The Folly of French Kissing

by Carla McKay

  Glancing left up a small passageway, he noted with amusement a union jack and a couple of tables outside what looked like a bookshop. He climbed the steep stone steps that led to the entrance of Wuthering Heights and went in.

  Gerald was heaving books around and staggered under the weight of one box as Tim came in. Tim bounded across – ‘here, let me help.’ Together they manoeuvred the crate of books down the steep, curving staircase. ‘Thanks,’ said Gerald gruffly. ‘One of these days they’ll find me at the bottom of these stairs crushed to death under one of these damn things. I think you’re the first person who’s seen me struggling and offered to help.’

  Twenty minutes later, they were still talking. It was early afternoon and there weren’t many people around. Tim had admired the shop, selected a few books he wanted and asked Gerald’s advice about the region. He had also picked up Lance’s book on the Languedoc. ‘Is this any good?’ he asked. Gerald looked rueful. ‘Unfortunately, it is.’

  ‘Why unfortunately?’

  ‘Because the guy who wrote it is a total arsehole’, said Gerald, ‘but I have to admit that the book is an excellent introduction to the region if you’re thinking of trying to settle here. He lives about forty minutes away in a village called Le Prairie near Vevey – now that area round there is a good place to set yourself up. There’s quite a lot of English people there, some of them writers, and it’s an extremely popular bit of the countryside, close to Montpellier and close to the sea. And Vevey’s a splendid town. I can give you Lance’s number if you like – rather you than me, but he has lived down there longer than most and he knows what the set up is down there. Just don’t tell him I sent you’.

  16

  It wasn’t until July that Jean Campion got a chance to see Judith on her own. Well, that wasn’t strictly true. It wasn’t until then that Jean plucked up courage to talk to Judith about what was bothering her so much. A victim of conflicting loyalties, like so many women who have long been married to bullying men and are accustomed to defending the indefensible, even to themselves, Jean hesitated before confronting her own fears. She didn’t want to be disloyal to Lance and she was a little daunted by Judith. She seemed rather aloof – not unfriendly, but not very approachable either. Much more worrying, though, was what she might find out. When she thought about it, which she only permitted herself to do in the long watches of the night while Lance snorted and grunted beside her like a wounded buffalo, her stomach knotted and she sweated with apprehension.

  Finally, on July 11th, she woke up and remembered it would have been Sarah’s birthday – was Sarah’s birthday. Is Sarah’s birthday. Oh god, let her be alive and well. Happy would be good too, she thought. Happiness was an emotion Jean had felt slide away from herself years ago for good after Sarah went missing. She remembered someone telling her unhelpfully at the time that ‘children are sent to punish us’. Well, she was being punished wasn’t she? And perhaps she deserved punishing. That was one of the things she needed to know now. Could she have prevented this happening. Was there something she should have known, should have acted upon to make Sarah go. Had she turned a blind eye to something, the way she usually did? The ‘something’ in question was not anything that Jean was ready to put a name to or visualise. It was at the moment just a little, hard black stone of doubt.

  At ten o’clock, Lance went off to play golf for the day with Frank Partridge Rex Stanhope and Alan Knight. They had a regular four and made a day of it. It was already in the 80s and creeping upwards. France was in the grip of a canicule, a heat wave that had started at the beginning of June and was to continue until September, killing off record numbers of old people. There had been no rain since May and Jean despaired of her garden. Everything was dying. The water that came out of her hosepipe was just a hot trickle and she didn’t know what to aim it at first. The grass, such as it was, was already burnt stubble.

  It was oppressive heat too, humid and cloying. It didn’t suit Jean’s fair skin at all and she felt dried up and enervated. It was an effort to move or go anywhere. Getting in the car was torture in itself. The metal of the door was as hot to the touch as an iron, the seat burned and everything smelled of melting rubber and plastic. Curiously, Lance seemed to thrive on this weather. It made him more excitable, more lion-like than ever. Also, more belligerent, at least towards her. She hoped he would take out his aggression on the golf ball today… how he could even think of playing golf on a day like this, she didn’t know. But, good riddance. She had time to herself; it was a day for action then. She knew she would call Judith.

  Judith was comatose on her roof terrace when the call came from Jean. She had only meant to come up for a short time to read yesterday’s paper and feel the sun on her face before an afternoon’s tutorials, but had dozed off on a lounger after attempting to revive her dying geraniums. Jean’s call caught her unawares. Without explanation, Jean, whom she hardly knew, had asked if she could drop by before lunch. Sleepily, Judith agreed. It was only when she put the phone down that she began to worry. What could Jean want? Was this a friendly, inconsequential call, or not. She hadn’t really ever thought about Jean except to pity her for being married to Lance. Jenny Knight had once mentioned in passing what a doormat she was when it came to Lance which, she thought, was why Lance got away with his arrogance. But she, Judith, had formed no opinion of her at all. She had been too busy hating her husband. She hoped that whatever it was wouldn’t take long.

  Thus, she was completely unprepared for what came next. When Jean arrived, Judith offered her a coffee but Jean only asked for water. She sat at the kitchen table taking small sips and nervously pushing back damp strands of her grey-blonde hair which fell out of the knot at the back of her head whilst gulping for air like a stranded goldfish.

  ‘What is it, Jean?’ Judith asked gently. She could see the woman was very anxious and now her eyes suddenly swam with tears. ‘Judith, I don’t know how to put this,’ said Jean, haltingly, ‘but I have to ask you something. I hope you don’t mind and I don’t like doing this but please, I need you to tell me the truth. It may be nothing, but it may be something…’ She broke off. ‘It’s about Lance’, she blurted then, ‘I know you saw him a couple of months back in Vevey – you said so at the Knights’ barbeque, do you remember, and Lance was cross….’

  Judith nodded, now feeling fearful herself. ‘What was he doing, Judith?’

  ‘Are you sure you need to know?’

  ‘I’m sure. Please.’

  ‘He was… embracing somebody’, said Judith finally. Her voice had come out like a squeak. ‘It may not have meant anything, Jean’.

  ‘Was it Sophie Stanhope?’ asked Jean, her head in her hands now.

  ‘Yes’. Judith was relieved she didn’t have to say the name. Jean must have suspected.

  ‘Was that what you told Lance… that you’d seen him with Sophie?’ Jean asked.

  ‘Yes. He didn’t like it,’ Judith said now. ‘That was when he called you over.’

  ‘Did you say anything to Rex and Camilla?’

  ‘I thought about it but I knew it was none of my business. I wanted to because I thought it was wrong. Sophie’s only fourteen or fifteen, but she seems older I know. I’m so sorry, Jean. This must be difficult for you’.

  ‘It’s so much more difficult than you think’. Jean now openly wept. ‘It’s not that I care what Lance does. This isn’t about me and him. It’s about what’s happened in the past. This just confirms it. I can’t talk about it though Judith. I just can’t; at least not now. Thank you for telling me. Please can I just ask you not to mention this to anybody for the time being? I have to go away and think about what I must do.’ She got up and for a moment Judith hugged her before she let herself out.

  ‘Do what you have to do Jean,’ she said. ‘I won’t say anything if you don’t want me to, but please, come and talk to me again if you want to. I don’t like to see you like this. And… and, take care’, she added lamely as Jean left. Suddenly, she felt frighten
ed for her as well as desperately sad.

  Tim decided to take Gerald’s advice to go and see Lance Campion and look around Vevey. He had telephoned Lance in advance who had suggested they meet at Café Le Square. He was rather looking forward to it. Gerald’s description of Lance as an arsehole amused him. Certainly the fruity voice on the phone and the fact that Lance had suggested he could possibly ‘squeeze’ him in to his hectic schedule later on in the week in order to give him a ‘few pointers’ about the region had hinted at pomposity. Lance evidently regarded himself in relation to the Languedoc as Peter Mayle was to Provence. ‘Lance of the Languedoc v. Peter of Provence’ thought Tim delightedly. He could feel a feature coming on. All at once he felt certain that he should take the risk and move down here for a while. There must be loads of freelance features he could write for the papers back home given the current obsession of the English with this part of the world.

  As he drove in the shimmering heat through the countryside down towards Vevey his spirits lifted. The wide open spaces of the garrigue with the blue mountains in the distance were breathtaking. There was just so much space and air. The tiny medieval villages he passed were so untouched by time too and seemingly deserted. Any village that pretty in England would be overrun by rubberneckers in July he thought, cramming into chintzy pubs by rivers to eat filthy fast food in ‘olde worlde’ style. A bolt of hatred for his native land shot through him. He hoped he wouldn’t find too many Brits down near Vevey but there again, there was enough space for them all to get lost in down here. And, he supposed, they would at least be the discerning ones who, like himself, appreciated the quality of life here. Yes, he thought, things are definitely looking up.

  His euphoria dissipated somewhat as an hour later he sat trapped in Café Le Square with a terracotta-faced Lance who was droning on at great length about himself over a second pichet of red wine. He had heard all about ‘My life as an advertising whizz kid tycoon’ and now Lance was on to ‘My life as a celebrated author in France’. Tim knew that his role as Lance’s new audience was to look fascinated and in awe of this model of older manhood – god the man fancied himself – but he supposed that eventually Lance would pause for breath and then he might find out something useful.

  Finally satisfied that he had sufficiently impressed his young guest, Lance leaned back happily and looked at Tim. ‘So, what brings you down to this part of the world?’ he asked. Tim explained that he was a freelance journalist and that he wanted to sound out Lance about the possibility of making a living in the area from his writing, perhaps supplemented by teaching English or working in some other field. He also needed to find somewhere to rent. Lance, who rather liked the look of Tim and thought he might be an agreeable addition to the community – at least he was reasonably intelligent and seemed to appreciate Lance’s stories – always a good sign – decided to be helpful.

  ‘As it happens, I’ve got just the place for you to rent if you decide to stay,’ he said. ‘I own a couple of gîtes just up the road, one of which has just become vacant. It’s small but comfortable – one bedroom – and has a small terrace at the back. I wouldn’t charge you much long-term. And as for work, you’ll find you don’t need to earn as much as you do in the UK. I should think you could easily keep yourself for a while especially if you get a regular freelance slot on some publication rabbiting on about life in the Midi – you know the sort of thing – ‘Letters from the Languedoc’ – or something. They lap it up back home. I’m always being approached by various Sunday supplements for that kind of stuff and I have to turn it down – I could push some of it your way, if you like.’

  ‘That would be splendid,’ said Tim. ‘I appreciate it. And I’d love to look at the gîte.’

  A deal was struck that afternoon and greatly elated, Tim returned to Montpellier with a new sense of purpose. He would go back to England, pack up there, sub-let his flat and come back to La Prairie within a week or two. Lance had come up trumps after all. The gîte was fine, he loved the area and he now felt confident enough to make a go of things down here. In addition, he’d had a brainwave which he’d mentioned to Lance. What about starting a local newsletter – a sort of local newspaper for the ex-pat community that he could write and print on his computer. He could charge enough to cover his expenses and it would be a good way to get to know everybody as well as to garner material for freelance features and columns in the UK. Humming a little tune as he drove back at speed a little worse for wear but in excellent spirits, he thought happily about telling the insufferable Freya and James about his future plans. ‘Get a life’, they’d told him. Well, he just did. And it was going to be a damn sight better than theirs.

  17

  That July was intensely hot even for the south of France. There had been no rain since May and even the village housewives, accustomed to heat, would fan themselves in the street or the shops. ‘Oooh, il fait chaud!’ they said to each other in passing. Everything and everybody was visibly wilting and by 11 am most people were off the streets; even the colony of dogs who seemed to belong to nobody and trotted around purposefully most of the time as if on important missions, skulked in the shadows or perhaps took themselves off to the cemetery where at least they could lie in the shade of the columns of cypress trees which stood guard over the ornate tombstones topped by grave-faced angels.

  Opposite Judith, the family of Spanish extraction who seemed to live on picnic chairs outside their front door from teatime onwards, often joined by members of their extended family, now only ventured out after dusk. The wife, a small, busy creature in an overall nevertheless seemed to be the only person who wasn’t slowed down by the heavy heat. Speaking voluble Spanish all the time, she vigorously swept her stoop several times a day until every tile was gleaming. Then at dusk she would come out with a bucket of water which she proceeded to sprinkle alongside the row of chairs where her friends and family were gathered. This puzzled Judith. Was it to settle the dust, or what? Nobody took any notice at all, so it perhaps was an established custom. Then one night, she and her silent husband started skinning a hare outside, she holding it up by its legs as he ripped its fur off with a knife until its entrails were visible and its blood gushed into the gutter where it ran down the length of the street. The stench of the blood, exacerbated by the dry, still air, lingered for hours making Judith nauseous. Peasant life was all very well, she thought, but she’d rather not have to witness it.

  These long humid nights, Judith found she could only sleep if she decamped to the basement bedroom where the sun couldn’t penetrate through the small ventilation grill that passed for a window at street level and the room stayed relatively cool. Even so, she reckoned she heard the church clock chime most of the hours and she awoke in the morning damp and unrefreshed. In the daytime most of the house above street level was too hot for comfort. Neither opening all the windows, nor closing them, seemed to help. Oh for air conditioning: but that was commonplace only in the very pink and elaborate new villas built on the outskirts of Vevey for the Northern French exiles who favoured second homes in the region.

  As for the roof terrace, it had become unbearable, even in the shade of the large vine that hung over one corner and was home to many oversized angry wasps, and stayed that way until well past dark. The tiles underfoot were too hot to walk on and all her potted plants had literally burnt to death. You’re supposed to like the heat, she told the geraniums crossly but they were past hearing her.

  In the mornings her kitchen, dominated by an old pine table brought over from England, was too hot to linger in, and since this room doubled as her study, she had to change her habits and work in the afternoons when the sun had swung over to the other side of the house and she could sit at the table writing poetry or preparing lessons for her growing band of pupils. grateful for the tiny breeze generated by the creaking electric fan overhead.

  In the week after she had talked to Gerald at Wuthering Heights, she had felt inspired to write more poetry. She hadn’t had the energy
or inclination to do this for some months but Gerald’s remarks about Howard Hill had encouraged her, even though he couldn’t know this. She had thought quite a bit about Gerald lately. He was so completely different from most of the people she had met down here who were so in your face. Horrid expression but descriptive. There was a kind of terrible neediness about some of the British down here. They had made the move to a foreign country but they were still looking for reassurance that they had done the right thing. Clearly the French weren’t going to embrace them like brothers so they needed you to make up a part of their tight-knit community, and being British, they wanted to place you too.

  Were you a Surrey stockbroker? No? A Bolton barmaid then? Not that either. When Judith had explained that she was a teacher who had tired of teaching in England, they understood that. What they felt uneasy about was her status. Why was she still single? Was she a divorcee? Did she have a lover, did she want a lover, what was she after? They didn’t of course dare to phrase those questions in that way but Judith could tell that they were desperate to know the answers. She was too unknowable for them and they didn’t like that. The more they tried to cosy up to her, the more she retreated. She hadn’t even been to the Saturday barbeque for a couple of weeks. Either they thought that she was a crashing snob or a mysterious recluse; she thought she knew which.

  Gerald however had not asked any personal questions at all, not even where she was living, and she knew that he was the kind of man who would wait for you to volunteer information rather than drag it out of you. Their talk had been strictly confined to literature and yet, even so, Judith felt that he was a man she could trust. She had seen something on television about the way the human brain immediately made evaluations of new people’s faces forming instant judgements about every aspect of personality but especially whether they were trustworthy – because, she supposed, it was necessary to survival. If you were a more primitive animal, you would run, if you saw someone or something you couldn’t trust. Nowadays, you had to endure sitting next to them at dinner parties for hours on end if you were unlucky. Inevitably, Lance came to mind, with his too pale eyes and his cruel mouth. And yet others presumably did trust him or had trusted him.