by Carla McKay
‘I know this, and I say to you: put your faith in us. We will find the people responsible for the current spate of vandalism and they will be punished. Do not be driven away from this beautiful part of France. We welcome you here and we want you to stay’.
M. Berol was applauded politely but he had no experience of the British when their hackles have risen. A phlegmatic race, to be sure, but not when their property was threatened. The French, it had been explained to Judith, did not bother about the outside appearance of their property – ‘We hide our wealth and our good taste within’, one decorator had told her. ‘We do not want to be accused of showing off to our neighbours.’
Consequently, it was feared, the mayor would not understand that offensive graffiti on their outside walls and car bonnets was no small matter for the British. It struck at their very hearts, especially since so many of them had been to all the trouble and expense of repainting and plastering their houses. The French-owned ones, however prosperous the inhabitants, always looked as though they were about to fall down. Nor was the kindly mayor prepared for the kind of grilling he was about to get in the question and answer session that followed his short speech. Feelings were running high and the British were used to a rather higher level of both democratic discussion and public accountability than their friends across the Channel.
Both Lance and Bill Bailey vied with each other to pin down the mayor on exactly what action he planned to take before turning on each other. Swiftly, this deteriorated into a slanging match. ‘It’s people like you who give the British a bad name,’ shouted Lance. ‘You come here with pots of money, snap up a chateau from under French noses, employ a totally British workforce to put it right and then complain that you can’t find anywhere to eat fish and chips. You have absolutely no sense of the history and culture of the place at all. Jim has just asked the mayor what we English can do to preserve the traditions and heritage of rural France. He was too polite to give you the correct answer, so I’ll do it for him: bugger off back to Oldham. We don’t want your sort here, and neither do the French.
‘And I suppose they do want your sort here, do they?’ asked Bill ominously. ‘Pretentious twats in panama hats and posh voices who ogle underage girls. Don’t think we haven’t noticed that… you may be called a boulevardier here Mr Campion but back in Oldham we’d have other names for it.’
There was an agonised silence while the audience digested this. ‘Please, please’ said the Mayor, flapping his papers ineffectually. ‘Let us not quarrel among ourselves’.… but nobody paid him any attention. Amid the groundswell of voices, Lance got to his feet: ‘You’ll be hearing from my solicitor’, he said turning to Bill Bailey, his voice shaking with anger. ‘You won’t get away with this’… he began to walk out of the meeting, then remembered his wife: ‘Are you coming Jean?’ he asked furiously. But Jean, whose head had been bowed during the heated exchanges, now looked up at him. ‘No, Lance, I’m not,’ she said quietly.
Lance looked stunned and began to speak but then thought the better of it. He stalked out of the room, slamming the door behind him. My god, thought Judith. Bill Bailey has done my work for me… poor, poor Jean, but how remarkable that she’s stood her ground. This will really set the cat among the pigeons.
The meeting resumed after much coughing and shuffling but at a more subdued level. Several people stood up to complain that the French were being unfair given that the British had actually increased the available housing stock with their love of DIY and renovation. The French, they pointed out are happy to offload their old houses and barns, often leaving them to rot, however historic, and move to new bungalows or flats in the suburbs; the British did them up to make them habitable then either lived in them themselves, boosting the local economy, or sold them on. Others pointed out that apart from the building trade, the wine growers had reason to thank the expatriates. ‘We drink a damned sight more local wine than the locals’, said one.
Others pointed out that it was all very well boosting the local economy; what their French friends told them, they said, was that the British failed to integrate. Some spoke French, or at least tried to; an astonishing number didn’t even try. ‘That’s ridiculous,’ cried Sue, the tennis coach. ‘Whenever I try to speak French in a local shop or something, they always pretend they can’t understand and look at me as if I’m something the dog brought in. Many of the locals are frankly contemptuous of us. I don’t know what the answer is.
‘Go back to Britain,’ someone said in a loud whisper, but Sue’s ears, were like satellite stations. ‘I heard that’, she retorted, glaring in the general direction it came from. ‘Believe me, I would go back if I could afford to. I’m afraid, like many people here, I’ve burned my boats financially. I can’t afford to go back to Britain.’ This was greeted by rumbles of assent. Then one of Frank Partridge’s rival estate agents in the town (there were now more than 20 thanks to the foreign influx) spoke up: ‘Most of the anti-British feeling here actually comes from other Brits,’ he said. ‘I get Brits who say to me, ‘Oh, I don’t want a British neighbour’.’
‘I’m afraid that’s right,’ Judith whispered to her neighbour. ‘It’s also a snobbish thing. People don’t mind Lady Bracknell moving in down the road, but they object to a plumber from Birmingham… it wouldn’t surprise me if the perpetrator of all this graffiti came from Godalming.’
27
‘My god, you don’t know what you’ve missed,’ Fern told Tim in a low voice as he slipped into the seat she had saved for him, out of breath and furious with himself for missing the beginning of the meeting. This whole affair promised to make a good story for the Sunday Times. She filled him in on the Lance-Bill exchange as one after the other angry British residents stood up to tell the mayor about the damage they had suffered and to demand recompense. Shit, thought Tim when she came to the part about underage sex, better make it the Sunday Sun.
The mayor looked deeply uncomfortable as he listened to the catalogue of woe: Several people had awoken to find ‘English go home’ sprayed on their car bonnets or walls of their businesses. Others had had their tyres slashed and matchsticks jammed into car door locks. One main street in Vevey named after the French economist Jean Monnet had been scathingly dubbed Rue d’Anglais by the locals. Clearly the Entente Cordiale was crumbling fast.
Frank Partridge tried to bring order to the meeting. ‘Of course I deplore what has happened to many of us,’ he said, ‘but perhaps this is a wake-up call for us to behave with, let’s just say a little more tact in future as a community. You can understand some of the locals feeling that their neighbourhoods have been overrun. We must do our best to integrate – and that means learning the language and doing things the French way if we want to remain on good terms with our neighbours.
‘Does it also mean you not selling any more French houses to the British at such inflated prices that the locals can’t afford ‘em? Jeered Bill Bailey. ‘Come off it Frank. The real problem round here is that house prices have risen by about 15 per cent this year – and whose fault is that? You damn estate agents, that’s who!’
‘It also didn’t help when you came along with your pots of money and snaffled up the major house in the area from under the noses of genuine French vignerons’, added Heather, getting to her feet, her face scarlet with annoyance. ‘At least most of us try to keep a low profile and don’t go round demanding a sizzling English breakfast at local cafes!’
‘Oh, stop bellyaching, love, and get back to your books,’ retorted Bill, enjoying himself now. ‘At least I’ve brought business to this area. What have you done for it? What have any of you done for it, come to that? You come down here full of middle class self-righteousness to live in a medieval time-warp, thinking you’re oh-so-continental because you buy a few olives every now and then, and paint your shutters blue, but you’re just a bloody nuisance as far as the natives are concerned. No wonder they’re pissed off. Just be thankful that they haven’t yet done what they’re famous for in these
parts and begun a massacre. Come to think of it, this is probably the lead-up to it. What you need to get in your heads is that as far as they’re concerned here it’s permanent payback time. As for me, I’m getting out of this shit-hole and moving to Spain which is a lot friendlier – and has better grub.’
‘Good riddance’, shouted Heather, beside herself. ‘Best place for you. You’ll feel at home on the Costa del Sol. It’s full of nobodies from Oldham like you!’
Frank stood up. ‘Please, everybody, this is not helpful. We don’t want to fight a civil war, as well as Agincourt, all over again. I suggest we ask the Mayor to say a few more words and then call this meeting to a close. If any of you have any sensible suggestions about what’s going on, please see me afterwards and we’ll form a committee to work on them.’
The meeting ended soon afterwards in some disarray. ‘Blimey,’ said Tim to Fern, ‘this beats covering Kensington and Chelsea council meetings. What a cracking story for the Sunday papers!’ Fern giggled, but she looked anxious all the same. ‘Oh Tim, I don’t want to have to go back to Britain now’, she said. ‘Just when everything is going so well and Ben is beginning to really enjoy himself again. Did you know he’d been seeing that girl Rose Evans? Judith introduced them and they’ve become really good friends. It makes such a difference.’
Tim looked at her affectionately. ‘Hey, don’t worry, Ferny’, he said, squeezing her hand. ‘This is just a little local difficulty, you’ll see. We’re not going to be drummed out of here just because of a handful of bored youths. Besides, I can’t leave yet; I think I’m onto a really big story.’
Lance didn’t trust himself to get into his car. His heart was thumping painfully in his chest, his head had started to ache and his clothes were sticking to him uncomfortably. He had suffered a nasty shock at the meeting, only compounded by his own wife showing solidarity with that rabble by refusing to walk out with him. Furiously, he walked to a bar in one of the back streets of Vevey where he slipped anonymously into a table at the back and nursed a whisky. He couldn’t risk going to Roland’s at this point; first, he didn’t want to be seen being too chummy with him in case Roland’s proclivities had become known too; and second, for all he knew it was that unpleasant father of his who was drumming up all the anti-British stuff that was going on. He hadn’t felt too comfortable in there lately, noticing the hostility that seemed to radiate from the small gangs of blue-overalled peasants that passed the time of day in there. He didn’t think Roland could be part of it, but you never knew. The French were treacherous buggers.
Grimly, he tried to think logically about Bill Bailey’s barely concealed threats. How could he possibly have found out about Sophie, assuming that was what he was on about. He was pretty sure she wouldn’t have blabbed about what had happened. And he couldn’t know about the night in Montpellier, could he? He had to have seen him with Sophie at some point… or… shit, of course. There was one person who could have spread gossip about him, who was malevolent enough and who had, unfortunately seen him that market day with Sophie. That bloody interfering prissy schoolteacher. He’d been right to take against her from the beginning. Still, she could talk.
Thanks to Tim, he knew now what she was running away from and where her own interests lay. It shouldn’t be too much of a problem to get hold of the newspaper cuttings on her untimely exit from The Chase. That would cook her goose all right! It might also serve to deflect any shit flying in his direction. He could easily say that she had been lying about him because he knew her repellent little secret. In another age she’d have been burnt as a witch. With that comforting thought, Lance downed another whisky and set off for home. Now to tackle Jean. How dare she humiliate him like that? Was the woman completely out of her mind? She too would be shortly be very, very sorry.
28
But Jean wasn’t at home when Lance slammed in shouting for her. She and Judith were sitting at Judith’s kitchen table sharing a bottle of wine. Jean was visibly upset and yet managed to keep any tears at bay. What had happened at the meeting had confirmed her fears about Lance. Bill Bailey had practically accused him publicly of being a pervert; evidently, it was common knowledge that he liked young girls. But oddly this confirmation of her suspicions had given her new resolve. A week ago, she would never have dared to defy Lance in the way she had – even in private, let alone in public. But his public humiliation had given her strength; it was an unfamiliar feeling, scary, and yet satisfying. She pushed her empty glass towards Judith who offered her. ‘Thanks,’ she said gratefully. ‘I needed this. That meeting was dreadful. What Bill Bailey said about Lance was so… terrible and so unexpected. Have I been completely blind? Does everybody know what he’s been up to? I can’t bear it, I feel such a fool and so angry. What on earth will I do now, Judith? How can I face him?’
Judith gripped her glass tightly. It was now or never. She had to tell Jean what she knew. Thank god, in a way, it wasn’t going to come as a complete surprise any more. ‘You were great, tonight, Jean,’ she said. ‘It must have taken a lot of courage to sit tight when Lance flounced out – and it was the right thing to do because it’s important now that you distance yourself from him however hard that’s going to be. I – I hate to be the bearer of even more bad news but I feel I have to add now to what you already know. It’s been on my conscience and since you already know now what Lance is like around young girls, perhaps it won’t come as such a terrible shock….’
Judith hesitated. ‘Go on,’ Jean said grimly. ‘If there’s anything else I ought to know, please tell me now. It’s important… more important than you think.’
‘Well, if you’re sure,’ began Judith. ‘It’s something Rose Evans told me. She heard it directly from Sophie Stanhope and didn’t know what to do about it even though Sophie had sworn her to secrecy. It’s a terrible story, Jean, and you can choose not to believe it if you want, but I have to say that I do believe Rose. She had no reason to lie to me….’
‘What is it? For God’s sake tell me,’ whispered Jean.
Judith took a gulp of wine. ‘Lance tried to rape Sophie’, she said quietly. ‘He took her out to dinner by the beach and got her drunk. Then he became violent with her on the beach. I’m not sure how far it went because Sophie herself became hysterical. She said he had to stop because they were disturbed by other people on the beach but she was very shaken and bruised according to Rose. He told her that she mustn’t tell anybody, and that if she did nobody would believe her because they all knew what a fantasist she was. She was terrified apparently.’
‘Oh my god,’ moaned Jean. Her face was drained of colour. ‘Oh that poor child.’ She slammed her glass on the table. ‘How could he? How could he do that? This is so much worse than I thought.’ She put her head in her hands and started to cry.
Judith cast around helplessly for something comforting to say but didn’t come up with anything. She put her hand on Jean’s. ‘I’m sorry,’ she whispered. ‘I’m so sorry.’
‘What did Sophie tell her parents?’ Jean asked finally. ‘Surely she said something?’
‘Apparently not. She covered up her bruises and they didn’t notice anything. You know what they’re like – not overly concerned with her. They were flying back to England the next day and Sophie went straight back to school. She didn’t tell anyone until she saw Rose and then she broke down and told her the whole story. Rose told her she must report it, but she wouldn’t. I think she just wanted it all to go away and she must have felt that nobody would believe her. After all, she did flirt with Lance at that barbeque. In a way, she led him on, but of course she didn’t expect it to end up like that.’
Jean was silent for a moment. Tears had given way to anger. ‘She must tell someone’, she said. ‘Nobody should have to suffer that in silence. If she won’t tell anyone, you must tell her parents, Judith. The terrible thing is, I believe her. I believe that Lance is capable of that. He drinks and gets into violent rages – out of control. He’s frightening like that – I�
�ve seen it. The worst of this is that I have been a sort of collaborator in all this. I’ve never stood up to him, never crossed him. I was scared of him, scared of his temper and his sarcasm. And as for his liking young girls for sex – I think I knew about it; I think I’ve always known about it. I was very young when he married me, you know. He only was interested in me for a couple of years sexually. I suppose I got too old for him….’
‘Are you sure you want to take this any further?’ asked Judith. ‘I don’t feel it’s really up to me to tell Sophie’s parents. I think somebody ought to talk to Sophie first. It might just make it more traumatic for her to have to tell anyone. I don’t know what to do for the best. I knew I’d have to tell you, but after that, I haven’t been able to decide what’s for the best. I mean, Lance should be stopped, I can see that, but perhaps, to be fair to him, it was just a one-off. You know Sophie looks older than she is and she was very flirtatious with him. You can’t expect an older man not to be flattered. He probably thought she was keen on him whereas I imagine she was just showing off to Rose – that’s what Rose thinks anyhow.’
Jean pushed back her chair and walked over to the window. For a few moments she stood looking out in silence. Then she turned round. ‘It wasn’t a one-off,’ she said. ‘I think he may have raped our daughter.’
29
It wasn’t until the next day that Tim was able to start following up his wine scoop. Fern had been agitated when he told her about it and touchingly worried on his account. ‘Please be careful,’ she had said over dinner after the meeting. ‘First this anti-Brit thing and now you seem to have stumbled across something that could land you in deep trouble. You don’t want to antagonise Roland and his cronies. I don’t like the look of him or his beetle-browed father – or any of that gang which hangs around at that place all day. They all radiate hostility; I wouldn’t be surprised if it was they who were orchestrating this campaign against us.’