that Marie-Claude had a point. Sitting properly wasn’t an effort when you got used to it, and breathing properly certainly helped you to stay calm.
Time passed. Clare got up and walked round the room. Looked down at the traffic moving in the Place de l’Opéra. Studied the engravings of seventeenth-century Paris and the cartoons of Napoleon Bonaparte. Wondered if she’d been forgotten. She had been warned that Madame Japolsky, a native of Paris, but married to a Polish émigré, was the sort of formidable woman who might well keep you waiting, simply to test your patience. Well, if patience was required, then patience she would practise. She sat down again, crossed her ankles neatly, admired her soft leather shoes and wondered if she looked remotely like a genuine Frenchwoman.
‘Mademoiselle, je suis desolée …’
She looked up, amused to find the most extraordinarily handsome young man addressing her with abject apologies. He was not tall, but what he lacked in height he made up for in manner. His dark eyes were liquid with charm, his gestures controlled and flowing. Madame was indisposed, it was very regrettable, but his own superior, Monsieur Robert Lafarge, hearing of the situation, had offered to see her himself. If she would do him the honour of accompanying him.
‘Mademoiselle ’Amilton!’
The handsome young man threw open double doors, ushered her through and retreated backwards like a courtier in an Elizabethan tragedy.
For a moment, Clare thought the enormous room was empty. Then she saw there was a figure seated behind the vast rosewood desk set across the tall windows at the far end of the room. He was a very small man and he had been studying some papers with the aid of a glass. Only when the doors clicked quietly behind her and he straightened up did she see a shiny, bald head and a rather heavy face set off by a stiff white collar above a very dark suit.
He rose to greet her as she walked slowly across the thick carpet and took his outstretched hand.
‘Mademoiselle ’Amilton, please sit down. I must apologise for the delay. I had not been told Madame had to return home with a migraine. The delay is unforgivable.’
‘Not at all, monsieur,’ she said easily. ‘I had plenty to occupy me. I enjoyed the engravings of Paris and the cartoons of Napoleon. And there is a very good view of the Place de l’Opéra itself. It was an interesting room,’ she said reassuringly, for he seemed genuinely distressed.
As he sat down again she glanced around her, amazed to find the long walls of the room hung with paintings of horses. Hunting scenes, battle scenes, country scenes, horses in every possible pose and position. Just to the right of the desk was a splendid study of a chestnut mare. It looked just like Conker.
‘You like horses. Do you ride?’ he said abruptly, as if it were a matter of great importance.
‘Yes, I can ride, but my knowledge of horses comes more from observation. I lived with my grandfather, who was a blacksmith. Horses were his joy as well as his livelihood. And I also had a friend with a gift for drawing. She taught me to observe how painters tackle the difficulties, like a horse rearing up.’
To her surprise he came round to the front of his desk, leaned against it, and followed her gaze.
‘As in this picture?’
‘Yes. That one is very accurate. The painter must have spent a long time looking at the way this particular animal moves. Like Degas, when he watched the ballet dancers. He saw them as dancers, rather than as women. He watched how the muscles flex, the effect that has upon the skin …’
She stopped, aware she was getting enthusiastic. There was a sudden flicker of his eyes she could not place, but his next words made no reference at all to her comments.
‘So you lived in the countryside, mam’selle?’
‘In the countryside, yes. A small place, not even a village, near Armagh, in the North of Ireland.’
‘Such places are often very backward,’ he began thoughtfully. ‘Even those who are well educated can sometimes retain their conservative views. I think perhaps your country is not very forward looking,’ he said tactfully.
She smiled, thinking he was better informed and much sharper than he chose to appear. She could guess how Ronnie would reply.
‘I have a friend who once taught me a French expression he thought described our country very accurately. He used to say, “Whatever the weather, they always pee behind the same tree.”’
The effect on the little bald man was extraordinary. He beamed and shook his head, said he knew the expression well, asked if her friend had been in Brittany.
She nodded, said a little about Andrew’s time in France, told him how upset his grandmother had been when his accent did not please her Parisian-tuned ears. As she spoke, she thought how totally extraordinary it was that she should be sitting here, in Paris, talking to some very senior official of a national bank about Andrew and The Missus. Since she’d made her vow not to think about him, she’d broken her rule time after time. Now she’d even referred to a piece of their private language, described him as a ‘friend’ to a complete stranger.
‘Tell me, Mam’selle ’Amilton, what do you know about money?’
For the first time since she’d come into the room, she was suddenly aware that this was supposed to be an interview for a job. She’d been so interested in the questions this little man had put to her, she’d not considered at all what her answers might be revealing or whether they were appropriate.
‘I know how to live on very little money,’ she began tentatively. ‘I know that money is power. That it is opportunity.’
She looked at him directly and saw he was watching her closely, listening carefully, as he had listened to all she’d said. She decided that he was rather a shy man, but a very shrewd one. There was no point whatever in being anything other than herself with him. She smiled suddenly and said what she’d been thinking all the time.
‘And I know, of course, that money is the root of all evil.’
He laughed. A small uneasy laugh, as if it was something he didn’t do very often. Then he composed himself again.
‘But, mam’selle, if you have to work in the world of money, how will you understand the language of bankers and of banking?’
‘New words and new ideas aren’t a problem if you have the structure of a language,’ she began. ‘It would be no different for me to learn the language of banking than to learn the language of any other activity. For example, when I worked in a picture gallery that also sold antiques, I learnt about faience, and ormolu, and repoussé work. They were all new to me, but there was a context which made it easy for me to understand.’ She glanced up at the chestnut mare and thought of Ginny. ‘Like when a friend taught me to ride. If I didn’t understand what she was telling me to do, I only had to ask her to explain.’
‘Eh bien,’ he said suddenly, as if he had made up his mind.
He went back behind his desk, pulled out a heavy drawer and took out a newspaper, which he handed to her. It was the previous day’s copy of The Times.
‘I am quite certain your French will prove entirely adequate for the tasks we will ask of you, but I regret that I speak very little English. Would you be so kind as to read to me from this newspaper.’
Clare took the newspaper, refolded it to avoid the columns of deaths, and scanned the inside pages. Suddenly, a thought struck her and she smiled.
‘Mam’selle?’ he said, leaning forward to look at her.
‘I’m sorry,’ she said, grinning broadly. ‘I was thinking of my professor. He used to say to me: “Clare, you must read. Read every day. Always read Le Monde. If ever you want a situation in France, it will stand to you. Read Le Monde!”’
She laughed easily. ‘When I write to Professor Lavalle I shall tell him he misled me. He is such a nice man, it will amuse him.’
‘Lavalle? I know that name. Henri? Yes, that’s it. Henri Lavalle?’
He looked across at her as if the Christian name was a matter of great significance.
She nodded. ‘Yes. He was kind enough to write the recommendation which I think you probably have on your desk.’
He rifled hastily through the papers which lay in front of him, found the letter, looked at the signature and smiled as he set it aside. He turned back to her, a trace of a smile still on his face.
‘I never read letters of recommendation. I prefer to make up my own mind, which I have already done, but it may amuse you to know that I went to school with Henri Lavalle, rather a long time ago in Coutances. He was a nice man even then. In fact, he was such a nice man I wondered if he would ever survive in the world beyond our village. A professor, you say? In Belfast?’
She nodded, amazed by the coincidence. She felt a surge of delight that the man who had been so kind to her, who had taken such trouble to find her a French family when she needed a summer job, had somehow managed to retain his character, despite what other people regarded as his weaknesses.
‘You may tell him when y
ou write that I asked you to read The Times purely for the pleasure of hearing you speak English,’ he said, leaning comfortably back in his leather armchair.
‘Now, proceed, if you please,’ he said politely. ‘In ten minutes’ time, I shall send for my secretary and make you an offer which I hope you will find quite impossible to refuse.’
13
After the cool spaciousness of Robert Lafarge’s room, the heat and brightness of midday came as a surprise to Clare as she made her way down the steps of the bank into the crowded square. All around her men in shirt sleeves and women in light blouses headed for the shade of the umbrellas or the heavy canopies that sheltered pavement cafés and restaurants.
Suddenly ravenous, she was tempted to cross the square and patronise the establishment immediately opposite the bank. But as she tucked her folder of papers more securely under her arm, she changed her mind. The obviously popular meeting place was already crowded. Besides, she knew she was far too excited to sit down.
She turned right and kept going, walking quickly till she felt the tension ease. Half a mile from the bank, she turned left suddenly, in search of the first possible place to eat. She was delighted by her luck. Shaded by its chestnut tree, Le Café Marronier was pleasant and much less crowded. She dropped down exhausted at the nearest empty table.
‘Mam’selle. What can I bring for you?’
‘Coffee, please,’ she said, breathlessly. ‘And a glass of water,’ she added hastily. ‘I’d like something to eat. Do you have a menu?’
‘I am the menu today, mam’selle,’ he replied nonchalantly.
He rattled off a list of salads and filled baguettes that left her head reeling. She could understand him perfectly, but the effort of deciding what to have almost defeated her. When he disappeared and returned immediately with her coffee and a glass of iced water, she knew she’d agreed to a filled baguette, but what the filling was now completely escaped her.