by Aileen Izett
The day stretched out before me, with nothing to do except to do up a château. Greg was around. I could hear the squeak of the wheel barrow being pushed over the gravel.
I decided to finish painting the room on the first floor. All it needed was a final coat.
Greg slid into the room as I started on the last wall. He closed the door carefully behind him.
“Can you leave it open?”
The door open or closed, the room was still laden with heat.
Greg mopped his hair with one of my painting rags from the floor.
“You’ll smell of white spirit,” I warned.
“Who cares?” he said, grinning, watching me load the roller with paint and smooth it, self-consciously because he was looking, across the plaster.
“What was going on last night?” He asked, perching his bottom on the window ledge.
I told him that Tom had burnt the passport.
Greg whistled.
“But it did belong to her brother. She said her brother was Zachary and the passport belonged to someone called Zachary.”
“So what now — will you still tell her that his passport was here?”
“What do you think?”
He considered his response carefully. “I think you’ll have to — at some point.”
I jabbed at the ceiling with the roller. “My bloody brother.”
Greg laughed. “Careful!”
Then he said he had seen them sitting in the salon together after I had gone to bed. “Not talking, just sitting.”
“He was probably trying to persuade her to let him help her find her diamonds.”
“It didn’t look like that to me.” Greg grinned.
I put down the roller. “What do you mean by that?”
Greg’s grin disappeared. “Nothing.”
“Tom’s a family man. He’s got children.” He wouldn’t, I thought, not at the château. Not with her. He wouldn’t revert back to his old ways so quickly. My brother was a better man than that.
“So have I,” Greg said, “so what? She’s an attractive young woman.”
“I thought you…” and I was about to say something about Greg’s previous denials that he found Eveline attractive, when I realised what he had said.
“You never told me.”
“You never asked.” He crossed his arms, belligerent with embarrassment.
“How many?”
“Just the one, back in England.”
“How could you,” I said as levelly as I could, “leave a child?”
“It happens.”
What I thought must have been written all over my face.
Greg flushed beetroot. “I went do-lally, okay?” He made that awful twisting motion with his finger against his forehead.
In the silence which followed, he didn’t take his eyes off my face. It was as if he was daring me to judge him.
I’d spent months with this man, and I know virtually nothing about him.
“I am sorry. Truly.”
Greg’s eyes were full of regret. “My best mate, he told me that the kid wasn’t mine…”
I had an idea. “Let’s get out of this place for a while. Go out. Have some lunch together.”
Greg’s face lit up. “Where do you want to go?”
I crossed over to him. I meant just to tease when I ruffled his hair. Where could I take a man who reeked of white spirit? Instead there was a shock — recognition that we could easily have sex right there on the bare floor. It registered with Greg as well. He smiled at me.
“Lunch. Where do you suggest?”
Chapter 37
Greg said that we couldn’t go to the Café de Paris in case Valerie was there. I didn’t question why he was worried about her whereabouts. “Okay then. Your place.” He looked unsure. I told him not to worry, that I’d raid the château’s fridge.
He took washing-up liquid from the sink and disappeared upstairs to wash his hair. I piled a basket with food.
There was sense of freedom as we walked along, a feeling of constriction removed — or maybe it was just the fact that the château was behind us and we were leaving it behind, like a fat toad on a lily pad, sitting on its hill.
Greg’s caravan was under the shade of an enormous oak tree, in the far corner of a wide meadow, not far from the lake where the locals liked to swim. It was a rectangular tin box, too small for two and so stifling in summer that Greg slept outside, in a patched one-man tent.
I pulled a tartan rug out from the tent and laid out plates of quiche and salami. He brought out two glasses — they were chipped and slightly grey, like everything else in the caravan. It was obvious he had little spare cash. I was wrong about him. He didn’t drink his money down at the café — he sent it back to England, for his child. Greg was a good man. He was very kind to me. He was kind to Eveline, despite his frustrations with her. He was one of those rare people who are simply, effortlessly, without an ounce of malice.
We lay on the rug, facing each other. Greg poured the pale yellow wine. Yet more insects hovered, attracted by its sweetness.
Greg fumbled in his back pocket and drew out his wallet. He flipped it open and handed it to me — showing me a photo of a little baby with enormous jug ears, just like Greg’s.
I laughed. “She’s yours, Greg.”
He was pleased. “I’m beginning to believe it.”
“And?” I asked, using one hand to move the glasses and the bottle back to the edge of the rug, where I deliberately left the food.
“Cheryl wants me back.”
“So are you going to go?”
Greg considered perhaps the most important decision of his life, his fingers plucking up bits of tuft. I leant my face into his. I wanted to be closer to him, to comfort him.
The kiss took him by surprise. It took me by surprise. I’d never thought that I would — that I could — seduce a man, let alone so blatantly.
For a long time we just kissed. Greg won’t let me do anything else. “There is plenty of time. Just relax.” So I relaxed and the feeling of well-being — of being out in the sun, of being intimate with someone else — well, it was just blissful.
Eventually, he wriggled his arms out of his t-shirt and lets me slide it over his head. My t-shirt and bra came off in one smooth move.
I kicked off my shorts and pants.
Greg looked concerned. “Shit.”
“Don’t worry,” I giggled, heady with nakedness. “I’m not going to get pregnant. I can’t.”
He unzipped his jeans. I pulled them down. He pushed first one leg and then the other, off with his feet.
His skin, where the sun hadn’t touched it, was the colour of milk.
By then, we had moved off the rug. The smell of the earth was warm and pungent, and tassels of grass tickled. Greg treated me so lightly and so respectfully.
It was different with Philip. Our sex was for making babies. When we had given up hope, we gave up sex.
Greg smiled hazily and pulled me towards him — and still, I caught of a waft of white spirit, which made me giggle again.
Afterwards, we watched chinks of sky shift shapes in the canopy. I felt elated. Liberated. There was a passing thought about my father — then another about the man in the tree which I shut out of my head.
Greg stroked me on my cheek. “Can’t have been easy splitting up from your husband.”
“Who says I have split up from my husband?”
“Tom.”
I was still too full of languor to take him seriously. “Well, that’s another thing he’s wrong about.”
The atmosphere changed in an instant. Greg scooped himself off the ground in one, fluid motion, full of umbrage.
“I don’t go with married women.”
“That’s good of you,” I said, stung. “Glad you have some morals. What about Cheryl?”
“I’m not married to her.”
Greg struggled to get his legs into his jeans. He disappeared into the caravan. I grew cold.
<
br /> *
I put on my shorts and t-shirt, stuffing my bra into a pocket. I was so disappointed that what had promised to be so lovely had turned out so wrong.
I dumped the uneaten food into a plastic bag. I watered the grass with what was left of the wine. I found my shoes. There was a whistling from the caravan — of a kettle, boiling on a gas stove.
Greg re-emerged holding two mugs of tea.
“I am sorry. About the misunderstanding.”
“When did Tom tell you that I’d split from Philip?”
“He didn’t — not in so many words. I think he wanted me to look out for you. It was obvious you were upset when you came. I just assumed… it’s all my fault.” He looked miserable.
“When, Greg?”
“When he asked me to get the gas and electric reconnected and then he mentioned it again when he told me you’d be coming the next day…”
I started to laugh. Greg and I had had this conversation before. “But I didn’t know I was coming!”
“It’s probably not my place…”
“Go on.”
“He’s not always straight with you, is he?”
I had to admit that Tom wasn’t. Not recently anyway. Not since I’d been at the château. It wasn’t conceivable that Philip had told Tom about the affair. He disliked — distrusted — Tom.
“I haven’t separated from Philip,” I told Greg. “I just left him.”
“Just like that?”
“It’s too long a story.” In fact, according to Philip it was a very short story of three months and five days.
Greg looked at me, waiting for me to continue.
I knew I owed him more. I took a deep breath. “He had an affair. But I think that, once the château’s finished, I’m going to go back.”
“He doesn’t deserve you.”
“I’m beginning to wonder if I deserve him.” I surprised myself with that admission.
Greg gave me a peck on the cheek, all passion spent.
Chapter 38
Walking back up the hill, I wondered how well, truly, I knew my brother. Tom and I had never spent any length time together as adults — not until, that is, the château. I didn’t know the intricacies of his life any more than he knew mine. I hadn’t told Tom about Philip because I couldn’t have borne the shame. I hadn’t wanted Tom to know that his sister was capable of picking up a knife and lashing out… even then, as I thought about it, my face burned with the recollection. It still burns when I think of it.
Tom and Eveline weren’t back. My car wasn’t there. I was glad.
The château felt becalmed, like a great ship. The shadows stretched across the walls and floors as I switched on lights.
I went up to the dining hall where the telephone sat in solitary splendour on the white lacquered sideboard. Eveline had got rid of the clutter of old lampshades, books, balls of string and tangled ping-pong nets.
Philip picked up the phone on the first ring. “Is everything all right?”
“Does no one else ever call you?” I couldn’t help the anger which still rose every time I heard his voice.
“Sorry,” he said, “and no.”
“Why shouldn’t everything be alright?”
“I left a message for you yesterday. You didn’t call back.”
“No one told me. Did you speak to Tom?”
“So that’s where he is. I did wonder.”
I had better things to worry about. “Philip, did Tom know about you know what? You know…?” I couldn’t give it a name. I couldn’t give her a name. I still can’t give her a name.
Philip sighed. I could see him taking off his glasses and giving the lens a quick clean while he thought how best to answer.
“Bugger,” he said as I heard glass tinkle. “My whisky.”
“Since when have you drunk whisky?”
“Since you left,” he said bluntly. There was a silence before he started again. “Tom insisted that I tell you — blackmailed me, rather.”
“Does he know about the abortion?”
“No, thank God.” Philip sounded genuinely horrified at the idea.
“So how did Tom find out you and…?”
“Saw me coming out of a hotel lift.”
“Is someone with you at the moment?” I could hear movement in the background.
“With me? No.” Philip chuckled. “Only Pepper. She’s wagging her tail so hard it’s thumping against the cupboard. She can hear your voice.”
He started again. “Tom said that if I didn’t tell you about… He would. I couldn’t have borne that.”
“I love you,” he said.
‘And despite everything, I still love you.’ I didn’t say that.
Minutes trickled away, unspoken.
“I’ve got it!” Philip’s voice blazed down the line. “He set me up to get you down to France to do up his bloody château. That’s what happened. He banked on you leaving me, the bastard.”
I couldn’t stop the flare of anger scorching back in reply. “He was getting me away from you and for that, I’ll be forever grateful.”
*
Out in the corridor, a shadow passed by the dining hall’s open door. The silence in the house was immense. Eveline’s door clicked shut. I was sure it was Eveline’s door, but Tom and Eveline hadn’t returned. Then I wondered if the man was free of his tree. I wondered if I was mad, going mad, or just getting madder.
When I went to bed, I dreamt of the man in the tree. I was a child and the tree was full of parrots. He was beckoning me to climb up and join him. The man had Eveline’s lingering smile. He had her long, long, fingers. I could hear a door slamming somewhere and a light laugh — Eveline’s.
Tom’s dark bulk loomed over me. “Sis.”
There was an urgency — an excitement — in his voice, so I was immediately awake.
“Look.” He bent down and unclenched his hand. Cupped in his palm were five little nuggets.
“We found them,” he said, his eyes sparkling like the diamonds in the moonlight. “What luck!”
“How?” I asked. “Where?”
He pressed a finger to his lips. The upper part of his face was wreathed in shadow, the light catching his hefty watch and its illuminated dial. Half-past one in the morning. Where had they been?
“Tomorrow,” he said. “Sleep tight.”
Chapter 39
I smelt that slice of sun, the sharp tang of citrus fruit long before I reached the kitchen. I looked in on Eveline’s room on my way down to the kitchen. It was empty, the bed a rumpus of sheets.
Tom was squeezing the oranges with an ancient, hand-operated citrus press which he must have found at the back of a cupboard. I’d never seen it before. He gave a brilliant smile on seeing me.
“Isn’t it fantastic? Honestly, It was like looking for a needle in a haystack and then… Hey presto!” He was practically singing with happiness. “You know what this means?”
I looked for a glass. “Where is she?”
“Outside somewhere.”
“I spoke to Philip last night.”
Tom looked at me askance. “What’s up?”
“You tell me.”
He stopped squeezing the oranges. He was silent for a second, thinking. Then his face brightened.
“Yes. Sorry. Philip. He left a message for you.”
Deftly, Tom halved an orange. “It completely slipped my mind. It was only for you to call him sometime. This business with the diamonds…”
“What’s going on?”
“I feel like we’ve won the lottery and we have, Sis, in a way, the chances of finding them must have been a zillion to one.” He smiled broadly. “Some luck, at last.”
“Why all the intrigue?”
The smile disappeared. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Not answering the phone. The guy at the market.”
“I’m screening my calls, that’s all.” His tone was light.
“The chicken stall. What wa
s all that about?”
“Just a bit of heat in London. Nothing for you to be worried about.” He poured frothy juice into my glass. “Well?” He waited for my approval.
“It’s delicious,” I said reluctantly. “So what should I be worried about?”
He looked exasperated, almost angry. “Nothing. Eveline is going back to Paris. I thought you’d be delighted. What’s got into you?”
“What’s got into me?” For a moment, the pain is real, a sharp stab through the heart. “How come you told Greg about Philip's… before I even knew.”
I’d have choked rather than have said the tawdry word.
Carefully, Tom poured himself a glass of orange juice.
“I didn’t tell him. I just asked Greg to take care of you. Anyway, deep down you did know. You simply wouldn’t acknowledge it.” He took a sip.
“That’s not true.”
“Oh Sis,” Tom put down his glass. He moved from away from the counter. “You need a hug.”
“Don’t you dare.”
The space between us crackled with tension.
“How did you find out?”
Tom looked away. “The Fairfield. 6th March this year. 7 o’clock in the morning. Coming out of a lift together. I couldn’t believe my eyes, honestly.”
He looked at me then, with sorrow in his eyes. “I thought it would blow over. Philip, being an idiot, having a mid-life crisis. So I left it but every time I called — remember? I was trying to persuade you to come down here? You sounded increasingly unhappy. I felt such a heel, knowing.”
“So what changed your mind?”
“You. I had to get you out. You were coming apart at the seams. And that husband of yours wasn’t doing anything.”
“Did you know it was over by then?” I sounded so hectoring, so accusatory.
Shock registered on Tom’s face. He hadn’t known.
“No,” he said slowly, “Philip didn’t tell me… I’m sorry, but what matters,” he raised his voice again, working himself into righteous anger, “was that he hadn’t had the guts to tell you. Let alone tell you it was over. All these years, your husband has taken the moral high ground with me, always managing to make me feel some fly-by-night who can’t be trusted. I thought, well, the boot’s on the other foot now, mate, and you’re making my sister very unhappy. The least you can do is put her out of her misery.”