by Anne Piper
“I wish she could have travelled with us. She is so good with the children.”
“It’ll be a bore when she’s here all the same. I suppose she’ll have all her meals with us?”
“Well of course, Tom. We can’t make her sit alone in the kitchen. But it’ll mean you and I can go out to meals sometimes.”
“Not often, if we’re to make the money last.”
“Picnics won’t cost much.”
“Mummy, there’s sand in the garden, not quite real sand, but almost, with little stones, and there are little stones under the water too, and a little boat-house with two rooms over and a bed in it and a boat. Do come and see.”
Caro, pink and panting, tugged at my hand.
“I’ll come,” Tom said.
“I think she’d better have her hat, Tom, it’s in the hall, the white linen one, and Susan too.”
I blinked, going back more slowly into the house and slowly up the polished staircase. Caro would have to learn not to run downstairs. The smell must be bees-wax really and not mould. I laid Nicholas on a bed with half an eye on him, because he had begun to try to roll over, and stood a moment on the balcony looking across at the blue Jura and breathing. What a lovely, clean country. I could smell happiness in the air.
Long after we were all in bed I lay listening to the comfortable lapping of the lake, constant under Tom’s irregular snores.
*
Tom and Caro had gone out on a long botanical expedition. I sat on a chair on the terrace, my back to a white rose hedge, feeding Nicholas in the shade of my straw hat. We were both drowsy, my eyes half shut against the shimmering water. Susan’s linen hat rose and fell in the distance, a large daisy among the buttercups; I blew at a hovering bee.
“Mon Dieu, un Renoir vivant, — ne bougez pas Madame, je vous en prie.”
I gave a startled look in the direction of the voice. It is in any case difficult to budge with a baby at the breast. I budged not and waited. Through the open door of the sitting-room came an elegant artist. There could be no doubt that he considered himself an artist, he was fully dressed for the role in white shirt, floppy black tie, large black beret. He came to rather an anticlimax with oversize plus-fours. His face, the last thing I looked at owing to my interest in his clothes, was brown and lively, but not remarkable except for the tiny black beard he affected.
“Good morning,” I hazarded.
“Madame — a thousand pardons, I am a painter — Je ne vous vois qu’en huiles — La beauté de cette poitrine rose-blanche et violette — Permit me I entreat you to make a big canvas —”
“At once?” I asked.
“Funny man,” said Susan coming to lean against my knee.
“Et la petite aussi — c’est parfait — je meurs de joie — what luck — Jean-Pierre Aubert at your service. I live beside you, every morning I will come to paint at this time — Dans un mois, vous aurez une toile a vous casser le cœur. You permit?”
“Mon mari —” I began doubtfully.
“Le mari sera enchanté, je vous le jure. Vous etes anglaise?”
“Oui. Les maris anglais n’aiment pas beaucoup qu’on voit leurs femmes nues dans les peintures.”
“Do not disturb yourself. You shall not be recognised ever. I do not paint like Renoir. One will see perhaps this great hat, one white rose, la belle poitrine, la lumiere. Mais ce sera surtout l’ideé de la Mere ensoleillée. The great sun mother, you understand? Your hair like jonquils.”
“Jonquils?”
“Yellow — yellow — buttercups if you prefer. You agree?”
“I must ask my husband tonight. I’m afraid Susan wouldn’t stand still for a month.”
I put Nicholas on my shoulder and buttoned up my blouse with the other hand.
“Dommage,” said Jean-Pierre wistfully. Then his face brightened. “A glass of wine? I run.”
It was about time for elevenses, but we usually had milk. He returned in three minutes with a bottle and three glasses.
“Three?” I asked.
“La petite ne prend pas un petit coup de rouge?”
“Not the little English.”
He carried the iron table from the terrace and another chair for himself.
“Bicky,” moaned Susan hopefully, gauging accurately the bulge in his pocket.
“I warn you,” I said, “I shall fall asleep, drinking in the sun at such an unaccustomed hour.”
“Charmant,” murmured Jean-Pierre politely. Then surprisingly he blushed.
“I have forgotten,” he looked desolate.
“Forgotten what?” I asked.
“But the reason for my visit.”
“You did not come in search of a subject for a picture?”
“But never. I came with a letter from my mother who does not go out herself, but sends me to offer my services to you, and I have mislaid her letter.”
“Never mind. I will write a note to thank her just the same.”
We drank each other’s health.
Tom didn’t mind at all when I asked him about Jean-Pierre’s picture that evening, he even seemed pleased. I couldn’t help wishing he would raise some slight objection.
“You don’t mind my undressing in front of a total stranger?”
“My dear, if you don’t mind, why should I? Women feed their babies all over the place, all over the world, and nobody bats an eyelid. I can’t myself see anything attractive in a nursing mother, and I don’t suppose your artist does either. But I can understand very well that you might make a charming colour composition in the garden with the children, even though you don’t mean a thing to him as a woman.”
“Oh,” I said, disappointed in such tranquil broadmindedness. “Is this big enough for Susan?” I held up my knitting, a red jersey.
“I think you’re the best judge of that, dear. Does she need another pullover now?”
“Oh no. This is for next winter.”
“I don’t see that either of us can tell what size she’ll be next winter.” He spoke patiently, but I knew I’d said the wrong thing again. It always was my own fault, so stupid to imagine a man would be interested in children’s clothes, but after all they are his children, and everything to do with them is important to me.
“Tell me about the flowers you found today, darling.”
We sat on the terrace, Tom at the iron table sorting his limp specimens. Light fell over his shoulder from the sitting-room. My chair was in shadow, I can knit in the dark.
“No spectacular finds of course, not high enough for that. I must make a few journeys up beyond the snow line before we go.”
“If the money lasts.”
“If the money lasts. Not that I should find anything new there either. They’ve properly tooth-combed the Alps, and most of the Himalayas by now, but I like to see the flowers growing all the same.”
“Was Caro good?”
“Fairly good. But it was too far for her really. I had to carry her most of the way home.”
“Oh dear. She’s such a weight too. Isn’t it wonderful how brown and well the children look already? Nicholas is cooked all over now, like a nice rubber Frankfurter. Do you think I should start to wean him?”
“Wouldn’t that rather spoil your artist’s picture? I believe that Mother and Child is a recognised primitive artistic subject, but I imagine Mother, Child and Bottle would not have the same appeal.”
“I expect you’re right, darling. Anyway, I wouldn’t know what milk to use out here.”
“Surely your own will do for the time being?”
“Oh yes. It’s just that he’s getting so big and strong.”
“All the more reason not to upset him with a change.” He shifted irritably, holding one blue flower up suddenly to the light with intense concentration, so that I knew he didn’t like talking about Nicholas either. I never did know what to say to Tom. He’s so much more clever than I am, I always feel that if only I had been to college myself I’d be equal to him, even if I’d done some quite d
ifferent subject, but I never studied anything more difficult than Domestic Science, which cuts no ice in university circles.
I thought when I married Tom that I loved him enough to learn the things that would please him, but the children came so quickly that somehow there’s never been time. I’m so tired in the evenings that I don’t even know how to control my tongue and think up good conversations. I just sit down glad to relax, and hear myself saying these silly things, and see the muscles tighten round Tom’s mouth trying not to bite my head off. I wonder what Claire talked to him about to make him so anxious to see her? She’s good at economics and maths and impossible things. Tom says she’s got a man’s job in her office. I mustn’t think about Claire. I’m sure it’s over now. I mustn’t spoil this lovely holiday worrying about her. After all, if she’s so like a man, perhaps Tom just wanted her for a friend? But I don’t think he did somehow. That Chanel on his coat didn’t mean very serious economic discussions.
If only I could start weaning Nicholas, and get my figure back anyway. Tom married a slim, small fair woman, and I can’t blame him for not finding a stout buttercup cow attractive. But the less he wants me, the uglier I feel. I wish he’d realise it would pay him good dividends to pretend he found me attractive for a few weeks. I’m sure if someone were to tell me I was irresistible I’d get inches thinner straight away.
But when I went to look at Nicholas last thing, and saw him breathing gently on his back with his little golden fists clenched each side of his head on the pillows, I was ashamed that I’d wanted to cast him off. He had kicked his blanket away and wriggled his nightie nearly round his neck, leaving a large patch of brown skin above his snow white nappy. I began to change him.
“Come and look, Tom,” I called. “Isn’t he sweet?”
Tom came in his pyjama trousers, beating his bare chest. “Tough little beggar,” he said. “Takes after Father.” He kissed the back of my neck. “Did you proud, didn’t I?”
“Oh Tom, don’t talk like that, you’ll be calling me little woman in a minute.”
“Well so you are a little woman. That’s why I married you. You make me feel so big. Bedtime, old girl, my toothbrush has disappeared again. Where could Susan have put it?”
“Look under the bidet. Do you think he’ll be warm enough in the night with only one blanket?”
“If he isn’t he’ll soon bellow to let us know.” Tom had lost interest and wandered back to our bedroom. I tucked Nicholas up, loving him a minute before I turned the light out. It’s going to be hard not to love him too much. Tom stood at our window breathing heavily.
“Darling, do button your pyjama jacket. You’ll catch your death. The nights are treacherous here.”
“Yes, Mary, they are, indeed, insidious nights. Come here, it’s a long time since I saw you by moonlight.” He led me out on to the balcony. “Not bad, not bad at all. You wear well, baby-face.” He smacked my behind in a friendly way. I had hoped he would kiss me, but he had forgotten me already, and with his hands on the iron railing stared down at the ghostly roses.
“Do you sometimes wonder, Mary, if we were meant for more than this?”
“This is enough for me. I expect you’ll get a Chair, darling, or a Nobel Prize in the end.”
“Oh good Lord. I didn’t mean that.”
“What sort of ‘more’ then?”
“Never mind. If you are satisfied.”
“Let’s go to bed, Tom. It’s no good getting depressed.”
I turned into the room to find a handkerchief quickly. My tears came too easily since Nicholas. Why should I be satisfied with a restless husband hankering after the stimulating company of an independent spinster in London? Why the hell, why the hell, and me a shapeless lump? Tom bent over to kiss me on the forehead as I lay in bed.
“’Night, old girl,” he mumbled, and I dared not even cry in the dark.
*
“Incline your hat, madame, more to the baby,” ordered Jean-Pierre sternly.
“He only has another five minutes on this side,” I pointed out. “And then I shall have to incline to the left instead.”
“I must work fast then.”
His technique fascinated me. He did not use a brush at all, but smacked at the canvas with a palette knife and his thumbs. Both thumbs as far as I could see. Now that he was actually painting he did not look so much like a painter, and wore a small blue bow-tie and pale blue shirt with his plus-fours. His hair, no longer confined by the beret, fell frequently across his eyes. He did not seem to notice this, but peered through it, which must have given an odd barred effect to his view of me.
“Do you live always with your mother?” I asked.
“Yes. She has much money.”
“So you are able to paint as often as you like?”
“Indeed yes. All the year round. In the winter we are usually to be found in Paris. The artistic climate is so good there.”
“But you are Swiss?”
“Yes. But in Switzerland the artistic climate is not strong. For that it is necessary to travel.”
“I’m afraid I must move the baby now.”
“Alas. But I shall turn my attention to the immobile rose.”
“Even the rose quivers slightly in the breeze.”
“I can arrange for a mere quiver. Will you not replace the baby to that breast when he has expelled some air?”
“No. Not at all this morning. He must now go to the other side.”
I smiled at Jean-Pierre from under my hat, he looked so discouraged.
“You have very beautiful breasts, Madame; speaking as a painter naturally.”
“Naturally.”
We bowed to each other. I turned Nicholas’ snuffling head in to the left.
“Curiously enough the left breast is more beautiful than the right — speaking entirely as a painter. Of course one does not see them together to compare, but it seems now that the veining is more delicate.”
He put his head on one side and squinted at me along his palette knife.
“Perhaps I’ll reverse the whole picture? At least I shall have studies of this side also.” He picked up a sketch book and made rapid circling movements.
“How unfortunate that the sun does not stand still. You, the chair, the baby, the roses, are all here at two o’clock, and even at six o’clock you say, but only the sun goes round. It will take me a long time to finish my picture with ten minutes each day at ten o’clock.” But he didn’t sound seriously annoyed.
“You have exhibited in Paris, Monsieur?”
“Alas, no. I fall between two chairs for Paris. I am neither realistic, nor abstract, nor quite impressionistic. You might perhaps say that I am just not a very good painter.”
“I’m sure you must be good if you are so keen on it.”
“It is not always so. You shall judge for yourself later.”
“I’m no judge of painting. I sometimes go to the Academy in London, but I don’t suppose your pictures are like that?”
“Ah that, thank God, no. It does not seem possible that you are old enough to have these three children. You have a look of great youngness. I think I shall call my picture ‘Virgin and Child.’”
“No virgin was ever quite this shape.”
“Of course we are Calvinists here. It is not necessary for us to embrace the Immaculate Conception.”
“Immaculate Conception? Oh I see what you mean.”
“Many English ladies I have seen in Paris, some mothers, some much married, have your look of unspotted innocence.”
“Oh dear. It sounds horrid.”
“On the contrary — it has great attraction — for some people. He is very greedy, your baby.”
“Yes.” I looked down fondly at Nicholas, who with closed eyes and an expression of extreme beatitude sucked steadily. He opened one eye as if he knew we discussed him. “Cigarette?”
I shook my head. Jean-Pierre sat astride an iron chair. Evidently painting was over for the day. He crossed his arms ov
er the back of the chair and stared at us through his hair and his cigarette smoke.
“Does it not hurt you?” he asked.
“No.”
“It is a pleasant sensation?”
“It is a relief. As indeed it must be to any cow.”
“Forgive my curiosity. I have no sisters and I do not remember my mother in this situation.”
“Why don’t you get married?”
“Perhaps I shall one day. When I am thirty. Now I am twenty-five.”
“Why thirty?”
“After that it would be too late. Before that too early. In any case I must wait to find a girl who will please my mother.”
“Is it essential to please your mother?”
“Of course. She has so much money. It is even difficult for me to keep a mistress.”
“But you do?”
“In Paris, yes. In Paris I have a studio where my mother never comes, it is up too many stairs, and there my poor mistress lives waiting for my return. She often becomes angry that I must sleep in my mother’s apartment in the Ritz.”
“I think I should be angry too. Why do you come here in the summer? Surely the South of France is more fashionable?”
“Yes, but my mother is so Swiss. My father was a banker here and we have this house since I was a little boy. She comes to Paris so often to please me, that I must please her in the summer.”
“Will you be here long?”
“Until October. But this year I shall not mind so much. I shall be busy with my painting. Come and look at my car, now that you have closed your dress.”
I followed him round to the front of the house, to see an enormous car, pale blue to tone with his shirt.
“Do you always take it out for a two minutes’ walk?”
“Ah not always — but with painting there is so much luggage to carry.”
“It certainly is a lovely car.”
“Cadeau de Noel. You see why I must please my mother.”
Nicholas blinked at the shining chromium, enjoying it with owlish wisdom. “Not what you’ll get in your stocking from Maman, my pet,” I cooed to him.
The picture grew and changed with Jean-Pierre’s moods. Some days he felt all yellow and his canvas blazed with excited sunshine. Then came days of gloom and purple when even the white rose disappeared. Three times he began all over again. It made no difference to me. I fed Nicholas as usual, and let the artistic temperament rage round me.