by Anne Doughty
‘Never mind. At least I don’t have to worry if I can afford it,’ she said to herself, as she searched in her handbag for a couple of Anadin. She swallowed them, drank most of the water and leaned back in her chair, remembering what Marie-Claude had said about breathing. The last hour had been so extraordinary, she’d probably been holding her breath for most of it.
Reading to Robert Lafarge had been easy enough, though he’d sat listening with his eyes shut for more like half an hour than the ten minutes he’d proposed. He’d then sent for his secretary and asked her to draft a memo of the offer he was about to make, so that both he and Mam’selle ’Amilton would have the details to be inserted into the printed contract he hoped she would sign tomorrow. He began by offering her a salary that took her totally by surprise.
It sounded extraordinarily large. The problem was she couldn’t think in francs so she’d no real idea what it actually amounted to. Whenever he paused to allow his secretary to catch up with the details he was dictating, she’d made hasty attempts to convert francs into pounds, but each time she got an answer that seemed quite ridiculous.
The second time the figure was mentioned, she’d glanced surreptitiously at his secretary. But she sat scribbling away as if it were nothing out of the ordinary. Could the exchange rate have altered dramatically since she’d been in Paris two years earlier? But she’d have noticed at the Ulster Bank when she’d collected her francs for the journey.
She sipped her coffee gratefully and took out her fountain pen. The paper napkins provided by Le Café Marronier were quite unsuited to the nib of her favourite or any other pen, but slowly she inscribed the figures in the absorbent paper and divided the French francs by what she thought the present exchange rate must be. She stared at the result unbelievingly and checked it once more. There was no getting round it, that was what it came to. For the moment, she really couldn’t believe it. Until Gerard checked it out this evening she would simply try to forget all about it.
She picked up her coffee cup and leaned back in her chair. Beyond the shade of the chestnut, the sun poured down on the cobbles, glancing off the worn façades of houses and shops. A woman in a blue dress strode vigorously along the pavement opposite. Long loaves of bread stuck out of a straw basket she carried in one hand, in the other, a bunch of flowers – white daisies and something blue – wrapped in paper from a flower seller’s stand. She’d tied her mass of dark hair back with a spotted scarf, the soft fabric of her dress billowed as she walked, her bare legs brown, her leather sandals revealing carefully painted toenails. Clare watched her till she was out of sight, absorbed by her easy movement, her freedom to move through the warm air.
Among the exposed roots of the chestnut, the noise of the sparrows reached a sudden crescendo as they bathed in pools of dust, scuffling luxuriously, indifferent to the passage of mere humans. She moved her chair slightly to get a better view of the dusty bodies, cheeping and fluttering in outrage at some disruption among themselves. Quite suddenly, the crisis was resolved. A waiter shook a cloth nearby and they rose like a cloud, flew off at great speed, returning only seconds later to peck devotedly at the crumbs he’d provided.
She crumpled up the napkin that bore her calculations. Whatever her salary turned out to be, it was a salary. Slowly it began to dawn on her. She was in Paris. She had a job. Now she too could walk down a street, buy food, or flowers. She’d have a place of her own somewhere in this city she so loved. For a moment, she felt as if some great insight was about to be revealed to her. But nothing happened.
Her baguette arrived and she bit gratefully into its well-filled length. Whether it was what she’d ordered or not, it tasted wonderful. Slices of ham and Brie, garnished with fresh watercress and sliced tomato were layered generously between crusty morning-baked bread. She munched devotedly. She thought of making midday meals for herself and Robert, champ and stew, and herrings cooked in the oven, in a world where Brie and watercress were unknown, ham was a Christmas treat, tomatoes only affordable in a hot summer if all the locally grown ones ripened at the same time and produced a glut.
The sunlight filtering through the leaves of the chestnut cast dappled patterns on her plate, where only crumbs remained. She looked up into the spreading branches as she gathered them together with a damp finger and finished them off.
Under the spreading chestnut tree the village smithy stands.
Charlie was always keen on reciting Goldsmith. She could hear him now, the measured couplets resounding in his rich Ulster accent. He could quote huge tracts of poetry by heart, pouring out the lines and filling the shadowy room with the same passionate ring as his regular evening greeting, Erin go Brach.
Well, the smithy was gone now. It didn’t even exist as a tumbled heap of stones, its door permanently open to the birds, the wind, the rain and the occasional curious passer-by. The world of her childhood had gone with it, not only because Robert had grown old and died, but because the life Robert had known had disappeared with him. Charlie was right. The days of the blacksmith were over. The car would soon entirely replace the pony and trap. The electric would come to the remotest hamlets and bring with it television and telephones.
‘Sure yer man ought to be in Parliament.’
She smiled to herself. Robert couldn’t stand it when Charlie got launched on the subject of social change and particularly when he rode his great hobby-horse, the backwardness of the Province. He’d listen all right, intrigued by how much Charlie seemed to know about such matters, impressed in spite of himself by the passionate rhetoric of his convictions. But, once Charlie had gone and Robert was taking his boots off, he’d make some dismissive remark. Not unkindly. Rather, it was more a deflection, an invitation for her to agree that Charlie was living in a world of his own, not really of much importance to ordinary folk like themselves.
But by her last years at school, she’d known Charlie was right. Later, she’d found herself grateful that Robert had gone before change had disrupted the world in which he had managed to live, relatively undisturbed, for all of his eighty years.
‘What now, Clare?’ she asked herself quietly, as she finished her coffee.
She had no doubt which world she belonged to. Whatever happiness she’d had in the world of her childhood was safe in the files of memory. The hardship, the effort and the loneliness of that now distant time were not forgotten. But she would not do what so many Irish emigrants had done in the past. Make a new life and never cease to long for what they’d left behind, because they chose to remember only rose-coloured pictures of the life they’d once had.
She thought of Ronnie, his dark eyes upon her, as he sang ‘The Leaving of Liverpool’. He had been sad, disappointed, regretful, when he left, but once he’d gone, he had looked back with clear eyes and taken all that his new life offered him, a new life and new loves.
New loves? Well, no doubt in time there would be new loves. She felt sadness cloud the brightness of the day. Sometimes in the last weeks she simply could not stop herself thinking about Andrew. Often she dreamt about him. Once she dreamed they were making love and all was well between them. She’d woken up and felt desperately bleak and miserable as memory flowed back and told her they had parted. Parted in bitterness.
She’d confessed to Marie-Claude.
‘But, chérie, Andrew was such a big part of your life. You were friends as well as lovers. Five years is such a long time when you are young. You may always love him. Women often go on loving their first love all their lives. But that does not mean they should marry him.’
The more she heard, Marie-Claude declared, the more she was convinced Clare had done the only thing possible for her at that moment.
‘You must trust your judgement, chérie. It’s hard, but you must. Besides it’s only a few weeks since it all happened. Don’t struggle to chase away the memories. Let them come to you. The more you try to put him out of mind, the harder you will make it. When you have other thoughts to occupy you, it will be easier.’
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br /> Well, there were plenty of other thoughts to occupy her now. She touched the folder, which contained copies of the printed contract and of the memo which Monsieur Lafarge’s secretary had typed up for her.
Sometimes in the weeks since she’d arrived in Paris, she’d felt like a little creature that comes out from under a stone and sits in the sun for the first time. She knew she could never live in that tight, airless world she saw every time she stepped over the Richardson threshold, not even for Andrew’s sake. She had to go, and now she had a job, she’d made good her escape. She was free to make a life of her own. She had dear friends to help her and the city she’d loved from the first minute she set foot in the Gare du Nord, three long years ago, an au pair on her way to an unknown family.
No, she would not look back. She would not confuse herself with regrets, with might-have-beens. Fortune had been kind. She would take all it offered with both hands and make of it the best she could.
Clare and Marie-Claude pored over her draft contract all afternoon. There were pages and pages of it. It went into minute detail about hours of work, additional payments for hours worked beyond regular office hours, hours worked during evenings, hours worked at weekends. There was even a clause about hours worked on national holidays.
‘Are you sure, chérie, you won’t mind being available so much of the time. It will make it difficult for you to have a social life.’
Marie-Claude was quite meticulous. She read every word of the huge document. When Clare admitted she couldn’t quite grasp the details of an elaborate scheme of additional holiday, in addition to payments for extra hours beyond a certain level on a weekly, monthly and bi-monthly basis, Marie-Claude read the relevant paragraphs over and over again till she was satisfied.
‘So, chérie, when you travel more than one hundred kilometres from Paris, or when travel to another country is involved, additional days’ holiday will be given in addition to the additional payments,’ she pronounced firmly.
Clare laughed. ‘That sounds like an awful lot of addition. I haven’t got over the basic salary yet, never mind all these extras.’
‘You must not be too excited, chérie, till Gerard has looked at these conditions,’ Marie-Claude said cautiously.
She looked so serious, Clare simply couldn’t manage to be sober and sensible over the contract any longer. She began to giggle and before long Marie-Claude was laughing too.
‘And what’s the news from the financial sector?’ asked Gerard, smiling, as he came into the sitting room and caught sight of the document awaiting his attention. He looked from one pair of bright eyes to the other and threw up his hands in despair.
‘Perhaps, if I were to be given a little aperitif, I might be able to make some small contribution,’ he said, lying back luxuriously in his favourite chair, while Marie-Claude poured him a drink and Clare brought him the contract.
Clare watched, amused by his performance. Gerard was adept at creating an appearance of nonchalance, almost of indifference. He flicked through the sheaf of pages as if he were scanning the morning paper just to make sure it contained nothing of interest. The only thing that betrayed him were his eyes. When they were in contact with printed matter of any kind, there was a focus so intense Clare could imagine it creating a very high-pitched buzz.
‘Well then, Gerard. What do you think?’ Marie-Claude enquired earnestly.
‘I think “Bravo, Clare!”’ he said, raising his glass towards her and grinning at Marie-Claude. ‘They pay well, always have done, that’s how they get the best people, but this is just a little bit special. They do not always insist upon the immediate opening of an account and the provision of funds to do so by means of an advance on salary. I’ve heard of it, but it is not common. It would seem, too, that there is to be a lot of travel. They will expect you to be available, but they do compensate you rather well for the inconvenience. Your lovers will have to be patient, Clare, the bank comes first.’
‘Do you really think there will be much travel, Gerard?’ she asked quickly, unable to conceal the excitement bubbling up inside her.
‘I’m sure there will,’ he said firmly. ‘The inflow of American money has had a very powerful stimulating effect on the banking world. Some observers are saying that the present industrial expansion is the largest France has ever experienced.’
He sipped his drink and threw out a hand.
‘As you well know, the Treaty of Rome was signed last year. It’s been in force since January. Already we begin to see signs that France will become a kind of clearing house for certain European projects. Strangely, even the English are coming to us for finance. And often, when London does business with Rome, it is done via Paris. It is a surprise to us as well,’ he said, shrugging his shoulders. ‘But it is exceedingly good news for those banking houses who can cope with the new situation quickly. Those who have staff able to operate in a European rather than in a French context will be enormously successful.’
‘So you think I should sign on,’ said Clare, lightly.
‘Chérie, I should be concerned for your sanity if you did not,’ he said, so solemnly that both Clare and Marie-Claude burst out laughing.
Clare signed next morning, shook hands with Robert Lafarge, who was looking remarkably pleased with himself, and was immediately claimed by Madame Japolsky, who seemed somewhat put out that the chairman of the bank had managed to make an appointment so promptly in her unfortunate absence.
‘If you will come with me, Miss ’Amilton, my office is on the ground floor, so that I am in close contact with the staff in my charge,’ she said as they left Robert Lafarge’s room.
Immaculately dressed in the height of discreet fashion, Madame had one of those angular bodies which undermine any possibility of elegance. What she lacked in poise and charm, she made up for by enhanced self-esteem. Despite her married status, Madame Japolsky reminded Clare of an elderly spinster who had once taught her in Sunday School. She wore exactly the same look of unshakeable distrust of her fellow men that had marked out Phoebe Hanson. She also gave a similar impression that she was about to pounce on you and demand a repetition of the first nineteen items in the Shorter Catechism.
‘It is a little uncommon, Mam’selle ’Amilton, that such an advance has been made upon your salary. Nevertheless, I shall explain to you what exactly is involved,’ she began, peering at Clare severely over gold-rimmed half-glasses which tended to slip down on her very narrow, pointed nose.
‘The bank insists that all members of staff have their personal accounts here. They must never under any circumstances be allowed to go into debit. That I must stress. However, if there are personal circumstances which would lead to this very serious state of affairs, you must come to me right away. If we consider the circumstances reasonable, we have provision for meeting such difficulties.’
Clare nodded soberly and restrained a smile at the use of the royal ‘we’. She read the document Madame placed in front of her and obediently signed the forms needed for the opening of her account.
‘I will be very direct, Mam’selle ’Amilton. Your costume is very chic, well chosen, but in this position you will need many such costumes. Sometimes you will require evening dress,’ she said severely. ‘That is why this allowance has been made, no doubt. Not all young women have an adequate wardrobe. You will pay for your own costumes, but it is obligatory you use this designer with whom we have an arrangement.’
She handed over a business card. One glance at the name of a world-famous couturier and Clare could hardly wait to show it to Marie-Claude.
‘You can be sure of excellent service. Do you understand?’
Clare nodded soberly, despite the fact that she was having the greatest difficulty in keeping her face straight.
‘If you have a suitable, mature woman who can supervise your fittings it would be very convenient. But if not, I shall see to it myself. I will make an appointment as soon as you take up your post. I suggest three costumes and two evening gowns, unless
you already have several of each.’
Clare reassured her that Madame St Clair, who had assisted with her present costume, would be pleased to help.
‘Eh bien,’ she replied, her lips snapping together to make a tight line.
Clare watched as she made a note on her file. No doubt she would take a great deal of trouble to find out exactly which of the well-known St Clair family she was referring to. The idea delighted her.
Madame clearly had something more to say. Clare adjusted her face muscles to look yet more attentive. It also helped her not to laugh, for the ironies of the situation were mounting all the time. Could she ever have imagined a job that provided a dress designer, subsidised her purchases and then produced an advance on salary with which to proceed?
‘We also provide accommodation for our young staff. A deduction will be made direct from your salary, but you will certainly not find a small apartment in Paris at such a modest rent. There are, of course, certain necessary rules. Some young women find them irksome,’ she said, as if a slightly unpleasant odour had crept into the room. ‘The apartment provided is designed solely for your own use.’
Clare lowered her eyes modestly and saved up the remark for Gerard, who seemed much preoccupied with the question of her lovers and how she was to accommodate them in the busy life he expected her to have.
‘Finally, Mam’selle ’Amilton, I must tell you that Monsieur Lafarge has requested that you take up your position immediately. We have important American visitors coming to Paris at the beginning of next week. One of our most experienced interpreters will be responsible for the visit, but Monsieur Lafarge wishes you to be present to assist him. I have made arrangements for you to see your apartment today. It will be made ready by Saturday afternoon. I am sure you will be available on Monday.’
‘A week on Monday would have been perfect, Marie-Claude. But I suppose one can’t have everything,’ Clare said sadly, as she sat at the kitchen table telling her about her apartment and having to move in at the weekend. ‘I was so looking forward to seeing Michelle and Philippe.’