Madame Gilbert was so enchanted that an English lady, a professeur, should choose her modest birthplace in which to spend a year, that she always overwhelmed me with attention. We had taken to each other from that first time a few days ago when I’d stopped to pick up the keys and Martine had climbed into my heaving, exhausted Morris to direct me to 33 Rue du Chateau. Now it was routine that I stopped by at least twice a day to ask her this thing or that, or some detail about the house I’d rented.
One always had to leave plenty of time for Madame Gilbert. There was no point in being in a hurry to get away, because as she chatted she would stop to instruct Martine in some minor chore, talk on the telephone or speak at length with whoever happened to come into the salon. She had wanted to know all about me, no doubt as a reassurance for Monsieur Giradoux, the owner of the house, who lived in Abbeville, but more likely to satisfy her own insatiable curiosity.
Now I waited for the “oh la las” to finish, and for her to rifle among her papers as she always did, and to tell Martine to do something or other, and I sat smiling patiently as I always did.
“Chateau des Moulins, c’est tres beau.”
I assured her I thought it was spectacular, elaborating enthusiastically about the architecture, the variety of styles, the colour. She nodded vigorously, but her mouth maintained a downward curve as it did when things were not entirely as they should be. Inevitably bad news was preceded by the expletive “eh.”
“Eh!” Madame Gilbert shrugged. “It’s a sad story.”
Sad? A frisson of fear chilled me as I thought of the beautiful house, the gay sunlit scene as the three children and their dog played on the lawn, and then of that sinister figure as it gazed unsmilingly at them and at me.
“Chateau des Moulins belongs to the very old family of de Frigecourt. It is only part of their estates, the main house being in Paris and additional properties farther north and in the south. But this was a favourite residence, used in the summer and often in the winter for La Chasse. What a lovely family – of course, I’ve known them all my life – so talented, handsome. Naturally there used to be a lot of money, but it doesn’t make for happiness, as we know.”
Madame’s mouth drooped, and I felt that the joyful “oh, la las” would not be forthcoming for some time.
“Like all large families of the nobility, they have experienced good times and bad, but the terrible tragedies that befell the de Frigecourts have all been within living memory. In the last war, of the father and mother and three handsome brothers, only two survived.”
“Two?”
“Members of the family. The father and two eldest brothers were shot by the Germans for their activities with the Maquis, and only poor Laurent and his mother were left unharmed.”
“How awful.” I was appalled. “How was the youngest saved?”
“He was too small, only a boy, though the others were not much older, certainly not yet men, except in spirit. Then, poor Laurent, his troubles were not over. Soon after the war, his mother, never strong, died of grief, and he was left on his own in that large house. Then his uncle, who was with de Gaulle in England, had him spirited out of France to safety, to school, so as to be near him.
“When Laurent grew up, it seemed he couldn’t bear to return home because of the sad memories, for visits yes, but seldom to Port St Pierre and only for a short time to the Paris house. He joined the wine trade, lived in England, and married an English girl, a young society girl with good connections like himself. He was very happy.”
“But what happened to the chateau?”
“Attendez. I’m coming to that.”
Though the story was sad, Madame was a marvellous storyteller and was relishing the opportunity to tell it.
“When his wife saw the chateau she fell in love with it, and together they opened it and had it restored, beautifully, as you will have seen. No money was spared in making it as perfect as it once was. When it was opened again, only a few short years ago, we were all very happy for Laurent and his lovely young wife, Elizabeth. They had three children –two born in England, the youngest in France – and everything was idyllic. It seemed nothing would touch their happiness, and then ...”
Then. I’d known there would be a “then.”
“Then there was a car crash outside Paris, and Elizabeth was so badly injured she has never spoken since.”
“When was this?”
“Well over a year ago, maybe more. She has been in a clinic ever since, barely conscious. Perhaps it would have been better if she had died.”
I turned away, my eyes smarting with tears.
“How cruel,” I whispered, mentally seeing the children playing on the lawn.
“Sometimes one wonders about the mercy of Providence,” Madame Gilbert said, wiping away a tear. “Laurent sent the children permanently to the chateau, and he works hard, very hard, to forget.”
“Will she ever recover?”
“It seems the younger the person, the greater chance of recovery. Still, it has been a long time.”
“How old are the children?”
Madame gestured vaguely into the recesses of her salon. “Martine! How old are the de Frigecourt children?”
They were ten, eight, and six respectively, and their names were: the eldest Noelle, Philippe and Fabrice. When they were old enough they would go to boarding school, maybe in England, the two boys to Winchester, their father’s old school. Meanwhile there was a nanny and a governess.
“Governess?” The word made me shudder. Shades of Jane Eyre. I thought of the still, silent figure by the window.
“Mademoiselle Jeanne.” Madame Gilbert shrugged. “She is supposed to be very clever, but we see nothing of her. We see more of Rose, the young English nursemaid, who is quite high spirited and likes to help with the shopping. Jeanne is rather reserved, a loner. She spends a lot of time on her own when she is not teaching.”
And looking out of windows? I wondered. Then perhaps the situation at the chateau wasn’t so sinister. I had a vision of clever, plain, solitary Jeanne gazing mournfully to sea. Did she have some sad secret in her life? Governesses in books always did.
“It’s sad but ... rather romantic,” I said.
“Romantic, yes. Madame is a romantic, n’est-ce pas, Martine?” Madame smiled at me fondly.
“I fell in love with the house too, like Madame de Frigecourt. Do you think I could ever see the inside of it?”
Madame spread her hands expressively. “Oh, la la la, Madame. You are here for a whole year. I think in that time you would perhaps have the chance, although with Laurent not here and the place run by servants, it is not easy.”
“The children ... I saw them today. I love kids ... Perhaps, if I meet up with them on one of my walks, a chance encounter, you know?”
“Ah, les enfants.” This was definitely an idea. Madame smiled suggestively at me. I knew that once again she’d endeavoured in her cunning French way to open up a part of me that was meant to be kept private. She had managed to learn, for instance, that I was married but had left my husband in England for a year. And no, there were no plans for us to meet.
I wagged a finger at her. “Madame Gilbert,” I reproached her mockingly. “No, we never had children. We were too busy with our careers.”
“Maybe later, when you have finished your book?” Madame’s eyes widened innocently, but already in the hopeful anticipation of some delicious secret.
“All right, Madame, you might as well know, we’re thinking of a divorce. We’re having a year apart to see how we feel.”
“Ah.” Great satisfaction on her part to have confirmed what she’d undoubtedly suspected. I always wanted, once the truth was out, to explain to everyone why Tom and I didn’t get on. It was my sense of personal failure that made me want to tell all, to clarify it for myself as much as for anyone else.
Madame grimaced in sympathy and touched my arm.
“We’re quite happy,” I said ridiculously, as though anyone could
be quite happy not knowing what she was going to do with her life. “And we’re being quite grown-up about it,” I concluded, gathering up my shopping bag. We were grown-up, in years if nothing else.
“Pauvre petite.” Madame insisted on seeing me to the door.
It was quite a day for the violins. Madame was loving every moment, in a mournful sort of way.
CHAPTER 2
I seemed to fall instantly in love with everything at the end of that beautiful hot summer we all enjoyed. Maybe it was to compensate for the lack of love in my personal life. I loved the chateau, I loved Madame Gilbert, and Port St Pierre had been a coup de foudre the day I drove in in my vintage Morris Minor, steam coming out of all vents, baggage piled on the seats, on the floor, and on the roof.
Tom always said I kept the Morris as an affectation, so that people would notice me, which was a typically Tom-like thing to say and, unfortunately, as with a lot of what he said, partly true.
“Here comes Clare Trafford in her funny old Morris; isn’t she a scream?” people said, and I knew it. It was the same with the large, black bag full of holes and tied with string in which I carried my books and papers and the oversized spectacles that were poised on the brink of my nose when I lectured. I guess I did have a streak of exhibitionism in me; my dear mother was French and I attributed all these affectations to her influence.
Of course, I’d also fallen in love with number 33 Rue du Chateau, although it was a far cry from the pink house on the cliff. It was white with green shutters; the front door led straight on to the pavement. The salon (“bien confortable, tres propre,” Madame Gilbert had assured me) had a marble chequerboard floor, functional furniture, and a large stove to heat both the water and the house with a chimney that disappeared out of sight into the ceiling. To the left as one entered the front door were the kitchen, bathroom, and a small room which I converted into a study. A wooden staircase led straight from the salon to a wide upstairs hall lined with cupboards, three good-sized bedrooms, and a lavatory with washbasin. Not, indeed, so plush as the chateau, but spacious by the standards of our two-room flat off Lamb’s Conduit Street in London.
I unpacked my shopping. I ate sparingly during the day but always had a fish and meat course at night and about two-thirds of a bottle of wine. Tonight I had some pelourdes, a type of shellfish, which I stuffed with garlic butter and breadcrumbs and did in the oven, and an entrecote. It was funny that Tom always criticised my cooking, because when I was on my own I adored it. Everything I made for Tom was either raw or burnt.
I worked every morning – though a sloppy housewife I was a disciplined scholar – and revised after dinner at night for an hour. Then I went to bed and read. It was a perfect life. I couldn’t think, looking at my present wellbeing, why I’d so long endured Tom’s painful presence, with his superior stares and sneers. No wonder I’d spoiled the cooking.
As I washed up I felt happy, free. Yes, free. I was in my chosen town in my chosen part of France – Picardy – home of the battles of Agincourt, Crecy, and others, not to mention the agonies of the Somme in two world wars.
But more than that, Port St Pierre was built on the very spot where my girl Joan had been handed over to the English in 1430 by the Burgundian troops. It was her last and longest place of imprisonment before her journey to Rouen and her trial. She said she’d been happy here.
Everyone said it was very quaint that I, a liberated twentieth-century female academic, should specialise in a medieval woman many considered spurious in intent. What fascinated me were the paradoxes of her nature, about which much conflicting testimony had been written.
She’d been the subject of my doctoral thesis in late medieval history, and I was about to add my own to the many tomes which had been written about her, having persuaded a publisher to commission such a book on the strength of my thesis, and to pay me an advance. I was studying Joan from the point of view of an emancipated young woman, who, if not exactly of the bra-burning variety, had strong views about the rights of women.
That was really the basis of the trouble with Tom. He didn’t want a partner and he didn’t want a servant; he did want a homely, fecund, domestic admirer who could also engage in conversation, cook a good meal, clean, type, and excite him in bed. Unfortunately, I was not she. Perhaps I fulfilled some of these roles, but I was inconsistent and on the whole inadequate.
Tom and I had quarrelled for five years over these issues, and when I was due for my sabbatical from University College and had selected the subject of my book, I chose to separate from Tom while I wrote it. I moved to Port St Pierre on the beautiful Bay of the Somme, a town far from Tom but not too inconvenient, and situated in countryside with history enough to thrill the heart of any medievalist.
Tom was taken by surprise when I just upped and went. Did I hope to shock him into what a friend of ours called “my form of submission”? In other words, did I want from Tom the same thing that he wanted from me? Of course not. So why couldn’t Tom see that I am the most tolerant soul alive?
As I prepared for bed, ran my bath, and soaked in the warm suds that night, I thought about the story of the young owner of the Chateau des Moulins and his tragic life. One didn’t know exactly how far along in the war the sad events had happened, but if his brothers had been old enough to be in the Resistance it was reasonable to assume the present Marquis was forty or forty-five years old. I wondered how old Elizabeth was. What a happy scene it had been this very day with the black dog. How I wished I could get to know the children!
I went to bed, my head teeming with schemes for contrived meetings, and when I dreamt it was of the pink chateau overlooking the bay.
In the end, I got to know the family quite easily. I’d established a daily routine – work in the morning, a late lunch of bread, cheese or cold meat, fruit and a cup of coffee, then a walk round the bay or through the town, shopping on the way home for my evening meal or stopping for a chat with Madame Gilbert. I’d taken a beach hut because the days were still balmy and many of them hot, and with a deckchair placed out of the continuous wind I could sit and read, sunbathe, or just enjoy the many splendid beauties of the Bay of the Somme, from the tiny point of Le Hourdel almost opposite, round to Port Guillaume, from which William the Conqueror had sailed to conquer England, to the mouth of the canal and the flat marshlands with their beautiful variety of dried flowers, to Port St Pierre itself. The tide varied every day, and if I had time and it was warm enough I took a quick dip and then exercised on the beach.
There were those who would not have recognised, in the new athletic Clare, the jaded academic who only weeks before had drifted round London smoking too much, staying up too late, and complaining that her husband didn’t understand her.
For a week I had no contact with the chateau, except for my droning on about it to Madame Gilbert, no sight of the children, nothing. Then one day I was reading on the beach, sprawled half awake in my chair, my large hat flopping over my face, when something hurled itself at me almost knocking me to the sand. For a minute I was terrified, until a furry black head caressed my arm and a large pink tongue licked my hand. I began to laugh in joyous recognition, and then there was a confusion of childish voices, and the three appeared running hard from the direction of the chateau.
“Goofy, Gooooofffie!” shrilled a young voice. “Viens ici, viens, Goofy!”
Casting a disdainful glance in their direction, Goofy continued to do homage to my hand, obviously having a way with women.
I was excited and eagerly watched the approach of the children. First came Noelle, then the elder brother, and the youngest last. The two eldest were dark, the younger boy very fair. The girl had an open gamin face, a slightly turned-up nose, and straight brown hair. Her smile and the light in her clear blue eyes gave her a bright, bubbly appearance. The boy next to her had identical features and an impudent smile. The third had the brown complexion and blue eyes of the others but he had straw-coloured hair and more aquiline, regular features – a beauti
ful child, sturdy and well-built.
Then they were in front of me, in a variety of postures, expressing alarm, apologising all at the same time for the outrageous behaviour of Goofy.
“Goofy!” I addressed them in French, though I was sure they must speak English. “What an outrageous name for this beautiful dog.”
“Oh, Madame, his name is Le Prince d’Argenteuil; he has a pedigree this long” – the elder boy gestured exaggeratedly with his arms – “but he is so silly and sweet that we call him Goofy after the dog in the cartoon.”
“He’s gorgeous,” I said, determined to please and to make friends with them all. I tickled Goofy gently under the ears.
“My name is Clare Trafford,” I murmured without looking at the children. “I’ve come to live here for a year.”
“Tiens!” the girl spoke. She was a tomboy, I could see, with faded jeans and a denim shirt; her nose was attractively freckled. “Who wants to live in Port St Pierre?”
“Don’t you live here too?”
“We have to.” She looked suddenly wistful. “We used to live in Paris and just come here for the summer. Now it is all year round.”
I pretended to know nothing about them. “Don’t you go to school?”
“We have a teacher, Mademoiselle Jeanne. When we are older we shall go to boarding school. Our mother is very ill.”
They all looked solemn now.
“Tell me your names,” I encouraged.
“I am Noelle, this is Philippe my big brother, and Fabrice the baby.”
“I am not a baby,” Fabrice called angrily in his gruff little voice.
“Baby, baby,” chimed the other two, and little Fabrice, who was indeed almost as tall as Philippe, turned in a rage and pummelled Philippe’s chest with his fists.
Then a shadow came between us and the sun, which I thought had for a moment been obscured by a cloud. I looked up, and the slight dark figure I’d seen at the window gazed down at us.
Rose, Rose Where Are You? Page 2