by Lucy English
‘Well, did you ever see such a fine-looking peasant?’ This was the younger man. He spoke English and at first I almost didn’t understand because I hadn’t spoken English for months.
‘Looks deceive, Julian,’ said the older man. ‘Look again, tell me what you see.’ And they both looked at me.
‘She’s young and fit. Bright eyes, cheeky mouth. Give her a wash, she’d do for me.’
He smiled. He thought I didn’t understand him. He had pale skin, dark hair and the bluest eyes I’d ever seen. He crossed his legs. He had black ankle boots and silky socks. He was rake thin. He had elegant hands. He dipped one finger in his wine glass and then sucked it. I think I blushed.
The older man laughed. ‘Julian, you do not see things properly. You see what you want to see. This girl is English.’
The younger man stared. ‘Surely not. She jabbers away like a local.’
‘Look, she has blue eyes. Look, she has, how do you say … spots.’
‘Freckles, Badouin. She has freckles.’
‘She is too tall for a girl from the village.’ He turned to me. He had a white beard. He was dressed in a pale blue tunic and loose trousers. He had a large gold ring on one hand. ‘You’re English, aren’t you? You’re the girl who lives in a cabanon.’
‘Yes,’ I said. Sanclair pulled at my shirt. He didn’t understand what they were saying.
‘And this little cherub is her son.’
‘Well, I never,’ said the younger man. ‘She seems too young. So …’ he was baffled. ‘So why is she …’ He looked me straight in the eyes. ‘So, why are you singing in cafés?’
‘It’s what I do,’ I said.
The older man laughed. ‘Young lady, please join us.’
He was Badouin. He was a painter and he had rented the château for the summer. He was well known although I had never heard of him, and the younger man was Julian Greville-Newton. His father was a patron of Badouin’s. They bought me a glass of wine and a sorbet for Sanclair.
‘So you live in a hut?’ said Julian.
‘She lives with that German.’ Badouin took off his hat. He was completely bald.
‘What, the crazy one who works with the drunken oaf? What, that great lumbering hairy German?’
Badouin laughed. ‘My friend is a blunt man, my dear. You must excuse him. Julian, you embarrass our guest. She is a charming young girl, nicely bred and then she runs away with a German, has his baby and now they are so happy, he tells me, and she loves to sing.’
‘It’s a strange world,’ said Julian. He scrutinised me further and moved his head closer to mine. He smelled of perfume. ‘You’re not shy, but you’re reserved. I can see that now. What goes on in that quiet head of yours?’
I could only think that he was clean. His clothes were spotless, and so was he. His nails had half moons on them. His shirt had gold cuff links. His skin was almost translucent.
Sanclair finished his sorbet and said, ‘Shall we sing some more for you because I like to eat this.’
Badouin smiled. ‘Don’t they make a picture, Julian? The young Madonna and her little sun king.’
‘Paint them.’
‘No, I shall stay with rocks and trees, but I shall remember. You should learn to draw, Julian, then you would see things. See his brown eyes like his father, and his mouth, like his mother, what do you say, a cheeky mouth. This little man is not afraid of his world, and she is not afraid either, are you? Tell me what you see, my dear.’
Nobody talked to me like this except Gregor and I was embarrassed, but they were waiting and Sanclair looked up at me and licked his spoon again, he wanted more sorbet.
‘I see that you have a gold ring as thick as a strap, and he has gold cuff links. You both have straw hats, not cheap ones, but real ones of the creamiest straw. Your clothes have been ironed. I can see that you are both rich.’
They laughed and Sanclair laughed even more when they ordered more sorbet. Then I saw Gregor, walking towards the square with Macon, both of them dusty with plaster. Gregor had his shirt off and it was true he did look massive, a bronzed, muscled, hairy thing with hair down to his shoulders and a blond beard. He bounded over to us and Sanclair shouted, ‘Papa, hurry up and sing and these people will buy you ice cream.’
‘If they can buy me ice cream, they can buy me wine! Come on,’ he said to me, ‘play that box of yours.’
Gregor may have looked boorish, but round a table with a group of people he was king. There is no topic he can’t discuss and now it’s art. We have sung and sung and the table has filled up with wine bottles. My head is swimming. Sanclair has fallen asleep on my lap. Jeanette and Auxille have realised who the people in the straw hats really are and they are flitting about like bats. Macon has joined us and he too has an opinion about modern art. Piccasso and Matisse, they’re all right but they can’t draw, and that’s the problem. Badouin and Gregor are locked into a duel, classicism versus romanticism and at the moment romanticism looks like it’s going to win. Only Julian is quiet, touching his finger tips together and crossing and uncrossing his legs. He is watching Gregor.
Again he leans over to me and says in my ear, ‘Your German is quite a character, isn’t he? I can see why you like him, but tell me, is he a complete animal in bed?’
The sun has gone in like I thought it would. I shall go inside and light a fire now, because I know it’s going to rain.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Monday 16th. Early evening
The rain started about an hour ago and it’s coming down quite hard. I didn’t bring the hammock in. I suppose it will be all right. I was thinking I don’t have many memories of rain here although it rains hard in the spring and the autumn. I have memories of storms because they are so dramatic. I would like a storm because it used to feel that the hut shook in the thunder and I could almost hear the lightning snapping.
It rained the night we had dinner at the château. The roads were wet and the drive to the château was full of puddles. It was just dusk. The château was lit up downstairs and seemed to be glowing. I remember I felt nervous and inadequate. What had I got to say at dinner parties?
The windows of the château are reflected in the puddles in the courtyard like shining cat’s eyes. Sanclair is restless and fidgety, he wants to see the big house. When the car stops he is the first out and runs up to the grand front door, then he stops and stares upwards. He has never seen a house so big and here’s Julian to welcome us. He’s wearing a dark blue velvet suit. He hugs me to him and he already smells of wine. When he hugs me he seems to press his groin into mine, but before I can object he’s shaking Gregor’s hand and saying, ‘Well, this is the country cottage.’
We walk inside. There are candles everywhere. The rooms are empty but huge. There are pink silk curtains at the windows falling into tatters, gilded chairs and Badouin’s paintings leaning up against the walls. He paints with a draughtsman’s precision, rocks and trees, craggy corners of Provence. Each blade of grass seems to be separate. The effect is of an amazing intensity. A single olive tree has iconic status. A rock formation is a twisted mass of colour. Even in the candlelight I can see this. He paints a world without people, constantly in bright sun. A parched, lonely planet, blue, terracotta and brown.
Badouin is watching us. He wears the pale blue clothes he always wears. Julian offers him another drink but Badouin waves him away. Julian leans against a gilded armchair and watches us too. I try not to look at him but look instead at Sanclair, who is standing in the middle of the room looking up at the ceiling with his mouth open. On the ceiling is a painting of cherubs going up to heaven. In the soft candlelight it does indeed look real.
‘What happens when it rains?’ asks Sanclair. ‘Don’t you all get wet?’
‘It’s a trick,’ says Julian, ‘it’s not real,’ and picks him up. They are dissimilar. Thin pale Julian and rosy blond Sanclair. I’m anxious, but Julian isn’t interested in Sanclair. He is doing this for my benefit. He spins Sanclair around unti
l he giggles, then puts him down and looks straight at me. I suddenly feel he is dangerous. I look to Gregor for support but he has seen none of this.
Julian smiles, conspiratorially. It feels like we are alone together. ‘I think it’s time to eat. I think it’s time to meet our students,’ he says.
The students are Shula and Miriam. They are American art students. They do the cooking, tidy the studio, look after Badouin. Badouin has explained none of this, he never explains anything, but they are spending a year with him. Shula is tall and dark with tied-back hair and big teeth. Miriam is plump and pink, she has crinkly ginger hair and ginger eyelashes. She wears a sari. They like to talk. Shula is particularly interested in Provençal culture. She is doing a dissertation on folk art, and what does Gregor think of the region’s votive paintings? And Miriam loves pottery, darlings, she lurves it, and antique faïence ware, darling, isn’t it so gorgeous, and is that your son, and isn’t he just so gorgeous, and can you play that accordion thing, now that is so fascinating …
The dining room has one large table with silver candlesticks. The walls are all mirrors. We have artichokes, then a beef stew, salad, cheese, cherries and strawberries. Tapenade, wine, port, more wine and then more wine. Tarte aux pommes, more cheese, more wine and then we must sing. Sing for our supper like Tommy Tucker. Gregor can begin because he doesn’t get as drunk as me. I heave my accordion up and hope I get the notes right, but once I start it’s OK and we’re singing. Gregor on the bass line and me with the melody, stretching it as far as I can, to the ceiling and back, round the table and back. Sanclair is asleep on a sofa now, and twitches like a cat when we sing as if he’s singing in his sleep. Shula’s smile is fixed to her face, Miriam is winding a curl of hair around her thumb. Badouin has closed his eyes and Julian is staring at me from underneath his dark eyebrows.
And we sing.
I can see us reflected in the mirrors. I can see myself from all angles. I’m not used to seeing myself. I’m fascinated.
It’s later and I’m asleep on the sofa with Sanclair. I’m dreaming we’re at the hut curled up under the roof, but Gregor is waking me. They say we can stay here, there is a bed upstairs, what do you say, sleepy schoolgirl?’ It’s nearly morning and I’m too tired to protest. He picks up Sanclair and I follow them upstairs to a room with a large draped bed and windows letting in the pink and grey morning. I flop on to the bed and he puts Sanclair next to me. He’s not going to join me, he wants to talk with the men downstairs, who don’t seem to need any sleep. I take my clothes off and cuddle up to Sanclair. He rubs his nose but doesn’t wake up. I’m sleeping again. The door opens with a click. I think it’s Gregor, but it isn’t. Nobody comes in. I’m too tired to care.
When I wake it’s already lunchtime. The others are by the pool. Shula and Miriam in their swimming costumes revealing their bodies to Badouin, who doesn’t give a damn. Badouin and Gregor are discussing something, I think they’re on to God now. Sanclair, naked as a fish, is flipping himself into the water, shouting, ‘Watch me, watch this!’
I sit next to Julian. He’s in the shade of a table umbrella, still in his midnight blue velvet. The rain has blown away. It’s sunny now, but humid.
‘Will you join the nymphs?’ he says to me. ‘I won’t. I hate sunlight.’
‘I didn’t bring a costume,’ I say.
‘Do you think that matters? It would be refreshing to see a decent female form.’
Miriam and Shula in their bathing suits are not glamorous specimens, as my mother would say. Shula is all knees and elbows and Miriam doesn’t have any knees, but dimpled creases and other lumps where there shouldn’t be any. I wrap my skirt around me. I would love to swim. I really would.
‘Why do you wear such unattractive garb?’ asks Julian, handing me a drink. ‘I’m sure that underneath you have a most elegant body. Little pert breasts like apples.’ He purses his lips. He has full lips and they twist easily into a sneer. ‘On va manger. Would you care to nibble a pissaladière?’
We eat lunch by the pool. Afterwards Badouin and the students go inside for a rest. That leaves me, Gregor, Sanclair and Julian. We move to a patch of shade on the lawn. ‘If it gets hotter, I’ll die,’ says Julian. ‘I’m from Norfolk. I’m not used to the heat.’ He talks about himself. He describes his father as a pig-farmer. I’m sure he’s something more grand than that, and more cultured. He has a private art collection. Julian is the youngest son. He says his brothers are something in the City. His sister is married to another pig-farmer. He has a soft voice and it’s sending Gregor to sleep. Sanclair has gone back to the pool and is trying to stop the water coming out of the lion’s mouth. Julian studied languages at Oxford, worked as a teacher for a bit, couldn’t stand it and now he’s bored. He thinks he’d like to do garden design or antiques, but he’s not sure. Or open a gallery. That’s his father’s idea. I’m not used to talking to men of my own age and Julian is a curiosity. He is so mannered. Each gesture seems rehearsed. From his wavy hair to his Cuban boots he has not forgotten a single detail. Gregor is asleep now and snoring.
‘Does he do this at night?’ asks Julian. ‘When he mounts you, does he make a noise, a grunting noise?’
‘I think I’ll swim now,’ I say and go to the pool. I take off my shirt and sit by the side in my pants and blouse. Sanclair swims over and splashes me, my blouse becomes wet and wetter and sticks to my front. I slip into the water and start to swim. I’m aware Julian is watching me. I’m very aware of it.
I was both attracted and repulsed. Gregor didn’t lust after me, his behaviour towards me was always paternal, protective. Sometimes I felt he would rather spend the night telling me about Morocco than making love. I didn’t mind this. I found it hard to see myself as a body, as attractive even. But at the château I was the most attractive woman and it was visible. When I walked into the dining room and saw myself on the walls, framed by ornate gilt, in my wet blouse and knickers. Dark hair, blue eyes, long legs, long arms, my wet clothes clinging to me. I stopped in the centre of the room by the long table, still littered with last night’s dinner. There were flies buzzing around the debris, blobs of candle wax on the table cloth and there was Julian leaning against a doorframe. ‘I was just looking for a towel,’ I said, embarrassed. I was making a puddle on the floor. I could see my footprints all round the room. ‘It’s an attractive sight, isn’t it?’ said Julian and walked towards me, but I ran because nobody was keeping an eye on Sanclair.
I was just looking round this hut. How safe it feels here, how safe it feels now. The stove is roaring, the rain’s tapping on the tiles, the lamp is lit on the table. It smells fresh here. It’s tidy. All my possessions are where I can see them. I’ve always liked small rooms. I feel there’s nothing hiding round a corner to surprise me. I like the outside right up to my window, but inside I like it small. The château was huge. It didn’t have many rooms, but they were built to a grand scale, lofty and full of light. I used to feel dwarfed by them. I didn’t want to go there much. I wanted to stay here with Sanclair and Gregor on this little bit of land, but Gregor loved the château. He loved the shabby grandeur and the late-night parties, the discussions that went on until morning.
He didn’t notice that Julian always sat next to me, so he could run his hand down my thigh as if it were accidental. I don’t think Shula and Miriam noticed either. They were too busy with their talk and impressing Badouin. Badouin noticed. I sometimes wonder if he planned it all, as meticulously as his own art, adding people like another colour to make the final perfect picture.
Julian knew what was going on. He was playing the game. He competed with Badouin as to who made up the rules. He urged Badouin to invite us back.
When I chose to stay behind it wasn’t Gregor who persuaded me, it was Sanclair. Sanclair adored the château. It was full of hiding places, cupboards, rooms that led into rooms, faded furniture, threadbare carpets, mirrors, tricks of the light and a dusty smell of disuse. It was a magic castle to him, I could see that. Shu
la and Miriam spoiled him. They fed him tit-bits, they laughed at everything he said, they played with him in the pool. Shula even painted a picture of him. I took it back with me to England and it’s still at The Heathers. Like a naive painting. Sanclair in his gold tunic with his drum in his hand. White blond hair, brown eyes and a background of the lawn at the château. He sat for it so well, like a Velasquez prince, holding his arms out stiffly, standing on an old wine crate.
Is there a time when you lose your children? When you realise they’ve moved out of your care and protection and they start to have a life of their own that doesn’t involve you? I’ve heard people say this happens when their children start school. I felt it happen at the château. My little boy, who was content to play outside at the hut, or sing with us in the bars and cafés, but always at night came back to be my little boy, now didn’t see me for days. He didn’t even sleep in the same room as us at the château anymore, but in a room next door. At the hut he wanted his own bed. Why can’t we live in a big house with windows all round? Why can’t we sleep all the time at the château?
Sanclair is by the pool, sitting at a table with Julian. Gregor is working at the domaine with Macon. Badouin is painting inside. Shula and Miriam are making lunch. I’m only here because Sanclair wanted us to be here. Julian is all in cream linen, as creamy as a lily flower. Sanclair is naked and golden, a string of beads round his neck and he’s drawing a picture with chalks on a piece of thick paper.
‘So what is this, your lordship?’ Julian calls Sanclair ‘his lordship’.