A Period of Adjustment

by Dirk Bogarde

  Lulu regarded the Colonel’s widow calmly. ‘I can. I have a terrible Ammurican accent which will possibly amuse you, but the grammar is good, and the slang even better, and …’ Moving slowly towards her victim, taking an unoffered hand in both of hers, she said in a sweet and low voice, ‘You won’t remember at all, but we did meet, years ago. At your country house, Jericho? I was with my second husband. We were on a kind of “Return to the Ancestors” kick. I met you with that very handsome son of yours. Remember? He was just ravishing … Richard? Robert? I forget, it was the briefest of meetings.’

  Madame Prideaux sat quite still, her hand held firmly in Lulu’s. ‘Raymond,’ she said. ‘His name was Raymond. He was killed.’

  Lulu leant down swiftly, intimate, caring (I was fascinated watching her play). ‘I know. I know. I was terribly sad to hear that …’ And looking directly across the table at Florence, who was sitting between Arthur and Giles, ‘You, you are his sister, Madame? Florence Caldicott? Raymond’s sister, Giles’s aunt? That is correct? I don’t remember if we actually met, but I can see so astonishingly how similar you are. The same lovely eyes, grey, his eyes were unforgettable, the same straight back. An amazing resemblance, eh, Madame? You were fortunate in your children?’

  Madame Prideaux’s hand had relaxed in the steady hold of Lulu’s two. She nodded. ‘I am fortunate indeed. I do recall our meeting with your husband. He found French difficult, I remember. But it was a pleasant meeting. He enjoyed Raymond’s new motorcycle.’

  Lulu, sensing a modest victory, eased smoothly away, in a drift of Mitsuko and pale blue chiffon, waved at Dottie and Arthur, and said where did she sit? She sat across the table, beside Arthur, one removed from Florence, and Eugène filled her glass deferentially.

  We re-toasted Giles, we smiled pleasantly, he and Frederick sipped cautiously at thimblefuls and said that Coke was better and we laughed in that stupid, immoderate way that adults do if they are slightly ill at ease and use childish utterances as a relief from temporary awkwardness.

  But it all passed quickly enough. Dottie began to chatter across to Madame Prideaux, on my right, about some new disaster she had had with white fly; Arthur and Lulu were laughing; Florence, chin in her hand, talked with Giles, and across to Frederick, about the possibilities of going up to the hameau of Jericho when the range was not being used by the military. It was all general chitter chatter, easy. Wine was a help and then Clotilde and Eugène arrived carrying the first course and the supper commenced as the evening slowly began to drift into the square, throwing shadows across the terrace, deepening the shade beneath the little striped awning under which we sat.

  Candles were lit, and in the laughter and general murmur, the sudden barks of laughter from Frederick and Giles to each other – amidst all that I could see that Florence, although occupied apparently perfectly happily with Arthur and one of his stories about something or other, hardly ever took her eyes from Lulu, who was sitting beside him and looking, from time to time, with half-concealed amusement, across at me. Quite well aware that she was under close scrutiny at every move. But it was all perfectly pleasant: pleasure spread with the Domaine d’Ot, a chilled rosé, the candles veiled us in gentle amber light, smoothing lines and wrinkles, glinting softly on silver and glass, throwing the wine glasses into cornelian globes, bringing a general sense of comfort and ease.

  Across the square, in the now gathered darkness, the Le Sporting sign still winked its fusing letter ‘O’, a turquoise scrawl of neon script in the dark, a slightly mocking commentary on the performances taking place round the table on the terrace. And then, her sleeves rolled to her elbows, white apron crackling with starch, great silver platter held high, Clotilde arrived and set down the steaming, golden couscous to cries of delight from Giles and Frederick and a stifled moan from Sidonie Prideaux.

  ‘Mon Dieu! At this hour of the night!’

  I murmured to just take a forkful, that Giles had ordered it especially as a compliment to herself and his ‘aunt’, because of the Algerian connection, and Eugène put the silver jug of harissa on the table with unnecessary warnings that it was very, very hot. We ate, we drank, we talked. I don’t recall much of it really, and when the Cherries Jubilee had been dealt with the two boys asked, and were instantly given permission, to leave the table because there was a Clint Eastwood film on the TV and they still had time to see half of it.

  ‘Who is this Clint Eastwood. Does he sing?’ said Madame Prideaux.

  ‘No, Madame. He shoots.’

  ‘People, I imagine?’

  ‘People. Yes.’

  ‘Of course. The young. I thought maybe that he was black. And sang that awful stuff with bongo drums, guitars and things. I used to hear it so often in Casablanca. Wails and moans. Now the children all dance to it. Shimmy, we called it.’

  Lulu closed ranks, taking Frederick’s place beside Dottie, whom she leant across to place her hand on my arm, which she pressed firmly. ‘You have made your boy so happy! Really so happy. You saw his face? Great! You are making a perfect papa!’

  I laughed and Florence suddenly turned from Arthur, her eyes as shining and hard as flints. For a second, a split second of a second, we held each other’s look and then she looked away, and Dottie cried quickly, ‘Oh! What a splendid evening. It’s so difficult to keep a balance when they are that age. Ten. But you were right to let them go to see Mr Eastwood. They had been very patient. Eat and then treat!’

  Lulu gently removed her hand from my arm, smiling across at Florence, who had turned back to Arthur.

  ‘No. I have never seen a nest. A weaver bird’s nest … I’d like to,’ Florence said. ‘Can you show me one perhaps?’

  Madame Prideaux took up her napkin and idly polished an unused knife, having noticed this tiny exchange, under lowered lids. ‘It is a long time, you know, since Thomas saw his cousin. I would like very much to bring him over for another tea party. You remember? The last one? That was long before they went to Marseilles. For that little holiday.’

  ‘I do remember. He must come again.’

  ‘I wish that. It is important for him to be with people who are not … who are not disturbed – I can say? – by his appearance. Gilles was very good about that, you remember they were hand in hand? And the fresh, clean air up there …’

  ‘I do. Let us arrange things. Giles is on holiday. When?’

  ‘It is a question of Florence of course. She has to be in Sainte-Brigitte next week. A job. She must get a job, you know. There is a charming person there, a Monsieur Jouvet. He is a veterinarian. There is a position there for her, if they are compatible. But …’ She shrugged. ‘Sainte-Brigitte. It’s a journey, every day.’

  ‘I’m not very certain, you know, that Florence will care to return to Jericho.’

  ‘She will. I am a stubborn woman. She will. And in any case I want to see just what you have done to my property! Clotilde says you have made it a paradis anglais! It is true?’

  ‘Not exactly. But it is pleasant. Come and see.’

  ‘And the garden. Clotilde says that you work day and night. I think that you are a determined man. Is that so?’

  ‘That is so. I’m just beginning to realize the fact for the first time.’

  She smiled suddenly, a warm, gentle smile, nodded her head. ‘I too am determined. It is a useful quality, so many people give way … It is a quality I much admire.’

  And then suddenly Madame Mazine, squashed into a tight button-through dress, a corsage of carnations on her shoulder, hair lacquered, shining as cheap porcelain, beaming through her glasses, brought in the cheese platter and set it down, with a nod and a bob, before Lulu.

  ‘Madame,’ whispered Madame Mazine. ‘Your presence is such an honour for my modest house. An honour!’

  Lulu (as I knew that she would) accepted her ‘aristocratic’ role with alacrity, bowed gently back, murmured words of thanks and said it ‘had been quite delightful’. At which, before a slightly startled table, Madame Mazine backed away
and only turned to steady herself when she reached the shadows.

  Arthur cut himself a piece of Cantal. ‘We are going to take the boys to Marine Land. Antibes. Next Thursday. An added treat. I know Frederick longs to go. That’s all right, I suppose, with the parents?’

  The parents declared themselves delighted.

  ‘Can you bear it? All that water, dead fish, dolphins and stuff. You are really amazing, both of you,’ said Lulu.

  ‘We ran a school,’ said Dottie dryly. ‘You have to get used to the brats. And here they come.’

  Giles racketing in from the bar firing imaginary guns: ‘Pow! Pow! Pow! Stick up your hands!’

  Arthur said mildly, ‘What is that in, French? You appear to be speaking a foreign language. Was the film dubbed?’

  And then, in a muddle of light laughter, chairs scraping back, the tinkle of a fallen spoon, we edged towards the terrace steps. Lulu took Frederick by the arm and pulled him to the Mercedes. ‘If the dew has fallen you’ll have a damp ass, in you get.’ And as she slammed the door she said to me, under her breath, ‘Next Thursday then? Two-ish suit you?’

  Dottie and Arthur were chirruping away up to Florence and her mother, who were still standing by the table with Giles.

  Arthur called out, ‘Next Thursday! Marine Land, Giles, okay? Be with us about ten-thirty. We’ll get lunch there.’ Giles shouted, ‘Great!’

  I eased Lulu into her seat, shut her door carefully. ‘Fine. Two-ish. My way this time?’ Laughing, and with a gloriously extravagant wave and a shout of ‘Thank you’ echoing across the deserted square, she reversed, squealed around and drove in the dark, car radio blaring Air-Inter Jazz. ‘A really happy, happy evening, Will! Thank you.’

  Dottie was smiling, eyes sparkling. ‘I do so love the little undercurrents, don’t you? Irresistible.’ She slammed her door, Arthur switched on his ignition and lights. ‘Thursday then? Bring the boy over about ten-thirty, as you heard. Not too early for you?’ And they inched cautiously back, eased away, and as they began to move down the hill Dottie leant out of her window. ‘There’s a killer whale at Marine Land, and dolphins galore. No shrimps though.’ She was laughing.

  Arthur said, ‘Oh, come on, woman. Chatter, chatter.’ They drove away, their rear lights bouncing over the cobbles, headlights raking the blind façades of the shuttered shops and houses.

  Up on the terrace Eugène and Clotilde, accompanied by a girl I had never seen before, were starting to clear the table and douse the guttering candles with a little tin conical hat.

  Walking Florence and Madame Prideaux back to II rue Émile Zola, Giles said, ‘You know, that was a very happy time. I am most content. Really very content. Did you like it? I am so glad you came, thank you.’

  I had rehearsed him in the latter part of his speech, but not in the first. That was his own voluntary addition, and it pleased me because obviously he was pleased, and even in stilted French his happiness was apparent.

  Madame Prideaux put a hand on his shoulder. ‘It was most kind of you to invite us to celebrate with you, Gilles. Did you get some good presents. From your mama, perhaps? It is sad she could not be with you, eh?’

  Florence looked at me and smiled, remembering, I suppose, my outburst of joy when Helen had called once before during our first dinner together at La Maison Blanche, and when she had made it clear that I was now a ‘free man’. We crossed under a street-lamp to the little iron gate of No. II.

  ‘She’s in Milan, or somewhere in Italy,’ I said easily. ‘It’s a very demanding business being in commercial TV.’

  Madame Prideaux nodded. ‘I imagine.’

  ‘I got a beautiful aquarium from my father. Its brilliant! And some fish from Clotilde and her friend. Will you come and see it? When I have got it all working.’

  Florence had opened the garden gate and was standing aside to let her mother take the lead up the path. Madame Prideaux was searching in her bag, obviously for her keys. I had a shrewd feeling that the delay was deliberate and then she said, ‘Thomas will come to tea with you very soon. He will be enchanted to see the aquarium. So you must make it very pretty!’

  ‘Tea?’ said Florence.

  ‘I have agreed that we all go to Jericho for tea. Again. It has been such a long time since Thomas was with his new cousin, hein? When you have decided on the work with Monsieur Jouvet. Or not.’

  She had found the keys, closed the flap of her bag. ‘If you prefer not to accompany us, Florence, then Céleste and I can go over. My driving is terrible, but it’s not far. And I am curious!’

  She started up the path, Florence smiled at me ruefully, shrugged her shoulders. ‘Curious indeed! Thank you. We will arrange a day. Next week? I have your telephone number now, of course. Goodnight, Giles.’ She ruffled his hair, took his offered hand. ‘That was a very happy evening. I hope you will remember it.’

  ‘I will,’ said Giles. ‘And I’ll have to remember that Dad has to buy ginger snaps.’

  ‘Some what?’ A puzzled smile trembled under her wrinkled brow.

  ‘Ginger snaps. They are Thomas’s favourite. Remember?’

  Chapter 10

  She came in from the ugly little bathroom slowly, drying her legs with a cloth as thin, and as mean, as a handkerchief. ‘Marcia’, she murmured almost to herself, ‘doesn’t exactly “spend” on her little love nest. Can you believe?’

  Behind her the sound of water dribbling from the shower-head, a swirl and glugging as it wound down the drain. Her hair was now spiked, wet, like a brush or a hedgehog, her body glistening, shoulders beading with droplets. Little beads of mercury glowing in the soft louvred light.

  I said, ‘You look, from where I lie, as if you’d been dipped in mercury.’

  She smiled, rubbed her arms. ‘Maybe you are Mercury? He’s the messenger of the gods, am I right? Maybe I’ve been sprinkled all about. By you? Possible?’

  ‘Not really. Not “about”. Elsewhere. Not about. Your haircut is amazing: wet. It was a very savage decision you took.’

  For a moment she looked as if she might be concerned. ‘You don’t like it? My Louise Brooks cut? It’s wrong?’

  I shook my head. ‘It suits you. Great. Really.’

  ‘I got so bored with all that curly-wurly bit. I looked like Deanna Durbin. Know who I mean? So I asked Etienne just to give me bangs. You’d say fringe. I like it. It’s better in the heat.’

  She threw the threadbare towel on to a chair, clambered up on to the rubber-sheeted bed beside me. ‘You know something? You look really wanton lying there. Arms behind your head, legs crossed. Naked as Mercury himself.’ She stroked my thigh. ‘You know? That was really neat. A really neat afternoon. I like “your way”, I really do. You know a trick or two, in the gentlest way, really neat.’ She ran her hand across my chest and laughed when I flinched in apprehension. ‘Don’t be so crazy! I wouldn’t dare. Your son and heir won’t have a moment’s curiosity. No need for lies about falling in the bramble bushes. I wouldn’t do that. Mind you …’ She traced a finger along my lips. ‘Mind you, I’d quite like to, quite like to. Guys like you don’t come with the breakfast cornflakes.’

  I took her hand, cupped it, opened it, pressed the palm to my mouth, bit it softly, thrust my tongue between her fingers.

  ‘For Christ’s sake, stop,’ she said, and pulled away.

  ‘You didn’t call me “Babe” once, not once all the afternoon,’ I said.

  She was lying on her back beside me, pushing her fingers through the new severity of her damp spiky hair. ‘“Babe” is strictly for fantasy land. For male-rape time. A term of cruel endearment. It comes with the kind of sex I sometimes need. No love. No possession. Simple lust. And angry revenge. Can you have “revenge” without being “angry”? I guess not. Anyway, your way is sweet and good, and I go for it. With you. “Momma and Poppa” love. No aggression. And three orgasms in two and a half hours! Heavens to Betsy!’

  I kissed her forehead. ‘Who’s got a stop-watch?’

  She stroked
my face, fingers as light as a prawn’s whiskers. ‘You know, sometimes I was just overwhelmed by having a sort-of “half-flash” about every two years. No one ever wanted to really know, “How was it for you?” Can you believe? Bobbie wanted his child. Fine, I went along with it but there was no pleasure, no joy, absolutely no rapture. Only, eventually, Frederick when he arrived. I enjoyed birthing him. Not his conception. Bobbie just heaved off and said, “That should do it, Louise.” Believe it? Went off to his dressing-room. I cleaned up. And held on to Frederick. When I did, finally, experience the delight – not, I hasten to add, with either husband, just a sexy guy I met at some airport hotel, we’d got grounded at O’Hare by fog and so on – it was nothing. Except it was everything. And I realized, to my misery, how badly I had underplayed my faux-orgasms in the past. Wild! And somehow, that time at Dottie’s, I kind of knew you’d make it with me. And, my shining knight, you did. We did. Thank you.’

  I put my arms round her and for moments we lay together, her head on my chest, damp, sweet-smelling, soft and tender. ‘I love your new haircut. I can see your ears.’

  ‘And now you’ll say they are just like shells. Pink, like shells.’

  ‘They are like shells. Pink, like shells.’

  She turned her face towards me, kissed me lightly. ‘Idiot. You are an idiot.’ She sat up slowly, pulled at her hair thoughtfully. ‘It really did look so good dry. When I saw your sister-in-law – Florence? – at supper last week, she looked so damn cool. Crisp. It’s sensible for July, August … the heat. God!’ She laughed softly. ‘She really hates me.’

  ‘Doesn’t hate you. Far too strong a word. Jealous? I’ll give you that. She’s a bit possessive, that’s all.’

  ‘I thought she was wrapped up in her memories … your brother. No?’

  ‘Yes, and no. I think she considers me to be part of her “family fiction”.’

  ‘Do you love her? I think that you do?’

  ‘I do. Yes. In a very middle-aged way. It’s love. I’ve gone over the brink, you could call it besotted. Protective, you know? But no lust. I lust for you, love her. Understand me?’