by Dirk Bogarde
She went out on to the terrace with her empty cup, stood silently by the scattered chairs and the disarranged table. ‘You should put a lid on the confiture. It is full of wasps.’
I flapped about, screwed the top on the jar in a swarm of angry insects. Far down the path Mon-Ami had straightened up and was talking to Florence, who had just come through the gate. She laughed, he nodded, she laughed again and Mon-Ami pointed up towards us on the terrace. She came up the path, throwing a backward remark to him over her shoulder. I heard him call, ‘Ah si, si, Madame. C’est vrai.’ Then Florence, seeing us, waved brightly.
‘I have a feeling that she got the job,’ I said, cupping the now tepid teapot. ‘I’ll leave you both, and put the kettle on. I can do that. Amazingly.’
I went across to the kitchen. The telephone suddenly rang, a shattering sound, totally unexpected on this ‘family’ afternoon. I set the teapot down quickly and raced to get to it before it stopped, barked my shin on the corner of the Simla Road sofa, swore, grabbed the receiver and shouted ‘Allô! Allô! Oui?’
At the other end a high flustered voice. ‘Hello? Hello? Is Mister Caldicott there? Is it his house? Do you speak English? Anglais?’
I pressed the mouthpiece to my chest, shut my eyes. The voice was blurred now but still shrill enough to be heard.
‘Hello? Hello? Oh God! Is that his house? Bloody hell!’
It was Helen.
Chapter 11
I had just finished raking up the grass which Mon-Ami had been scything all afternoon when I noticed (because I was right up beside it) the door of the round, squat, tiled pigeon house which stood at the very end of my land. Hanging on the handle, a supermarket bag, a bottle neck sticking out, the bulge of something or other thrusting against the shiny yellow plastic. Mon-Ami had forgotten his refreshment.
I pushed the weathered door wide, stepped into the gloom of the little round tower-like building. A floor of hard beaten earth, untouched for years, sunlight slanting in long fingers of light through hundreds of small openings in the stonework, holes for the birds to come and go. There were one or two broken perches, a scattering of mildewed straw, bat droppings, some planks high up in the beams. It smelled cool, musty, forgotten. No one had been in this place for years, not even, it would appear, James or Florence. There was almost no sign that it had been used since the de Terrehaute château, far across the rough fields, had been burned and pillaged. I thought, instantly, of Lulu. Banished the thought. Considered idly that the building was too small for a house, but quite large enough for a room. A round room? Perhaps two round rooms? A useful place to have.
I went out into the sunlight. The intense heat of the day was ebbing, shadows had begun to steal across the potager, a hoopoe was making plaintive little calls, gritting up at the top of the path, crest flicking up and down, alert, its scimitar beak probing deep, and then, in a light ripple of laughter, Clotilde and Mon-Ami came down from the house together and the bird sped away in alarm.
Clotilde had dragged her hair back now, replaced the pink combs, stuck a frill of lace in the cleavage of her plain blue dress, removed the silver ribbon, lipstick and rose, and waved. ‘You should leave it all,’ she called. ‘Better for another day in the sun, M’sieur.’ Mon-Ami was almost beside me, his grotesque helmet swinging from a calloused hand.
I said, ‘We don’t want the hay. I’ll burn it away sometime. You left your water bottle and stuff on the door here.’
Mon-Ami went across and took it up. Clotilde had started to steer her Mobylette carefully through the gate, a wilting white rose on the handlebars.
‘A happy day today, eh? Poor little child. He loves to be in the air, in the sunlight. He is trapped in that house in Émile Zola. Trapped in his little body. Trapped.’ She bounced the front wheel carefully up over the stone step.
‘It has made you late, Clotilde, I fear. All the washing-up … more than usual.’
She laughed, shook her head, and said it was nothing, ‘Pas de problème’. It had been such a happy day for everyone. Eugéne at the hotel would have to be patient. Dinner was never served until seven-thirty anyway. ‘Mon ami had English tea too! And one of the biscuits for Thomas. You didn’t like? Hein?’
Mon-Ami was fixing the strap of his helmet about his throat. He shook his head, smiling.
Clotilde suddenly gave him a quick little kiss on his chin, the only part of his face available to her at that moment. ‘Deceit! We live in deceit,’ she said. ‘I don’t like it, I don’t like it.’ And then with a wave she straddled her bike and, tying a handkerchief round her head, told Mon-Ami to be careful, called goodbye to me, and rattled off cautiously down the ruts of the track.
Mon-Ami pulled his Honda from its stand, started to unchain the wheels. ‘She turns to the left. I turn to the right! You see that, M’sieur? It is crazy. Her father is a stupid man.’
He was squatting, fiddling with padlock and key when I said, ‘Mon-Ami, I’ve had an idea. Just this moment. This very moment. The pigeonnier … empty, useless. You know what I mean?’
He got to his feet, wrapping the heavy chain round his arm. ‘I know. It is empty. It has always been empty. No one keeps hundreds of birds for the table any more.’
‘I was thinking when I saw your bag hanging there what a good site this would be for a maison de gardien. Built on to the loft, to the old tower. You know? After all, we never use the grass, the hay. It’s a lot of extra work, we don’t cultivate the land and it is level, beside the track, beside the gate, and in view of the house. Do you see what I mean?’
Mon-Ami removed his helmet, pushed a hand through his hair, looked about with a considering eye. ‘Yes. A good place. Full sun too, near all the services as well…’
‘Water and electricity. All near at hand. And what would you think? A half-hectare? To go with it? Surround the house with its own land. For a potager, a dog …’
Mon-Ami pursed his lips, shook his head. ‘Protected land, all this. It is protected, M’sieur, a half-hectare is a lot of land.’
‘But if we built carefully, included the old pigeonnier in the fabric, used ancient tiles, stone, left all the trees. I need a maison de gardien. I intend to remain here now for as long as I can, at least for three years. And Monsieur le Maire would probably be understanding? For a “consideration”? Eh? It is possible?’
Mon-Ami started to show signs of stirring interest. He walked into the centre of the plot, looked about him, nodded, dug the heel of his boot into the earth, kicked up a clump of red soil. ‘Si, si. Possible. If you can get the permis de construire … difficult. But for a maison de gardien …’ His voice trailed away, he squinted about him, hands on hips, the helmet swinging. ‘And chickens? There could be chickens too? Eh?’
‘Of course! Chickens. Maybe a goat even? A goat. Good idea? But it’s a bit far from the village, that’s the trouble. From Saint-Basile and Bargemon-sur-Yves. Pretty remote. Unless they could drive. Can you think of anyone in the area who might accept a job like that? If I get permission?’
Mon-Ami started to adjust the helmet on his head, fingers at the buckle beneath his chin again. ‘I can ask,’ he said, with a slight flicker in his eyes. ‘I can ask. Clotilde knows people – in the village, or Sainte-Anne-le-Forêt.’
I took up the rake, handed him his plastic bag, and began to move, slowly, away. ‘Think about it, Mon-Ami. I shall talk to Monsieur le Maire this week. Try and get some reaction from him. But, of course, it is useless to build a maison de gardien without a gardien. Eh? Idiotic’
He called out. I had just got to the path up to the house. ‘A couple?’ he called. ‘Would a couple be acceptable, M’sieur? Perhaps you could think of a couple?’
‘Of course! Let us consider a couple. Without children. To start with. Okay? Now, you get on to your supper, you are late this evening. We’ll talk when I have been to the mairie, shall we? When you have spoken to Clotilde.’
For the first time since I’d known him Mon-Ami actually grinned. A conspirator�
�s grin. Then strode down to the gate swinging his bottle in its plastic bag.
Giles was sitting on the terrace steps fiddling with some tubes and a screwdriver. He looked up as I arrived.
‘What were you doing? Down there?’
‘Getting things to work, Giles, that’s what.’
‘I wish you could get this to work. I can’t.’ He was holding a grey plastic figure of a deep-sea diver, masked, booted, a plastic tube wriggling from its helmet.
‘What is it?’ I sat beside him resting my back against one of the iron support pillars.
‘It’s the diver Florence brought for me today. For my aquarium. It’s an oxygenator, you see? When I get it all wired up, the tubes and everything, it’ll stand in the water and look quite real … all bubbles.’
‘Looks awful. A dreadful bit of kitsch.’
‘It’s brilliant! The air all comes bubbling out of the helmet, you see? It shows you on the box. But I can’t join it all up. Will you help me?’
‘You know me and screwdrivers. Put it all back in the box. We’ll look at it tomorrow. I’ve had enough for one day. Tea parties … God!’
He started repacking the bits of his diver. ‘Are you still angry?’
‘What do you mean angry? When was I angry? I haven’t been angry.’
‘When Mum telephoned. You were then. I could see.’
‘Saw wrong. I was just a bit surprised. Everyone here, and you all up at the stream. How did you know I looked angry?’
He had fitted everything together, stuck it back in its box, put the screwdriver on the stone step. ‘Well, Florence thought you were angry. She said you looked angry; and you were, when we got back here. Was it something about Mum?’ He was not looking at me, fiddling with the box, avoiding my eyes.
‘Florence merely said, “You look cross, William.” She didn’t say anything about being angry. Anyway, I was cross … right in the middle of all that … Florence had just arrived … I was a bit cross. Of course nothing more. Irritated.’
‘Is she in London? At Chalfont with Gran?’
‘No, she’s here. At Valbonne. And Eric’s in Nice on business. She was bored. That’s all.’
He was suddenly rather quiet, hunched up on the step, his elbows on his bare knees, chin in his hands. Then, ‘She want something?’ He was still looking away from me, as if by looking at me he might find confirmation of his worst fears in my face. That she would be coming to see him, or asking to see him, or deciding to take him back to England. Which was precisely what she had wanted. So I, partly, told him.
‘She wants to see you, Giles. It has been a long time since Simla Road you know. And she’s a bit worried about … well … about what you are going to do about school. You know?’
‘It’s the holidays! Why is she worried about that?’
‘Can’t be holidays all the time. She is right. We’ll have to discuss it all very seriously soon. School, I mean.’
He got up, picked up the diver, wandered slowly towards the Long Room door. ‘So when do I have to see her?’ He was standing with his back to me, running a finger up the hinges of the open door.
‘You don’t have to see her. She is your mother, Giles. You want to see her. She longs to see you, and Eric Thingummy won’t be here, don’t worry. I made that clear. She’s coming over to have lunch on Friday. I’ll send Maurice and he can take her back after. Her idea. So just be civil, well behaved, look forward to seeing her. She loves you, even if you think she doesn’t. It’s been difficult for us all. We’ll have to be very grown up and sensible and polite. No good in sulking.’
‘I won’t sulk. But I won’t go back to school in England. I really won’t.’
‘When it comes to it, you’ll just have to do as you’re told. You aren’t twenty yet. In ten years’ time maybe …’
‘I’ll be dead!’ he said and went into the Long Room. From somewhere in the gloom he called out in a fractured voice, ‘You promised me!’ I sat perfectly still.
Helen had said, ‘Fine. Tell the taxi-whatever, anyone will direct him to the villa, it’s right at the end of the village. Friday, eleven-thirty, I’ll be ready and waiting. Ciao!’ And hung up.
I replaced the receiver, rubbed my shin, took up the teapot and went into the kitchen. What a time to call. Tea. Kettles to boil. Her voice, strangely, had unnerved me slightly. It was an intrusion. Apart from with Lulu, and now and then Giles, I spoke only French. Apart, of course, from Dottie and Arthur, but theirs were familiar voices, I was attuned to them. Helen suddenly sounded abrasive, angular, sharp. I was irritated, uneasy, and all at once anxious.
The kettle boiled, I filled the teapot. Somewhere up the garden calls of pleasure and excitement from a blur of voices. On the terrace, Florence, cool, smiling, hands clasped on her lap.
‘You get the job?’ I set the teapot amidst the clutter of cups and plates.
‘She has the job!’ Madame Prideaux nodded and answered for her daughter. ‘Isn’t that splendid?’
Florence found a clean cup, poured her tea. ‘Is there lemon? Ah, yes! Yes. I got the job. Jouvet is a charming man, very serious, which I like, and I answered all his questions to his satisfaction, it would appear.’ She stirred her tea.
Madame Prideaux took a custard cream biscuit. ‘It is odd, to work for a veterinary surgeon and not like animals very much. Don’t you think?’
Florence shook her head, as I sat down beside her. ‘Maman. Don’t be silly! I do like animals. I am very compassionate. Really.’
‘You never had an animal as a child.’ Madame Prideaux spilt crumbs on her skirt, swiftly brushed them off. ‘I never saw you with a cat or a puppy, did I?’
Florence shrugged. ‘There was hardly ever time, was there? We never settled anywhere really long enough. A military life is not conducive to a child having pets. Then there was that school. Years of weary school – no pets there.’
The sound of laughter and Giles calling, ‘You liked that, Thomas? You did? You liked that adventure …’
And then we were suddenly engulfed in the chatter and cries and general reaching, the taking, kissing and stroking, as mother and child were reunited and a slightly breathless Clotilde and Céleste, brushing hair from foreheads, pulling down sleeves, bobbed and bowed and went off together to the kitchen.
‘Did you have a lovely time, Thomas? Where did you go?’ said Florence.
Giles was standing, hands on his hips, legs astride. ‘We went to the dam. He liked it. I don’t think he’d ever seen water before.’
Florence looked up with slightly amused eyebrows. ‘Gilles! Thomas sees water every evening! In his bath, be sure!’ And she laughed and Giles said he hadn’t meant that sort of water, but real water with rocks and all spilling down to the stream, and, because I had not spoken, or hardly at all, Florence suddenly said, ‘You look cross, William. Are we very distracting with all our adventures and cups of tea?’ Thomas was wriggling and stretching on her lap. She put down her cup and held him with both hands. ‘Don’t pull, what is it that you want?’
Giles took a ginger snap and held it aloft and the struggling, wrenching little buddha shrieked and bubbled, hands opening and closing like a pink sea anemone. ‘He wants this, hein? This, Thomas?’
‘Give it to him, Giles. Let him have it. I don’t mean to look cross, sorry! Just flustered; rather unlike me but all is well. An unexpected telephone call, that’s all.’
Madame Prideaux laughed a short, soft laugh. ‘I always tried to resist having one. They are terrible things. Usually bad news. Like telegrams. I used to hate those too. Never good news. I was sure you might come to regret having one installed. Sure.’
Thomas sat back against his mother’s body, sucking his ginger snap, eyes wide, vacant in pleasure, seeing nothing, only turning slowly at a sudden movement, or the rasp of a chair dragged across the tiles.
‘It wasn’t bad news, this time. Just unexpected really. And somehow I never quite get used to the telephone ringing here in Jericho. Especially on a
blistering day, at this sort of time. People usually wait until evening. They have other things, or nothing, to do in this heat.’
‘As long as it wasn’t bad news,’ said Florence, wiping dribble from her child’s chin. ‘How many of these has he had? He’ll never eat his supper.’
‘You must see the house before you go, Florence. The Arcadie anglaise which one has heard about. It is really very charming, very “cosy”. She may look?’
‘Of course, Madame.’
Florence indicated, with a nod of her head, a package on the table among the tea debris. ‘Gilles. That is for you. A present for the aquarium. I wanted a treasure chest, but this was all the shop had. Take it.’
Giles grabbed the package, ripped off the paper, and crowed with pleasure. ‘Look! A diver. It’s an oxygenator! Oh, thank you, thank you, Florence.’ With a cheerful lunge, he threw his arms round her neck, knocking Thomas on the head, who beamed happily, and caused a mild ripple of laughter.
Madame Prideaux got up and took the child from his mother. ‘Florence, you go with M’sieur Colcott and he will take you to the Arcadie anglaise. I can sit with this one for ten minutes, I am quite strong and perfectly capable.’
I got up and moved across the terrace, waited at the open door. From down in the kitchen a burst of laughter. Florence came slowly across to join me, arms folded, a thin silver bracelet on her wrist.
‘Now where is Arcadia?’ she said.
In the cool of the room she ran her finger across the polished surface of a small Regency card table. The light was soft, gentle after the glare on the terrace. She looked quietly, carefully, about her, stroked the faded striped fabric of the sofa, traced her finger round the frame of a small John Piper, looking intently all about, a light smile on her lips.
‘It’s very changed. Very. This is all yours? And the pictures? From England?’
I nodded, leaning against the door on to the terrace, my shadow, like Madame Prideaux’s before, striking hard across the red tiles of the floor. ‘Bits from there, some bits I bought here, in the market at Sainte-Brigitte and an anti-quaire in Draguignon.’