With Men For Pieces [A Fab Fifties Fling In Paris]

by Sophie Meredith

  How could I forget? If it hadn’t been for Beryl’s wedding reception at Bunjie’s and forgetting my interview and being absent without leave from the Highgate School, I’d never have gone to Paris….

  “And he wanted to see all the draughty old passages in the Underground where we skiffled to earn a few extra bob. Let me have my wicked way with him, Gaby, without your disapproval…” Beryl pleaded.

  “What about the boys?” I asked.

  “They won’t blink an eye,” she said confidently. “We’ve brought them up to be Human Beans remember? They don’t expect you and I to be…normal!”

  I didn’t at all like my—abnormality—being pointed out. But I did like Charles, though he hadn’t much to say to me apart from the demands of politeness. He had eyes and ears only for Beryl. I couldn’t blame him. When you got over the fact that she was, frankly, not young, she was striking. Reed-thin still, having never seemed able to put on an ounce since Bryn dragged her into semi-starvation, she had retained her voluptuous bust. She had a sharp, bony nose and a rather pointed chin and her enormous blue-black eyes were fringed with remarkable lashes. She held her head proudly on a long slender neck and looked always ready to burst into song.

  Tony and David, as she’d predicted, took Charles for granted. They showed us their rooms at the top of winding stone staircases, explained yet again about sporting the oak, about only Fellows being allowed to walk the lawns. We made the obligatory silly comments—we’d been through it all at the end of their Michaelmas term but it was good to see they were still revelling in the well-steeped traditions of the place.

  The high spot of the Ball for me was meeting up with Kathryn again. Though at first it seemed as if she and Ryl were about to give me a hard time. They insisted for about an hour on talking as though I were not present.

  “I’ve been jealous of you since she first came back from Old Tree Manor School,” said Ryl, sipping her fourth glass of champagne.

  “Yes—but you go way back to her college days, don’t you?” said Kathryn. “And as for this Mabiche person….”

  “You’ll like her,” promised Ryl. “Been around through many a crisis….”

  “What—like the M-A-R-R-I-A-G-E?” spelled out Kathryn, mouthing the letters as though they were a couple of fond aunts from different sides of the family talking across a child of four.

  When they’d had enough of teasing me, Kathryn dragged me off for a quick look at her house. I didn’t know then that it was to be my refuge later.

  “My Dad advised me to buy it,” said Kathryn. I was having trouble thinking of her as Doctor Henry. “I fancied one of the little riverside terrace houses that all the young lecturers are buying and doing up. I’ll show you one later. Dad pointed out to me that this one would suit me more in ten years’ time—when he expects to come and share it, bless him.”

  It was just behind the station and though in an ultra-modern development, the architects had managed very cleverly to echo the style of the old colleges with archways leading to mews areas and little communal areas of lawn.

  Inside, the tall, thin house was open plan, and we sipped gin in a white and grey living room perched like an overgrown landing, half-way up, the smart functional kitchen inside a glassed-in box.

  She told me of her love life and I listened jealously. I realised that I was just a little bit in love with this slender, graceful, plummy-voiced woman—though Lesbianism had never really appealed to me. She had nearly married, she told me—just before she had been first revealed to me in the flesh, as it were, at the avant-garde school—to a vague, kind, hopelessly impractical fellow. It had been very difficult to get out of the engagement because all their friends were all for it—but Kathryn simply could not accept the role of family decision-maker for life. Like me, I was thrilled to hear, she had enjoyed a splendid relationship with a strong-willed father. So she waited for the strong husband-figure to come along—and when he did, it was in Italy—he was breathtakingly handsome—and very married. Kathryn, as passionate about her religion as about her beloved Medieval authors, scuttled off to the States.

  “Now I’m just waiting for Dad to retire.” She sighed. “And we’ll set up house together and live happily ever after….”

  She dragged me off next to a row of little renovated workmen’s cottages whose front doors opened directly onto the narrow river path where willows swayed sadly in the night breeze. Husband and wife of this household were both installed at this late hour in their separate studies, bent over typewriters. I yearned for a moment for a different past—the academic life would have appealed to me, and their house was so charmingly bare and neat. Bookcases made of scrubbed planks resting on bricks. White paint everywhere. Well-chosen books and paintings. No carpets or “conventional” easy chairs or room settings. Great piles of coloured cushions in the corners.

  “Oh, I forgot to mention,” said Kathryn, a little befuddled now, though heaven knew we’d spent little enough time at the official reception, “Mike here is David’s personal tutor.” She was drinking beer now, straight from the can. “But I’ve put in my claim for him for next year. He’s got a brilliant future, Gaby. You will let me have a little share of him, won’t you?”

  The studious young couple waved us goodbye and scuttled off back to their own projects. As we strolled through the cloisters and along the narrow cobbled streets past King’s College Chapel, breathtaking in the moonlight, I told Kathryn more about my involvement with the twins—and a little bit about Jacques.

  “Your Svengali,” she said thoughtfully. “And a Breton, you say. I’m getting very interested in the Arthurian Society. I’ll probably go to a conference in Brittany some time. I’m glad you’ve…found yourself now,” she added, and I was a little puzzled. Presumably she’d heard about my writing, though I hadn’t mentioned it to her.

  We finished the night in an incredibly dirty old barracks of a house where the hostess, who didn’t appear to have washed her face for weeks, turned out to be a very celebrated don. Kathryn whispered to me to be careful where I sat as there was cat shit everywhere. The untidy, shabby rooms were filled with the most eminent Cambridge people. I sat back gingerly on a rickety sofa and watched the dignified Kathryn, always immaculately groomed, kneeling on a soiled floor to play a silly game where you had to try to cut a slice of a “cake” made of unbound dry flour, moulded, then carefully unmoulded onto a plate—and she roared with laughter when her partner sneezed and coated her in white from head to foot.

  David slid into the corner next to me.

  “I’m not sure if I’ll bother inviting my people to the Ball next year.” He grinned. “I’ve seen neither hide nor hair of you or Mother. Where’ve you been? Where’s she?”

  “I last saw her in a punt,” I reflected. “Followed by a dozen other craft full of oafish young men gazing raptly as she crooned to them. Charles was handling the pole magnificently,” I added.

  I told him how pleased I was with his progress, hinting at the glowing reports I’d had from Kathryn and his tutor. He smiled shyly, pleased.

  “Hope you’re as pleased with Tony,” he said.

  “I haven’t been moving in Scientific Circles,” I said. “But I’m proud of both of you.”

  “What are you two whispering about?” cried Kathryn. All eyes seemed suddenly to focus on us. I went hot and cold all over. I felt the terrible urge to do something incredibly exhibitionist. But I must not embarrass David with a manifestation of my own peculiar brand of “nerves.”

  “We’re just…enjoying you,” I said and they all seemed delighted.

  “She’s great, isn’t she?” said David.

  “Yes,” I agreed. “She’s definitely more than just one of the pawns.”

  “Pawns?” he said.

  “Tch!” I admonished him. “Don’t you know your Omar Khayyám—or is he just for us Masses?

  “’Tis all a Chequer-board of Nights and Days

  Where Destiny with Men for Pieces plays

 
Hither and thither moves, and mates, and slays,

  And one by one back in the Closet lays.”

  Tears filled my eyes as I thought of the ones I had loved, already back in the closet—and those I was still to lose.

  Chapter 12

  I was writing articles now as well as children’s stories. One of my editors was none other than old Redbeard himself. Though now he was clean-shaven and had moved into the mass media. I’d got to know him quite well, but I hadn’t ever let on that we’d met before. He encouraged me to branch out even further and, through his influence, I was able to publish a collection of fairy tales. Seeing my name on the covers of the books pyramided in Foyle’s window gave me a greater thrill than it had ever done emblazoned over the shops. I sometimes felt now that was all I was to the business—no more than a name. I had handed over the daily running of things to so many managers and secretaries. We even had a suite of offices devoted entirely to the Marketing of our allied products—perfumes, beauty products, even a ghastly teen-age doll with breasts and extremely expensive outfits. I distanced myself from all this more and more—attended the minimum number of board meetings, preferring to sit at my desk in a window overlooking St James’ Park, and turn out my articles and stories.

  The Ivory Castle

  The Great Black Mountain of Bavaria was a magnificent sight against the indigo sky. And at the very top towered the Ivory Castle which at first sight could be taken for a mass of summer clouds.

  Little Faunchen looked up from a clearing in the Forest and saw the castle. “If only I can climb up before nightfall,” he said to himself. “The Hunters will not dare to capture me there.”

  Faunchen’s mother, the gentle Do-do, had talked many times of King Kindheart of the Ivory Castle.

  “He loves all animals and birds,” she said. “Any wild creature that strays into his Park will be safe.”

  The same could not be said of the Tall Pine Forest below. Here squirrels and rabbits, wild boar and reindeer were ever in fear of the Green-Cloaked Hunters of the Valley. It was during a flight from these cruel men with their bows and arrows and their nets that Faunchen had been separated from his mother. Now he knew that his only chance was to climb higher and higher to seek shelter at the Ivory Castle.

  But the paths were steep and stony and Faunchen’s slender legs were growing very tired. How he longed to rest amongst the tall trees, lie down upon a fragrant bed of violets, pillow his head on a soft clump of moss.

  He felt weaker and weaker, hardly able to spring over the fallen logs strewn about the Forest floor. Then, all at once, he saw the cabin. The door stood open and Faunchen felt sure the little dwelling was empty. Cautiously, he crept inside, sank down on a pile of sweet-smelling hay, and slept….

  I was asked to read one of my forest fairy tales on television. I exclaimed in sheer horror at the suggestion—tried to explain about my crippling shyness.

  “That’s what I hated most about teaching,” I said. “The sound of my own voice echoing through the room—those small faces staring at me, waiting for me to stammer or make a mistake.”

  The producer, who had asked me to lunch to discuss the project, refused to believe either that I was shy or that I had ever been a teacher.

  “You’re just not the type,” he laughed, looking appreciatively at my little black dress, my Gucci handbag, my pearls.

  In the end he persuaded me to give it a try. It wasn’t as bad as I had expected. The cameramen were very laid back and sympathetic. There was one mad, delirious moment as the studio settled for the final countdown when I thought I was going to do something outrageous—a bit of exhibitionism to cover my attack of nerves. But the red light on the camera I had been told to talk at had a calming, hypnotic effect and the whole thing went off rather well.

  As a spin-off, I was invited to talk about the story and the performance on a chat show. Again, I had that last-minute desire to do something shocking like pull my skirt well up over the knees or lean forward low enough to show the viewers an unacceptable amount of cleavage. Instead, due to the skill of the presenter, I found myself thoroughly enjoying talking about the origin of my own favourite creations—stories set in Brittany where every tree houses its own fée. It was Jacques who had sown the seeds of these fascinating stories. Breton by birth, he had been steeped in folklore in his childhood and it was only to me that he related these half-remembered tales of gnomes and wizards. The irony was that he had always promised to take me to Morbihan one day and show me firsthand the dark mysterious forests, the rugged coastline, the unique architecture of Brittany. But he had never carried this promise through. There was always a last-minute hitch, and I wondered in retrospect if there was some fear deep inside him of facing his origins, of rediscovering his roots—with or without me. Perhaps subconsciously, in spite against him I had allowed my immediate inspiration to envelope me on trips to Bavaria where the castles rising from wooded rocks are a storyteller’s dream.

  I was so carried away by enthusiasm as I talked of clop-clopping up the mountain in the horse-drawn carriage to confront the romantically-turreted Schloss Neuschwanstein and driving through Oberammagau with scenes from Grimm painted on all the houses that I was almost disappointed when the interview came to an end.

  The next day I had become a Media Personality. I was invited to take part in every chat show—offered spots in Quiz games and mini-documentaries. I refused them all. Like modelling—this had been a one-off thing as far as I was concerned. It did not appeal to me as a lifestyle. There was an important consequence however. I received a stack of fan mail and Mabiche and I went through every letter. We devised a standard answer for most of them and got it duplicated. A few, from seemingly genuine sad cases—invalids, handicapped children—asking specific questions, I answered individually, enclosing a photograph. One, Mabiche held back to the last and said she had a “feeling” about it. It was cheeky, almost to the point of insolence—an offer to make up for Jacques’ deficit by conducting me on a vacation to Brittany.

  I go annually to Ploughmoughelen, wrote the stranger. I have found an idyllic spot—a converted château—self-catering holiday apartments. There is fishing, walking through your friend’s beloved woods, and the finest crêpes you have ever eaten.

  Considering that Mabiche knew that I had always detested both fishing and pancakes, I wondered at her “feeling.” But, to please her, I wrote to the correspondent who signed himself Robert Tardy—something about the name seemed significant—refusing, but as gently as possible, his offer.

  Two days later I looked down, idly curious, from the first floor sitting room window to see who was ringing so violently at our front door bell.

  A man of about my own age, perhaps a few years younger, was standing on the steps, hopping impatiently from one foot to the other. He stepped back and looked up at the house. I concealed myself behind the curtain, but my eyes were drawn to the broad shoulders, the stocky figure. His body could have belonged to Graham or the young Jacques. His hair, however, was reddish and crisply curly while theirs was dark and wavy.

  Mabiche brought him in to me.

  “Mr. Tardy,” she announced. “From the Daily News.”

  I felt ridiculously disappointed. I had agreed some weeks before to do an interview about my work with Jacques. So—the letter had been just some sort of ruse despite Mabiche’s instincts—but I did not understand why such machinations should be necessary.

  “I persuaded our intrepid girl reporter who’d been assigned to this job to let me take her place,” he said, grinning in a most disarming way. “She owes me one or two favours.”

  He advanced on me, holding out a strong, stubby hand. I wanted to hold it, examine the fingers, feel its masculine roughness. I let go abruptly and his grin grew wider.

  “About my letter…” he said.

  I looked into his eyes to see if any shame at his callous deceit was showing there. He looked back at me with open admiration—and something more. Neither of us seemed able to
look away. Then I became aware that I was making a fool of myself. I thought of Beryl, married to a youth of twenty, her boys just a month away from being the same age. I could hear them now, clattering about the house—they were up from Cambridge for the weekend. They were even more thankful nowadays for an alternative nest—it was not that they disapproved of their mother, nor of her “cradle-snatching.” They just felt de trop in a household where the new husband could out-play them at squash, out-race them on his motorcycle, out-slang them in the latest youthful jargon.

  “Actually, Mr. Tardy,” I said coldly, “I’ve been having second thoughts about the interview…I shall have to ask you to give me time to think it over.”

  He stepped back, looking as if I had slapped him in the face. Somewhere in the house a door slammed. There was more noisy rushing about. Then the roar of motor-bikes being revved up.

  “I hope—I really do hope—Miss Parker—that I haven’t offended you.” His voice was subdued, and he looked so hurt that I longed to smile at him, soothe him, make all well again. But he was buttoning up his trench coat as though he needed to enclose himself in some protective shell.

  What had I done? Could I have broken his spirit in so few moments?

  “Would you care for some…coffee…before you go?” I asked. “It’s a cold morning—I thought I saw ice on the road.”

  He looked up from fussing about with his belt buckle. There was puzzlement in his eyes—and new hope.

  “Well…” He hesitated, unwilling perhaps to risk another rebuff. “It is nippy out there. I saw two road accidents on the way here—skids, you know.”

  I hoped he would not mention the letter again. I pressed the bell that connected this room with the kitchen. In the distance a telephone was ringing insistently. He was looking at two framed photographs on my desk—one of Jacques, the other of my father. “I didn’t know Jacques Lemoine had had a brother,” he said.