He was sorry he had not dedicated the first book to her. Deirdre had insisted on that honour for herself—but he hoped she’d realised that the first three poems were…well…her. Hope she’d got a kick out of that, working in that Travel Agency—New York, wasn’t it?—for a while. And in the second volume he’d slipped in a coded message—the one about the white kitten that got run over—hoped she’d worked it out—it wasn’t a cry for help, exactly—but he had sunk a bit low—Deirdre cooled off considerably after all that talk about her young cousin. Sweet young lad, he was—but there was nothing to it—just journalists raking up muck. It’s terrible when they turn against you. No matter how…profound…your work is—they’ll say anything. Too many echoes—hadn’t they heard of literary allusions—he’d never plagiarise, never, never.
Sorry he’d intruded—but he’d been really down on his luck lately—and he’d heard she was in Paris—one day he’d just chanced his arm, spent his last fifty pounds on an air ticket, and waited here—sure that she’d come.
The woman felt the dial of a Braille watch. She turned her unseeing gaze once more towards Notre Dame, then across to the Island, to the apartments, high up.
His eyes were drawn to her mouth. The corners were pulled down, not as some women’s are, after a stroke, but with a permanent look of anguish, as though she had not laughed for many a long year. He felt his heart sink, his first genuine pang of regret for the smile he had helped to destroy. Then she turned away and began her slow progress back to the Left Bank. His penitence turned to vexation as she retreated from his self-humiliation.
The hard-faced bitch. Not a word had she spared him, let alone a hand-out. And she must have plenty to spare by the look of that car, pulling up now by the kerb where it had left her some quarter of an hour before.
Someone got out of the back, a stranger in a loudly-checked suit, his hair iron grey and crew cut. He held the woman close for a moment then helped her into the car. The man cursed her loudly for her lack of compassion. What he could not know, as he looked down speculatively into the depths of the grey-green river was that the tumour which had deprived her of her sight had also robbed her completely and forever of every vestige of her hearing.
Chapter 16
We stayed just a few days in Paris so that I could kit out Tony with new clothes. I hired a car to drive down to Morbihan. I’d never much liked driving but Beryl had told me fearfully that Tony had bought himself a bigger and more powerful motor bike—that he was racing about on it recklessly. If he had some sort of death wish, I would put it to the test. So, at the first filling station, I suggested that he take the wheel.
I tried not to clench my fists as he swung out onto the motorway. We had a clear run down to Rennes. I was taking a gamble, I realised, with that wide, straight road looming ahead. But to my relief, he drove correctly, not as slowly as I would have done, but carefully enough. He seemed, after the first half-hour, to be enjoying it.
“You’ve done so much for us, Aunt Gaby,” he said. “You seemed to think of everything just at the right time—driving lessons, for instance….”
I was thinking how glad I was not to have been the one to have bought the motor bikes. Charles’ father had been deeply grieved over his sense of responsibility about that, even when Beryl had done her best to convince him otherwise.
“They’d have got the damn things sometime,” she’d said. “Probably old wrecks of machines, too—which would have meant they’d have had the accident sooner—and maybe we’d have lost both our boys.”
“…tennis raquets, schools, Adventure holidays, books, taking us out to the best restaurants, introducing us to the right girls—you’ve had a hand in it all, haven’t you, Aunt Gaby?” asked Tony. He sounded mischievous, teasing, jolly—it was such a joy to me to feel his gaiety creeping back.
“I did what I could,” I agreed. “And got a lot of pleasure in return. Two sweeter boys I couldn’t have wished for.”
I looked at him sideways to see if he minded me saying the painful word two.
“I miss him dreadfully, Gaby,” he said, his eyes fixed on the ribbon of road ahead. “But I’d be happy to talk about him with you now. And I’d be happy if I could do something real for you—to pay you back a little.”
“What rubbish!” I snapped. “As though I need paying back. As though I need…anything,” I added. “With you and Beryl and Mabiche—and all my worldy goods. What more could I possibly need?”
He allowed himself a brief glance in my direction and raised an eyebrow.
We almost drove straight past the château. Its gates were half-concealed behind a row of pines separating the slip road from the Motorway. Once on its chestnut-lined drive, however, the traffic noises were pleasantly muffled. Our gîte was what had once been a sort of gatehouse on the far side of the arched entrance to the stables. Alain, one of Jacques’ accountants, had arranged the booking. Tony went into the main entrance for the key. Inside, we discovered two tiny bedrooms with their own showers and basins and a kitchen-cum-living room. The windows looked down onto the tops of a tangled mass of trees. The château was perched on top of a steep rock formation rising out of the forest. From far below came the soothing murmur of running water.
“I suppose I’ll be doing the cooking,” said Tony, brandishing a skillet and pulling a long face.
I turned from the view, one which had been described for me many times by Jacques—close-packed trees, mysterious little rivers, old stone walls.
“If you’d rather stay in a hôtel,” I said, “we can always drive onto Auray.”
“I’m only joking.” He smiled. “And anyway—there’s a crêperie on the premises, you said.”
There most certainly was. The main hall of the château had been transformed into a restaurant, complete with the enormous original open fireplace where great logs glowed even on this hot day. Edging away from the heat, hoping to find a cooler corner in which to eat lunch, I backed into Robert Tardy.
“You found it then,” he said, looking deep into my eyes so that the massive stone walls seemed suddenly to spin furiously.
“Why—Mr. Tardy,” I whispered. “Is this the place you mentioned in your letter?”
He smiled and there was a bit too much triumph in his eyes for my liking.
“My friend and I are here for just a few days,” I said. “If Tony decides he likes it, that is.”
The boyish face lost its mischievous grin. His face clouded over as Tony stepped forward hand held out in greeting. I regretted my silly impulse to put the journalist down yet again.
“Would you—we’re just going to have lunch. Will you join us?” I said.
“I’ve had lunch,” he said coldly. “I recommend the ham pancakes,” was his curt message to Tony as he walked away.
Tony looked at me curiously but I offered no explanation. He ploughed his way through four crêpes—one with bacon and eggs inside, another with prawns and two sweet galettes stuffed with fruit and cream. Stubbornly I toyed with a steak and ordered mousse au chocolat for dessert, most of which Tony finished for me.
We drove through winding lanes to the tiny village of Ploughmoughelen later to buy our coffee and croissants for the morning. There was a telephone kiosk by the tiny Bureau de la Poste. Robert Tardy was inside, his dark green MG parked outside in the dusty square.
“I don’t want to be a drag,” I said to Tony as we drove back to Pont Sal. “But I’ve got a terrible headache and absolutely no appetite. Why don’t you drive back to Vannes for dinner—there’s bound to be an interesting restaurant there.”
“Let me go and buy stuff from the village shop,” suggested Tony.
“No—I’d like to rest quietly in the gíte—maybe I’ll stroll down to the river later. But I want you to eat and drink and be….”
I choked off the rest, but he was not offended.
“Okay, I know when I’m not wanted,” he teased. “Only—can I go out and get you some tablets….”
“No, no�
��I’ve everything I need,” I assured him.
I threaded my way down through the trees. The narrow track petered out finally and I emerged into a semi-circular clearing, water lapping the edge of the straight side. A marvellous spot for fishing, I thought, and then I saw him, Robert Tardy, leaning nonchalantly back against an oak, a silly peaked cap over his eyes, a rod wedged between his knees.
I turned, ready to backtrack up the steep path if only I could find the exit amongst the curtain of creepers, but I knew that he’d seen me and I ached for him to speak.
“I hope your friend doesn’t make as much noise as you,” he said, without moving. “Most of the fish must be across the river by now, I should think.”
“I’m sorry,” I said.
“Don’t mention it, Miss Parker.” Was there amusement in his voice or was he still bitter about my earlier rebuff?
“About Tony…” I tried.
“Please don’t mention it,” he repeated.
“I—I’d like to explain,” I said. Then I was angry with myself for this senseless humility. “Though I don’t know why I should!” I shouted.
“You owe me no explanations,” he said, suddenly occupied with his fishing tackle.
“In case you say something to hurt him…” I began.
He leaped to his feet.
“Why on earth should I wish to talk to him?” he asked. The rod wavered over the rippling surface of the water then slowly sank.
“His brother died the day you came to see me in London,” I said in a flat voice. “They were twins—my wards. The sons of my best friend.”
“Oh…” It was a groan. “I should have realised—my darling!” he cried and squelched through the grass to my side.
I looked down at my feet. I was up to the ankles in mud. I looked up again and he was close, so close. And he wasn’t as young as I’d thought—as I’d feared. his crisp hair was flecked with grey over the ears. There were dark rings beneath his eyes. His mouth was slightly puckered at one side where a small scar had imperfectly healed. I watched the mouth as it came nearer and then I closed my eyes and surrendered to the rapture of our first kiss.
“Your shoes will be ruined,” he said, drawing away for an instant. Then he kissed me again and my arms stole up and clasped his neck.
“Come on,” he said huskily a little while later. “Let’s go up and dry our feet.”
Visions of the two of us stooping over the same bidet—love in the loo yet again—made me smile. He led me up the hazardous path, assiduously forcing back branches that threatened to brush my face. As we emerged into the courtyard he said, “Have you met the Offredo sisters? The owners of the château?”
I shook my head slightly, more to try to bring myself down to earth than in answer to his question. My mind was firmly fixed on the coming pleasure of being close to him, of finding out all about him, of telling him all about me.
“They’re great characters,” he enthused. “They’re expecting me for aparitifs—you must come—their stories will be good material for you.”
I stared at him unbelievingly. Surely he did not want other company now that he had found me. Surely he was not going to inflict strangers on me?
“I—I’d rather not,” I said. “I—don’t care for crêpes,” I added.
He burst out laughing.
“Crêpes!” he shouted.
“I might offend them—your lady friends,” I said, suddenly jealous, just as he must have been, seeing me with Tony.
“The youngest is fifty-five if she’s a day,” he said, taking my hand.
“Talking of age,” I said miserably. “How old are you—I hope you don’t mind my asking.”
“Old enough,” he said, and bending forward, he kissed my ear. “Do you want me to come inside with you now?” he asked.
Keeping tight hold of his hand, I led the way into the gatehouse.
Chapter 17
He watched me drop my clothing on the middle of the living room floor. He followed me slowly into my bedroom where I stepped into the shower cubicle. I turned to adjust the taps and then he was beside me and the water streamed over both of us, the mud from our feet swirling round the enamel tray, the plastic curtain bulging with the combined bulk of our bodies. His body was hard and strong, his hands demanding but gentle. I explored the smoothness of his skin, the muscles of his thick arms, the lobes of his ears. I watched my nipples harden and thrust as his lips swept my breast….
I lay on the bed, a bath towel underneath me, while he tenderly dried every centimetre of my body with a smaller towel.
“I didn’t realise how gymnastic I could be,” I said lazily. “That wasn’t bad for a—mature—lady, was it?”
“What is this stupid obsession with age?” he demanded, drawing back to survey me from head to foot. “You’re beautiful. I’m crazy about you. Where does age come into it?”
I pulled him down to me. When he had proved again that there were no problems of a physical nature between us, I plucked up courage and asked again.
“How old are you, Robert?”
“You bring out the stubborn in me,” he said. “I don’t want to tell you…”
I turned over on my stomach and began to pluck feathers out of the pillow.
“Tony’s mother—my friend—she’s married to someone much younger than herself,” I said. “And—she’s pregnant. Quite worrying at our age. Mothers over forty don’t have an easy time, you know.”
Robert rolled off the bed and sat curled up on the rug.
“Let’s go and see the Three Sisters,” he said. “I know you’re going to find them interesting.”
I sighed but I got up and began to dress.
I had vaguely noticed the smart yet countrified grey-haired woman who had been introduced as Odette in the restaurant. Now she stood between her two sisters in their private living room which was, of course, being a French living room, almost entirely filled by an enormous dining table neatly laid out now with bottles, glasses and little trays of appetisers. Marie-Nöel, the older sister, had snowy white hair, a charming smile—and she limped as she came across to me with a glass of porto. Joséphine, the younger, could not have been a day less than fifty-five yet she was tiny and had the face of neither child nor adult. She was not grotesque, for her eyes were alert and though she never initiated the conversation, she replied sensibly enough when addressed directly. All the same, there was something disturbing about her, and her sisters constantly referred to the fact that “our Joséphine” had never been out into the world.
Marie-Nöel talked of the War, when the château had been requisitioned for a German Commandant. The Offredos were living in the neighbouring farm house. They had watched the oh-so-correct German aristocrat install a beautiful French courtesan from Paris in their beloved château. They had heard it said that this soldier was a marvellous representative of his country by the just and honest way he conducted the Occupation.
“Hah! One day, he watched me strangle a hen for dinner,” recounted Marie-Nöel. “He leaned on the gate in his immaculate uniform. He smiled at me and said, ‘Do you know, ma petite fille, I could never do what you have just done. I could not bring myself to choke a chicken to death. A Frenchman, yes, with ease—but a chicken—never!’”
“What did you think of them?” asked Robert as we strolled back past the converted stables.
“Just as you said—great characters, all three,” I conceded. “Are you going to show me your quarters?” I knew he was lodged in what had once been a cowshed and was the pride of the sisters, having won a prize for imaginative conversion from the Society of French Gîtes.
“Are you sure you don’t want some dinner?” he asked.
I shook my head. It was him I wanted, and I was shameless about it. He grinned, reading my thoughts.
“Do you fancy another shower?” he asked. “Personally, I shall never feel the same about une douche again.”
“I don’t mind if your place is untidy,” I said. “I’m not
renowned for my housekeeping….”
“When is Tony due back?” He had taken my elbow and was firmly propelling me towards my rooms. Answering his own question he said, “We’ve probably got another couple of hours to—get to know each other.”
He told me quite a lot about his journalistic career in between our bouts of lovemaking. I calculated furiously from every snippet of information, and I was soon revelling in the conclusion that he must either have kept each job no longer than a few months or be of a reasonable age. I did not like my growing obsession with his age any more than he did, but I knew what lay behind it—the clear certainty that here was the man I really wanted—needed—felt good with. And I was terrified that some obstacle would manifest itself at any moment.
I realised that he had not mentioned his family.
“Where do you come from?” I asked, running my fingers through that lovely head of hair. “Where do your people live?”
He did not answer but went over to the miniature fridge.
“I’ll make us a couple of Kirs—if you’ve any cordial,” he said. “By the way how did you react to la petite Joséphine. You weren’t revolted, were you?”
“What is she?” I asked. “I’m sure Jacques would have said she was a fée—a tree spirit.”
With Men For Pieces [A Fab Fifties Fling In Paris] Page 7