by Dirk Bogarde
I explained quietly that I fulfilled all the criteria which he had expected. What is more I was there, before him, my cheque book in my hand, and I would not haggle the price. I was a local man, as he knew, I would bring the canary yellow car back to him for all its servicing, he would see the love and care that I would lavish on it, and how could he possibly think of selling such a beauty into the harem, so to speak, of a rich arab in Monaco who was very likely too fat to drive it and would use it only as a background to roasting his sheep, and cover it in sand if he took it home? It was not much of an argument, but the cheque book and my presence (serious and intense, I hoped) began slowly to erode his caution and satisfy his avarice.
I still managed to remain a ‘real specialist, a collector and a fanatic car-lover’ even when he stated his price. I knew that I had taken him slightly off guard. The price was higher than he had expected to ask, and higher than I had expected to pay. Nevertheless, I had started, so I would go on. In his trim little office below a picture of the Virgin Mary looking appropriately heavenwards, and a fireman’s calendar with a view of grazing goats, I signed a cheque which could have easily bought me a brand new Peugeot, except that I didn’t want a Peugeot. I wanted, and I got, the canary car and drove it, first carefully round the streets of Sainte-Brigitte, and then out on to the main road, with the fat garagiste wedged uncomfortably at my side. I tried it out, made arrangements to have the Simca driven over to Jericho (I would, after all, still need a car for marketing and so on) and, with a glass of pastis to seal the deal, I drove through the lanes in the brilliant sun playing with my new image and my new toy, its engine purring in pristine splendour. The garagiste’s son had obviously cherished the beauty of his car. Every rivet, every nut and bolt, door handle, the exhaust, glistened in lovingly polished, cared-for glory.
Dottie, who was slowly walking up the drive as I turned in with a crunch of white-walled tyres on the gravel, pressed herself against the lichened figure of her stone goddess, her face slack with surprise. I stopped precisely beside her.
‘Have you taken leave of your senses, Will! Where did you get it? It’s not yours?’
I assured her that it was mine. ‘Do you think I’ve gone mad, Dottie? Male menopause?’
‘Well, I begin to wonder. I mean, it’s beautiful, but, well, I don’t know. I think the menopause business is a little unlikely, don’t you? I don’t think that’s caught you up yet? But, somehow, I do see you in the Simca. Not this. It’s a playboy’s sort of car. Know what I mean?’
‘That’s my whole problem. We all see me in a Simca Brake. Tweedy. Dependable. Elderly. Unadventurous. In a word, dull. Ageing in my Fair Isle sweater and Viyella shirts.’
‘That’s going too far, I didn’t mean that. You know I didn’t.’
‘I’ve flustered you. You know that is exactly what you did mean. Well, I am altering rapidly. This is, as I said, a period of adjustment for me and the adjusting has begun. I’m enjoying it greatly.’
Dottie was smiling, hand on the yellow rim of the car door. ‘It is really very lovely. All long and sleek. Look at that bonnet! You’ll be polishing like a mad thing. When did this metamorphosis take place? Where exactly did you discover your road to – what is it? – Damascus?’
I know that I laughed, and I know that she didn’t really know why when I said, ‘In bed! The other day. I was just lying there. In bed! Feeling rather helpless, aware that there was a very strong force at work around me that I couldn’t ignore, and had to deal with. And I decided to deal with it there and then. And I have. I always find that being in bed is extremely good for concentration and coming to decisions! Don’t you?’
‘It depends. I have no idea what you’re talking about.’ She opened the door and slid in beside me, slammed the door, grinned up at me from under her straw hat. ‘Off we go. What fun. Have you found some delicious scented lady to drive about with you? Frightfully intimate. We are almost lying prone. Goodness! Do drive up and honk your horn. I can’t wait to see the faces up top.’
We moved off and began the gentle climb to the house.
‘Mrs Theobald, I really believe you approve of this.’
She laughed, pulled off her hat. ‘It’s the sort of car that brings out the tart in every woman. You know that.’
‘I do. Didn’t know that you did.’
‘Schoolmaster’s wife? That what you think? Granny glasses, chalky fingers, algebra, good-woman shoes? You’d be amazed how women think sometimes, Will. Deep down there at the bottom, we have our fantasies too, you know.’
‘I do know. I do indeed. Very important to have fantasies … I was talking about that just the other day.’
We drew up at the terrace just as Giles and Arthur, a book in his hand, came hurriedly through the bamboo curtain.
‘William!’ he called, laughter and admiration lurking, his eyes blue as china. ‘What do you think you are doing with my wife! What a glorious machine! Dottie! You’ll be compromised in that. Out you get!’
She opened her door and, almost reluctantly, got out, hat in hand. ‘Hardly be compromised before so many agog faces. Isn’t it jolly, Giles? You’ll fit in very comfortably.’
Frederick had joined the others on the terrace. ‘Good grief. Is that ever a real old-fashioned thing! Is it safe to drive?’
‘Is it for me?’ Giles had come down to the car, ran a hand in a light caress along the door, just as Dottie had done. ‘Or is it for you? You I suppose?’
‘Me. All for me. You can sit in it sometimes. If you behave.’
‘I reckoned it was for his birthday. A present. Wouldn’t that be just great, Giles? A yellow antique automobile pre-Pearl Harbor, all to yourself!’ Frederick was grinning. ‘I never did see such a thing! Outside of a museum or an old movie.’
Arthur hit him on the head with the closed book. ‘Enough! Impertinent youth. I think it is perfectly splendid. Can you get spares and so on for it? I reckon so. It’ll probably guzzle petrol.’
Dottie had gone up the step to the house, brushed through the curtain, called that she ‘was going to wash a lettuce’. We sat, Arthur and I, on the terrace, while the two boys peered and poked about the car. Frederick suddenly called up across the long yellow bonnet, ‘Mr Caldicott! I forgot. My mother said to thank you sincerely for the invite, and we’ll be there. Thank you very much.’
Giles said, ‘It was me who sent the invitation. I did. I had to do them all. In French.’
‘Well, so what? I told you it was okay. My mother just said to tell your dad personally. She hates to write things. Look at these headlamps! You could go elephant-stalking at night with these.’ They moved about in a blur of trite conversation.
Arthur said, ‘Well, a change of image, I daresay? Good thing to do, I always think. Jericho must be working its charm on you. But of course you’ll wince every time you brush a leaf in that thing. Where did you find it?’
So I told him, and the telling took time, time enough for Dottie to carry out a tray and a jug of iced wine. ‘Lunch? There’s plenty. The boys do the washing-up.’
Arthur and I took a glass each and then I excused myself to set off for the splendours of Futurama.
‘Good God! Why that place?’ Arthur looked astonished.
‘It’s got a zoo-shop. There’s a birthday in the offing. And there’s a natty gents’ outfitter in the mall there, with some quite decent things – for me. And it’s a good time, everyone is either eating or going to eat. I hate being shoved about by all those women with credit cards.’ Everyone waved goodbye and cheered as I drove away carefully down the drive.
Driving back from the concrete hell of Futurama, and the drifting hundreds of bewildered people pushing trolleys up and down its fearful aisles, on my way back to Jericho, I saw the little car pulled roughly into the side of the road. The out-of-date green Renault ‘easy to park’, abandoned with one flat tyre. The doors were locked. Nothing inside, the engine still warm. She couldn’t be far down the road unless she had hitched a lift. But she ha
dn’t. Round the second bend of the high-walled lane there she was, trudging slowly, resignedly, two straw baskets in her hands.
Hearing the car she half turned, made a signal to stop with a raised basket, and as I drew up beside her she was squinting in the high sunlight, then sighed with relief and surprise.
‘Ouf! You! How funny – in a yellow car! I didn’t know: the sun was in my eyes. Will you help me?’
We loaded up, she pushed my bags aside, slid easily, wearily, into the seat beside me.
‘How lucky that it was you! I have a flat and there was a terrible popping noise from somewhere inside, ever since I left Sainte-Brigitte. No one stopped for me. No one. One man just shook his head and went faster. The world is full of awful people.’ She looked, in spite of being hot and tired, extremely well. Pretty, flushed, her hair tumbled. But I’d have known that straight military back anywhere, the determined walk, the trim elegance of Florence. ‘This is new? The car? Foreign, eh? And yours? Yellow!’
‘Mine. I bought it this morning. Quite mad, I suppose. Saw it and wanted it and bought it. It’s English, an MG, pre-war.’
‘It’s very pretty. Tres chic! Can you take me into Bargemon-sur-Yves? I must get on to the garage, Mama and Céleste expected me an hour ago – and Thomas.’
‘And Thomas. We’ll be there in a moment or two. I didn’t know that you were back, apart from the fact that your mama accepted my invitation. Giles’s invitation. So I suspected you were home.’
She nodded, looking straight ahead. ‘I’m home. All was well in Marseilles. All was clear.’
I felt an enormous inner slump of relief, but let nothing show. ‘I have wondered. I was a little bit concerned that there was no message.’
‘Why should there be?’ Her voice was perfectly reasonable. ‘It was unpleasant, a strain, naturally. Waiting. And Thomas was not exactly easy. We had a big battle with him. Celeste was wonderful. So calm, so firm. But all was fine. Thank you.’ She still did not look at me, sat calmly, arms folded in her lap, looking ahead.
‘And Dr Pascal … was he helpful? Obviously. Your mind should now be at ease?’
She brushed her hand through her hair, rested her chin on her hand, elbow on the rim of the door. ‘I am at ease. Be sure. So you remember his name? Pascal?’
‘I remember everything you said that day under the fig trees.’
For the first time she looked up at me. She was, as Dottie had suggested that she was, prone there beside me. ‘And you have been to London? Was that all settled? Is your mind at ease now? You are back at Jericho?’
‘The house is sold, my wife is somewhere with her rich lover, Giles and I are installed, with telephone as you must know, in Jericho, and you are coming to his party. So all is very well indeed!’
She may have laughed – I didn’t hear her – but she had a slight smile on her lips when she said, ‘The invitation! I was away, but Mama decided that we must accept. Not me. That was her idea entirely. I gather that you went to see her?’
‘With my address in London. In case you needed help.’
‘I did not. Thank you. She spoke kindly of the meeting. Amazing. You must be a magician.’
I laughed at the absurd formality of her attitude. ‘Sometimes, my dear Florence, I do believe that I am. It was a useful meeting I think. It cleared the air. But I am really happy that you will come. It’s not important to me or to you, but it is to Giles. You are his only “aunt”, remember? Thomas is his only cousin, he cares about that. And he’s celebrating his first decade and he’ll be doing it in French, in his new home, with his French friends. That’s very important to me. I want to open up his world.’
‘Is Louise de Terrehaute French? I thought American?’ She had turned to look at the vines flashing past. Now what was she up to?
‘American. French ancestors. She’s from Louisiana – they really hardly think of themselves as Americans. Frederick, her son, and she are coming. Yes. Do you know them?’
‘No. Really not. But of course everyone in the area knows Louise de Terrehaute. Before the Revolution, can you imagine! So absurd! They did own all the land about here.’
‘They owned Jericho. I know that. How did you know that I knew them?’
‘We all met years ago, when Raymond was still alive. She and her new, at the time, husband had come to look round. They bought a house on the hill. My mama plays bridge, Dorothée Teeobald plays bridge, they are often partners. Et voilà! There is little that is private in a bridge club, you know? Everything is sifted and sorted. I didn’t know that she had accepted. Amazing! She is very “bon chic, bon genre”. Really does not involve herself with local Society.’
‘But she knows the Theobalds.’
‘The boy goes to them for tutoring. As Giles does. Is that how you met? Of course, it must be.’
‘You have answered for me. Correct.’
‘The Teeobalds are very useful for busy parents in the summer holidays. They always accept their unwanted young to give the poor parents some time for … amusement.’ There was a fine edge of sarcasm in her voice. Unusual in Florence; whatever else she might be, I had not experienced sarcasm before. Nor ever bitterness. Anger, hate, but not female sarcasm. Against Dottie or against Lulu? Difficult to tell at that moment and then she changed the conversation. ‘He is well, Giles? He is still fishing? Clotilde is still with you, I know, and very happy … so that is comforting. And she cooks, too, I hear?’
‘She cooks too. I am never surprised about anything that circulates in this little town. God! The gossip and chatter which must go on over those hands of cards. I am just so surprised that they all managed to clam up as soon as I arrived and began asking questions about James. It was a wall of silence or mis-information. Loyalty to you, I suppose?’
‘Loyalty to Mama. But loyalty. Against the nosey foreigner,’ and she laughed. She settled back in her seat, hair blowing, smiling.
I was extremely glad that I had not unbuttoned my shirt on this hot afternoon. Florence would have had a clear, uninterrupted view of my battle scars as she was very close, and rather below me. Try to convince the bridge club that I had just fallen flat in the brambles with my strimmer? Fat chance.
It was almost three when we rounded the church and drew up outside her smug little house. As she started to get out of the car and make some murmured thanks for giving her a lift, I put my hand on her arm and stopped her.
‘Florence, I have a small gift I must give you. Can I bring it over. Maybe tomorrow sometime?’
‘A gift?’ Her brow was furrowed. ‘A gift? From you?’
‘No. Not from me. From Aronovich. Solomon Aronovich. Remember him?’
She pulled away from me gently. ‘Very well. Very well.’ She took her baskets and, with one of them, slammed the car door shut. ‘I want nothing from him, nothing. I would accept no gift from him ever. Thank you.’
‘It’s really from James, as a matter of fact. It’s his watch. The Piaget. Aronovich managed to trace it, bought it. I have it.’
She was ice cold, rock steady. The lace curtains in the bow window of the house were being lightly adjusted. ‘I prefer not to know about it. Please don’t speak of it again.’ She started to go to the little iron gate.
I called quietly, ‘It’s worth money, Florence. I only think of Thomas. We could sell it … I can?’
‘Do as you choose,’ she said. ‘I would rather die.’ She pushed through the gate and walked up the white pebble path. She did not look back and I started up, drove slowly round the church, and headed home to Jericho.
The gigantic terracotta plinth, the bounty of white impatiens and scarlet geraniums, the sun blazing through the branches of the two sentinel cedars, by the steps the peacock frilling in full display, his dull little hen prodding in the gravel of the drive. Giles grabbed my arm and cried, ‘Dad! Look! All his feathers are up. Couldn’t we have one? Couldn’t we?’ I said no, and swept in a curve to the foot of the steps. ‘Why not? For my birthday? Next week? Why not?’
/> Frederick came running across the sprinkled lawns, dodging the shower of glistening diamonds spilling in gentle arcs waving backwards and forwards in gentle rhythm. ‘Hi! Hi! Giles, it’s going to be real hot. We are at the pool. C’mon, c’mon.’
Giles opened his door and got out, carrying his blue hand-grip with his bathing things. Frederick was almost naked, and very brown.
‘Why not, Dad?’
I got out and shut my door gently. The yellow bodywork shimmered pleasingly in the heat. ‘Because I don’t want a bloody peacock, that’s why.’
Behind Frederick, limping painfully, a tall young man with a bandaged foot, a white thong and dark glasses. He stood with his fists on his hips and greeted Giles with a flick of a hand.
‘This is Henri. He’s hurt his foot,’ said Frederick.
I nodded to Henri, who just scowled back.
‘Yes, I know. He can’t drive so I brought your pal over. Is your mother about?’
Frederick was scratching his leg. ‘She’s someplace, maybe in the house. You want to see my shark? It’s a huge thing. You blow it up, it’s great. Henri is very good at blowing things up, he’s got a pump. C’mon, Giles, we’ll go down to the pool. Henri will show you.’ He hurried off, and Giles, after a bleak look of anger about no peacocks, went after him.