by Dirk Bogarde
‘You are not, perhaps, satisfied at Gavery? Is that it?’
Mon-Ami shifted his feet, lowered his casque in one large fist and murmured, ‘Yes, Monsieur. I don’t like it there.’
Clotilde decided to interpret cheerfully. She was determined to keep him on the premises somehow or another. ‘Monsieur, écoute! He wants to work for himself, there are twenty men at Gavery. He feels that he can better himself. Some are specialists in trees, in laying drains, in making swimming-pools for the rich in Saint-Basile-les-Pins, the people who live in the big lotissement there – the Paris-Rustiques! It is not a real existence. It is so, mon ami, eh? You want to work alone. For yourself.’
Fortunately, to prove that god-like or not he was not also mentally retarded, as I was beginning to fear, he nodded his head vigorously. ‘Yes. That is true. For myself. And one boss. That is so. And to have pride in what I do.’ This effort at speech exhausted him.
I told him to sit down, and to encourage him to do so sat on the edge of the table with my beer. I offered him one to ease shyness, but he refused politely with a raised hand and a shake of his head.
‘Imagine!’ said Clotilde, reaching for a big jar of capers. ‘Twenty thousand primulas every spring to water! A thousand pots of chrysanthemums for the Jour des Morts in November! Christmas trees and poinsettiasl He is not that kind of worker! He loves the soil, the land. C’est vrai, mon ami?’
‘Yes,’ said Mon-Ami. ‘I like very much the land. Not to work for rich Dutch or Germans, to plant their patios, clean their swimming-pools. They only like concrete and pots, and little lawns. Boff!’ This was the longest speech he’d made. I hoped it had not exhausted him again, but I had begun to get the picture.
As if perhaps I had not, Clotilde, spooning capers and black olives into bowls, said, ‘The rich in those new villas only stay for a month in the summer and a week at Christmas! From Paris, from New York, London, Brussels. They don’t care about their land, except that it is clean and pretty, like a photograph. A maison secondaire, that is all those places are in the woods. The people never see anything grow. Never plant a seed, prune a rose, they think strawberries grow on a cabbage! Tiens! C’est juste, mon ami?’
I was quietly surprised that Monsieur Maurice’s daughter was so loquacious, so eloquent. It was a pleasant discovery. Clotilde seemed to have found her place in life, determined to settle Mon-Ami in his and, above all, share that life with him. Not a bad idea. She was certain to be a good mother and a very capable wife. She screwed the lid on the caper jar, knuckled her floury hands on her hips and looked from one to the other of us questioningly.
I took the hint and went with Mon-Ami out on to the terrace and down the path to the garden and potager all hopelessly overwhelmed by the prodigality of late June. He stooped, his leathers creaking lightly, and took a handful of soil in broad fingers, spread it between thumb and forefinger, murmured sadly, ‘Fatigué.’
I said that it was all tired, everything needed feeding, nourishing, caring for, that once upon a time it had all flourished gloriously, had produced beans and peas in abundance, spinach and cabbage, potato and celery, that roses blazed, figs were plentiful, and almond, cherry and apple were prolific and presently burdened with fruit, in the little orchard, and were now waiting for his attention. Urgent attention, I added. And, for the first time, he smiled.
Then Giles, who had been hanging about all the time on the periphery of the action, his eyes glistening with envy at the sight of the Honda, the casque and the trim leathers, eased himself cautiously into the conversation and said that there was plenty of water everywhere too, a stream up at the top, and that he’d show him if he liked, and where the well was. He knew, he added reasonably, the garden much better than his father. Which was quite true, as he spent some considerable time on his own there damming the stream, trying, in vain, to fish, catch lizards or dig out a space for the future pond.
Mon-Ami smiled agreeably, and asked if he would like to examine his casque more closely. Giles grabbed the thing and stuck it on his head, almost breaking his neck, and we all laughed. Clotilde came down the path waving some scissors.
‘For some sage, Monsieur. Mon ami is also very useful in the house if the weather is bad. He can mend a pipe, clear a sink, re-lay the boards in the bedrooms, clear the chimney. There is a hornets’ nest in there, I think! Mon ami can do everything. Even electricity.’ She went off gaily to find the sage bush.
Mon-Ami retrieved his casque, and we walked together slowly up to the house discussing when and how he could come, and what salary he felt would be acceptable. We reached an agreement before we got to the little terrace. His name, he said, was Luc Roux, his parents owned the traiteur in Saint-Basile. (I had written my telephone number on the back of one of their receipts for Lulu de Terrehaute, who had still not made use of it alas.) He had finished his army training (an important point – he wouldn’t suddenly be called) and no, he hadn’t known Clotilde, but he knew that her father was the brother-in-law of the maire of Bargemon-sur-Yves, and therefore knew that Jericho had a new master. He had passed the place often and always felt sadness at the neglect, he said, and he would be happy and proud to try and restore it to its past glory, for it was well remembered in the area that, when the ‘other Monsieur Colcott’ had owned it, it was a most bountiful property. He had just wandered in one evening to look about (apparently when I left for London) and found, to his mild dismay, Clotilde mending some linen on the terrace. He had been, of course, trapped from that moment. But, naturally, did not say so in as many words. I was very pleased with Clotilde, and when she rejoined us, a bunch of blue sage in her hand, I told her the good news that Mon-Ami, as I would always call him, was now a part of the household of Jericho. At least he would be, as soon as he had given in his notice to Monsieur Gavery, and then at that very moment Giles yelled, ‘Telly-phone! Telly-phone!’ and I turned and raced up to the Long Room.
A gigantic terracotta plinth supporting a huge urn frothing with a bounty of white impatiens and scarlet geranium. Two enormous cedars left and right of a pleasant, unremarkable, but cared-for late-eighteenth-century house. Tall chimneys, long windows, white shutters, a curved portico over an open front door flanked by two rearing griffins. There was also a peacock, and Frederick running towards us trailing a kite.
‘Hi! So you found us. It wasn’t so far, was it? I have a kite, but there’s no wind this morning. We can go to the lake. There’s a lake through the trees.’
Giles had clambered out of the car, had hitched his jeans, looked round at me. ‘Awesome!’ he murmured, and to Frederick he said, ‘Can we swim there? I’ve brought my things.’
And then she was on the top of the steps tying the scarlet scarf round her hair, long legs apart, a cream chiffon dress light on her slim body.
‘Hi, there! I’ll be right with you. Frederick, you can’t swim today. Not without Henri present, and Henri has gone and messed up his foot. So no swimming.’
She came down the steps slowly. I was standing by the Simca, and then she was beside me, an envelope in her hand. ‘But you can use the pool. I hate you to be in that lake. Henri can be Nanny by the pool, right?’ She only looked at me during this, calling over a shoulder. She handed me the envelope and in a low voice said, ‘This is where to meet. Full instructions. I’ll follow you. Twenty minutes.’
I took the envelope. She was smiling, her eyes bright with complicity. ‘I do not, at any time, believe that my right hand should ever know what the left one does. Do you? Just wait there in the parking: I’ll be driving a little car, a Citroën. The Mercedes is too obvious.’ She turned away and started back up the steps calling to the boys. ‘Frederick. Take Giles to see the monkeys. We have monkeys, Giles! Don’t get bitten.’
Giles turned and looked at me with a vague smile of disquiet, not about the monkeys, I felt certain, but about being left.
‘I’ll be back, don’t worry. About five, or maybe before. Enjoy yourself. And put on your hat. Sunstroke.’
&nb
sp; Frederick yelled, ‘Come see, Giles!’ But he stood watching me, still uncertain, the bundle of swimming things slipping under his arm. I crossed my heart. He smiled, nodded, waved, and ran off shouting, ‘Where are you?’
She was still at the top of the steps, a tiny breeze frilled the light hem of her skirt, floating it. She stood there smiling. ‘You have to do that always? Crossing your heart?’ I nodded, she went into the house. ‘Twenty minutes after you. Right?’
Just outside Sainte-Brigitte, in a modest block of inexpensive new flats, three storeys high with sprinkler-watered lawns, two tall imported palms, and an oval swimming pool, deserted and tidy, I parked the Simca and sat under a spray of violent bougainvillaea to wait for the Citroën. Her envelope had contained the address and a note to say that she’d bring a picnic. ‘We’ll just rough it. Won’t that be exciting?’ It was unsigned.
I waited quietly under the ugly creeper and saw no sign of a living soul. The flats were built on a ridge looking down over the town and the soaring view below. It was a clear sign of what was about to happen to the area in the near future. Modest retirement flats. ‘Studios’, the large sign-board said, for modest incomes, elderly people from Paris, Lille, Amiens and places north. A pleasant, inexpensive nest for the aged, arthritic, rheumatic or just ordinary, retired shopkeepers, bank officials and insurance clerks. Unpretentious, discreet. An odd place for Lulu de Terrehaute to hang out in? Perhaps she didn’t? It didn’t matter one way or another, lust had risen within me once again. Long, long suppressed desire and need was swelling me, infusing my whole being as if I was a randy eighteen with spots and a bad haircut.
And then, with a soft whisper of tyres, she had arrived and driven her car into the parking just a discreet way from my Simca. There were no other cars to be seen. Maybe the elderly only used their Zimmer frames to get about? It looked as though no one had ever swum in the crystalline pool.
‘No one ever does,’ she said, a large lidded hamper in one hand, a bunch of keys in the other. She had covered her head with the scarf, wore the wrap-around dark glasses, no jewellery. ‘This place is strictly for the aged, fat and ugly. I borrow the flat from a girl I know who is as discreet as hell and is, presently, away on a trip to Rio, or Saigon, or maybe Athens. You can never be certain of her. This is her secret place. But I have a key! That’s all that matters.’
We were in a neat, unscarred lift. ‘They are all empty in this block. We are right on top. Great views. If we get time to look at great views.’ Her hand was suddenly on the zip of my jeans, slid up to the brass pull, slid down again, caressing my growing strength. ‘I guess we can find lots of other things to look at, don’t you?’
The lift murmured to a stop. A light, narrow corridor, a couple of doors, left and right, one green, one pale blue. She opened the blue one and we were in a dim, shuttered room. The door slammed behind me, the hamper was dropped and she reached eagerly for me again, crushing her mouth brutishly over mine before I could even yell, which, with the force of her grip, and the suddenness of the attack, was almost obligatory. It was a greedy, vicious joining. I matched her easily. I lacked restraint too, and matched her greed now that I realized the situation. Good manners were not for today. If this was the ‘lunch’ she had suggested, then I was ready and able and we’d have one. It was also being made clear that we were not into nouvelle cuisine. This was to be a banquet and I, from where I stood, braced against the door, legs astride, was to be the main course. With a groan of impatience she pulled away. I could see her eyes in the filtered light from the louvred shutters. Diamonds, they were so hard and bright.
‘Get the message?’ Her voice was as hard as her eyes.
‘Loud and strong,’ I said.
‘And so is this,’ she said, and struck me sharply between the legs. I lurched forward gasping but she grabbed my belt-buckle, pulled me into a sitting-room.
Light filtered, a smell of dust. She unzipped her dress, let it slip to the floor round her feet. Kicked off her shoes, pulled the scarf from her head and, as her hair fell to her shoulders, told me to remove my shoes.
‘I’m going to strip you, babe. I don’t mess with shoes. Get rid of them, then come to me.’ She walked into the pearl light of the room, opened a window with care, eased a shutter. The light became a little stronger, when she turned back to me I was shoe-less. Her nakedness overwhelmed me completely. Slight, smaller than I had realized, her breasts taut, shining, jutting upwards, waist narrow, firm thighs, long legs. She had no body hair; glowing, bronzed, satiny. Only white, pure aching white, at the fork. Her arms raised wide in invitation, head to one side, the cat-smile.
‘Here I am,’ she said. ‘But where, my randy fellow, are you? Shall I look? Feel the package? Guess what I got? I’ll look. Just you stay very, very still so I can strip you all the way down. To your “bare essentials”.’
She lowered her arms, the provocative cat-smile faded. I needed no provocation. If this was how she played the game I would go along with her. She came towards me arms reaching, hands curled into predatory claws, and ripped my shirt open to the waist. Buttons scattered. ‘No vest. Great …’ The shirt was tugged roughly from my jeans, dropped. ‘No hairy shoulders. I hate hairy men.’ Her hands caressed my breasts. ‘Smooth. Sweet.’ She pinched a nipple roughly. I cried out.
Her hands were on the wide buckle of my belt. ‘Jockey pants! You wear those?’ The buckle gave, she wrestled impatiently with the metal button closing the zip. ‘I could feel you.’ Her voice was rough, the button gave and she ripped down the zip, split my fly. Then she sank slowly to her knees pulling the jeans to my thighs. ‘Stand tall. Get these off.’ Jeans and shorts crumpled round my ankles. ‘Heavens to Betsy! That is all a wicked girl can desire. What have you got here? Why hide it.’
She took me in her hand, squeezed and cupped me as if she was weighing fruit. Looked up again, the little smile, teeth glistening. ‘Step out, spread wide, babe.’
I complied willingly, her hands splayed on my thighs, her head bowed down, and I was greedily, furiously, engulfed. I think that I cried out, her fingers clawed my flesh, I arched my back thrusting out to her, and heard a harsh sobbing which can only have come from the depth of my guts and then I was suddenly, and monstrously, released; sweat running, gasping for breath, spent. After a moment, she pulled away, wiped her lips. ‘Don’t hang your head. He’s not hanging his, look!’ She rose, took my hand, and pulled me across to a small divan under the window, pushed me down on it. I lay still, drained indeed, arm across my eyes, gasping for breath. Heard her moving about somewhere.
When I looked up, blearily, she had the hamper, set it on the floor, produced a bottle of vodka, two cheap glasses. ‘Refreshments, mouthwash, or whatever. To keep everything up.’ She gave me a half-filled glass. I eased on an elbow to drink it. ‘Not too much. You haven’t touched base yet. The best is yet to come.’
She had filled her glass and emptied it easily, got to her feet carrying the hamper through a small curtained archway. I lay slumped, the glass tilted in my hand, the liquid burning into my empty stomach. Behind the curtain she was rustling about, treading softly. I reached for the bottle which she had left on the floor and she was instantly at the arch. ‘No! No more. I want my “lunch”.’
‘I thought you’d just had that?’
She came into the room, took the glass away, ‘Just the hors d’oeuvres. Now I get to have a feast. C’mon.’ And taking my prick, still alert, she forced me to my feet and led me through the archway. A large Victorian bed. Curly brass, black bars, stripped. No sheet, no pillows. Flat. A tight white rubber cover. It smelled slightly of sweet chocolate. I was pushed down, backwards, on to the bed. Sun from the louvres raked her body with rippling stripes. With a quick surge of anxiety I saw cords trailing at the head and end of the bed. ‘Now, look, no silly buggers,’ I said.
‘This is going to be silly as hell, I tell you.’ Quickly, and expertly, she bound my arms wide apart above my head, moved briskly to my feet. I was spreadeagled
, helpless as she intended, flat to the sickly smelling rubber. My body raged, she slapped it lightly, kissed it with pursed lips. ‘I just want you to realize I am reversing the general situation. Usually the lady gets to be in your position, correct? And the gentleman gets to be where I am! Reversal of fortunes, you could say? You’d be right. This way it’s not me who is the vulnerable one, babe, it’s you. This is “Girls’ revenge”. Wait for it.’
‘Oh God! Go easy. Please, go easy.’ I closed my eyes.
‘No one ever went easy with me …’ A cool liquid spilled on to my belly, trickled down my thighs. I tried to raise my head from the sheet.
‘Baby oil, for a smooth finish.’
‘What the hell are you doing?’
‘I am in the process of doing you.’ She set the bottle aside. I dropped my head, tried to pull away.
‘Oh Christ! Go easy – Lulu – stop. I can’t hold it -’
‘Don’t you dare! Don’t waste a drop! You have a real hard gut, you know that? This strictly does not work on flab.’ Her hands were wanton, sliding, caressing, cupping.
‘Don’t! Don’t! I’ll let rip – I’ll lose it -’ I was writhing.
Suddenly she clambered over me, spread her thighs wide across mine, bent down and bit my breasts, the right, the left, savagely. I know I yelled, I know I heaved and pulled against her weight. Heard her laughing from a mile away. ‘Don’t pull. Silk ties. They won’t budge, just tighten.’ With thumb and forefinger she twisted my nipples again as if they were bottle tops. I bucked, pleaded.
‘That may mark you: the ties won’t.’ She twisted again. I rolled in pain. This was suddenly no fun at all. Flat to the bed, head to heel. An insane, voracious woman straddling my thighs, her hands sliding, pulling, pinching. ‘Lulu! Don’t! No more – no more!’