Foreign Parts

by Foreign Parts (retail) (epub)

‘That Count is a bit of a card.’

  ‘Yes.’ I attempted to marshal my thoughts and concentrate. ‘I ought to tell you about him.’

  Kostaki picked a sprig of lavender and twirled the stem between his finger and thumb. ‘No need. So the old boy cheats at leapfrog.’

  ‘It’s not just that.’ I elaborated on the need for extreme caution. Kostaki seemed to find it hugely funny.

  ‘You don’t say!’

  ‘I do. He’s in it commercially. Monica’s leaving tomorrow because he wanted her to join his line-up in Paris.’

  ‘Really? He might offer me a job.’

  ‘You’re not taking this seriously.’

  ‘Not very, I must admit. He seems a harmless old pussy cat to me.’

  I felt too indolent to take the matter any further. Kostaki was a big boy. He could look after himself.

  ‘What happened to medicine?’ I asked.

  ‘You mean general practice. I’m a radio doc these days. I make soothing, non-controversial noises over the airways. I put some money into the RPs’ business, and this job’ – he waved a hand – ‘is a free holiday. I check up on existing properties and scout around for new ones. At the beginning of September I’ll be back in the studio three times a week.’

  It figured. He’d be on TV before you could say scalpel. I just hoped his producer was prepared for the postbag from female viewers craving a private consultation. I suppose it was jealousy of those future fans that made me say what I had never intended to mention.

  ‘How long were you with Vanessa?’

  ‘Vanessa?’

  ‘My editor, remember? The party?’

  ‘I scarcely remember. It was nothing.’

  Of course he would say that, wouldn’t he? But for now I was prepared to accept it. Unexpectedly I had been handed this second bite at the cherry. I’d have been mad to dash it from my lips.

  ‘Are you staying here for supper?’ I asked, mindful of the numerous delicious leftovers in the fridge.

  The bell tinkled. ‘A table le docteur!’ called Royston.

  ‘Prior engagement,’ said Kostaki. ‘Dommage.’

  We got up. I was so replete with sex that I felt I might be getting a tan on the inside.

  ‘Come along, now,’ said Royston. ‘The lady’s had a long day.’

  That evening the drainage pump started up once more. Its faint, insistent drone was like the sound of sap rising. The girls and I pigged out on the leftovers and got mildly drunk.

  ‘You’re in a good mood,’ said Clara. ‘What brought this on?’

  I’d half expected – and certainly hoped for – a nocturnal visit from Kostaki, but Royston must have decreed a cup of cocoa and an early night. I sank at once into a deep and dreamless sleep, and only awoke at nine a.m. with the noise of the MG farting and snarling in the drive. I went through to the kitchen in time to see it flash past the window, off on another day’s inspection of the Rutherford-Pounce empire.

  When I emerged for my swim the surrounding fields were a positive hive of activity. In the melon field Rindin, along with a huge henchman in a vest and black trousers suspended from braces, was attending to his cannons. On the grassy lower slopes of Château Hill beside the villa’s drive, three local women appeared to be cutting turfs. They straightened up and stared at me as I prepared to dive in.

  ‘Bonjour!’ I called, waving. This did the trick and they returned silently to their labours.

  The weather had gone from brilliant to perfect. The sky was high and infinitely blue, with tiny wisps and feathers of cloud borne on the thermals. The countryside buzzed and twittered with contented wildlife. Butterflies bobbed over the geraniums and Teazel reclined like a pasha on the verandah steps. The girls had been feeding him on the most expensive cat food the Lalutte supermarket could offer, and his figure reflected this opulence. I hoped Jules and Antoinette didn’t hold strong views about overweight animals.

  I was suddenly drawn to Down Our Street. With the chapters to date removed to London, the table in the atelier was invitingly empty. I could have some fun. In order to reach the amusing part I would have to skip a couple of chapters, but I knew what they contained. Shortly after the incident with the orange, Mattie had learned of her Aunt Clarice’s death. This had finally activated her conscience and she agreed to remain with her Uncle Gransden for a while. There would be strong hints that conscience was not the only factor at work here – memories of Oliver Chalioner’s kiss on the windswept moors were also fresh in Mattie’s mind, and though she reminded herself continually of how much she disliked him, the reader would be left in no doubt that passions had been aroused.

  However, unable to leave well alone (otherwise there’d have been no story, for heaven’s sake), Mattie’s desire to revenge herself on Oliver had prompted her to accept the hand in marriage of Seth Barlow. This development would end Part Two of the book. The third and final part would find Mattie and Seth some two years into their union, with Mattie still childless (it was so much easier) and Seth a champion of the local miners’ rights. But Mattie is bored with Seth, and feeling once again the restrictions of life in Marsdyke. She takes to disappearing from time to time for a quick burst on the boards in Haddeshall. And it is on one such occasion that Oliver Challoner (but recently returned from abroad) discovers her …

  Mattie made sure she was looking her best before leaving the Palace. There were always one or two eager stage-door johnnies waiting outside, and she wanted the real Mattie Piper to be even more alluring than the Northern Nightingale who sparkled in the spotlight She came out into the winter’s night glowing, fragrant and smiling, aware of her charm and ready to use it. She was in her element. This, this was life! Not the humdrum servitude to which she had committed herself as Seth Barlow’s wife.

  She stood for an instant, framed in the stage door, enjoying her small moment of glory. Then, suddenly, a firm hand grasped her wrist and a voice said: ‘Come with me, Mrs Barlow.’

  ‘What – who are you?’ she cried as she was dragged away from the warmth and light of the door.

  A young man remonstrated with her captor. ‘This is no way to treat a lady, sir!’

  ‘And this is no lady!’ came the reply. Mattie’s heart pounded. The voice was unmistakably Oliver Challoner’s, and the commanding tone and tall stature frightened away her potential saviour.

  ‘Leave me alone! Let me be!’ she hissed, but the grip on her wrist only tightened. A carriage stood waiting on the corner, the horses’ breath steaming in the cold. Oliver bundled her unceremoniously into the cab, and said a single word to the driver: ‘Marsdyke.’

  ‘What is this?’ she gasped. ‘How dare you, Oliver Challoner! By what right—’

  ‘By the right of common decency.’

  ‘What do you know of decency?’

  ‘A little more than you, I believe.’

  Mattie glared at Oliver, her eyes flashing. He had released her, and was now lounging back in his seat, the ankle of one long, booted leg resting on the knee of the other. ( These anatomical details could be so confusing.) He regarded her with that lazy authority which so enraged and disturbed her.

  ‘I demand to be allowed to get out!’

  He shook his head. ‘I am taking you home, Mattie Barlow. Home to your husband.’

  ‘I do not need to be taken! I shall return home when I will, and when I am ready!’

  ‘Does Seth Barlow know that you are here?’

  ‘He knows I am in Haddeshall, of course.’

  ‘And what you are doing?’

  She averted her eyes. ‘That is no business of yours.’

  Now he leaned forward, his face hardening. ‘But it is business of your husband’s.’

  ‘Oh!’ She covered her face with her hands to conceal her fury.

  ‘My husband, my husband! What do you care about my husband? Or about me? He is a dull, virtuous man and I am nothing but his dull, provincial wife! Am I not entitled to a little fun, a little life of my own? Or must I moulder in Marsdy
ke with nothing to do but be Mrs Seth Barlow and die of boredom?’

  She scarcely knew what happened next, it was so quick. Two strong hands grabbed her waist, and she was pulled forward and laid across Oliver’s thighs, her nose merely inches from his mud-spattered boots. The first blow made her shriek, and she heard him laugh.

  ‘Sing out all you like, Northern Nightingale. No one’s going to hear you. You’ve been owed this a long time.’

  She struggled, and even bit his leg, but he held her fast until the sixth and heaviest slap had been delivered. Then he simply let her roll on to the floor of the carriage.

  ‘I hate you, Oliver Challoner!’ she shouted, through her tears of humiliation. ‘You’ll never know how much I hate you!’

  ‘No,’ he said softly. He had leaned back and his face was unreadable in the shadows. ‘And neither do I wish to know. You owe me no kind feelings. It is your husband you must love.’

  No more words passed between them on that long and bitter journey. Oliver sat grim and silent. And Mattie thought of Seth, and the lie that was her life.

  I put down the biro with a sigh of satisfaction. There was nothing like a good spanking.

  Chapter Fourteen

  When I came downstairs the villa and its surroundings glittered, spellbound, in the midday heat. Rindin and his colleague were gone, and so were the mysterious digging women. The girls were washing their hair. Royston had gone to lunch with Keith and Denise ( an invitation extended to myself as well, but which I had declined). Even the insects were silent.

  I went for a swim, and then stretched out on a sunbed. I removed my bikini top and luxuriated as the sun reached those parts it didn’t normally reach. My Fates must have had a good snigger over this little aberration. Not only was the Count on his way down the hill, but he had chosen today of all days to abandon the scooter in favour of a leisurely stroll through the woods with Asti and Obi. In his kaftan and espadrilles he was silent as a wraith, and the first I knew of his approach was the twin crashes of the dogs hitting the surface of the pool. I was spattered by a shower of drops which felt icy on my sunbaked skin. I yelled, which brought Clara to the door of their room, hot tongs in one hand, baguette sandwich in the other. ‘Only those mutts,’ I heard her say as she withdrew.

  I glanced wildly around for the dogs’ owner as I struggled into my bikini top. The garment’s scantiness did not, unfortunately, make it easy to put on in a hurry. It was like trying to cram an oven-ready turkey into a couple of finger stalls.

  When I’d finally got it in place the Count had not materialised, but his dogs were still paddling around in our nice clean pool. Obi’s midnight dips were one thing, but this flagrant trespassing in broad daylight was too bad.

  ‘Get out! Come on, out! Asti, Obi, out!’ I yelled, but they continued to paddle around aimlessly, their faces wearing black-eyed grins of satisfaction. I picked up the inflatable turtle, hurled it into the water and jumped in after it. Seeing this pop-eyed silver monster bearing down on her at a rate of knots, Obi headed at once for the steps and safety but Asti, true to form, went on the attack, sank her teeth into the turtle’s front flipper and began to savage it in earnest. Instead of simply releasing the turtle and opting for a dignified retreat. I entered into the spirit of the engagement and tried to rescue the mass of tattered, bubbling, and rapidly sinking plastic from the jaws of its assailant. The result was that I floundered, capsized and sank. Asti swam round triumphantly, a large piece of green and silver plastic protruding from her jaws.

  ‘Asti? Qu’est-ce que tu fais là? Viens ici! Vite! Imm-éd-iate-ment!’ It was the Count.

  I righted myself, gathered the ragged turtle and waded for the side. Asti, well ahead of me, splashed up the steps to join the baying Obelix and shook himself vigorously, like a scaled-down version of one of those cylindrical brushes in the car wash.

  I stood there, chest heaving. I tried to hurl the remains of the turtle to the ground but it’s actually quite hard to hurl several square yards of waterlogged PVC. It simply slumped and lay there at my feet, Its silly face leering up at me from the tiles.

  The Count wagged his finger at the dogs – not, I suspected, for invading my pool and my privacy, but for failing to come when called. ‘Bad dogs! Cochons! But Harriet – you look magnificent!’

  I glanced down at myself. My tussle with the turtle had caused the three strips of bunting to come adrift and I stood before de Pellegale in the buff.

  ‘Excuse me,’ I said. ‘I’ll be with you in a moment.’

  I walked with all dignity to the sunbed, wrapped myself in my towel and retreated to the bedroom. What with swearing and tearing my hair I took a great deal longer than necessary, and rather hoped the Count and his wretched dogs would leave. When I emerged in shorts and T-shirt it looked for a moment as though my prayers had been answered. But then I saw the familiar bulbous figure amongst the scrub by the compost heap, and spotted Rindin’s battered pick-up truck parked at the top of the melon field. The two dogs were charging about amongst the plants, putting up the numerous birds which had learned to ignore Rindin’s cannon. Rindin himself was standing a few metres from the truck with a large gun held at hip-height and pointing down the hill. The Count burst through the bushes, arms waving. Rindin was motionless as a scarecrow, but there was a fixed, vengeful menace about him that made me think I had better act no matter how much I would secretly like him to pepper the Count and his curs with grapeshot from point-blank range. I raced over the lawn as fast as my sandals would allow, shouting ‘Non! Non!’ As I drew closer I could make out the Count’s voice over the barking of the dogs, a stream of highly coloured French the gist of which was that Rindin was a shit-headed antichrist born out of wedlock.

  I passed through the gamey atmosphere of the compost heap and then through the barrier of prickly scrub. Once in the melon field – the first time I’d actually stood on this contentious piece of ground – Rindin looked even more menacing, gazing down from the upper reaches of the slope, the black eye of the gun trained motionlessly upon us.

  ‘Arrêtez! Arrêtez! Please,’ I added, feeling better able to express my feelings in English. ‘Please, Guy – do stop all this.’

  The Count turned on me a face practically bursting its skin with fury. ‘He is once more firing the cannons! I will not have it!’

  ‘But please,’ I said, ‘leave it for now. We’re the ones who have to put up with it. We’re much closer than you, and we’ve become quite used to the noise. In fact I really don’t notice it any more. This shouting and bad feeling is much worse, I assure you. We’re on holiday – we don’t want to be caught in the middle of a war!’

  The Count looked from me to Rindin, and back. Pulses were palpitating on his face, neck and chest. He was like a duvet full of bullfrogs. For a long moment I could see him struggling with himself as the dogs returned to his side and flopped down, exhausted by their depredations. At last he brandished a fist at Rindin, and unburdened himself of a few choice observations to the effect that the farmer copulated with his mother, soiled his own bed and was a cheap criminal for whom disembowelling would he laughably inadequate.

  Apparently content that he had covered everything, the Count stormed back through the hedge, dogs in tow, and left me to make placating gestures in Rindin’s direction. As I bowed and smiled he very gradually lowered the gun. But he was still staring at me as I stumbled across the lawn after de Pellegale.

  The Count cast himself down on the sunbed, bosom heaving, hand over his eyes, emitting a long hissing mutter of invective. I was half afraid he would toss a wobbler and die on me, right there and then. The dogs were in the shade on the verandah, their combined panting like the brisk sawing of plywood.

  ‘Everything okay?’ called Clara, in a tone which suggested she had been watching the whole thing.

  ‘Sure, never better,’ I replied with ponderous irony. I went into the house and poured a glass of chilled Perrier from the bottle in the fridge. When I brought it back to the Count h
e was looking more composed.

  ‘Thank you,’ he said. ‘My apologies.’

  ‘That’s all right. And do feel free to re-open hostilities after we’ve gone. But just for the moment.…’

  ‘Of course, of course.’ He waved a hand. I let him sip his water in peace for a few seconds, and then asked:

  ‘What brings you down here this afternoon?’

  ‘Oh – psschfft!’ He made one of those quintessentially Gallic sounds to which it is possible to ascribe almost any one of a whole arsenal of emotions. ‘A letter!’

  ‘You were delivering one?’

  ‘Yes, but the box is broken, and Royston has no mouth.’

  ‘No mouth?’

  ‘No mouth for letters.’ The Count made a shark-like grimace to show what he meant.

  ‘I see. Why not give it to me? I’ll pass it on.’

  ‘How kind. It is for the doctor.’ The Count gave me a richly collusive look and produced an envelope from the pocket of his kaftan. ‘I find him utterly delightful.’

  ‘He is, isn’t he?’ I agreed. ‘I’ll make sure he gets this.’

  There was a short silence, broken only by the dogs’ panting, and the sound of Rindin driving his truck out of the field. The Count’s eyes glittered dangerously. I needed to steer his attention in some other direction.

  ‘I wonder if you could tell me something.’

  ‘Madame.’

  ‘Early this morning there were lots of people in the meadow over there.’ I pointed to the slope beside the drive. ‘It looked as though they were cutting turfs. Is that what it would have been?’

  ‘Uuuuhh …’ The Count nodded and smiled mysteriously as though I were an exceptionally observant child. ‘Yes.’

  ‘What do they use them for, fuel?’

  ‘Uuuuhh … It is our secret.’

  I assumed he meant he wasn’t going to tell me, but he went on: ‘The hill is full of Germans.’

  I misunderstood him again. ‘They were German? I thought they were local women.’

  He shook his head, obviously delighted with my mistake. ‘The Germans are in the ground.’ He ran a plump index finger across the second of his chins. ‘Dead.’