‘How could I be ashamed to be seen with you, Charlie?’
His spirits rose. Had she missed him, as he had craved for her? ‘It’ll suit me down to the ground for the harvests.’
She swung back to face him. They almost collided. ‘What brings you down here to the coast?’ Swiftly, she turned her attention back to the car’s bodywork, fearing news of a woman.
‘I drove down to pick up a couple of spare parts for this fine girl and dropped in to say hello at Lady J’s.’ He coughed. ‘She suggested I might find you here. But perhaps you have plenty to do. Is your film director friend still about? What’s the latest on the role?’ He fired off questions, following her as she examined his truck, almost stepping on her beach-sandy heels, unable to curb his jabbering, so elated was he to be in her company again – how he had pined for her, agonized over her absence, but how desperate she was looking. Bones all spiky, thin as a broomstick and tiny as the apple sawflies his father had cursed. Lady Jeffries had described her physical condition perfectly, without exaggeration, in her letter to Charlie. The letter that, in truth, had brought him there in search of her. Lady Jeffries had written:
Since you left, dear Charlie, she seems to have sunk into a decline. Can I prevail on you to come and pay her a visit? She certainly needs cheering up. I have failed to get through to her and she has given me no family of hers to contact … and now with my departure imminent, I am growing concerned for her future welfare …
‘Katsidis? Oh, he sailed last week after the festival ceremonies. He’ll be in touch when he reaches California,’ Marguerite bluffed, but the lie twisted in her under-nourished gut and stopped her.
They had come to a standstill by the passenger door. Marguerite curled her fingers slowly round the chrome handle, feeling the sun’s warmth on the shiny metal; she was holding on for dear life. Charlie’s reappearance was a blessing, but she knew she must keep her distance. The depth to which her guilt and humiliation had dragged her was a burden she must carry alone.
‘I saw his photograph in the newspaper. The actress he was with, she looked a lot like you. No wonder he’s taken with you.’ Charlie grinned. He was trying to be encouraging. He could see for himself that she was broken-hearted and beyond disappointed. Those big jittery eyes were staring out at the world around her with distrust, as though someone had just fired a shot. Charlie could only hazard a guess at what was eating at her, making her so blue. He put it down to the loss of the film part.
They sat outside the Café Felix, set back from the quays of the old port, which they could glimpse through an arched passageway built into the ramparts. Rows of boats moored in the harbour basin were bobbing and spinning like a raft of young ducks. They ate ice cream, licking and slurping, the first solid food she’d swallowed all day. The plane trees were losing their leaves. They drifted and circled to the cobblestones at their feet. Marguerite threw surreptitious glances at Charlie as he licked his ice and looked about him. He always seemed restless in crowds. But he was so robust, so fit. His soft sandy complexion had been baked to a dark biscuit tone. His freckles were more pronounced, like tossed handfuls of brown sugar granules, and he was stronger, more muscular than she remembered him. His teeth were whiter against his sunburned face and his smile easy and radiant. The coast, his new life, had blessed him while she had faded, grown emaciated, mortified. Her skin was a lacklustre beige and she had given up on her exercises and nail varnishes. Even her shoulder-length hair hung drably, a little greasy.
It hurt Charlie to observe the changes a few weeks had wrought in her. He would cosset her, cherish and shield her, if she would only give him the opportunity. ‘I want you to come and see my plot,’ he said, rising to his feet, kicking at a hitch in the leg of his dungarees.
‘Next week, maybe.’ She shrugged.
‘Now.’ He offered his hand.
She hesitated.
‘Come on, let’s go. We don’t want to be traipsing about the fields in the dark.’
Marguerite ditched the remains of her melting ice cream on the table, licked her fingers and rubbed at her skirt, worrying at the creases so she didn’t have to accept his hand. She stroked her face, fingers cold from the ice, feeling dampness from the perspiration worked up on her earlier walk. She had forgotten to post her letter, which lay nestled in her bag.
The truck was an impressive contraption and made her laugh with its big yellow headlights and its two rear-view mirrors extending from its body on curved silver stalks. ‘You are quite the part now, Charlie, in your blue overalls. A true Provençal farmer,’ she teased, and he was uplifted to see even a glimpse of light-heartedness cross her features.
‘Let’s go.’
The engine sputtered into life, and they chugged their way inland, a zigzagging ascent, rolling along the lanes, mountain paths and passes towards the perfume city of Grasse, then downhill again for four or five kilometres to the flat, sweet-scented plains of Plascassier. It was a perfect end-of-summer afternoon. Wind whistled in through the open windows and messed up her hair, but she didn’t care. What did it matter? The vineyards were empty of fruit and their leaves were crisping, turning russet. Few were working in the fields. Those who were there transported voluminous bundles, armfuls of green or red netting to lay at the feet of their centuries-old olive trees. Grey and brown donkeys stood in the shade, bales of netting stacked across their backs. Occasionally, Charlie put his hand out of the window and pressed his fingers against the black rubber horn, as large as a plump ripe pear, and sounded its gravelled hoot. Toot-toot. Toot-toot. The farmers in their black berets lifted their curved backs, shoved away their damp hair to get a better look at who was making such a racket, then recognized the young Englishman, chortled and waved.
‘You know them all,’ she commented, envious of his kinship with the community. She knew not a soul outside Le Rêve.
‘We lend each other a hand, taking it in turns to bring in the fruit. The flowers will be another matter. Next year, when mine are planted up and begin to blossom, I’ll hire a team, a small one to begin with, of course. Possibly from Italy.’
She frowned. ‘Why from Italy?’
‘They’re experienced pickers and their labour costs are reasonable. It’s a seasonal occupation for them and they’ve been coming here for generations. Some of the men were posted to this Alpes-Maritimes region during the war, until Italy surrendered, of course. They were here on behalf of the Germans to superintend Nice and its hinterland after they won the Battle of the Alps. This was a free zone, you see. The Italians were never vigorous in rounding up Jews, even when ordered to do so. Life down here under their jurisdiction was reasonably easy-going. Many of the region’s agriculturalists, local farmers, count them as neighbours, fellow land workers like any other. They trust the Italians and the Italians know this work intimately. They come in trucks, travelling across the passes. It can be a dangerous journey.’
She marvelled at how intimate he had grown, and so swiftly, with the history and the nature surrounding him.
They passed through a village, more a hamlet. Marguerite didn’t know its name, hadn’t seen the sign – it had come and gone so quickly. Close by the church, men and women were playing pétanque beneath the shade of several fig trees heavy with dark, oozing fruit. Again Charlie toot-tooted and the small gathering of villagers raised their shirted arms, lifted their straw hats and yelled his name effusively. He was clearly popular.
‘You’ve found a home for yourself here,’ she remarked, turning aside from the scent of the figuiers, which she found a little oppressive; bitter, like the pipi of a tomcat.
‘Lady J is leaving, I hear? Off to America.’
‘How did you know?’
Charlie was anxious that Marguerite shouldn’t discover that the Englishwoman had written to him, confiding her disquiet regarding Marguerite’s wellbeing. ‘Er, she told me when I popped in to say hello.’
Marguerite dropped her gaze to her lap.
‘She asked you to go with
her?’
Marguerite nodded, head still lowered. ‘But I shan’t go.’ The departure of her soon-to-be-ex-employer reminded her of the letter in her bag.
‘Why not? I thought America was your goal.’
‘I have to think about my career, Charlie,’ she bragged emptily, in pain to confess the truth, to open up her heart to someone, someone dear to her who might show comfort and listen. ‘If we pass a postbox, please stop.’
‘It’ll have to be on the return journey. We’re here now.’ He slowed the Citroën to a standstill beside a long stone wall bordering a field, and pulled hard on the handbrake, then switched off the engine. They were in the countryside, the middle of nowhere. Marguerite glanced beyond the window as she rolled the glass up.
‘No need to bother locking anything. Let this clean fresh air stream through, let the perfumes in. No one will pinch this old jalopy.’ Charlie laughed broadly, opening his door and swinging himself out, hitting the dusty lane with a thud. Birds swooped and dived. A chorus of song.
‘The swallows are gathering. They’ll be heading south to Africa soon. Summer’s closing.’
The idea seemed to please him as he strode in his sturdy boots, stretching his long limbs after all the double-declutching gear work. Marguerite remained in her seat, watching him. He would never have found this spot if he hadn’t bought me a train ticket, she thought wistfully. It had worked out for him but not for her. Had she done something wrong? Had she behaved in an inappropriate manner with Katsidis, flirting with him, egging him on without even knowing it? She closed her eyes. A tear threatened. She shoved the door hard with her shoulder and jumped out. Brown grit rose up from the road and settled in the open toes of her sandals.
Charlie vaulted over the wall and held out his arms to encourage Marguerite to do the same. ‘The opening for the gate is another kilometre further west. If you prefer, we can drive there?’ She shook her head and he leaned forward, swept her up over the stones and spun her with a whoosh. She weighed little more than a rag doll. As he did so, their faces brushed, almost touching, and he hesitated, holding on to her, longing to kiss her, but she broke the moment by turning away from him and he lowered her tenderly to earth.
He pointed, drawing her attention towards the sloping hillside, the valley beneath it and the rising hill opposite. ‘This soil is rich. A great basin of fertility,’ he boasted.
It was transformed: no longer a chaotic arrangement of wild flowers and green shrubbery. He had begun to stake out terraces, to create natural rectangular lengths of garden. Most of it was bare earth, reddish brown, but in some beds further over he had planted the first of the rose crops, and had staked and wired them. Row upon row of bright green shoots.
Marguerite was astonished. ‘You’ve worked so hard. It’s magnificent.’
‘I want to have all the roses bedded before the end of October. They need to be well installed before the weather changes and any frosts take hold.’
‘Have you done all this alone?’ Pride and affection soared within her. A trio of seagulls were squawking overhead, agitating the graceful swallows, squabbling over invisible boundaries. In spite of the bickering sea birds, the atmosphere was peaceful, restorative. She sighed, releasing a long hiccup of breath, letting go, thawing the jagged shards of misery that had been building up in her for weeks.
‘Where’s your house going to be?’ she asked him. The question came out strangled. Her throat was tight, so constricted she could barely speak.
‘Come on, let’s go. We’ll drive there. You need different shoes. Can’t walk from here in those.’
Moving along the country lanes, her body sliding back and forth alongside him with the roll of the old truck, whose springs creaked, she felt herself grow calmer, the knot within her easing. She felt less abandoned. Life seemed less complicated at this distance from the coast, and she envied Charlie the ability to fall into such a rhythm, such a lifestyle.
Climbing yet another boundary wall, they plunged and pitched down the steep slope – wood pigeons, blackbirds fluttering to flight in their wake – to a point where she could make out a rectangle of big stones. The foundations for Charlie’s house.
‘See how it’s taking shape, growing up out of the ground, winging its way upwards like the birds, like a graceful Pegasus.’ He was drawing with his fingers the imaginary structure of it, his vision. ‘And over here, an open courtyard for dining during the summer months.’ He had planted up a copse of almond trees to give shade and fresh creamy nuts for his breakfast. ‘Let’s go.’ He sprinted on ahead of her, supple and springy.
As they descended, she slipped and slid, then fell lightly, diving and tumbling. Nothing was broken. No hurt done. She kicked off her sandals, hooking them through her fingers, carrying them, arms outstretched like an aeroplane, allowing her bare feet to be submerged within the tall grasses, which on close view delivered a treasure trove of small coloured flowers, wild orchids among them.
‘I’ll buy you a pair of espadrilles later. We’ll stop in Grasse or one of the villages on the way back down and grab a late lunch.’
A cart laden with big blocks of limestone stood close by a stone cabano partially covered with ivy, an ancient construction with only a fraction of its roof remaining. ‘It was used for sheep originally or a shepherd’s overnight lodging when the winds were too harsh to sleep out beneath the stars.’ She crept to the opening where a disintegrating wooden door hung loose. Charlie had swept it out and placed a mattress on the stone floor inside. A circle of semi-burned candles were lined up alongside it. A pile of books. She pictured him here, alone at night, reading by a flickering flame, open to the elements, listening to the owls and badgers and every other creature of the night.
She didn’t know that he often dreamed of her and had called out her name.
Metres away, a series of wooden beams were stacked high, buried beneath, protected by, generous layers of straw. ‘The beams of the house,’ he said. ‘I don’t want the humidity to get into them …
‘See the view from here,’ he cried, now way ahead of her. His voice rose like a shooting star towards the heavens. She paused, panting to catch her breath, not strong and fit like him, looking directly ahead of her across to the opposite hillside where they had first parked. The tract of land resembled a shallow cradle, but of epic proportions. It was not too deep, but from all directions it was protected. Paradisical. Some areas were naturally cushioned, buffered from the winds by old tree growth, while other aspects were wide open and would be heated by the sun. Sunk in the valley, the plants would grow silently, securely, safe from harm and ill weathers.
‘It will be a business to harvest. Backbreaking with so much climbing. That was what helped me negotiate a fairer price, even though the earth is the finest in the region. Fecund and nutritious. Two donkeys will be my labourers and I’ll buy a horse for some of the transportation, take some of the load off the Citroën. I’ll stake the jasmine all across that section there, where the sun will hit the plants from mid-morning onwards till evening. If I can harvest twenty kilos of the jasmine blossoms a day, I’ll be winning. That aside from the May roses. Obviously, I can’t pick all that alone.’ He was lost in his project, fabricating the future, his eyes dancing and calculating. ‘But, hey, you know what’s best of all?’
She shook her head. She had reached his side, out of breath.
‘I’ve found a water source fed directly from the mountains. Clear, clean, trickling through from the snowmelt. I’ll sink a well and invest in a pump. Once in place, it’ll save me francs and backache.’ He turned his attention to her. ‘What do you think?’
‘It’s a bit of heaven on earth, Charlie.’
‘Stay with me, Marguerite. Make this life with me.’
How could she? Even should her own delusional existence have been cast aside, how could she be with any man now? The proximity of any male after what she had suffered was an alarming, distressing prospect.
‘No, Charlie, I can’t.’
‘I love you. Je t’aime, Marguerite.’ Charlie moved close, attempting to envelop her, to wrap himself around her, but she broke away, rubbing at her eyes.
‘Speck of dust. Excuse me. You’ve done wonders,’ she said softly. ‘I am pleased to have seen it. Can you drive me back now, please? I have to post my letter and I … I need …’
He took her hands in his, clasped them between his firm, broken-nailed fingers, the rough skin of his palms proof of his manual exertions. ‘Don’t refuse me.’ He stepped closer to her and wrapped himself about her. She felt herself weaken within his bear-like embrace.
‘Charlie, please understand. I’ve explained it to you before.’ Mumbling into his chest, the denim of his overalls a blue expanse before her, blue as the sky. His body was warm and colossal. ‘It’s not that I don’t love you. It’s just that … that …’ But her reasoning faded to nothing, dried up like crumbs in her mouth. Her forehead tipped and rested against him. How could she ever be worthy of a love as big as his? If he were ever to discover the truth …
‘We’ll talk more over the next few days. I’m determined to persuade you.’
He drove her to an adjacent village. There in the central square – the only square – Marguerite posted her letter to her mother and resolved that she would be on a train to the north as soon as she could honourably terminate her arrangement with Lady Jeffries. From the only shop in the village Charlie purchased a pair of green, red and black striped espadrilles. They sat at the café in the square while Marguerite took off her sandals and donned her new footwear. He ordered a plate of ratatouille Niçoise, which they ate with chunks of black bread, and followed it with a daube de boeuf. One plate only, she insisted to the waiter. She’d pick at Charlie’s. To wash it all down, a carafe of rosé wine. It was the most she had consumed in weeks.
‘I’m going to christen the house La Paix – Peace. Did I tell you that?’
She shook her head.
He sloshed the wine liberally into the two glasses and lifted his towards her face. ‘What shall we drink to?’ he asked her.
The Lost Girl Page 24