by Dirk Bogarde
Giles clambered up the stairs from the kitchen, puffing as if he had been running. ‘I was going up with this to see Mon-Ami at the stream. He’s made a place for it.’ He opened his palm and offered up the small china frog he’d found in the garden at Simla Road on our last day there.
Helen was perfectly in control. Her voice was measured, warm. Motherly, interested.
‘Giles, what on earth is that? It’s got a broken leg.’
‘I found it in the garden. Dad said to keep it. It’s my lucky frog.’
‘Giles, a bit of a problem here. Your mother is a bit worried about you, she feels that, after all, you should perhaps have an English education, you know? There is a jolly nice school near her new house, Burnham Beeches. She feels that you and Annicka have been apart for a bit too long and you do need to be together again as a family. Understand? It’s for your good. She feels that you ought to start, at Eason Lodge, in September. New term. I gather she has arranged it all. The Cornwall boys, Hector and Bob, go there. Remember them?’
He looked at me with despair. Moving only his eyes, he said dully, ‘You promised.’
‘Yup. And I’m about to keep the promise. But you have to help me. Right? It seems the only hope you have. So, tell Mum exactly what you told me, all of it, in the car that day. Remember? Everything.’
He clasped the frog in his fists, lowered his head. ‘Do I have to?’
‘You have to. The bathroom. Right?’
He told his wretched little story, with a bit of prodding from me to remind him of things he would have preferred to forget. When he had finished, head bowed, voice almost a whisper, I said cheerfully, over-noisily, ‘That it? Nothing more?’
Helen blew a furious bayonet of smoke high into the air. ‘I don’t want to hear another word. It’s nonsense. Hysterical rubbish. You are imagining the whole silly thing.’
The boy’s head snapped back. ‘I’m not, Mum! I’m not. Really, I hate him! The next time he came in and said the water was getting cold, I’d been there too long, and he’d help me to dry myself. He did, Mum. I got out. And he did, and touched me, and I didn’t say anything. But I never had a bath while he was there again and that’s why you got cross with me. But I never did again.’
Helen, I was glad to see, was white. The cigarette between her fingers just very slightly trembled. The ash fell. ‘You have a vivid imagination, Giles, take after your father, be a writer. Great.’
I got up and told Giles to go. He got out of his chair, ignored my offered hand and walked to Helen slowly. ‘He did, Mum. He really did. I’m sorry.’
Then he turned and went back down to the kitchen.
‘Helen?’ I said. ‘Want a cup of tea?’
She laughed dryly. ‘Christ, no. No tea, thank you, the English panacea for everything.’
I called down to Clotilde that we would not require tea, and that Madame would leave as soon as the taxi arrived. When I turned back, Helen had gone out on to the terrace under the vine, the crocodile handbag loose in her hand. She spun her cigarette butt into the air; it fell on to the white pebble path. ‘An edifying little moment. You have him word-perfect, William. Congratulations.’
‘Nothing, I assure you, to do with me. I had no idea, until this moment, that he had had another “meeting”, with your chum. That was unexpected. It happens, I suppose, but it isn’t going to happen again.’
She turned slowly towards me, her face devoid of any expression, not even anger. ‘I don’t like you, William. Not one little bit. If that gives you any satisfaction at all. You’ll have to reimburse us for Eason Lodge, the cheque for the term has gone in. They like it in advance now.’ She sighed, took up her hat with the wisteria. ‘Then it’s up to Hudson and so on. Lawyers and all that boredom.’ Maurice, promptly on the half-hour, swung up to the gate, reversed to face back the way he had come, sounded his horn twice. ‘I fly back on Monday … Annicka will be with Mummy – I hope. She’s been pony-trekking, or something, in Snowdonia. Don’t bother to see me out, I can find my way. Right down the path … don’t call Giles. I detest farewells and this one really is the cruncher. Goodbye.’
She turned away sharply, walked down the path on her high white heels. Just before she got to the gate she put on her hat, tilted it to a rakish angle, moved elegantly through the gate on to the track. She said something to Maurice, who nodded, looked at his watch, saluted her and closed her door. He waved to me, drove carefully over the hard ruts, then accelerated away.
I walked slowly back to the house, feeling a bit gutted. An ugly, unnecessary encounter. Perhaps things weren’t altogether serene in Burnham Beeches? Was that it? A last bid for a security she felt uneasy about? I dragged one of the chairs into a patch of sunlight. Giles came out on to the terrace. For a moment we just looked at each other in silence.
‘Sorry, Giles. About that. But I had to do it.’
He was standing quite still, arms at his side. ‘I know.’
I sat down slowly. ‘Put on a hat if you are mucking about up there. You’ll get sunstroke,’ I said.
A couple of distracted humming-bird moths zoomed and crashed about the oil lamp I had set on the table. Apart from the lamp, it was dark on the terrace, a faint glow from a second lamp down in the Long Room, a wash of soft moon flooding the land, silvering the olives. At the stream the frogs sang and fiddled, and far away, on the de Terrehaute land, probably in the giant cedar, a little owl called. Otherwise all was still. This was another part of the day which I relished, as much almost as the early dawn.
Giles in bed, Clotilde and Mon-Ami long gone, and nothing but these familiar, gentle sounds and the soft shadows of the moon giving way to darkest black under the trees. The anguish of the day with Helen almost faded. Fourteen years of my life were ebbing away.
I took a sip of whisky, the lump of ice tinkled like a bell, and then I saw the headlights of a car pencilling over the wall, wavering across the cypress trees down at the bottom by the gate. They were extinguished as I got to my feet. A door slammed, then another, and then there was the wagging light of a torch coming urgently up the path. I called out, and taking up the lamp moved down the steps on to the path and saw Dottie, her hair unbound, a denim jacket slung over her shoulders. She was coming towards me stumbling, the torch jigging about. Behind her, Arthur.
‘What is it? Dottie? Arthur?’ I raised the lamp high. We stood bathed in soft amber light, silent for a moment. Moths sped about, whanged into the lamp chimney.
‘Will. It’s bad news. Terrible news.’
‘What? Say it. What has happened?’
Dottie extinguished her torch; now we all stood alone in shadowy lamplight. ‘Lulu is dead. Lulu and Frederick are both dead.’
I heard myself, as if from a distant place, say come and sit down, and we moved up to the terrace. Dottie suddenly bowed her head, covered her face with her hands and began to sob quietly.
‘What happened? Where?’
Arthur cleared his throat. ‘The chauffeur – Henri? Name like that – called about half an hour ago. They’d just called him. The police from Grosseto on the autostrada. She’d hit a broken-down tanker, Will. There was no chance, they only found out who they were because part of the boot, trunk, remained, part of a suitcase … numberplate. I’m terribly sorry.’
Dottie was wiping her nose on her sleeve. ‘She was driving because the chap’s foot was still not right, and she wanted to get to Rome before the weekend. She always drove so terribly fast, you know that. She telephoned this morning, early, to say they were off, taking the Mercedes … about five-thirty … wanted to avoid’ – she was suddenly wrenched with sobs, shook her head in misery – ‘to avoid the heat.’ ‘We wanted to tell you right away. Really because of Giles, and Frederick. I mean it could be all over Var Matin tomorrow. Local people, well known socially in the area. Unthinkable to read something like that. So we came right over. We didn’t telephone you. Dottie wanted to be with you, to break the news.’
I murmured something about getting
us all a drink and went into the Long Room, and uncorking the malt I remembered her voice: I drive barefoot. Always here. Okay? I carried out the glasses. Dottie almost refused, decided not to, took a good slug.
‘How brutal. Oh how brutal. Two such vibrant creatures.’
‘Tanker had broken down. She must have lost control and just swerved into it … at terrible speed, just sort of blew up they said … Witnesses.’ Arthur looked up suddenly: ‘Giles! Oh my goodness -’
He was standing in the door in his pyjama bottoms. I put out my hand and he came towards me slowly, hair tousled from sleep. ‘I heard the car, then the lights … I heard you talking … Dad.’ Suddenly he crumpled into my arms like an unstrung puppet, weeping silently, his body shaking.
Dottie wiped her eyes firmly. ‘It was terribly quick, Giles. They would never have known. Quick as quick.’
Those bloody white flip-flops.
I’ll hear, she had said. Oh yes. I’ll hear you go.
Chapter 12
On a hot and cloudless morning I drove over to Sainte-Brigitte and sold the yellow car to the bellied garagiste from whom I had bought it. He was irritatingly unsurprised, but delighted, and of course I lost out on the deal. But that didn’t really worry me. I just wanted to be rid of the thing.
‘Comme j’ai dit,’ said the garagiste holding my cheque in sump-oiled hands. ‘It is a young man’s car.’
Although I denied it, I knew that he was, infuriatingly, correct. The whole silly business was impulsive, an impulsive caprice intended to show off: to prove my masculinity (if proof were really needed) to one particular person. I was simply trying to impress. The sixth-former with his muddy trophy. The bower bird offering his display.
Lulu had only been mildly amused. ‘Ciao, Babe!’ she had murmured on the steps of her villa the day that I proffered my yellow virility symbol. The word ‘Babe’ almost had a gentle ‘y’ at its end, trailing softly in the still morning, drifting in her low, mocking, ‘silly-little-guy’ voice.
Now that she was brutally dead my vanity gaped like an open wound. I wanted it stitched quickly. It shamed me because it was as hollow, and echoing, as a cheap brass gong. No one (except perhaps Dottie) had been as impressed as I had hoped.
Giles was curious and interested at first, but lost both after we made a few trips around the countryside and then just lay slumped beside me. It felt exactly like a tin clockwork toy, wound up with its key missing. Mon-Ami was very clearly pleased to have his shed back (it usually stabled the large mower I had bought, plus scythes, garden tools and the log pile). Now he had his space returned and didn’t even ask where the car had gone, or why. Giles, subdued after his double slamming (Helen first, and then on the same day the acute distress of losing Frederick), merely said that ‘It was a bit silly really. Wasn’t it?’ And that was that. End of saga. I did not, however, revert to tweeds, flannels and brogues. Kept my jeans-and-chic-shirts image. I liked it, it was appropriate, cost a modest fortune and Lulu had been almost entirely responsible. I would remain this way. A reminder to hold on to my new standards. In her memory.
The only person who had shown the vaguest interest was, strangely enough, of all people, Maurice-the-taxi in the bar of the Maison Blanche that afternoon., (Madame Mazine had bowed to me in blank silence from her desk, a mourning band round her arm.) He was leaning against the bar staring up at the soundless television flickering and jumping up on the wall. The place was almost empty.
‘Sold your MG! Re-sold it! Mon Dieu, so soon? You will have lost on that transaction, Monsieur. I know only too well that villain Vincenti at Sainte-Brigitte. Malheur! His son is no better. So, you will remain with your good old Simca, eh? Solid, safe, reliable. It is more appropriate at your age, Monsieur.’
‘No. No, I think that it is time to return it to your brother-in-law. I have an idea that I will remain here, at Jericho, for some time. Long time. It is not sensible to continue renting, so I think I’ll purchase a new car. Perhaps a Peugeot? Something robust, faster for the autoroute, you know?’
Maurice drained his glass, set it deliberately on the counter, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. Blinked, shook his head sadly. ‘Ma foi! A double blow for poor Bertrand! A double-blow in one week! Malheur.’
‘I don’t think that I quite follow you, Monsieur Maurice? Bertrand? A double blow? Will you accept another glass, or do you perhaps have a journey to make?’
‘Volontiers! Volontiers! No, no journey this afternoon. I have need of comfort. I have need!’ His sullen, red face had cleared swiftly on the word ‘another’. A cloud crossing the sun. ‘Bertrand is my brother-in-law, from whom you once rented the Simca. A sorry day today for his family! For my little sister, Odile, a sorry day. This very morning, Monsieur,’ he leant towards me like a conspirator, ‘Monsieur le Maire had been diagnosed as having cancer of the prostate. You recall? He had the operation and it was a success, but now, examinations, biopsies. Terrible things. Today we got the result! Voilà! The diagnosis is très mal, très, très mal.’ He took his refilled glass of Ricard from Claude. ‘Santé! And on top of that, on top, you reject his Simca.’
‘I don’t reject it. I simply want to buy my own car. I’ve been renting since April. It has been wonderfully useful, but now . . .’
Maurice took a gulp of his drink. ‘Ah! It was the renting which was comforting to him at a difficult time. That little extra – indeed, Monsieur, it was little! You got a bargain from my brother-in-law. Nevertheless it was a comfort to Odile, that little, tiny, bit extra each month in the bank. Such comfort. Now, with everything falling about her ears, this news on top will be hard to bear.’ He swigged down the rest of his Ricard and stared mournfully across the bar at his own reflection between the bottles in the scabbed, fly-speckled mirror.
It was quite clear to me that the amount which I paid to rent the wretched Simca each month would not have kept them in baguettes. It wasn’t going to make any difference to their life-style. The only useful thing I had done was to run the car, rather than leave it on blocks to gather rust and dust while he was in the clinic. There was clearly something hidden away in this nonsense which I should explore. Maurice was excellent at undercover suggestions, wheedling, making deals, ‘fixing things’. At all kinds of mild corruptions and even, at a pinch, bribery. All this was, of course, smothered in false humility, goodwill and a great quantity of Ricard. I was certain that something was afoot. He was about to make some covert suggestion. I’d be ready. Play him at his game, let him show me the opening and I’d go in. I had need of a rascal at that moment, plus one or two concessions from Monsieur le Maire before he had to hand over power to another. A new maire would be tiresome to deal with. I moved gently, pushing at the slightly open door Maurice had offered.
‘Monsieur! You surely cannot be suggesting that your brother-in-law is undergoing some desperate financial embarrassment which my renting of his Simca has so far helped to ameliorate?’
Maurice looked at me (as I had hoped he would) with bovine incomprehension. He hadn’t quite got there yet. It would need another gentle push.
‘I apologize! I fear that I embarrass you? Family concerns . . . excuse me . . .’
‘No! No!’ he cried. ‘No! I am not embarrassed, not I!’ He was waving his empty glass uneasily before him, drained the dregs, and I had it refilled. ‘Ah! Merci, très gentil . . . No, I am not embarrassed. But it is a difficult situation. Voyez? How long will this disease take? Where will it spread? How will Odile manage? Will he be able to remain in office and for how long? We have a deputy maire, certainly – but the problems! The specialists, the doctors, the pharmacists all the tra la la of illness. It mounts, Monsieur, it mounts! It is like a river trickling down the mountain.’ Confusing his metaphors he took a pull at his Ricard. ‘And the duties! Oh, la! Cartes de séjour, de résidence, de travail? Permis de construire – for building you can understand? The local fetes, the banquets. Mon Dieu! Funerals . . .’ He wiped an eye with a fist. ‘Eyee! Eyee!’
; The final important phrase, permis de construire, had been placed deliberately. I was not supposed to overlook that. I didn’t. How did he know that I had, possibly, an idea to obtain a permis de construire? A coincidence? Or more likely a careless murmur from Clotilde? I decided on another move.
‘I feel certain that, at the back of all this, Monsieur Maurice, this tragic business for your sister and her husband, that there is a worrying financial problem on top of the duties he has to carry as Monsieur le Maire? Is that so?’
He took another sip of his drink, set his glass on the counter, bowed his head sadly. ‘You have guessed? Ah, there is always a financial problem in this life. When can a man ever feel secure in this cruel life, eh? When? You tell me, Monsieur Colcott, that you have an idea to remain here, at Jericho, but can you be sure that you will? For “some time” you say. What is “some time”? How long will it be?’
I ordered another beer for myself from Claude and, behind his back, measuring the amount with finger and thumb, another Ricard for my friend. Claude nodded understandingly, quickly, opened me a beer. ‘I intend to stay at Jericho for some years. At least the three that my brother paid for from Madame Prideaux – at least. I will therefore need permits for myself and for my son. We will no longer have tourist or visitor status. We will wish to be resident. My son will remain here with me, naturally. And this’ – I lowered my voice and looked behind him so that he would feel more of an accomplice – ‘is not for general information. Please! I intend to approach Madame Prideaux and ask her if she would be willing to let me extend the lease there for the rest of my life! Voilà!’
Maurice looked at me with a suddenly slack jaw, finished his drink, muttered, ‘Ma foi! Ma foi!’ His jaw may have been slack but his eyes sparkled with avarice.
‘So you see,’ I went on in a normal voice, ‘I try to be secure for myself but also for my young son. I love France, I wish to remain in France for the rest of my life, to work here and to pay my taxes. Therefore my fears for security are very real. Very real indeed.’