Au Pair

by Fiona McGregor

  I screamed at them. I threatened them. I yelled at them. I slapped them. Finally, subdued, they sat and wrote out the words.

  Hugues had five mistakes. Quickly, he wrote out the corrections. I sent him out to the corridor so I could deal with Laurent alone. What words Laurent had scrawled across the page were illegible. There were rents in the paper from angry up-strokes. Laurent tried everything to avoid writing out the corrections.

  He flatly refused. I insisted.

  He joked about it. I didn’t laugh.

  He was foul mouthed. I adopted my most fearful look of contempt.

  He whimpered that my writing was so bad he couldn’t read it, so how could he possibly copy out the words? With the other end of my pen I retraced the perfect shape of my letters.

  Hugues stuck his head in the door.

  – I don’t know what to play. Hurry, Laurent! Travaille!

  – You stay out there till we’ve finished, I snapped.

  Hugues came back in. He looked at Laurent for support. His pale eyes flicking nervously, he said to me, T’es bête! It’s been ONE HOUR. Salope!

  I got up and walked to the door. I felt like a tank rumbling across a field. Hugues collapsed at my feet in the doorway, terrified.

  – Never call me that again! I stood over him, feeling power, feeling disgusted by it. I went back into the study and closed the door.

  Laurent wrote out the words, slowly, carelessly, but correctly. Claudine had left her Dunhill on the desk. They looked nice. I took one from the pack and put it in my pocket. When Laurent had finished the words, I brought Hugues in to read Mister Punch. He read like an angel, smiling superciliously when he handed the book to Laurent. Laurent began.

  – Mais noooon, c’est là! Hugues jabbed the page.

  – Thank you, Hugues, I said. It doesn’t matter which page he reads.

  Laurent continued reading and gradually the tears he had been suppressing came through, disguised as obnoxious sounds.

  Then, when he’d finished reading, he began to weep properly. Embarrassed, Hugues left the room. I closed the exercise books while Laurent howled on the couch. There was no sweet taste of victory, I felt terrible. I felt as upset as Laurent looked. I went over and gave him my crusty handkerchief. He sobbed and clung to me, and all my anger melted.

  – It’s not me you have to fight, Laurent. I don’t want to fight. I just have to give you an English lesson every now and then.

  I’d wanted to make him laugh, but this only seemed to make him cry more. He seemed so small, crouched inside my shoulder; he seemed so alone, back to school in Paris in a couple of weeks, back to life with his parents in that apartment. I held him to me and comforted him, wiping his tears with the cuff of my shirt.

  – It’s okay, it’s okay.

  His tears soaked through my shirt, then through my T-shirt.

  – I’m your friend, Laurent. Okay?

  – Oui.

  Gradually his tears subsided. He looked into his lap, shamefaced.

  – It’s okay to cry. I hugged him. Feeling better now?

  – Oui.

  I wiped his face with the other cuff. A fishing-line of mucous stretched between us.

  – Oh god, I groaned. You and your snot.

  Laurent’s eyes went wicked and he sucked the stream from his nose into his mouth. Then he smiled and gave me back my handkerchief.

  – Je peux regarder la télévision?

  I opened the cupboard and turned on the television. I could tell he wanted to be alone and left him there, glassy-eyed in front of Loony Tunes. I went to my room thinking, as I had so many times before, that the battle was over. Still looking for an ally, still thinking about the enemy.

  To me, everything was a battle.

  I don’t think you can escape your roots.

  Australian, fourth generation – Little Aussie Battler.

  Plaisanterie

  The door burst open and Mme Durebex was talking at me.

  – Shona, we’re cutting the raclette and Claudine doesn’t think there’ll be enough and the raclette griller only has six trays, but Shona, chérie, you wouldn’t mind going to the village for some more cheese, would you? Or if you don’t feel like going down you can just eat some tinned mackerel. Yes, we’ll do that, d’accord? Shona?

  – It’s all the same to me, I shrugged.

  I slid my journal in front of the little pile of cigarette ash on the table.

  Mme Durebex turned at the door, pinching her nose.

  – I didn’t think you smoked, Shona.

  – When I feel like it, I said.

  I had a bath. I washed my hair. I tidied what little mess there was in my room, then I opened my journal.

  My name echoed through the foyer.

  I went upstairs. Mme Durebex was alone in the kitchen. I stood there rubbing the ends of my hair together. Mme Durebex was very agitated, and very affectionate.

  – Shona, chérie, we haven’t set a place for you, but you must eat. Go on, get yourself a place mat and help yourself to anything. Take out this raclette, it’s all we have left.

  Confused, I did as she said. I went into the dining-room. All eyes turned to me. At the eighth place was the raclette griller. Françoise moved it to the middle of the table.

  – Watch the kerosene, Françoise! called M. Laplanche. We wouldn’t want our jeune fille going up in flames!

  Claudine clucked.

  – Oh la pauvre. She hasn’t got a place set. Here, Shona, take a plate.

  I mumbled something about not having dinner till later.

  From Claudine and Françoise: Ooooooh.

  Every dish converged on me. Françoise, on my left, made space. Hugues, on my right, helped her, tongue poking from his mouth as he hefted bowls. There were steamed new potatoes, a green salad, green beans, flageolets from a tin. Hardly aware of what I was doing, I helped myself to a bit of everything. The result was a huge meal.

  – Look how hungry she is! M. Laplanche called down the table.

  I looked at my plate with a hot face. I was bloodthirsty, not hungry.

  – And we know why! It’s all that skiing. All that teaching.

  The plate of Savoie smoked ham was passed to me. One of the trays of sliced raclette was passed to me. Apart from these trays of raclette, each person had their own little supply of cheese heaped on side plates. With only six trays in the griller, and eight people now eating, the mothers had to work hard to prevent squabbles and keep the cheese flowing onto their sons’ potatoes. What was I supposed to do with this cheese now passed to me? Obeying Mme Durebex, I had brought the last wedge of raclette out from the kitchen. I was drowning in raclette. Mme Durebex said sweetly, But don’t bother with that, Shona. There’s enough cheese here.

  It seemed as if everybody was urging me to eat. Didn’t they have anything better to talk about? It seemed as if there had been particular instructions for the conduct of this dinner and I hadn’t been there when they were handed out.

  – Why isn’t la jeune fille eating any raclette? I heard M. Durebex ask Françoise.

  – She doesn’t know what it is, came the reply.

  – You, Victor! Claudine waved the dish of ham in his face. You! Un vrai Savoyard! Yet you won’t eat your raclette with the ham. You’re a disgrace to your province!

  I noticed for the first time a glint in her smile. She took a perverse delight in needling him like this. He shooed her away.

  – Raclette is not raclette without the ham, Victor! she insisted.

  – Take it away! he barked.

  The plate of ham was passed back down to me.

  – Shona doesn’t eat meat, said Mme Durebex. Elle est très produits naturels.

  And so I took a slice.

  – Bravo! said Françoise.

  I scowled. I wasn’t looking for her approval, I just wanted to be contrary. But now I had the ham, I didn’t know what to do with it. I left it on the side of my plate. Mme Durebex was watching me.

  Françoise hande
d me a tray of sizzling raclette. I poured it onto a potato. Mme Durebex was still watching me, so I folded the slice of ham. I speared it with my fork, and put it into my mouth. Fine as rice-paper, smoky, it was good. I took another slice. Sweet darkness of flesh filled my mouth. There was no particular reason I had given up eating meat in the first place, so there was no reason I shouldn’t start eating it again. I had another slice, with melted raclette and potato.

  Mme Durebex turned to Claudine and began to gossip about a neighbour.

  M. Laplanche stood up and brought the bottle of wine down to me.

  – Un peu de vin pour la petite demoiselle? he bowed gallantly.

  When his head was level with mine, he whispered, And where is your fiancé tonight?

  I put my hand over my glass. M. Durebex reached for the wine. Not finding it, he admonished his wife.

  – This table is too big!

  I shovelled food into my mouth. I hated them hated them hated them. Françoise was worrying Laurent would burn his tongue on the raclette, and M. Laplanche was telling his wife she ought not to wear so much black, and Mme Durebex was poking the few beans on her plate, telling me I had bought the wrong brand when it was she who’d suggested the change, and M. Durebex was pushing bowls away, complaining there wasn’t enough room.

  His wife looked at him defiantly.

  – Listen, Victor, she said. We haven’t stopped today.

  – Yes you have.

  – When, Victor? said Claudine, and Françoise looked up, as though she, too, might say something.

  – You went skiing, he said, folding his napkin. Then he put it on the table and left the room so the women, if they had wanted to finally stand up for themselves, were denied the opportunity. Somehow, I doubted they did want to stand up for themselves.

  I cleared and went into the kitchen to help them. We bumped into one another. The three of them were doubled up with laughter.

  – La batavia! La batavia! they shrieked.

  I couldn’t see what was so funny about a lettuce. But I wanted to. I stood on the edge of their laughter, fighting my paranoia, waiting for someone to tell me. They staggered across the swept floor. I rinsed a cloth and held it, looking for a dirty surface, looking for an entry to their conversation. I felt superfluous. Finally, I put the cloth on the sink and went down to my room.

  As soon as I closed the door Mme Durebex’ shriek punctured it.

  – Shona! Shona! Viens voir!

  I went up. She was pacing to and from the dining-room on mysterious errands. Not looking at me, she said briskly, Listen Shona, you must lend a hand up here because we’ve done everything today, tout tout tout!

  – What would you like me to do? I said cynically.

  – There are things to be put away. Here. Look.

  She pointed to two chairs. I took them into the kitchen, then stood there. The room was spotless. Claudine, Françoise and Mme Durebex shook with laughter. I had the impression Claudine was telling smutty jokes. I smiled with interest, but there was an invisible barrier. I said again, almost snarling, What needs to be done?

  This sent them into hysterics. Then Françoise walked up to me, and said slowly, Go onto the roof and get-some-fresh-air.

  They were laughing so much they were crying. It was one big bad joke. Claudine began to enunciate in bad English.

  – Va – Go, te – you, promener – wal-kink, sur – above, euh, you understand?

  – Of course! But—

  – Le – the, toit – roof.

  I walked out of the room. I heard:

  – Elle comprend ou pas?

  – Non, elle ne comprend pas.

  – Mais si! Elle comprend même les plaisanteries!

  I walked back in, hot to the tips of my ears.

  – Listen, I’m not stupid, and I’m not deaf, I said.

  – Ooooh, said Claudine and Françoise.

  Mme Durebex stood near the breadboard watching me, finger to the corner of her mouth. I suddenly became aware of my deep, irrational aversion to this mannerism. I was struck dumb. I walked out, making an up-yours sign that I thought was hidden. Françoise saw it and came after me. She put a hand on my shoulder. I shook her off and she recoiled in surprise.

  I went down to my room, crying with frustration. I put my coat on. God I longed to say something witty and devastating, but wry Aussie didn’t translate well into French. I wished they didn’t affect me. I thought as hard as I could of the smallness of them. I thought so hard they became enormous. I wished I could feel above all this, more mature. But it was hard to feel mature when everybody treated you like a child.

  Alongside the chalet, the snow was deep, covered in a crisp shell. I trudged through it, heading for darkness. There was a loud rapping, and I looked up. The three women were at the kitchen window. I turned away and kept walking. The rapping grew stronger. I stopped, knee-deep in the snow, and looked up at the window.

  Claudine brought her hands together in front of her, then spread them. I replied with a big shrug and continued on my way. There was a volley of fists on the window. I stopped and called, What do you want?

  The window went up and the voice of Mme Durebex lanced out over the snow.

  – Qui êtes vous?

  What on earth did she mean? I thought for a second, then called back, Une étrangère.

  – Where are you going? came the voice of Claudine, brittle as the stalactites fringing the eave between us.

  – Me promener.

  – Oh là là là là là là! exclaimed Mme Durebex, and the window was slammed down.

  It was a cold, black night. I didn’t stay out for long. I had no key to get back in. I would have to knock, someone would answer, and I would be embarrassed.

  It was Françoise who opened the front door. She squeezed my arm affectionately.

  – Go to bed.

  But Mme Durebex caught me on my way into my room.

  – Shona! Viens voir! Viens voir!

  I traipsed out to the foyer. Mme Durebex was standing on the stairs, dressed in tight jeans and high-heeled boots. She pointed to something at her feet.

  – Look, she said. You know Monsieur can’t abide this.

  – What? I said, not seeing anything.

  I approached. She looked so idiotic, standing there in her garish outfit, pointing at nothing.

  – You had better clean it up before he sees, she said. He’ll be furious.

  – What is it? I asked again, perplexed.

  I went up close, my head level with her pointy lizard-skin boots, and I looked hard.

  – Cigarette ash! pronounced Mme Durebex.

  – Well, it wasn’t me! I said, even more perplexed now I saw what she was referring to.

  – That’s right, she suddenly drew herself up. You wouldn’t dare smoke in the chalet, would you? You’re too scared of Monsieur, aren’t you?

  – No, I said, biting back a smile. I’m not scared of him. That’s not—

  She cut me off.

  – Ah yes, it’s Claudine who walks around smoking. C’est pas possible, ça!

  She clipped up the stairs, nose in the air.

  When everything was quiet, I went up to the kitchen for a glass of wine. Françoise appeared.

  – They went out, she whispered. All dressed up. Ha! Les vieilles! Qu’est-ce qu’elles sont moches!

  – Vieux sacs, I agreed.

  – Ugh, Françoise grimaced. All that makeup. And do you know, Claudine throws up after every meal?

  – What?

  – I hear her through the wall. Their bathroom’s next door.

  – Oh god, I said. Poor thing. She must have an eating problem.

  – Well. Françoise put her hand on her hip. We’ve all got problems, don’t we, in this place!

  – Sure do.

  – Vieux sacs, Françoise grinned at me.

  I enjoyed our vieux sacs joke. It was a secret that gave me sustenance. We minced around the kitchen, laughing at one another. I came from Sydney; I was a bet
ter mincer than Françoise.

  I sat up till late with a book, my glass of wine and one of Claudine’s cigarettes. I had decided this was a nice way to end the day. A nice way to begin my nights of dozing, dreaming, brooding, imagining all the witty comebacks, all the things I should have said, the times I should have kneed M. Laplanche in the balls, the times I should have told Mme Durebex …

  In the early hours the door burst open and a light flashed on.

  – Oh, pardon! Mme Durebex wobbled past my door to the room adjacent.

  She was drunk. I listened to her rummage through the linen cupboard, cursing and giggling to herself. And I lay there, waiting for her to leave and turn the light out.

  Breakdown

  What was happening inside my head was happening outside of it as well. Things were falling apart; cabin fever was spreading. I slunk about in the background, often not leaving the chalet for the entire day. M. Laplanche slunk about in the background of my background. Honorée cleaned for two hours every morning, and the job was never properly done.

  – She puts everything back in the wrong place, Mme Durebex would say. Don’t these people know the difference between a knife and a fork?

  – She moves my clothes, Françoise would say. Why does she have to go into my room?

  Françoise didn’t like the colour of Honorées skin. She didn’t like her accent. Françoise talked about the immigration problem. At least Honorée wasn’t Arabic.

  – Why do they keep letting them in? France has enough problems.

  – Françoise, I’m an illegal worker, I would say.

  – You’re different, was the reply.

  Mme Durebex complained about the children.

  – They have become impossible! Victor, do you remember that boy David we took to St Tropez? He and Laurent were wonderful together. They shared their toys, they were content in one another’s company, they were always polite.

  M. Durebex and Françoise leaned forward to Mme Durebex’ story.

  – C’est à cause d’Hugues, she said. Hugues used to sit next to a boy who had been playing up. Claudine told the teacher she wanted Hugues moved away, and the teacher said it was actually Hugues’ fault, it was he who induced the other boy to be naughty.

  M. Durebex and Françoise nodded vigorously.