by Dirk Bogarde
‘About five?’ I called crossing my heart. He turned, nodded, and went on. I was trusted.
I followed Henri slowly, on account of his wounded foot, up the steps into the house. A high arched gothic hall, white, cool, with an old flagged floor. At the end, a vast gilded console table with a jasper top carrying an alabaster jar stuffed with tall white stocks. Henri, unwilling to enter the house naked, indicated a door far across the hall and hobbled away.
Lulu was standing in a vast shady room thrusting spikes of blue delphinium into a square glass tank. She saw me, waved a spike of blossom above her head. ‘I’m so sorry, you having to drive all the way! But I am going crazy. Seven for lunch, a sullen cook, and a lame chauffeur. I just could not make the time to get to you.’ She was wearing a blue and white butcher’s apron, a wide-brimmed straw hat and not much else.
‘It’s very good of you to have the boy.’
‘No trouble for me.’ She stuck in a couple more blooms. ‘Anyway, you found me. Sit down, anywhere, I’ll be just a moment. How did you get in?’
‘I followed Tarzan, easy.’
‘Oh. Poor Henri. Tarzan! Isn’t he great?’
‘Carries all before him. Unblushingly.’
‘Oh God! Naked again? I keep telling him … He’s down at the pool, keeping an eye on my offspring. And yours. He was pool-boy at the Beau Rivage. I thought he was just wasted there. So he’s here. Right?’
‘Right. You don’t waste time, Lulu, I know that.’
She laughed, wiped her hands on the apron, started to untie it. ‘You look very chic this morning. My, my! White pants, a very classy shirt. What happened?’
‘I had to hide my wounds.’
She removed the apron over her head and her hat fell off. ‘Wounds? What wounds? What happened?’ She retrieved her hat, threw it and the apron into a chair.
‘You did. Those claws of yours. I just say I fell in a bramble patch.’
‘A bramble patch!’ She snorted with laughter. ‘You are too much! Who asked?’
‘Only Giles. So far.’
‘They can’t be that bad. Let me see?’ I backed into my chair. ‘Oh, c’mon. A little love scratch! It was days ago.’ She was wearing a thin silk shirt, short shorts. Eminently desirable, standing above me, legs astride. I got up quickly.
‘I only dropped by to say thanks for accepting the invitation from Giles. It was very, very good of you. It’s not exactly your kind of scene.’
‘Oh, it’ll be fun. Freddy wants to go, good for him too, and we get to meet tout Bargemon-sur-Yves.’
‘No. No you do not. It’s strictly provincial, not Hôtel du Cap. The Theobalds you do know, and the Prideaux, mother and daughter? Florence and Sidonie. You know them? Of them?’
‘Oh God, everyone knows everyone, or about everyone, in this place, even if we don’t get to sit at their tables. Sure I know who you mean. Florence is your very own sister-in-law? Right? All that agony about your brother? That has not been a secret here for years. Long before you arrived in town to look around. That was really tragic. Maybe we did meet? I don’t recall. I know we met the mother and a very pretty fellow, the son? A soldier, cadet? I came here with my second husband on our honeymoon, because Bobbie wanted to see his “ancestral” plot. I ask you! The Terrehaute inheritance did not exist.’
‘You know it all. Where I live, Jericho, was once part of that inheritance.’
She was slowly pushing her shirt into her shorts. This involved a certain amount of physical display which only went to prove how gloriously well she had kept her body into her early thirties. And she knew it, knew I was watching. She pulled the shirt tightly across firm breasts. ‘The inheritance is some god-awful rockery. Piles of boulders. Rocks. We found this place anyway. Are you looking like that because of my tits?’
‘Yes. When was all that? The arrival at the chateau?’
‘Oh, years ago. I hadn’t birthed Freddy. Ten years? The mother was quite pleasant, I remember, and the son was divine. He liked shooting things. Got killed in an auto pile-up a couple of years later. We only ever came here in the summer. Sometimes at Christmas. But I prefer New York for winter.’
‘A week ago I didn’t know you existed.’
‘Now you have scars to prove I do. I don’t know many people here. Not at all my kind of life, small-town meanness. I hate the gossip and intrigue. Why do you imagine I behaved like Mata Hari the other day? Secret addresses in envelopes, separate cars, that crappy apartment? Les Palmiers. Hideous, but divinely anonymous.’
‘Is that its name? Les Palmiers?’
She pulled her hair up into a bunch to the nape of her neck with both hands; the movement, slow, deliberate, thrust her breasts towards me. ‘Les Palmiers is where you got “wounded”. My room without windows. Got it?’
‘I wish like hell you wouldn’t do that.’
She twisted slightly. ‘Do what?’
‘Display.’
She let her hair fall about her shoulders. ‘I will behave like a country milk-maid. Sweetness will flow from me at your party. I can behave. I know how. It’s just that I really love to screw. But I know where and when and’ – she moved towards me smiling her little cat-smile – ‘with whom.’
‘Is there still a Bobbie de Terrehaute? Does he still figure in your life?’
‘As a signature on the bottom of a cheque is all. There was an utterly, utterly ugly little scandal a while ago. He was caught with a brother and sister act. Both minors, pubescent Chinese. He has unusual tastes in sex, as you gather? So I just skipped away; with a settlement. He is still my husband, in a distant kind of way. Lives in Rome now and doesn’t fuss me one bit. He wanted an heir, can you believe? I provided Freddy. At mortal risk to myself. He sees his father sometimes, and if there is anything more you simply can’t wait to know, you will have to wait until the next session at Les Palmiers, Perry Mason.’ She was standing before me, hands on her hips, a silent signal that the session was at an end.
I said suddenly, ‘You haven’t seen my new car. To go with the white pants and the classy shirt. Come and look.’
We walked together across the high, cool hall.
‘I’ll behave beautifully at the supper. Lot’s wife. But animated. I won’t wear Chanel. Maybe something very demure? Floral? But not woollen, or flannel? You wouldn’t want that? And it’s summer.’
‘I wouldn’t want that. No.’
We reached the big door. She stood on the top of the steps looking down into the gardens, shading her eyes with a hand. The car dazzled in the sun.
‘That it? A phallic symbol if I ever saw one. And I’m responsible for that too? It is divine. Sexy as hell. White-wall tyres. But it isn’t the kind of car you can take to Les Palmiers. No way. It’s as anonymous as a squadron of tanks. No problem! We’ll think of something.’ She put her fingers to her lips, mimed a little kiss, turned and went back up the steps, then she turned again, her hands caressing her thighs, leant forward conspiratorially.
‘Ciao, babe!’ she whispered, and went away.
Chapter 9
It was with a mild degree of relief that I heard from a radiant Clotilde that Mon-Ami had given in his notice at Gavery and was presently down in the potager digging. Although I rather liked my image of becoming a Vita Sackville-West or yet a second Harold Nicolson, in time, I had to confess to myself that I knew very little about gardening at all. The rebuilding of my dull character was to include, apart from the flat gut and firmer muscle, that of a man of the soil; someone like Arthur who could dig and plant and sit after his labours in the shade of his vine, glass in hand, and survey his work knowing that it would be quite in order to say, 7 did all that. All my own work.’
But as I had hardly ever lifted a finger in the gardens of the family house in Faringdon, or put more than a tentative hand or offered encouragement to efforts in Simla Road, it was unsurprising that all I was really capable of doing was digging (any fool can do that) or dead-heading a rose or two, and planting a few bulbs from time to
time. Although I could very well see what the land at Jericho must have once looked like under the passionately youthful energy and vision of James and Florence, I had very little idea how the reconstruction of what they had achieved should be done.
So, with Mon-Ami to help, and he was obviously keen and knowledgeable, we might together (providing I did the odd bits here and there) get a little of the place back into shape. At least for the part of the summer which remained. We were already tipping into July, the heat was reaching its height, the sun blazed, the light blinded, the shade beckoned constantly. But Mon-Ami seemed impervious to heat. Without his leathers and the bowl-like casque he, regrettably to Giles’s eyes, looked ‘just like anyone else. Quite skinny, really.’ Tall, strong, wearing old jeans and a faded cotton T-shirt, he no longer passed as an extra from Star Trek but just a perfectly ordinary labourer. Albeit with classical features presently running with sweat.
Clotilde had taken everything at Jericho firmly in hand: I was extremely pleased that she had, but at the same time I was aware that my own comfortable existence as boss was subtly being eroded. However, it was good not to have to cope with Giles and his filthy shirts, underpants and shorts, to arrange meals, to cook and pull up the beds. Clotilde seemed to thrive on this kind of work like a diligent bee, buzzing and zooming about the place singing happily. She had ‘her men’, as she called us, under her thumb; we needed her and she knew that, and relished it.
The house-keeping money had to be increased now that we had an extra mouth to feed, and Mon-Ami ate prodigiously. No longer could Giles and I take lunch in the kitchen – we had to eat on the terrace under the vine so that Clotilde and Mon-Ami had the kitchen to themselves. In the winter, or in rain, she said, she would put a small table in the Long Room and we would lunch there. Supper, as she called it always, was our own affair and was to be taken when we wished and where we wished. She would leave something in the oven and there was always, always, potage. She rejected nothing that might be the basis for her soups; every scrap was utilized and a large pot always sat ready simmering at the edge of the stove.
However, we all gathered together round the kitchen table for the morning break, while Clotilde prepared the lunch or chopped vegetables. It was informal, easy, slightly Impressionist. Her bright, plump face, the sun streaming through the open windows, the rough white walls, the rugged, bronzed arms of Mon-Ami holding his glass or mug, the scent of thyme and oregano, of hot cut grass, the blaze of wild flowers stuck in jars on the table and at the window; it all looked a little like a Vuillard or, with Clotilde’s ample rosy splendour, a Renoir.
I now had time to drive about the country in my splendid yellow car without worrying about locking doors and windows. Not that I ever really had at Jericho. It was very much a country world. Tight, trusting, safe. I spent one morning over at La Maison Blanche arranging the menu for the birthday feast. At Giles’s own suggestion, and as it was his event, he was to be allowed to have what he best liked, provided it wasn’t baked beans, ‘crusty-chicken’ or fish fingers. In the event he decided on a couscous. Partly because he so relished the dish, and also, in some odd way, he thought that it would be ‘very nice’ for his ‘aunt’ and her mother. After all, he reasoned, they knew what a real couscous was like because they had lived in Algeria and Morocco, and Eugène knew all about couscous, so we’d have that. Eugène looked slightly taken aback at my suggestion, but accepted the situation gracefully and said we would have a perfect couscous and then we planned the rest of the supper.
He was aware, as was Madame Mazine, of the importance of the evening. A first decade. Very much something to celebrate. They would put up a round table, Clotilde Clotilde had insisted on coming to serve, and everything would be comme il faut. I must have no fear, even though it was high season for the hotel. It was also, he said quietly, most impressive to be entertaining the Prideaux. They had never been seen to dine in public together before, so it was cachet for the hotel. Madame Prideaux and the Colonel had been very important in Algiers, very important figures, but this I undoubtedly knew? I said I did. Easier than enduring the detailed histoire which I knew must follow should I say no.
A frisson of controlled excitement became apparent when the name de Terrehaute was casually mentioned. Did I know that, many years ago, before the Revolution, the family owned all the lands in the area? That once my present house was just the pigeonnier of the great château whose ruins lay on the boundary of my land? I said that I did, and chucked in a few extra details, gleaned from Lulu and Dottie, that the eldest son, his bride, two children and their bonne, had fled before capture, reached Bordeaux, bribed their way on to an American frigate and after enduring a fearsome voyage eventually reached New Orleans. This caused great interest, and when I said that the present heir, one Frederick, would be attending the supper, even Madame Mazine, who usually showed the interest and disdain of a dromedary, cried ‘Oh! la la! Quel plaisir! Le petit Due lui même!
I hastily added that he was not a ‘Due’, but it made not a whit of difference. Madame Mazine was a great deal more pleasant than she had ever been in the past from that moment on. The French, whatever else they may be, are basically royalists and corking snobs. The fact that Frederick’s father, the true heir, was drugged to the eyeballs and living in Rome I decided to ignore.
Giles had obviously seen me coming back up the track to the house. The yellow car burned and sparkled in the sun. He came hurrying down from the stream, bathing-trunks, hair flattened by sweat, muddy arms and legs. ‘Did you arrange it all? Supper?’
I turned the car and eased into the shed, the engine murmuring sweetly. Stopped. He was picking his way barefoot across the dirt floor.
‘Did you? See Eugène and all?’
‘Saw Eugène and all. It’s arranged. A round table, couscous, tomato, basil and mozzarella to start with, Cherries Jubilee to finish. And I’ve chosen the wine.’
‘What’s that? Have I had it? The Jubilee stuff?’
‘I don’t know. Hot cherries on ice cream? You’ll love it.’ I slid out of the car and hitched my pants. ‘Why are you covered in mud? I have asked you not to muck about up at the stream unless I’m around. You are a little sod.’
‘Mon-Ami is with me. We’re damming it with rocks.’
‘I didn’t employ Mon-Ami to bugger about with dams. He’s got other things to do.’ We went out into the heat, and I shut the shed door.
‘You swore, Will. Bugger. That’s a terrible word. Eric Thingummy said it once and Mum really screamed at him. And sod. You said both.’
‘Oh shit. Sorry …’
‘You just said another! I don’t mind.’
‘Thanks. But I don’t want Mon-Ami mucking about.’
‘He’s terrifically strong. He can lift the stones for me.’
We were walking up through the almond trees towards the cliffs and the stream, a tumbling twist of the river Yves which wound across the top of my land. I saw the naked back of Mon-Ami moving slowly in the ripples of heat.
Giles suddenly said, ‘I know a really terrible word. Shall I say it? No one will hear, just us. It’s really pretty bad.’
‘Well, why say it? If it’s so terrible? I don’t want to hear it frankly.’
‘Well if I say it aloud, to you, I won’t want to say it aloud to anyone for quite a long time. You see?’
‘Getting it off your chest, is that it?’
We were almost up to the stream which was softly bickering and shouldering over its rough bed. Mon-Ami was staggering about with a boulder the size of a sheep.
‘All right. Say it if it’ll help you. What is it?’
He turned his head away, thrust his thumbs into the top of his trunks, suddenly, looked skywards, avoiding me deliberately.
‘Suppository,’ he said.
We walked on in silence broken only by the stream.
‘There. It’s pretty awful, isn’t it? You’d be furious, wouldn’t you? If I said it in front of anyone? Wouldn’t you?’
; ‘Yes, I would. You shouldn’t even know such a word. Now forget it. Right?’
‘Right. I just wanted to say it aloud so you’d know I knew it. Willwood Minor told me. At school. He told quite a lot of us. Very secretly. I knew it was very bad. He said it put a curse on people if you said it to them.’
‘I see. Well you said it to me. When do I get cursed?’
‘Oh no! I didn’t say it to you! I said it to the sky, just out loud. That’s all. I’m quite glad, you know.’
‘So am I. But never say it again. Not ever. In front of me or anyone else. Just try and forget it. Willwood Minor was just showing off. And I don’t want you to do that. Right? I loathe show-offs. So remember!’
We pushed through a small cane-break. Giles suddenly yelped. ‘Ouch! Ouch! My foot!’ I stopped and looked at him hopping about on one leg, holding a bloody foot. ‘I’m bleeding!’
‘I can see. It’s a scratch. Barefoot: you’re mad.’
‘You said to. To walk barefoot. You said!’
‘Not through a cane break. Clot. They’ll harden.’ I turned away (he wasn’t harmed) and went on. He came hopping after me.
‘Dad!’ (Change of name. This was serious.) I stopped. ‘Dad, you aren’t angry, are you? About the word I said? I did ask you.’
‘No. I’m not angry. It was very good of you to say it. Tell me. Get it off your chest. Shows that you trust me.’
‘Well I do.’
‘Fine. Great. But it’s a really silly word. Not nearly as terrible as whatever his name is says it is. Just forget it, okay? Let’s see how many boulders Mon-Ami has carted about. And we’ll do it all in French. Got it?’ I wondered quite how I’d cope as father the next time we went into the pharmacy. He’d be so swamped by the word that he’d lose all faith in me as a parent. Well, cope with it when it happened.