House with Blue Shutters, The

by Hilton, Lisa

  Later, at lunch, she reported to her daughter-in-law that she had asked ‘that poor Ginette’ to come with them to the chasse loto on Friday evening, she knew Sabine wouldn’t mind, and God knows, it will be nice for her to get out of that house. Ginette could come on her bicycle, and afterward they could put it in the boot of the Clio and drive her home. Sabine worked in a pharmacy at Landi. Already, in her mother-inlaw’s kitchen, with the blinds drawn and the cheese on the table, she could feel the sharp ache between her eyes that always came when they went to the loto. She hated sitting in the Mairie for hours under the violent yellow strip light, smelling sweaty old women and their graveyard breath. She said, ‘Well, that should be a change for her.’

  Aisling’s table looked lovely. As the Froggetts had obediently gone off to the lake, marshalled by Claudia at two o’clock, she considered serving the tea by the pool, but it would be nice for Delphine to see the house itself, so she put out the plates and teacups on a white cloth spread over a corner of the big table on the terrace. Just the china, and glasses for the boys’ lemonade; it would look pretentious, she thought, to scatter some rose petals on the white, though she had been tempted. Lapsang with lemon, the cake and a sticky banana loaf to slice up for the children in case, though French children loved almonds. Sitting with Delphine (who was Delphine, of course, now, she had corrected Aisling’s tentative Comtesse immediately), Aisling thought the garden couldn’t look prettier. The tour of La Maison Bleue had been lovely. Aisling had tried to go quickly, not wishing to bore her guest, but Delphine had seemed avid for every detail, keen to know who had done the work and how quickly, charmed by what she called the ‘delicate’ colour scheme and how clever it was of Aisling to leave some of the original byre in the kitchen to make a feature. The ghost of Mrs Highland shrivelled and evaporated in the brightness of Delphine’s exclamations and the swift tap of her tongue – so lovely to hear a pure French voice and not that dreadful thick accent Aisling was worried her boys might pick up.

  Charles-Henri and Jules munched enthusiastically at both almond cake and banana loaf, and then asked their mother, whom they addressed, extraordinarily, as vous, if they could return to the water. Delphine looked dubious, so Aisling suggested they carry their teacups down to be on hand in case of fatal cramps. The French were so old-fashioned about these things. Though Delphine’s English was far superior to her hostess’s French, they chatted in her own language, and Aisling felt she kept her end up very well, though it was frustrating not quite to have the means of satisfying her curiosity discreetly, without appearing nosy, a trick that was difficult even in English and impossible with the addition of the rather aggressive est-ce que at the beginning of a question. She tried the French method of making a statement preceded by ‘and’ with a rising interrogative inflection, but Delphine seemed to think she was reiterating her own remarks and merely agreed. Still, by the time the third cup of tea was drunk and the second slice of cake refused, Aisling had discovered a good deal.

  The husband had died quite suddenly last year, though Aisling did not attempt to probe into the details, moving the conversation along after a suitable arrangement of countenance and a murmured ‘je suis desolée’. Where the cancer had been she couldn’t make out. Delphine lived with her children in the same apartment in the fifth, the rue de Vaugirard, where La Maintenon looked after La Montespan’s children, so charming, poor thing, and lovely for the boys being just across from the Luxembourg, which was much prettier than the Tuileries, didn’t Aisling think? Aisling wondered why La Maintenon was a poor thing. She had tried to read a popular French novel about her called L’Allée du Roi, but had never got beyond the prologue. Clearly it was done to speak about historical characters as though one knew them personally. Sarah Ashworth was a treasure (Aisling noticed that Delphine did not feel the need to express any obviously insincere regrets that she hadn’t the time to bring up her children herself, which is what, Aisling thought, an Englishwoman would have done). Charles-Edouard had insisted on an English nanny, he had had one himself, like his father Charles-Louis when the old Marquis was with the Free French. This took a moment to unravel, particularly all the Charleses, but Aisling said how funny, she had always had a French au pair girl for Oliver and Richard when they were still in London. Delphine said that she hoped to spend a lot more time in the country. ‘I was married there, you know,’ she added, looking across over the roof of the guesthouse then staring suddenly at her plate. Aisling stood up and called to the children in the pool, making a noise.

  Claudia wished Alex wouldn’t jiggle so. He wore tropically patterned swimming shorts, his flanks trembled like just set custard above the ruched waistband. Dressed, he was fine really, compared to some of his friends, but like this – Claudia knew she was hateful, but she didn’t seem able to stop herself. She tucked her chin forward and looked over her lower lids at her own brown stomach. Two hollows of muscle ran either side of her navel and a clean half centimetre of space showed beneath the bikini bottom stretched over her hipbones. The bikini was a waste, really, no need for Missoni around here. It made no difference. She thought of the baby, she thought of Sébastien, she hated Alex. It seemed as though, if she could just be alone for long enough, she could think her way to some resolution, knowing at the same time that this was just procrastination, there was no answer that differed from what she had. Yet her head drummed with the want to be away from all of them, from Aisling and her food and her enthusiasms especially. It had been a mistake to come, her pleasure in the landscape was making her weak. She ought to have changed their plans, made Alex take her away for an expensive break somewhere she had to change her dress a lot, and then back to London to just get on with things.

  ‘The boys’ were playing volleyball in the muddy shallows of the lake, Giles and the Harvey sons against Jonathan and Alex. Wendy Froggett was reading a book about one man’s struggle to start an olive farm in Extremadura. Alice looked hot and selfconscious with The Idiot. Caroline appeared to be asleep. Claudia got up determinedly and went to the lake, avoiding the volleyball. It was brackish close to the edge, but after a few strokes she was out of her depth, it felt cool and fresh. She dipped her head and opened her eyes to greenish motes, stuck out her tongue to feel the softness. She flipped on to her back and propelled herself gently with her hands. It was beautiful here, really, just the sky and the hills and the green water. Perhaps she should phone Annabelle, but to say what? ‘Sébastien’s knocked me up so I’m marrying Alex. Don’t tell anyone.’? It would be in bad taste to inflict her secret on Annabelle, dangerous moreover, and what could her friend actually do? Annabelle would be sympathetic, but there was no solution she could propose that Claudia herself had not rejected. All she had to do was tell Alex, get it over with and after that it would be irrevocable, once he thought it was his.

  She imagined it, hunched like a bean inside her with stubby Thalidomide limbs. It seemed so abstract, the baby. At times she felt a protective longing that was almost violent; she supposed that this was the fierce mother love she had so often read of, and then she felt reassured that this was what she ought to feel. Yet there were moments when she sought some sense of connection with it, the bliss she should anticipate, and it stubbornly refused to be present at all, except as a lever that would drive her life onward, a curled, horribly potent cog. Claudia felt tears on her face, hot in the lakewater, then wondered if anyone had ever drowned here. Some farm girl, pregnant and terrified, greening limbs in the swimmy weeds, rising up to clutch at her. A fish splashed close to her hand and she gasped, swallowing water, and swam as fast as she could towards the shore.

  Delphine telephoned Armand LeSaux. She had to take her phone on to the lawn, there was no mobile reception in the house, that would have to be seen to. He was at Porto Cervo – could he not persuade Delphine to come down for a few days? There were flights from Nice. Delphine considered, but thought it would be better, in the long run, not to seem to wish to leave her boys.

  ‘Of course,’ sa
id Armand, ‘naturally.’

  Delphine explained what the English woman had told her and Armand suggested they might meet in Paris as soon as everyone was back. Perhaps dinner? There were some Americans he knew who might be interested in investing. If Delphine could convince her father-in-law… Armand thought the Bristol for dinner, not very sympa, but the food was excellent, and the Americans would like it because they only ever went to the Tour d’Argent and were surprised when they had a dreadful time. He would make some calls. Maybe some photos could be organized? Delphine promised to speak to the Marquis. She found that she was quite excited about discussing the plan with Aisling Harvey, who really did seem nice, even if she had clearly never heard of the subjunctive.

  Madame Lesprats was beating a rug over a line by the little summerhouse. When Delphine finished speaking she continued swinging the beater, thwack, thwack.

  JUNE 1940

  Monsieur Mons had given Oriane twenty francs before he left for the station, explaining it was from the Marquis. This seemed like a lot of money, three months’ wages, but when Oriane woke next morning she was already worried about what would happen when it was gone. She wanted to enjoy the strange feeling of lying in bed a little, as though it were a Sunday, but she was wide awake with anxiety, and William would be wanting his breakfast. He was already banging on her door. When she let him in, he did not kiss her, but pushed open the shutters, squeaking and pointing excitedly. It was one of those rare, hazeless days when from the height of Aucordier’s they could see right across the valley, beyond the church tower and away, far away to where the mountains began, with Spain on the other side. This morning it was so clear Oriane could make out a sharp line from grey to white where the snow began on the great peaks. There had been only a few times in her life when she had seen as far as the mountains, but today her eye was caught by a line of figures on the Landi road. Castroux itself was invisible from here, hidden except for the bell tower by the wooded hill on the Saintonge side, but the new road was plain before it dipped to the village, and today it looked like the procession of the Madonna, crowded with walkers, several carts and bicycles and a big truck caught in the middle of them, its horn booming across the river like a strange angry bird. For a moment she was afraid, but the light was so fine today that the different colours of the travellers’ clothes were visible, even a red bow in the hair of a little girl sitting on a loaded wheelbarrow. The group disappeared down towards the square, and after a few minutes they saw the truck emerge on the Saintonge side, picking up speed and throwing a cloud of blue smoke that hung still in the air behind it.

  William was still humming with pleasure and it took Oriane a moment to remember that his excitement was due only to the simple joy of seeing the mountains again. How gentle it must be, to think so simply. Those people must be escaping, she thought, emptying their stables and their barns for whatever could carry them, moving south to safety with their children. They were lucky, she realized. Despite the atmosphere in the village, they were lucky.

  Oriane was keen to go down to Castroux and see what news had come, but perhaps it was best to carry on as usual, so after they had dunked their bread in the coffee, she put on her overall and went down to the yard. There were plenty of things to catch up with, jobs she had been meaning to do but had never found the time for lately. She thought she might use the Marquis’s money to buy a few more goats, maybe even get Laurent to take her to Landi in the wagon, and move the goat house down the hill, where they would have more space to graze and the smell wouldn’t blow into the kitchen. There were strawberries to pick, she could finally start the jam, and the birds had been at the peas again, she had meant to make a scarecrow. She set William to the strawberries, hoping he wouldn’t eat too many, and went to the barn to find two bits of wood to make a cross for the legs and arms. She would need a hole in the potager to stick it in deep, and the salads were looking parched and mottled, they needed water around the roots. If she fetched the water for the salads after she’d dug the hole, she could moisten the earth to make the scarecrow stick, though perhaps it was already too late for watering, if the sun caught any drops on the leaves they would scorch. She was standing in the pea bed, thinking about the best order to do things in, when a man pushed a bicycle up the road, loaded with panniers on either side, followed by another man with a wheelbarrow, a woman, and the little girl with the red bow in her hair.

  ‘Bonjour!’ the man called to her. He was a bit fat, red in the face and puffing, and had taken off his cap, which was stupid with this sun. The others came up behind him and stared at Oriane. The man spoke again.

  ‘Is this the road to Cahors? We’re trying to get to Cahors.’

  Oriane nodded. A pink cardboard suitcase protruded from the barrow, and there was a collection of lumpy bundles with a flowered cloth dragged over them. William stuck his head from the strawberry leaves and made a grunting noise. The little girl began to snivel. Oriane had thought at first the people looked quite well-dressed, but up close they were dirty, the woman’s shoes were filthy and one heel was broken. She stepped forward and spoke gently, as though she thought Oriane was simple. ‘We’re just passing on, see? We thought you might be able to give us a glass of water, maybe some bread. Look! We have money.’ She fumbled at a little leather purse.

  ‘You’ve come from the village,’ said Oriane.

  ‘Yes, but they said we couldn’t stay there.’

  ‘Who said?’

  ‘Our friends have a truck, but it’s full of our things. There wasn’t room. We tried to follow, but when we got to that place,’ she pointed, squinting down the hill, trying to make out the direction.

  ‘Saintonge?’

  ‘There. By the little church. They’d blocked the road with a cart and some tables. We asked for some water, but they said it was a drought and it would be ten centimes for a jug.’

  ‘Ten centimes?’

  ‘We’ve come all the way from Orléans,’ the other man said. ‘We’ve been on the road a week. The others turned back, but we need to get to Cahors, that’s where our things will be.’

  Oriane looked about her. She saw the scallop shell on the corner of the house and remembered, suddenly, how she used to count shames. Beyond the mountains the pilgrim road led to St Jacques, people had been walking here for a thousand years. She felt the blood gather in her face, hot and furious.

  ‘You’re going away, from them?’

  ‘Yes,’ answered the woman, ‘from Orléans. We had a shop.’ She began to cry.

  The little girl’s name was Claire. She sat at the table stuffing her mouth with strawberries, her chin and hands stained with juice as red as her hair ribbon. Oriane had broken all the eggs in the bowl and made an omelette with wild garlic from the hollow where she planned to put the new goat pen. There wasn’t much bread in the house, but she had wrapped every bit up in a dampened cloth to keep it fresher and given it to the woman. She poured wine from the jug for the two men, and put cheese on a plate, with the tiniest leaves ripped from the hearts of the lettuces, which would die now, anyway. William would have to make do with just the soup later. It was the Chauvignats, Emile and Cécile, who had tried to take money from these poor people. They had the pig farm at Saintonge where Sophie Aucordier used to go down to work. She had always complained of their meanness.

  ‘But what about the people in Castroux?’ asked Oriane. ‘Didn’t anyone help you?’

  ‘Everything was shut up,’ said the bicycle man, ‘all the windows had their shutters up, there was no one about. We knocked on a few doors… Then our friend drove up the hill and we followed, but those people had blocked the road. Our friend was so angry, he drove right at the barrier and they had to pull it out of the way, but we didn’t want little Claire to see anything, you know.’ He stopped to take a big bite of cheese, as though he was too hungry and confused to go on with the story.

  ‘So no one helped,’ Oriane repeated.

  ‘We thought of stopping at that big farm down the hill—�
��

  ‘Murblanc?’

  ‘I suppose, but it looked a rich sort of place and we don’t want any trouble. Our friend said he would deliver our things and drive back to find us on the Cahors road.’

  Oriane asked the woman discreetly if she would like to wash and use the privy. She went off hand in hand with Claire.

  ‘Ten centimes for a bit of water,’ said the bicycle man, shaking his head. ‘Is that how things are here?’

  There was nothing else in the house to give them, but they seemed refreshed as they dragged the loaded barrow back to the road. Oriane and William waved goodbye, and William played them a little tune, which made Claire laugh.

  ‘I hope you find your friend,’ Oriane called as they reached the top of the rise. They turned and waved. Oriane looked at Aucordier’s, feeling sad and angry at the same time. She never spoke of the people from Orléans, although the village was full of stories then about the dangers of the beggars on the road, how many of them were Jews and Communists. Each time she heard someone speak of it, even Betty and Amélie and Andrée, she despised them in her heart and made a mark of shame there against them.

  SUMMER HOLIDAYS

  ‘Well, that’s them gone,’ said Aisling, as the Froggett car trundled across the bridge. She dropped the arm that had been waving. ‘Do you think Caroline had a nice time?’

  ‘S’pose,’ said Olly. They walked up the garden together.

  ‘Do you think they enjoyed the barbecue?’

  ‘Prob’ly.’

  ‘Are you going to the village later?’

  ‘S’pose.’

  Aisling gave up. She had gone to more bother than usual for the Froggetts’ barbecue, marinating some spatchcocked quail and making four individual pockets of roast vegetable ravioli. The white chocolate and cardamom mousse had really come out well, very light. Wendy Froggett had left a thankyou card and an unattractive arrangement of dried flowers from the market, which was more than most did. She would give those to Ginette, and would actually be quite pleased if they booked again, though Wendy had said they were thinking about Spain next year.