The French House

by Nick Alexander

  ‘This is what you are obliged to do,’ she says, pointing to the second card, which shows a Dickensian-type character heading off with a knotted parcel on the end of a stick. ‘You must go to a new place.’

  ‘I did,’ I say. ‘This is the new place. So that’s good, isn’t it?’

  ‘Non,’ Carole says. ‘No, this is the old place. So a different place.’

  I nod solemnly and brace myself for the next card: the grim reaper. ‘And that one’s lovely, I bet,’ I say.

  ‘Actually, she is not so bad,’ Carole says, staring at me intently.

  ‘She?’

  ‘This card. She is not death.’

  ‘It says death on the card,’ I point out. ‘La mort.’

  ‘Yes but it is, how you say? A symbol.’

  ‘OK, but a symbol of what?’

  Carole shrugs and is already sweeping the cards back into the pack. ‘I don’t know. I don’t know the question because you don’t tell. But the end of one thing. Maybe you don’t get the thing you want. But after the end is a new different thing. So it’s not so bad. Maybe.’

  She finally pulls her eyes away from mine and shuffles the cards, before starting to deal their two hands once again. Distira, apparently pleased by the results of my reading, or simply the fact that her game can now resume, starts to smile quite sweetly. Well, as sweetly as one can with those teeth.

  ‘Bon, nous pouvons aller à la salle de bains?’ Victor asks. Can we use the bathroom?

  ‘Servez vous,’ Distira says, picking up her cards. ‘Faites comme chez vous.’ Help yourself. Make yourselves at home.

  ‘What was your question?’ Victor asks me once we reach the bathroom.

  ‘I didn’t really have one,’ I say.

  Victor pulls a face and starts to hop out of his overalls. ‘I don’t believe you,’ he says.

  He’s right. But there’s no point spreading the misery. There’s no point telling Victor that the answers – a life cut short, the need to leave, and a future of disappointment – were responses to the question, ‘When will I get pregnant?’ Sharing that would just be cruel.

  I will, I decide, push it from my mind. After all, we all know that tarot is rubbish. Don’t we?

  When we have finished washing and have changed into our fresh clothes, we peep back in on Distira to say goodbye. ‘La lettre!’ Carole prompts, and Distira jumps up and crosses the kitchen to retrieve an envelope from a drawer.

  ‘C’est pour toi,’ she says, handing the envelope to Victor. ‘Désolée, mais je l’ai ouverte par accident.’ It’s for you. Sorry, I opened it by accident.

  We both thank her and then start back towards home. As I pull Distira’s front door closed behind us, I hiss, ‘By accident, yeah right!’

  Victor ignores me and shakes the letter open, scans the contents, and says, ‘Merde!’

  I jog to catch up with him and grab his arm. ‘What is it?’ I ask.

  ‘It’s a tax bill,’ he says. ‘Inheritance tax.’

  ‘On this place?’

  ‘On both places,’ he says. ‘Here and Perpignan.’

  ‘Is it bad?’

  ‘Seventy-three thou,’ he says.

  ‘No!’

  Victor just shakes his head and pulls my arm tighter.

  And then I laugh.

  ‘It’s not funny,’ he says.

  ‘No, I know. I was just thinking about Carole’s “trip to the south-west”. No prizes for guessing where she got that one from. Carole knew all right, but it wasn’t from the cards; it was from reading your post.’

  Back at ours, we sit next to the range and discuss our options. Seventy-three thousand euros will wipe out almost all of Victor’s remaining savings, which would leave only my meagre four thousand and any future rent from my apartment. Which, if anything else goes wrong – and it seems almost inevitable that it will – clearly isn’t enough. This quickly leads to the obvious conclusion that the Perpignan house, worth about one hundred and eighty thousand, needs to be sold.

  Victor sits and pores over figures he scribbles on the back of the envelope while I cook pasta and heat up a jar of carbonara sauce, and by the time I serve this, his decision has been made. ‘So you fancy a trip to Perpignan?’ he asks, pushing the sheet of paper to one side.

  ‘Really?’ I ask. ‘When?’

  Victor shrugs. ‘This needs to be paid in June, so I would say as soon as possible.’

  ‘You reckon you can sell the place that quickly?’ I ask, winding spaghetti around my fork.

  ‘No way. It takes more like six months in France. I’ll have to pay it from my savings, but the sooner the money from the sale comes in after that, the better really, don’t you think?’

  I nod thoughtfully.

  ‘You OK?’ Victor asks, reaching for my hand.

  ‘Sure,’ I say. ‘I’m just a bit tired. The tail end of the flu still. So when do you want to go?’

  ‘Maybe Wednesday or Thursday? I’ll need a couple of days there to empty the contents and get it on the market. But you’ll like it. It’s a lovely house.’

  ‘Sure,’ I say. ‘I’d love a break from all of this.’

  ‘And if we give Clappier a hard enough time, the place just might be finished by the time we get back.’

  I nod.

  Victor forks up a mouthful of spaghetti and when he has swallowed it, says, ‘You sure you’re OK? You’re not thinking about that tarot nonsense, are you?’

  I laugh as convincingly as I can. ‘Of course not,’ I say.

  ‘Did you have a question in mind? I bet you did. I’ll bet it was about love or marriage or babies or something,’ Victor says.

  I close my eyes, smile and shake my head. ‘God, you guys think girls are just so predictable, don’t you? Nothing’s wrong. I’m just tired. I am recovering from swine flu.’

  ‘Too tired to go to Perpignan?’ Victor asks.

  ‘No, the break will do me good.’

  ‘You’ll like some of the furniture,’ Victor says. ‘And anything you want is yours.’

  ‘Great,’ I say.

  ‘I’m glad you’re coming. There are lots of memories there for me. Too many, really. But we’ll make it a nice trip. We’ll make a holiday out of it.’

  ‘Can’t wait,’ I say. And if I could think about what he is saying instead of Carole’s stupid tarot, I would mean it.

  The drive to Perpignan is a monotonous succession of mile upon mile of grey French motorway.

  But it’s a crisp, cold day with a stunning blue sky and very little traffic.

  Near Nîmes, Victor suggests that we stop for lunch.

  ‘Oh good,’ I say. ‘I have never seen Nîmes. It’s supposed to be lovely.’

  Victor laughs. ‘Sorry,’ he says. ‘But today isn’t the day that you get to see Nîmes. I’m just pulling into the services here. I want to get there by nightfall.’

  ‘Never mind,’ I say. ‘Another time.’

  The motorway services are plastered with murals of the many wonderful sights of Nîmes. ‘At least we know what we’re missing,’ I say, pointing.

  It’s not until we near Perpignan that Victor reveals that his childhood home isn’t in Perpignan at all but in a nearby village.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he says. ‘I thought you knew.’

  ‘Nope,’ I say. ‘You always said Perpignan.’

  ‘Yeah,’ Victor says. ‘Well Dad always said Perpignan, even though it isn’t really.’

  As we leave the autoroute and begin to plough through the knobbly, out-of-season vineyards that surround the town, the setting sun begins to flame red, casting romantic orangey strips of light across the land. After less than ten minutes drive, the walled town of Baixas, where the house is actually located, comes into view.

  ‘Is that a church?’ I ask, pointing at a vast monolithic building dominating the skyline, currently lit red by the setting sun.

  ‘Yep,’ Victor says. ‘There’s no escaping the big guy in Baixas.’

  ‘It’s beautiful,�
� I say.

  Victor turns and smiles at me. ‘I knew you’d like it here,’ he says.

  We drive into the centre of the town and park the van in a large empty car park then walk the last thirty yards to the house.

  Victor eventually stops in front of a large door and produces a key from his pocket. ‘I so know what you’re going to say next,’ he says, opening the deadlock and pushing the heavy door open.

  I shoot him a puzzled expression and step over the threshold then flick a light-switch. ‘Oh,’ I say. ‘There’s no electricity.’

  ‘Ah,’ Victor says. ‘Sorry, hang on.’

  ‘Is that what I was supposed to say?’ I ask him as he fiddles with the fuse box behind the door.

  ‘No, not really,’ he laughs. He flicks a switch and says, ‘Ta-da!’

  The entrance is dazzling. The hallway and staircase are entirely built of that rounded, white, organic-looking plasterwork you see everywhere in Greece, while all the doors are painted royal blue. I peer into the first room and turn on the lights to reveal a lounge with a large blue sofa, a big open fireplace, and sandstone walls.

  ‘It’s lovely,’ I say.

  ‘I know,’ Victor says, crossing the room to open the shutters with a clack. ‘Dad did it all. Mum inherited the place, but Dad did all the work.’

  ‘Like father, like son,’ I say, heading through to the next room, a large, slightly old-fashioned kitchen/dining room. Then I peer out at a beautiful little courtyard. It has a table and chairs covered with plastic sheeting, and in one corner a small fountain, now dry.

  ‘It’s beautiful, Victor. It must be lovely in summer.’

  ‘It is,’ Victor says quietly. He holds out a hand. ‘Come see upstairs.’

  Reaching the first floor, I open a closed door onto the front bedroom.

  ‘Mum’s room,’ Victor says.

  ‘Wow, it’s still got all her stuff in it.’

  ‘I know,’ Victor says, his voice sounding tense. He slides his arms around me, nuzzles my neck, and sighs. ‘I sorted most of it, but I never really had the courage to tackle this room. Maybe you can help me with that tomorrow?’

  ‘Sure. How long ago did . . . you know . . .?’

  ‘When did she die? Three and a half years ago,’ he replies.

  ‘Right,’ I say, turning so that I can hug him properly.

  ‘I’m fine,’ he says. ‘It’s just . . .’

  ‘Sure. I understand.’

  ‘Here!’ he says, visibly forcing himself to sound more optimistic. ‘Come see my room.’

  He gently closes the door behind him before running upstairs to the next floor and bursting into another bedroom.

  ‘Wow!’ I laugh when I catch up. ‘Very seventies!’ Two of the walls are blood red, and two are lime green. ‘How did you ever live with these colours?’

  ‘It’s Kawasaki racing colours,’ he says. ‘I was into motorbikes.’

  ‘I didn’t know that,’ I say.

  Victor points to a poster on the wall, where there is a photo of a biker in green and red racing leathers, cornering so hard that his knee is scraping along the ground.

  ‘I had one until about four years ago.’

  ‘Really? A big, fast one like that?’

  He laughs. ‘No, just a regular road bike. A Honda Hornet, if that means anything to you.’

  ‘It doesn’t.’

  ‘No. Well it was a blue one,’ Victor says, mockingly, ‘if that means anything.’

  ‘Blue’s nice,’ I say, ignoring the dig.

  ‘Have you ever been on a bike?’ he asks.

  I shake my head. ‘No. I think I’d be scared,’ I say, walking to the window and peering outside at the view my man grew up with. I turn to the bookcase and run my finger gently over the spines. ‘Your books,’ I say.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘They’re all in French.’

  Victor laughs. ‘Well, yes.’

  ‘Why did you call it your mum’s room?’ I ask. ‘Did they have separate rooms or something?’

  ‘No, they divorced,’ he says.

  ‘Oh. I don’t think I knew that either. So who lived here? Just you and your mum?’

  ‘No, I was with Dad in England. Surely I told you all this, didn’t I?’

  I frown. ‘No. It’s strange, but I don’t think you ever said much about your childhood. But you did live here at some point – I mean, if you have a room?’

  ‘Yep. Till I was eleven,’ Victor says, switching on an electric heater and bouncing on his old bed. ‘After that I was in Lewes, near Brighton.’

  ‘Baixas to Lewes. How did that happen?’

  ‘Sorry,’ Victor says. ‘I’m not explaining this very well, am I?’ He pats the bed beside him, and when I join him he lies down, pulling me with him. I fidget until my head is resting on his shoulder. He wraps one arm around me and with the other points at a plastic helicopter suspended from the lampshade. ‘That’s been there for thirty years,’ he says, reverently. Lying here, in his old bed, in the room where he grew up, I suddenly feel the most incredible wave of love for him. It’s so powerful that it makes me shudder.

  ‘Cold?’ Victor asks.

  ‘A bit. But it’s warming up. Go on.’

  ‘You sure you want to know this?’

  ‘Of course I do.’

  ‘OK,’ Victor says, with forced laughter in his voice. ‘It is long and messy, so you have been warned.’

  ‘Families always are,’ I say. After a moment’s silence, I prompt him with a, ‘So?’

  ‘I’m just trying to work out where to start.’

  ‘This house.’

  ‘So this place was Mum’s. She inherited it. This place and the farm. Our farm.’

  ‘And Distira got the place next door to the farm? Where she lives now.’

  ‘Exactly. But this place was a wreck. Well, they both were. Dad did this place up. He was a teacher, but he was good at DIY. Better than me. He inherited a fair bit of money from his parents and spent a chunk of it on this place. And they were happily married for about fifteen years before it all went wrong.’

  ‘How old were you when they divorced?’

  ‘Whaw, that electric heater stinks, doesn’t it?’ Victor says.

  ‘It’s dusty. It’ll burn off,’ I say. ‘Carry on.’

  ‘Well when I was about eight or nine, Dad met Angela, my stepmum. They had an affair, I suppose you’d call it.’

  ‘How French.’

  ‘I know it sounds a bit sordid, but I think it was a big love affair, to be honest. Angela used to come here every summer with her husband, and she and Dad just couldn’t stay away from each other. I think Dad might even have visited her in England. He used to go away sometimes, purportedly on school trips. Anyway, when I was eleven, Angela’s husband somehow found out and threw her out. And she came here and there was the biggest argument ever. Mum, Dad and Angela shrieking at each other in the courtyard.

  ‘Angela went back to England, but the arguing here went on for months. It was civil war really. And Mum started drinking. A lot.’

  ‘And you were only eleven? It must have been awful.’

  ‘Yeah. It was pretty bad. I used to have to check her pulse to see if she was dead.’

  ‘I’ve been there. I dated an alcoholic,’ I tell him. ‘It’s horrible for anyone, but worse for a child.’

  ‘I grew up quickly, I suppose, once Dad moved out.’

  ‘He just left?’

  ‘Well, he had to. This was legally Mum’s place, after all.’

  ‘And you stayed here with her, or . . .’

  ‘Initially. But not that long in the end. She was drinking all the time. Distira had to come to stay for a while.’

  I must make a face at this, because Victor says, ‘I know you don’t like her, but she was a very different person thirty years ago. I was glad to have her around, anyway.’

  ‘I’m sure. I didn’t say anything. So where was your dad?’

  ‘In England. He sold his share of his pare
nts’ vineyard and bought a cottage in Lewes with Angela. And then Mum had to go into hospital. A mental hospital, really. They didn’t exactly have detox clinics in those days, so . . . No one told me much. I was too young to live on my own, and Distira couldn’t stay forever, so Dad came and got me.’

  ‘He took you to England?’

  Victor doesn’t reply, but I can tell by the way his shoulder moves that he is nodding his head.

  ‘Did he speak English? Did you?’

  ‘Yeah. He taught it. And mine was OK. Just schoolboy English, but . . .’

  ‘That must have been a wrench, changing countries like that at such a young age?’

  Victor shrugs. ‘It kinda was and wasn’t. It was a culture shock. But it changed my life, really. They put me in school in Lewes. I did really well. I made loads of friends. I went to uni . . . I doubt any of that would have happened if I had stayed here with Mum.’

  I think about all of this for a moment. Considering his childhood, he’s amazingly well-balanced. Comparatively, I have had it easy. ‘That’s an awful lot to go through,’ I tell him. ‘I can’t believe that I didn’t know any of this.’

  ‘I don’t know much about your childhood either, other than about Waiine,’ Victor points out.

  ‘Did your mum get better?’ I ask.

  ‘Not really. It came and went. She was on the wagon for a while but then she met Bruno and fell promptly off again. She met him when she was in hospital. Ironic that they met there, really. They dated for about ten years. Or more like, they drank together for about ten years.’

  ‘But you used to come back?’

  ‘Oh, of course. Summer holidays, Christmas . . . Anytime Dad and Angela went off on one of their cruises – Angela was quite high maintenance – they would pack me off here.’ Victor pauses and sighs deeply. ‘I love this house. It’s just . . .’ He shudders. ‘It’s just that everyone’s dead, aren’t they?’

  I squeeze him tight for a few minutes, and eventually he continues. ‘Dad and Angela split up eventually. I was at college.’

  ‘God, even the big love affair didn’t last?’

  ‘No. Dad left her the cottage and moved back to Perpignan. He had blown all his inheritance by then.’

  ‘He moved to Perpignan or here?’

  ‘Perpignan. He rented a little flat. It was a bit sad, really.’