Evidently the password wasn’t forthcoming and so Charlie headed outside towards the plane tree and sat down at the rusty iron table.
Five minutes later she ambled over, pulling her battered straw hat down over her eyes. ‘Sorry about that. Thanks for waiting. Okay. All set? It’s only a couple of kilometres walk.’
Her voice sounded altered. Charlie tried to put his finger on what was different about it. She had lost all of her casual Aussie mannerisms. In fact, she sounded quite formal and clipped – British in fact. Was she taking the piss?
‘This way!’ She pointed towards the garden. ‘Follow me!’
‘Your voice,’ Charlie said. ‘It’s changed.’
‘Has it?’
‘Yes. Say something else.’
‘Oh, okay … what do you want? Some tourist info? These stone houses, for example are called ‘mas’; thick stone walls, canal-tiled roof, no windows on the North side to avoid the blast from the Mistral, and small windows everywhere else to keep out the intense heat from the sun …’
‘You’re not an Aussie at all,’ he said. ‘You’re a Brit!’
She didn’t break stride. ‘What did you think? Was it convincing?’
‘To be honest I thought it sounded a bit peculiar …’
‘Did you? Did you?’ She was thoughtful. ‘Hm, that explains a lot …’
‘Explains what?’
‘That was my agent on the phone. I auditioned for a role in an Australian production a couple of weeks ago. I didn’t get the part.’
‘You’re an actress?’
‘’Fraid so.’
‘And you’ve been talking in an Australian accent, non-stop for the last two weeks?’
She made a little comme ci comme ça gesture. ‘Well, no, not to the locals. What would be the point of that? Only to you … In any case,’ she said, laughing, ‘it was supposed to be New Zealand!’
‘Well no wonder you didn’t get it,’ said Charlie. ‘Your vowel sounds were all wrong.’
‘Were they?’ Her lolloping gait slowed somewhat.
‘They weren’t squished enough.’
‘Squished?’
‘Yiss,’ he demonstrated. ‘Like thuss. All squeezed and tight.’
‘Are you saying I’m a rubbish actor?’
He hung back. ‘I wouldn’t know. I’ve never seen you in anything.’
She laughed raucously and he realised his mistake. ‘Sorry, I didn’t mean any offence—’
‘Look!’ she said. ‘A lizard! Don’t scare it!’
A tiny lizard, its S-shaped body completely still, lay basking on a bright white rock. ‘Quick, let’s get a picture! Before it goes!’
Davina had removed the phone from her back pocket and was sidling this way and that to get herself and the lizard in shot. Too late; the animal took fright and skittered through the dust. She straightened up and put the phone away.
‘Anyway,’ he said. ‘How do I know that this is your real accent? Are you in character now?’
She regarded him quizzically.
‘I mean, is this you, or are you acting?’
‘It’s me,’ she replied. ‘It’s really me.’
‘This is how you talk normally?’
‘This is how I talk. Normally.’
‘So what was the film part you didn’t get?’
‘Some Antipodean thing, like I said. They chose a genuine Aussie. Although,’ she added as they resumed walking, ‘I would have been cheaper. Much cheaper.’
‘Who did they cast?’ he enquired. ‘Out of interest?’
She refused to enlighten him. ‘What do you care? You’re obviously no expert.’
He didn’t know what he was supposed to say to that. He couldn’t pretend that he knew who she was, if he didn’t have a clue. ‘I’m afraid I don’t keep up with celebrity culture.’
‘Thank God for that,’ she retorted. ‘To tell you the truth, it’s a bit of a relief to drop the accent. Although I was getting to quite like her. The character, that is.’ She relented. ‘It was about two people, a man and a woman, both divorced. The woman decides to set up some kind of internet self-help group or recovery point, for people whose marriages are, or were hopeless, and calls it “The Bad Marriage Gang”. But no-one signs up for it because they think it sounds like some criminal concern, except for this one guy – who thinks it’s just what he needs. Basically the Bad Marriage Gang is just the two of them … and guess what?’
‘They fall in love?’
‘Correct. Hence my attempt to immerse myself in the idiom and expressions of a woman from down under …’
Her actual voice was quite attractive he thought, full of strange pauses and stops, and affectations, like she was trying out various nuances as she spoke.
‘How come you live in Provence?’ he asked as she led them along the quiet road towards the town.
‘It’s as good a place as any,’ she said. ‘I came here a couple of years ago with my husband and fell in love with the place. As you do.’
He would have liked her to go on he realised, but somehow it gave him a perverse pleasure not to ask for further details. After all, she was probably expecting him to. They liked to pretend that they wanted privacy and a normal life, these actors, but in fact they withered like unwatered plants the second the public or the media lost interest in them. She wanted him to ask all about her husband, or husbands – no doubt there’d been several – and her eight children – four natural, four adopted …
And then he realised she was smiling at him.
‘It’s hot, isn’t it?’ he said, changing the subject. ‘I mean, I was expecting it to be hot, but it’s really hot.’
‘This is nothing compared to later on in the year. It’s shady when we get there,’ she said. ‘You won’t burn.’
‘Is it much further?’
‘Through the town and out the other side.’
For a while they trudged on in silence, the intense sun beating down on the bright white pavements, the slim dark shadows cast from the telegraph lines overhead, criss-crossing in front of their feet.
‘Okay,’ she said, ‘now we’re in the Avenue Van Gogh … so called because the asylum that he checked into – St Paul de Mausole – is situated along this very road. You know, he painted about a hundred and fifty canvases while he lived here. Some of his most famous pictures – Starry Night, The Cypresses, the one of his bedroom …’
‘… with the chair,’ he finished for her, ‘yes, I do know. I’m not totally culturally ignorant.’
‘Thank God for that,’ she said. ‘Here we are, this is it.’
They were standing in the shade of a cluster of trees alongside a cenotaph decorated with spear-wielding relief figures and a large triumphal arch with the top missing.
‘Les Antiques,’ said Davina. ‘And on the other side of the main road – which we shall cross shortly, are the ancient remains of the Greco-Roman town that predates St Rémy. Thought you’d like the scale, the textures, the scene from the Trojan War—’ she was running her fingers across the carved relief. ‘Not interested?’ she said. ‘Not your period?’
‘No! They’re fascinating …’ She had no idea how much.
She moved away from the shadows of the monuments and across to the other side of the road where she tucked in through the trees and skittered down the edge of a slope. He checked both ways for traffic and then jogged after her.
A handful of tourists were picking their way through the excavations of a large settlement. ‘This is Glanum,’ said Davina. ‘Originally a shrine to the Celtic God Glanis, the Romans built a forum, baths and a temple. When the Franks were on the rampage the inhabitants relocated to St Rémy where it was safer and more secure. Silt from the Alpilles washed down the mountains and gradually covered it from view. It wasn’t until the 19th Century that archaeologists rediscovered its ancient mysteries.’
He listened to her tourist guide spiel while the high white mountains of the Alpilles towered above them, framing the rema
ins of the town. Following her along the dusty, rock-strewn paths, the glare from the harsh sun made him squint, but as he walked amongst the trenches, the terraces, the truncated pillars and half-formed arches, he caught more than an inkling of its former glories.
Through half closed eyes he watched the visitors milling about like children in a giant playground, negotiating obstacles, climbing steps, exploring winding paths and hidden corners … and as their modern dress and accoutrements became more difficult to make out, just for a few seconds, a dislocation occurred whereby the fallen lumps of masonry were rebuilt, the crumbled pillars were reborn, the long-lost fountain and the base of the temple were restored to full height, and the houses were suddenly whole, the pavements and mosaics complete. Surrounded by noise and bustle, the inhabitants’ skin, hair and clothing were as real as the tourists’ sunhats and rucksacks had been only seconds before.
A child’s shout from behind interrupted him and almost as quickly as the images had arrived they were gone again and he was back in the present, amongst the vertical broken-off pillars and the low walls where the modern visitors were taking selfies and recording videos on their phones. Only the peak of the white chalkstone mountain and the green foliage along its lower slopes remained unchanged.
How much more credibility he’d have if he could prove his ‘gift’ existed, if he could click on the camera icon and capture the images on his phone whenever they manifested themselves. But like the basking lizard earlier, the scenes were too fleeting to catch hold of.
‘Good choice,’ he told Davina when they were reunited. ‘Thank you for bringing me here.’
‘Thought I’d break you in gently,’ she replied. ‘Take it slow.’
I’ll bet you did, he thought to himself.
The intense heat and bright light could only be tolerated for so long. ‘We’ll amble back to town,’ she said, ‘and get some lunch.’
Interesting, how she assumed he was going to spend the rest of the day with her.
‘But if you’d rather go home for stale baguette and coffee …’
‘No no, I’ll be guided by you.’
‘Well then,’ she said brightly. ‘Le Bistro des Alpilles it is! It’s in all the guide books. It’s very respectable. Main drag, well frequented.’
Quite. Somewhere that you could see and be seen. That would suit a faded actress very well.
Chapter Three
By the time they’d trudged all the way back to St Rémy, Charlie was ravenous.
Le Bistro had a modestly priced menu and a small terrace where they could eat in the open. Davina settled herself into the seat next to him and barely glanced at the food on offer. The waiter greeted her enthusiastically, chatting away to her for a couple of minutes before retreating inside. ‘Henri recommends today’s special,’ she said. ‘Très délicieux. You’ll love the wine,’ she added. ‘One of the best varieties in the area.’
‘I’m more of a beer man,’ he said. ‘But again I’ll accept the recommendation.’
They were overlooking an open square where a select gathering of men were involved in a traditional game of boules. Listening to the heavy thunk of the silver balls as they landed in the dust and the clink of metal against metal as they made contact with each other, he became aware that these old men with their shambling manner, and their middle-age spread deliberately kept their backs turned. They weren’t there to put on a show for him.
He wondered how often she came here; how many male dining companions she’d had; how many complimentary bottles of Châteauneuf du Pape she’d quaffed, how many “Henri’s recommendations” she’d consumed? And then he realised what she’d done.
‘The mystery woman I’m supposed to be meeting in Avignon,’ he said. ‘It’s you isn’t it? You’re my client.’
Her expression was blank.
‘Come on,’ he said. ‘I’m right, aren’t I?’
She winced sheepishly. ‘Yes. Are you angry?’
He was more baffled than anything. ‘What’s with the subterfuge?’
‘Davina Kennedy is the name of the character in the Aussie film I was telling you about. I thought I’d adopt her for a bit and see what happened.’
‘Do you do that a lot? Pretend to be someone else?’
‘All the time. I’m an actress.’
He’d asked for that.
‘My real name is Anne Marie Devine,’ she said. ‘Or rather it’s my stage name. I borrowed the ‘Devine’ bit from my great grandmother, Minnie Etherege Devine. We’re an acting dynasty. You might have heard of her?’
He hadn’t.
‘Etherege was her husband’s name, but she added the Devine to make it sound more sophisticated. Maybe you’ve heard of my father, Victor Etherege? He was a sought-after character actor back in the day, stage work mainly but he’s done a fair bit of TV?’
Again, no.
The secrecy had been deliberate she told him; to prevent him from researching the family first and making biased assumptions.
He was intrigued by her thoughtful … mannered … way … of speaking. He’d never heard … anything … quite … like it … before. It was as though she pondered every syllable, listened to every letter’s sonic aura before she could bear to let it go; as if she was acoustically tuning every sentence that came from her mouth, demonstrating her actorly enunciation.
‘You were sussing me out.’
‘Yes,’ she said. ‘Do you blame me?’ She paused. ‘I once got asked to do one of those mini questionnaire things. The ones that go: Town or country? Paris or London? Fry-up or cereal? But I’m never very good at making up my mind. You know how that feels – when you can’t make a decision? When you’re not quite sure? And you’ve never been sure … about anything?’
He did. Actors were hardly unique in being unable to compartmentalise and box everything up neatly. All anyone could do was to try and make sense out of disorder. Davina? Devine? ‘Seriously,’ he said, leaning forwards. ‘What would I have seen you in?’
She screwed up her face. ‘Oh, I don’t know … Anything that went straight to DVD hell!’
‘Costume dramas?’
‘Ooh, ages ago, when I was fresh out of drama school. I had a tiny role in a Dickens adaptation. There were so many characters – blink and you’d miss me.’ She tried to compose her features into a featureless void. ‘See,’ she indicated. ‘Nothing there. Rubbish.’
‘What else?’
She sighed, twirling a strand of hair through her fingers. ‘Um, well, recently … not a great deal. I made a couple of films over here, of course … In translation, there’s one called – well, have you heard of Hair in the Gate? It was about a film director. A “hair in the gate” is a technical term. It means you have to re-do the take.’
‘I know that, yes.’
‘Course you do, you’re not stupid. Anyway,’ she said, ‘I played the director’s unstable wife. Limited release. No one saw it. Made no money. And then there was this art house number called The Return of the Yearn, again, that’s its translated title …’
He laughed. ‘The return of the what – the yearn?’
‘I know. It’s a silly title. It was a silly film … But I got paid well, so, who gives a shit! I lead a very unstructured life,’ she told him. ‘When I’m not working. Which is most of the time. Resting is what we actor types call it. As you can see, I’ve nothing much on. It would be my pleasure to run you around while you’re here. Anywhere you like. Show you the sights.’
She was interesting company, there was no doubt about it, and it would certainly be useful to spend more time with her. If that’s how she preferred it.
Chapter Four
Charlie breathed in the essence of Mas Daria, its soft hum, committing to memory every shadow on the ground, every rustle of the leaves in the plane tree, every nodding sunflower, clump of weeds, crack in the farmhouse mortar. Was it the St Rémy air, the sun, the breeze, or the distinct aroma of lavender oil that gave him the urge to remove all his clothing an
d stand there naked?
‘Come and have a drink,’ said Anne Marie. ‘Under the tree.’
He could feel the dislocation beginning...
In the garden a woman is busy hoeing a patch of earth. Two young girls are helping her dig up the vegetables. While she turns the soil they willingly toss the exhumed produce into the basket alongside. They are humming a song. Dressed in woollen cardigans, cotton print dresses and knee length socks, the fastenings on their sandals are worn limp with endless buckling and unbuckling. Over by the wall, between two trees there is a garden swing seat, piled high with cushions and blankets. As the woman takes the full basket inside the girls run off to play. ‘Don’t get dirty!’ she calls after them.
Charlie sat down on the iron-work chair and Anne Marie poured him a glass of wine.
‘It’s the only way to drink properly,’ she said, ‘out of doors, in the dappled shade of a plane tree, with the cicadas thrumming away in the undergrowth, the mountains of the Alpilles in the distance. I’m thinking of doing an aromatherapy course. There are plenty of instructors round these parts. The raw material is everywhere.’
The girls have filled the swing seat with a collection of sprawl-legged dolls and fur-matted teddy bears and are giving them a push.
‘Valérie makes beautiful salad from the vegetables in this garden,’ Anne Marie went on. ‘In the winter she makes a wonderful soup.’
The girls are kneeling in the dust, arranging miniature plates and bowls on a metal tray. The older girl pours water from a tiny jug into the cups which, one by one, the younger girl kindly offers to the dolls.
‘Tomorrow I have to go to St Marie de la Mer to see my son,’ said Anne Marie. ‘You could come with me if you like. Pack a pique-nique and some drinks. We can get there in a couple of hours …’
He forced himself to turn away from the doll’s tea party and refocus his attention. ‘Sorry. What were you saying?’
‘I’m telling you about my son. He’s staying with my mother-in law at the moment. She will hand Roman over to me for a few hours and then I’ll have to give him back.’
The Dragonfly Brooch Page 2