Beyond the Green Hills

by Anne Doughty

  In odd moments of the day when her mind was free to wander, walking to the Metro, having lunch in some little place near the bank, shopping for her supper on the way home, she thought about Christian. Not the Christian she had come to see so clearly in his own habitat, but the lively presence that had swept her up with such enthusiasm after the sad disappointment of her first visit home. There was a contradiction there. An enigma she could not resolve.

  ‘Nothing to do but grin and bear it, Clare,’ she said to herself on the Friday evening, carrying her supper tray to the low table, as the setting sun cast long fingers of light deep into the room. ‘It happens all the time. People fall in love. They see someone they hope is there. Time proves them wrong and they fall out of love again.’

  She sat for a long time in the fading light watching the couples who strolled past. There were always lovers walking by on the quays, hand in hand, arm in arm, stopping to kiss from time to time, just as she and Christian had done in so many parts of the city.

  ‘Would it have been different if he’d been a Parisian?’

  She thought of all the times they’d been together, free to wander through the city, from that very first evening when they walked the cobbled streets from Place Pigalle and climbed the broad, white steps to Sacré-Coeur. For three months, they’d made Paris their city, possessing it, as lovers do, enjoying its colour and life, drinking coffee in cafés in unexpected places, stopping to look at a street artist at work, strolling by the river, tramping the galleries of the Louvre, or enjoying the broad avenues of the Bois de Boulogne. If Christian had been a Parisian they would still be together, somewhere in the city, watching the light fade in the Tuileries Gardens or heading for a favourite restaurant on the Left Bank.

  She laughed at herself. Christian could hardly be a Moreau, of Huguenot descent, heir to one of the largest accumulations of vineyards in France, and be a Parisian. His background and upbringing had certainly contributed to the sort of person he was. Change any of the factors and he would have been different. And if he had been, they would never have met in the first place.

  ‘Nothing for it, Clare. As the song says: “Pick yourself up, dust yourself down and start all over again.”’

  She took her tray to the kitchen, set the filter machine going and stared out at the fading summer flowers. A figure moved in the apartment on the other side of the courtyard. She waved and smiled. Paul was doing his washing up. Dear Paul. Could she ever have imagined such a strange young man becoming such a good friend?

  She made a note on her kitchen reminder pad: ‘Take brooch to work tomorrow.’

  It was Paul who had solved that problem. She had asked him about insurance but he’d suggested a deposit box. He said it didn’t matter how little you had to put in one, given that staff could have one without charge, she might as well. He would arrange it for her.

  Her coffee machine made spluttering noises, gurgled and stopped. She filled up her cup and went back into the living room. ‘Mosey Jackson would be pleased,’ she said aloud, as the golden fingers on the carpet died away.

  Suddenly, the evenings were noticeably shorter. September was moving on and the first yellowed leaves, exhausted by warmth and a drying wind, were drifting along the edge of the quay, spilling over into the brown water and floating off to accumulate under the nearest bridge, bright patches on dark water.

  Beside her chair she’d collected up a pile of books for learning Italian and a small tape-recorder. She turned towards them.

  ‘Come on now, Clare. Let’s see how far you can get before Louise comes to help you.’

  Robert sent for her as soon as he arrived back from Italy, as she knew he would. She told him the bare facts of what had happened between her and Christian.

  ‘So you won’t be losing me after all, Robert.’

  To her surprise he said very little, though he listened carefully and looked most thoughtful. A few days later, she found a note from him when she got back to the apartment. Notes from Robert always meant the same thing. She smiled as she opened it.

  He had the most endearing way of using exactly the same formula whenever he asked her to dine: ‘if she had no more interesting engagement and if she were not already committed to Louise or the St Clairs.’ On this occasion, however, he named the eighth of October, and continued: ‘if she had not already made arrangements for celebrating her forthcoming birthday.’

  ‘Good gracious, I’d almost forgotten,’ she exclaimed.

  She would be twenty-three on October the eighth, the day on which her parents had married twenty-four years earlier. ‘Our anniversary present,’ she said quietly, remembering her mother’s words.

  Robert must have looked up the date in his files. On the other hand, he might have consigned the date to his prodigious memory the day he offered her the job. She never ceased to be amazed at just how much information he had at his fingertips, whether it was when they worked together or when they dined.

  When they talked about more personal matters he could remember every detail she’d ever shared with him, referring as easily to her grandfather or Charlie Running, Jessie or the gallery, as he did to the St Clairs.

  She took the cap off her fountain pen. Of course she would dine with him. She would look forward to it especially.

  A small handful of birthday cards arrived at the apartment in the days immediately before Clare’s birthday, some with notes, some with letters. The most welcome one was from Jessie, a really lovely card of late summer flowers. Clare smiled when she saw that Jessie had started to write a short message inside the card, but went on to fill up the whole back of it, despite the awkwardness of writing on its shiny surface. It wasn’t the first time she’d written, but it was the first time she’d said anything about herself. It had a warmth about it so sadly missing when she’d been with her back in the spring.

  Wee Fiona is great, though she’s into everything now she’s walking. No. 2 is on the way, due early next May (we think). I hope I’m going to be able to manage the two of them. I maybe shouldn’t have had another so soon, but I didn’t want there to be years between them, like me and John, who never really got on. I go to this specialist in Cadogan Park (no hope of me spelling the word he calls himself) and he says I may have a little more difficulty with the second. I don’t quite get what he’s on about, but he says rest is the thing. I suppose he ought to know, he charges enough. Any word of you coming over for a holiday? I know I haven’t written much and Harry drops you the odd line but I do think of you a lot. I miss you.

  Love and hugs,

  Jessie

  Clare propped the card on the mantelpiece. She was so grateful to have a real message, but something about it really troubled her. Yes, it was more affectionate, more like the loving Jessie she’d known, but it certainly wasn’t the voice of her old friend. This was a Jessie who seemed harassed and anxious. Not anxious about anything specific, just anxious in herself. No trace at all of the girl who had charged into life and emerged triumphant.

  She was still pondering over Jessie’s words as she opened Ronnie’s card. She began laughing the moment she pulled it out of its bright yellow envelope. Charlie Running sent a view of Armagh from the Newry Road. Aunt Sarah’s handwriting was terribly shaky but there was nothing shaky about her message of good wishes. And lastly, there was one from June and John Wiley and the girls, signed by all of them in blue biro and decorated with kisses. Inside, June had added a note to say she was so sorry they missed her when she was over. After The Missus died, they’d had a holiday down in Newcastle for a week to have a bit of a rest. She hoped she’d be over again soon. They had the telephone now. Be sure to give her a ring and let her know when she was coming.

  To her great surprise, there were more cards waiting for her when she arrived at work on her birthday itself. A brightly coloured Italian one from Louise, with champagne bottles popping and all the Italian superlatives flying around like birds. She laughed and hugged her friend before she went on to open the rest. It
seemed as if all her colleagues had found out about her birthday, even Emile’s replacement, the rather formal Monsieur Mauriac, and the formidable Madame Japolsky, who sent a discreet engraving of the bank premises with carriages tastefully arranged beyond the steps. As Louise said wickedly, it stood out from the others rather like Madame’s nose itself.

  ‘I’m glad you wore the green dress tonight,’ said Robert, as the waiter removed their plates and rearranged the table for dessert. ‘Each time you wear it, I wonder if it’s because you come from the Emerald Isle that you look so good in almost any shade of green,’ he said, matter-of-factly. ‘But you haven’t worn that dress for some time now.’

  ‘Haven’t I?’

  ‘No, you haven’t. Not since you despatched a certain exceedingly eligible young man.’

  ‘Oh.’ She blushed slightly and then laughed. He was quite right. Recently, every time she put out a hand for an evening dress, she’d chosen the blue or the gold, but she hadn’t noticed it herself.

  ‘I wondered if you’ve worked out why you really rejected him,’ he said, looking at her steadily over his dark-rimmed spectacles.

  ‘But I told you, Robert.’

  ‘Yes, you gave me a very sensible account of why you didn’t think marrying him would be a good idea, but you didn’t actually tell me why you rejected him.’

  ‘Well, the two do go together, don’t they?’

  ‘Yes, but there is much to be learnt by separating the man from the ménage.’

  ‘Fair point, Robert.’ She paused and went on more slowly. ‘I’m not sure I can do that.’

  ‘Have a try.’

  ‘Well, what I now see is that Christian needed me. Not the me that I am, but the person he thought I could be. Of course, he was quite right. I could have done what he wanted, if I’d put my mind to it. What he wanted was someone presentable, who would satisfy his parents, entertain his guests and provide him with children, a son, in particular, I should imagine. He couldn’t exactly check out my childbearing potential, but he certainly did check out the rest.’

  She paused, sensing there was yet more to say.

  ‘Once I got to Toulouse and saw what he was doing, everything else fell into place. In all our time together, I realised he’d never wanted to know about me. Oh yes, he’d ask me what I thought about this painting or that sculpture, had I seen Les Enfants Terribles, did I like Baudelaire? He asked lots of questions, but never once did he ask about my home or my family. I don’t think he’d have taken a great interest in Charlie Running or Mosey Jackson,’ she added wryly.

  They both laughed.

  ‘Sometimes I’ve felt angry with Christian for choosing me to fit into his life,’ she went on. ‘More often, I’ve been angry with myself for ignoring all the signs. He was very egocentric and very determined. Perhaps I was flattered. And I shouldn’t have been. I certainly won’t make that mistake again.’

  ‘You are being hard on yourself, aren’t you?’

  ‘Am I?’

  ‘Yes, you are. You are young and attractive. An equally attractive, but not quite so young man comes along, shares many of your interests, enjoys your company. What is more likely than you should fall in love?’

  ‘But should I not have seen why he was so happy to fall in love with me?’

  ‘But how could you? You only had part of the picture. Why do you think I insist we drive round twisty roads and tramp through vineyards? The picture a person presents at the conference table is the picture they choose to present. One needs the broader context and the history to be able to read it accurately. You’ve always grasped that.’

  ‘Yes, it always made sense to me at work, but I hadn’t thought of applying it to my lovers,’ she said wryly, grinning at him. ‘I should have paid more attention to Christian’s background, shouldn’t I? After all, he never told me anything about himself, and I didn’t ask.’

  ‘Indeed yes. His background and upbringing taught him to expect to shape his life as he and his family have always shaped it, with their own interests firmly at the centre. Perhaps it’s inevitable if one is very rich. What do you think?’

  ‘No, I don’t think it’s money in itself. The Richardson family had lost all their money, but The Missus still behaved as if the world revolved around them.’

  ‘Yes, but that family once had money, political power as well, if I remember correctly. Habits die hard. I’ve known men with hardly a sou in their pockets behaving as if they were still millionaires.’

  ‘Is it power then, Robert? Is that what makes Christian so convinced he can always have what he wants.’

  Robert grinned broadly.

  ‘I once interviewed a young woman who told me that she knew that money was power. She got the job.’

  They both laughed, as the waiter arrived and Robert turned his attention to the menu’s impressive list of desserts.

  ‘If I might persuade you to the strawberry gâteau,’ he said, turning towards her. ‘There is a rather special Château Latour Blanche that might be worthy of the occasion. The strawberries will be North African no doubt, but they should be reliable here.’

  ‘I love strawberries,’ she said, smiling.

  After all this time, she was still amused by his total absorption in any decision involving what they should eat or drink.

  The waiter served the dessert, then brought two delicate, engraved wine glasses lying on a bed of ice. He picked up each glass in turn with a white napkin, placed one before each of them, and poured a small measure of the pale yellow liquid into Robert’s glass.

  Robert picked it up, sniffed gently, took a tiny sip. Clare waited patiently. Nothing in the world would prevent Robert from giving the wine his fullest attention.

  ‘Yes,’ he said, positively, turning to me waiter. ‘You have not disappointed me. You may tell the maître I said so.’

  The young man’s face remained impassive. Clare saw a flicker of anxiety as he stepped back from Robert’s chair to pour the delicate wine into her glass before returning to fill Robert’s.

  ‘Monsieur says you have not disappointed him. He is pleased,’ she said softly, speaking Italian. ‘You may tell your boss he said so.’

  ‘Si, signorina,’ he said, a broad smile spreading across his face. He bowed to them both and retired.

  ‘Another willing slave,’ said Robert dryly. ‘How did you know that?’

  ‘I didn’t. I had to guess.’

  ‘Well, we shall certainly have exceptional service henceforth,’ he said, raising his glass. ‘To you, my dear. Happy Birthday.’

  The Sauterne tasted as she imagined nectar ought to taste. Smooth and sweet and rich, yet not at all cloying. She wondered if that was because the wine was so well chilled that beads of moisture formed on her glass.

  ‘What do you think?’

  ‘Wonderful. How can it be so rich and yet not be sickly?’

  He smiled, delighted.

  ‘You could ask them yourself next week when we go down to the Gironde. On the other hand, you’ve probably started reading it up already and will know more about it than the people sent to impress us.’

  She smiled, and wondered if he would return to the subject of Christian Moreau. It no longer hurt to speak about him, but there was still something about the whole affair that evaded her, some thought that teased on the edge of consciousness, like a word you can’t remember.

  ‘I dined with Emile last week,’ Robert began, as he picked up his fork and sliced into the dry, crumbly texture of the strawberry gâteau. ‘He sends you his best regards. I think he is sad not to be able to welcome you as a niece, but he wasn’t surprised when I told him that it was not to be.’

  The gâteau was superb. It was some moments before Robert went on.

  ‘It seems Charles Moreau had a heart attack some two years ago. Not a major one, but a warning. Christian has been under some pressure to settle down. Emile thinks Christian has not given any thought to his relationships with women. He has seen them mainly as a source of compa
nionship and pleasure. It has not yet occurred to him that a woman of any spirit might have thoughts and ambitions of her own.’

  Clare nodded, a slow smile lighting up her face.

  ‘A blessing on dear Emile. He’s put his finger on it. Christian has just never thought about a woman as a person. And it would never occur to him that such a creature might have “thoughts and ambitions of her own”. That’s what you said, wasn’t it, Robert?’

  ‘Yes, I did,’ he said, looking pleased.

  ‘That’s the bit I was looking for,’ she began, taking a deep breath. ‘If ever I marry anyone, he’ll have to be aware of my “thoughts and ambitions”. It’s not that I wouldn’t compromise, or change my life, or do something different from what I do now. It’s the being thought about that counts. Unless a man can get beyond his own wishes, I’d rather make my own life with my dear friends and a job I love doing,’ she said, much more firmly than she had intended.

  ‘Bravo, Clare. I shall drink to that,’ he said, raising his glass. ‘Not many young women would have turned down one of the wealthiest young men in France. I think Emile was rather pleased. And, of course, so am I,’ he added, smiling broadly.

  She looked at him closely. All evening, there had been a kind of suppressed excitement about him, as if he were enjoying a secret known only to him. It was something he intended to share with her, of that she was sure, but it would most certainly be in his own good time.

  They finished the delectable gâteau and drained their glasses.

  ‘May I pour you another glass, or do you wish to practise abstemiousness?’ he said severely.

  ‘Good heavens no.’

  She laughed as he refilled her glass. The more severe he was, the more he was enjoying teasing her. ‘I really can’t see how you can call me abstemious, even if my housekeeping is modest,’ she said, picking up her glass. ‘Have I ever said no to any of the wonderful food you’ve chosen for me? Or the wines you have offered me?’