House with Blue Shutters, The

by Hilton, Lisa

  ‘Oh yes,’ answered Aisling, ‘we definitely should.’

  The power of that ‘we’ annihilated any potential dissent from Aisling’s family. The Harveys would certainly attend, as in fact they had attended every year since they first moved to Murblanc, along with Alex and Claudia, the Glovers, and, Aisling thought, the Sternbachs, if they would like to come. The Sternbachs had kept quite to themselves, hardly using the pool, and driving out on excursions each day. They had eaten at all three of the restaurants in Landi, and had tried the steak-frites at the bar in the village. Ella said she didn’t much like to cook on holiday, and besides her own efforts seemed a waste when one was in France, a remark that struck Aisling as honest and tasteful.

  ‘I think it’s quite special, really, the fête,’ she explained to Ella when she popped down to La Maison Bleue the evening of Delphine’s call. The Sternbachs changed for dinner, which Aisling also approved of; Ella was ready to go out in a black linen pinafore thing and an olive vest underneath, with another chunky ethnic necklace.

  ‘Of course, it’s nothing grand, but the dinner is jolly, and there’s music and fireworks afterwards. We make a point of going along.’

  Claudia had no desire to see the d’Esceyracs again, but the lake trip had been too lucky to be repeated. There would be lots of people anyway, she could always chat to Charlotte Glover, and a part of her, she admitted to herself, was curious to see Delphine play lady of the manor. She said as much to Alex as they were changing.

  ‘Hurry up, darling, the apéritif kicks off at seven,’ he chivvied.

  ‘I can hardly restrain myself. Imagine if we’re too late for a lukewarm kir.’

  ‘Aisling would explode. This is the most exciting thing that’s happened to her since the ducks had twins.’

  ‘Don’t be mean, Alex. I think you were a bit impressed by the chateau yourself.’

  Alex didn’t reply, as this was perfectly true. He liked the way Claudia saw things clearly, though she could be a bit hard on people at times. But she didn’t pretend that the world permanently lived up to her expectations, which he vaguely recognized was his own strategy. He had a feeling that dissatisfaction showed up as a form of failure, an inability to impose himself sufficiently. He felt enough for Claudia to mistake contempt for honesty.

  ‘Do me up?’

  ‘Darling, I think you might have put on a little bit of weight.’

  ‘Oh, fuck off, Alex, it’s just your sweaty fingers.’

  She had surprised herself with the vehemence of her reaction, too abrupt, too defensive. In the bathroom, Claudia squashed her breasts with one hand and yanked painfully over her head at the zip; it fastened, but the seams of her burned-orange Marni sundress were strained, and the fabric pulled over her chest in a tight, flat panel. She scooped at her flesh until the dress sat properly, extracting a vulgar amount of overspill. Still, to change it would be to concede that Alex was right, though Aisling would certainly think she was vamping, which was infuriating, as though anyone could be flattered enough by Jonathan peering at their tits to invite it.

  Malcolm Glover peered at Claudia’s tits, along with Jean-Marc Lesprats, the mayor, Monsieur Chauvignat, Richard Harvey, Madame Lesprats (speculatively), Robert Kendrick and his friend Dick Logan. Aisling thought that it was really too bad that the English had all been lumped together on one table, not that she had exactly expected to be seated with the d’Esceyracs, who were in the centre at what was clearly the table of honour with the mayor and his wife, but Delphine had phoned to see that they were coming, after all. And of course the Kendricks had invited the Logans, who made a great clamour of being thrilled to see Jonathan and Aisling, bustling up on the trestle bench so that there was no choice but to sit next to them. They had all had too much to drink, it was obvious, both men and women sweating pastily over their tans so their skin looked like wet chamois leather. Boozing it up in the Glovers’ garden all afternoon, apparently. Dick and Mary Logan were Americans, living in a converted mill house on the other side of Landi. They were great friends with Lucy and Robert Kendrick, who belonged to what Aisling called the Landi set, the English colony living on the flat and frankly much less attractive land around the market town twelve kilometres away. They went in for quiz nights.

  ‘Isn’t this great, Aisling!’ shouted Mary, waving a glass of rosé. ‘Your cleaning lady said we could join them.’

  The rest of the table consisted of Madame Lesprats with her son and daughter-in-law, and some ancient husk of a Lesprats relation, wrapped despite the heat in layers of pungent wool. Sabine Lesprats wore a shiny blue satin cocktail dress, which pouched over her bosom and strained over a sad little bulge of belly. Her hair was sliced aggressively short in the back, coloured a violent purplish-black, and moulded on top into a complex pompadour.

  ‘She looks like Elvis,’ Olly sniggered.

  There was no room for the Sternbachs, and Aisling, wedged into the bench, was unable to do more than contort her shoulders and shrug apologetically.

  ‘I’m sure there’s seats over there,’ she called, pointing to the one unoccupied table, which stood fully in the still-glaring sun. This was dreadful. Otto and Ella would think she was rude and that these loud Anglo-Saxons were the Harveys’ preferred companions. Delphine would see her sitting down cheerfully with the cleaner as though they had no other French friends. And the dinner would go on for hours, there was no hope of moving until the cheese at least. The boys hovered politely enough, though Aisling saw Olly’s wince when Mary Logan kissed him juicily on both cheeks. They sloped off gratefully to the group of teenagers standing around their motos, too cool to sit down.

  The Lesprats family was separated from the Harveys by the Glover party, which was a blessing in the Delphine sense, but then it meant that Aisling would not be able to distance herself further from ‘les Anglais’ by conversing exclusively in French. Neither the Glovers nor the Kendricks spoke any sort of French, though Charlotte at least could communicate, and Aisling could already hear Mary Logan explaining to Claudia that it was amazing how one could get by, though of course she and Dick were finally going to get around to doing lessons this winter. Aisling loathed the arrogance of the English in this respect, and winced every time they went to a restaurant with their friends and the waiter kindly brought out an English menu. How they rolled their eyes and waved their arms, as though to compensate by gestural gallicisms for their appalling grammar! And there had been a particularly excruciating incident involving Malcolm Glover’s attempt to pantomime his request for a breast of chicken. In Aisling’s version of France, there were no English menus, and she always had to hold back from explaining in French that they weren’t tourists, actually, that they lived here. When she was alone with Jonathan it was always pleasing to think that they passed as a French couple.

  Monsieur Chauvignat was standing to make the toast. Aisling translated in a loud whisper. ‘Friends, it is a great pleasure to see so many of you here again on August the twenty-second. This is a day for celebration and a day for remembrance. We celebrate the great courage of those who lived through the occupation of Castroux, and we remember those who gave their lives for the freedom of France. My own father, as you know, was in Germany. Sadly he is no longer with us, but we applaud his companions. Amélie Lesprats—’ The white haired bundle at their table struggled to its feet as the clapping broke out.

  ‘See,’ Aisling heard Alex say to Claudia, ‘no way it was a bloke.’

  ‘—Yves and Magalie Contier, Jean Charrot, and my own mother Cécile Chauvignat.’

  ‘Do you see Yves?’ said Charlotte Glover, pointing to the tiny, toothless old man in a wheelchair and beret. ‘It’s wonderful, he’s a hundred and one and still bright as a button.’

  ‘Vieux schnoc,’ muttered Kevin to Richard. ‘Il raconte les mêmes conneries chaque année.’

  Everyone sang the ‘Marseillaise’. Claudia could see Aisling mouthing along, though it was evident she didn’t know the words. The level of conversation ro
se, as with their duty done people settled to the serious business of eating. Plates of excellent foie gras were brought around, then a ‘seafood surprise’ whose contents, swimming in a floury sauce Nantaise, had obviously not seen the sea for some time. A large platter of charcuterie, with tiny cornichons like baby crocodiles, was served to each table, then the main course, magret, the thick fat rinded next to the dark red meat, and pommes Charlotte. Claudia was starving, she was always starving these days, it seemed, but she didn’t want to gobble with Alex sitting there, after what he’d said. When the cheese and salad arrived she looked around to see how the Sternbachs were doing and noticed with relief that Ella was lighting a cigarette. ‘I’ll just go and see if they’re OK,’ she told Alex, unwedging herself from the bench, aware of the eyes on her breasts as she crossed the square.

  ‘I hope it’s not too awful for you,’ she said lightly, sitting down and extracting her own cigarettes from her bag. Ella handed her a lighter.

  ‘No, no,’ said Otto seriously, ‘this is just what we came for.’

  ‘Really? I mean, this sort of thing interests you particularly?’ Perhaps he was a university professor, some sort of anthropologist, not a medical doctor. She had thought that the Dutch would be too sensible to be charmed by a village fête.

  ‘Yes, I’m hoping to speak to some of those older people later. You see, we didn’t come here just for a holiday.’

  ‘Don’t be mysterious, Otto. And we’re very pleased with La Maison Bleue, as I said to Aisling. It’s lovely.’

  Claudia felt she was being slow. They looked quizzical, this elegant older couple with their precise, accentless English, quizzical and conspiratorial.

  ‘I came here to see if I could find out about my brother.’

  ‘Your brother? You have a French brother?’

  ‘Well, half French. My father was in the Army, yes, the German army. He was stationed here during the war and he had a child with a local girl. He was killed, but he had written a letter to my mother.’

  ‘I’m sorry.’ Claudia didn’t think about whether she sounded sorry because Otto’s father had been a Nazi or an adulterer, or just because he was dead. This was fascinating.

  Ella looked impatient, as though her husband’s deliberate speech was too slow. ‘Otto’s father, well, it was the war. They’d been training at Bordeaux and he met Otto’s mother there, she was a nurse. Her name was Ursula. They married and when she became pregnant she returned to Germany. He was posted on, and well, this happened. So he wrote to her, to make a clean breast of things. He said there was a little boy.’

  ‘And your mother, Otto? I thought you were Dutch, not German. Not that it matters, of course,’ she said hastily.

  ‘My mother had relatives in Antwerp and she went to them before the end of the war. She remarried and so I grew up there.’

  ‘And so this brother, you think he lives here?’

  ‘We don’t know exactly,’ Ella broke in again, excited by the story. ‘We’ve been to the records office at Monguèriac and the Mairie at Landi. Otto’s father didn’t say exactly where he was writing from, he couldn’t, but we know the name of his battalion, and we’ve researched their movements. It was called Das Reich.’ Claudia thought that maybe Ella should lower her voice, considering where they were, but she was hurrying on. ‘Some divisions were right here in 1943 and 1944. They had their headquarters at the chateau.’

  ‘Really? You know, I could introduce you to the Marquis, who lives there now. I know him from Paris. I’m sure he’d know something.’

  ‘There’s no guarantee the mother stayed here. There were terrible punishments for Frenchwomen who did as she did, though it was very common. And if she did, she might be dead, or have remarried and moved away, had more children. We know so little.’

  Claudia realized that this Das Reich business must have something to do with the deaths in the village that Aisling had told her about. She thought of mentioning Oriane Aucordier as someone the Sternbachs might speak to, but that seemed horribly tactless.

  ‘It’s difficult to ask, too,’ added Ella. ‘Even though it was long ago, it doesn’t seem that way to many people. They were quite rude at Monguèriac.’

  Claudia wanted to ask what Otto intended to do if he found his brother, or how he would feel if this dreamed-of relative turned out to be a Le Pen voter living in a breeze-block bungalow on the lotissement at Landi, but she did not wish to appear prying. She reiterated her offer of an introduction to the Marquis, adding that today was not the best moment to bring the subject up, but that she could ring up later. In her interest and the satisfaction of seeming a sort of insider she had forgotten her fear of Delphine.

  The tightly packed tables had now relaxed and spread and she suggested they join the Harveys. Aisling was calling across the table to Jonathan that the boys were going to miss the winner of the goat race. Claudia felt sorry for her. It was clear that Aisling had not realized that her sons were no longer of an age to be genuinely charmed by a goat race, nor yet old enough to fake it for her sake. Goat racing would be met with an embarrassment akin to physical pain. In between the clapping for the boules cup, the church decorations, and the lap of honour of the triumphant goat, the Sternbachs were introduced.

  ‘We take guests too, you know,’ announced Mary Logan to Ella, ‘you must come over for dinner and test out the competition!’

  ‘Mary’s a fantastic cook,’ put in her husband, when no one else appeared to get up the energy for the anticipated compliment.

  ‘You have to taste my vichyssoise,’ she crowed.

  ‘I do like a nice leek and potato soup,’ said Otto politely, ‘Ella makes it very well.’

  ‘I’m not talking leek and potato soup! I’m talking vichyssoise!’ Mary glared at Otto with glazed sincerity, defying him to contradict her.

  ‘Tell me,’ said Jean-Marc Lesprats, leaning forward aggressively to Jonathan, ‘what do you English want with so many toilets?’

  Things got better when the band started up. As always happens at such events, sexagenarian couples waltzed with sprightly elegance around the square and everyone said how marvellous it was, to try to compensate for their own ungainliness. Claudia hated dancing with Alex, with English men in general, but she shuffled gamely through one with him and one with Jonathan. Aisling looked pleased enough with Otto and then Dick Logan, who did a sort of swing that made him the best of the expat dancers, but it was embarrassing that all the women drew the line so clearly at Malcolm Glover. It had grown dark, the air was soft and smelt of jasmine, the chestnut tree was full of brightly coloured bulbs. Aisling and Claudia exchanged a satisfactory roll of the eyes as they turned on the floor, indicating a good bitch about that appalling Mary woman later. Sitting out, smoking, Claudia thought of what Otto had told her, and of how romantic the village seemed, timeless if one ignored the Shopi frontage and the line of neon-stickered motos. Perhaps everything would be all right. In an access of goodwill she turned to Madame Lesprats’ old relative, who was cheerfully sipping at a brandy. ‘Are you having a nice time, Madame?’ she pronounced loudly.

  ‘Oh, it’s not bad.’

  It occurred to Claudia that it was odd that Oriane Aucordier and Ginette were not there. This woman must be about Oriane’s age, though it was hard to tell at this juncture of decay.

  ‘Tell me, do you know Oriane Aucordier? She told me about her brother, who was killed in the war.’ Perhaps she could find out something about the scandal at the chateau? Her attempt was met with a vicious glare from the watery, almost colourless old eyes, and Amélie turned her head deliberately away. Claudia felt foolish, but decided she had been misunderstood, the old bat was probably senile anyway, and just then Charles-Louis d’Esceyrac came up and asked her to dance. She ground out her cigarette and stepped up into his arms.

  He held her correctly, as she had known he would, and as they danced he made it clear, lightly and without saying anything at all, that he knew all about Sébastien and that he would be quite happy t
o offer himself as a replacement of sorts, in Paris, if Claudia were that way inclined one day in the future. So Delphine had sneaked. Claudia laughed softly and minded less about her dress, and surprised herself in the car on the short drive home with a vivid image of Charles-Louis fucking her. He was sexy, in an old, Merchant Ivory sort of way. The image was accompanied by a sharp snap of desire, and then the now-familiar knowledge that such things were no longer possible, and then back, bloodily, to Sébastien.

  Alex wanted sex again that night. Claudia was tired, truly just tired, and she considered refusing him, but then she thought of the time that refusing would take, and the sulks and the reassurance, and then she would probably end up doing it anyway. She thought, as he shoved away, that sex was often a bit like netball at school. She had played centre for the team, or sometimes goal attack. She hadn’t particularly liked netball, but she had been good at it, and it was easier to play for the team, to go along to practice and the tedious Saturday afternoon tournaments, than to contrive a way of getting out of it. They were all ‘good in bed’, she and her friends. They did all the things the magazines instructed them to do, oral, anal, cowgirl, spanking, blindfolds. Like a list of prostitutes’ services. They sucked and they swallowed, they Kegeled and contorted. The women Claudia knew did everything, with the same diligence they applied to getting their roots done or not missing spin class. It was no big deal, just one more necessary component of being attractive. Claudia did not feel her own pleasure had been much enhanced by any of these activities. Alex tried hard to please her, succeeded at first, but the fact was that she didn’t fancy him any more. That was what was extraordinary about Sébastien, that she wanted him to fuck her so badly she didn’t care if they went through the checklist. It didn’t even matter that he wasn’t all that good at it. She saw Sébastien’s face for a moment, hovering above her, and she groaned in shame and anger as Alex came, so that was just as well.

  Claudia was intrigued by the Sternbachs’ story. Playing detective wasn’t exactly her thing, but she felt sure that if she tried to help them she would also find out more about Oriane and her son. Oriane had offered her something more than her surprising empathy, a connection that Claudia grasped at as though it might in some way help her. Or if that was being woolly, then at least it might be enough of a distraction to drown the white noise in her head. She tried to interest Olly and Richard, but their complete lack of reaction reminded her that for them the war was a sort of fiction, a maniac spitting absurd speeches, and the source of baddies in the movies. Wasn’t every child supposed to be an expert on the Holocaust? Richard did say that she should probably talk to Madame Lesprats, who knew everything about everyone, and had about a million barmy old relations. She lived next door to Kevin. He offered to show her on his bike.