Cuckoo

by Anne Piper

  “Be careful with that young man, Prue,” was all he said. “I wouldn’t trust him an inch. He’s up to something.”

  Prue blushed. “He went right out of the shop when I was trying on the nightdress, left Caro and me alone.”

  “Nightdress?” roared Tom. “Good Lord, whatever next. There isn’t a sequel in dress, I suppose, but in undress.”

  “Now, Tom, Jean-Pierre is a very nice boy and I’m sure he meant nothing wrong. Be just wanted to give pleasure; you know money means nothing to him,” I said.

  Tom only snorted, and we ate the rest of the meal in silence. Prue had a soft far-away look, it would take more than Tom’s disapproval to spoil her day. Unfortunately I had cooked spaghetti, and she was forced to put her glasses on again to chase it round her plate.

  When I went down to the kitchen early next morning, I met Prue coming in from the garden huddled in a bath-towel. Her teeth chattered wildly.

  “Been bathing?” I asked.

  “No, sun-bathing, but it was very damp lying in the dew.” She trailed upstairs leaving wet foot marks all over the polished floor. She paused to lean over the banisters and shout,

  “Do you think Tom would mind if I borrowed his razor?”

  “I’m sure he would,” I said. “But you can try.”

  I heard her knock and go into his room, and I returned to the burning toast. Today I must make young Prue do a little work for her living, I decided firmly, but when Jean-Pierre arrived and she sprawled gracefully on the terrace in her new sun-dress with her face to him, and her rather spotty back towards me, I hadn’t the heart to remind her of her duties. Jean-Pierre was made of sterner stuff.

  “Good morning, Mademoiselle,” he said. “Et les pommes de terre? Why do you poor English eat so many potatoes?”

  Prue dragged her jacket round her shoulders, and went to fetch them without a word.

  “I like to see women occupied at domestic tasks,” Jean-Pierre remarked when she returned. “A penchant I share with Degas and Vermeer,” he added smugly. “I must do a study of Mademoiselle with her little basin of water one of these days.”

  I hope Prue felt flattered to be thus connected with a long line of artistic drudgery. She finished the potatoes and began to shell peas.

  “To split peas — what a beautiful occupation,” sighed Jean-Pierre. “How I like to do that.” But he made no move to help her. Indeed there was scarcely room for him, as Caro and Susan joined in vigorously, Susan eating most of those she succeeded in opening.

  “There’s another picture for you,” I said looking at the three heads, two fair and one red-brown, crouched over the bowl.

  “Not enough texture,” he answered, and glowered again at Nicholas’ left foot.

  It took nearly two weeks to cook Prue to Jean-Pierre’s requirements. It was hard to believe her the same girl, she turned a proper honey-brown without blistering or redness and the spots disappeared like snow before the onslaught of the sun. Jean-Pierre brought her another little present one morning. She thanked him and took it indoors to open it.

  She returned a few minutes later, very pink and simply stinking — by which I don’t mean drunk. “Goodness me, Prue, whatever is that smell?” I asked.

  “‘Shocking,’” said Prue.

  “Too much, too much,” moaned Jean-Pierre, beating the air in front of him. “Subtle elegance, Mademoiselle. No man can come near you. A drop or two only, je vous en prie.”

  Poor Prue looked about to cry. “I put it in my hair,” she said. “I can’t get it off. What shall I do?”

  “Wash it out,” I said. “If you use a strong shampoo and rub an egg into your hair afterwards that should neutralise it. Apart from that it’s a lovely present.” She vanished sadly into the house.

  “Jean-Pierre, it was very kind of you, but do you think it quite right that a child of her age should use ‘Shocking’?”

  “Why not? She must grow up some time,” he said carelessly. “Now you have moved that baby, and I wasn’t ready.”

  “He was,” I pointed out.

  When Jean-Pierre had gone I went to look at the ironing. It had grown into a very tall pile. I watered it nightly to keep it damp.

  “Prue,” I called hopefully up the stairs. She could at least start on it, and I would carry on in the afternoon. Tom bounded suddenly downstairs, nearly knocking into me in the dark hall.

  “I can’t stay another minute indoors,” he said. “I’m going to get the boat out. You coming?”

  “Oh Tom, I can’t. There’s lunch and everything.”

  “Well, where’s Prue? She’ll have to come, I can’t risk taking the children without another adult on board.” He also bellowed upstairs, “Prue.” She appeared from the bathroom rubbing her hair vigorously with a small face-towel. “What about a trip in the boat? Hurry up, though.”

  “Oh good,” she vanished again.

  “Will you be long?” I asked.

  “Good Lord, Mary, how do I know? Depends how the children behave. Lunch can wait, can’t it?”

  “Yes.” I ran over lunch in my mind. Prue had prepared the vegetables. It was only that if they were late back, our meal wouldn’t be over before Nicholas became importunate.

  “That’s all right then. Are the children equipped for canotage?” I ran to get them ready. After ten flustered minutes they were all afloat. I waved them off from the bottom of the garden and climbed slowly back to the ironing.

  *

  Jean-Pierre was in the garden, the day Tom suggested another long expedition into the mountains.

  Almost before Tom had finished speaking Jean-Pierre said, “And you must take my motor-car. I insist, Monsieur. It is very easy to drive, and like that Madame can go with you with the baby on the seat behind.”

  “My dear chap,” said Tom. “That’s a wonderful offer, but wouldn’t you prefer to drive us yourself?”

  “No. I don’t like the mountains. They make my nose bleed. If you can wait till next week there is Wednesday that I must go to Zurich by train, and I shall not want my car.”

  “Oh Jean-Pierre,” I said. “How lovely — I can’t imagine a more exciting thing. And next time Prue must go.”

  “Don’t worry about me, Mary,” Prue said, “I’ll be very happy here for a day. After all the whole idea was that you and Tom should be free to go out together when I came.”

  “If Monsieur would come with me now, I will show him the works of my car.”

  “You go along too, Prue,” I said. “And bring back the milk and the bread.”

  I began to plan our picnic for the Wednesday in my head. We could start immediately after the ten o’clock feed. I must leave cooked food for Prue and the children. Could Prue manage bacon? I must tell her not to let them bathe as they could none of them swim, and the children must keep on their sun-hats. A whole day out alone with Tom. Perhaps we could have a bottle of wine. Dear Jean-Pierre, how kind of him!

  On Tuesday Tom wanted to go into Geneva to the cinema. None of the times fitted in with Nicholas, so I sent Prue to keep him company, after an early supper. I had a lot of preparations to make for the next day, and was glad to have the house to myself. I arranged a picnic-basket near the front door: cheese, butter, peaches, wine — bread and cakes we must buy fresh on the way. Orange juice and rusks, and nappies for Nicholas. Everything was ready for Prue in the kitchen.

  I stood at the window in the living-room. The last of the day faded pink and silver on the lake; the scarlet geraniums in stone urns on the terrace flamed in the lights from the house against a dark back-cloth of firs; crickets creaked in the trees; all my children slept.

  I wandered slowly down the path towards the water and sat on a bench staring at the twinkling lights of Coppet on the other side. Tomorrow we should be over there, high above Coppet looking down on a small banana-shaped lake. If only Nicholas slept well and didn’t annoy Tom, but he was sure to be good with the movement of the car to soothe him. Had I put in enough cheese for Tom, or would he want ham as
well? I must remember a parasol for Nicholas in the back of the open car. What flowers was Tom really looking for? I ought to know, but I did not like to ask him. He would only say why bother, when I obviously wasn’t interested? I am interested, but I simply cannot remember the Latin names.

  “Hullo,” said a familiar voice at my side, and Jean-Pierre materialised out of the darkness.

  “I saw the others waiting for the tram,” he said. “So I knew you would be alone. I have brought the car all ready for the morning.”

  “But how will you get to the station yourself?”

  “By taxi. It is very simple. But let us not consider that now, Mary —”

  “Yes, Jean-Pierre?” I turned towards him in the darkness and found myself in his arms. It was a shock, but on the whole, I must admit, a pleasant one. It seemed a long time since anyone had kissed me properly. I drew away reluctantly after a moment, saying as firmly as I could, “Jean-Pierre, whatever has come over you?”

  He grabbed me back, murmuring into my hair.

  “My beautiful little Mary, not only fascinating, but so good.”

  I fought my way out for the second time, and rose with dignity to my feet.

  “No, no, Jean-Pierre, this simply won’t do, you know I am a respectable married woman, several years older than you are, with three children, even now I must return to the house to feed my baby. This sort of thing” — I waved vaguely at him and at the bench, but he could not see my gesture — “just doesn’t enter into my life.”

  “But why not? Now is the time to take a lover before you become so overborne with domestic cares that no one will want you.”

  “But why should I take a lover? My life is already too complicated to manage.”

  “But all English women are very amoureuses. I hear in Paris that they take French lovers whenever possible. Englishmen are so cold. If it is not possible for you to take a French lover, then a Swiss is surely the next best thing?”

  “How absolutely extraordinary you are, Jean-Pierrc. Fancy standing there turning it all into a business proposition. Anyway I always understood, from books of course, that English women are cold, not English men.”

  Jean-Pierre took a step nearer and slipped his hand up my bare arm.

  “Shall we find out?” he said.

  “No, don’t be ridiculous. You forget, I love my husband.”

  “Perhaps you forget also. You have not mentioned him till now.”

  Nor had I. But the whole thing was so odd. I had been so sure that if Tom found me unattractive, anyone else would too.

  I took Jean-Pierre’s hand and drew him towards the house.

  “Come along,” I said. “Let’s forget all about this evening instead. I’m getting much bitten by mosquitoes, and it’s time to feed the baby.”

  “Mary — where is your romantic spirit?”

  “Buried at the bottom of the nappy bucket. I’m sorry, Jean-Pierre. And come to that, what about your charming mistress in Paris?”

  “I won’t see her till October, and in any case she mistakes me with a lithographer.” I couldn’t help laughing, but I stopped as we reached the house and I could hear one of the children crying. It sounded like Caro, but the sobs were very muffled. I ran upstairs and into the girls’ room. Caro was crying with her head under the bedclothes.

  “Darling,” I said, “what is it?” I sat down by her, and stroked her head. Her hair was damp and flat with sweat.

  “Oh Mummy, I thought you’d gone out.”

  “Of course not, darling. I was only down by the lake, what’s the matter?”

  “I feel so hot and funny — can I have a glass of water, please?”

  She did indeed feel very hot and funny. My heart sank, perhaps they were all going to have measles in a foreign country. Our currency would disappear in a week on doctors. I brought the thermometer with the water and found she was up to 102°. I called over the banisters softly to Jean-Pierre and he came out into the hall.

  “What is it?” he asked.

  “Caro has a fever. Will you help me to move her bed into my room?”

  We moved her without waking Susan. Jean-Pierre studied her face earnestly by the shaded light of my bedside lamp.

  “How do you feel, little one?” he asked.

  Caro giggled. “Funny,” she said.

  “Shall I go now for the doctor?” he turned to me.

  “No. We’ll wait till the morning. If she still has a temperature then I’ll send for him. Will you tell me his number?”

  “And your expedition to the mountains?” he asked as we walked downstairs. I remembered it with a sudden pang. I had been looking forward like a child to my outing.

  “Of course I shan’t be able to leave her if she is ill in the morning, but please could Tom go just the same? He wanted so much to have the car. He can take Prue with him instead of me.”

  “You will send Prue?”

  “Yes, why not?”

  “But then you will be alone in the house with a sick child and all the work.”

  “It won’t be the first time. I can tell Prue tomorrow is her free day, and she must work on Sunday this week.”

  “You are mad. Really, you need a lover to look after you.” But he was laughing this time too. He put his arm round me. “Embrasse-moi pour la dernière fois, ma petite.”

  We were in the hall, and he had his other hand on the front door. Why not, I thought, what harm can this do Tom who doesn’t want me anyway? I kissed him gratefully for finding me attractive. It is after all something, that. I broke away from him as Nicholas began to wail, and at the same moment Tom and Prue pushed open the front door.

  “Good evening, Monsieur,” Jean-Pierre bowed. “I have brought the car for tomorrow morning. I must now return.” He bowed himself out. I hurried upstairs and picked up Nicholas wet and snuffling. Tom followed me.

  “What’s all this,” he asked. “Haven’t you fed him yet? It’s past eleven. You could have come with me this evening. And why is Caro in here?”

  I explained everything.

  “But how did you move the bed?”

  I explained again.

  “Jean-Pierre called pretty late, didn’t he?”

  “I think he was using the car earlier, and left it on his way home. You won’t mind going with Prue tomorrow?”

  “Well if I must, I must, I suppose. It’s rather a bore.”

  “Will you stay here tomorrow, Mummy?”

  “I thought you were asleep, Caro. Yes, darling, of course I will. Tom, why don’t you go down and sleep in the boathouse? I expect it’ll be a disturbed night in here one way and another.”

  “That’s not at all a bad idea. Sure there’s nothing I can do?”

  “Quite, thank you. Just roll up all your bed-clothes as they are.” He put on his pyjamas and staggered out into the night with his blankets round his neck.

  “Don’t turn on the light down there,” I called after him out of the window, “or you’ll have all the insects in the zoo in bed with you.”

  “Is anything wrong, Mary?” asked Prue from the doorway.

  I explained all over again.

  “Oh Mary, what a shame for you. But wouldn’t it be better to put the whole thing off till you can go?”

  “No, I think we’ll take Jean-Pierre’s offer now. It’s particularly convenient, as he is going away tomorrow. Perhaps he’ll lend the car again later on for me. You can start much earlier than I had planned — with any luck, you’ll be away by nine, so go and have a good sleep.”

  Caro was no better in the morning. There could be no question of leaving her. I packed the others into the car as cheerfully as possible, but I couldn’t help feeling a little sad as I put in the bottle of wine. Tom is always kind and expansive after wine, and it makes me less anxious and fussy.

  “Caro’s calling me,” I said hurriedly, turning back into the house. “Have a good time, and don’t forget to buy the bread.”

  Prue wore her new sun-dress and straw hat and dark glass
es. Tom had jammed on a dreadful old panama. I must not be mean, it is a great chance a day like this for Prue. Susan gave me a stern look and I hastily dried my eyes and telephoned the doctor.

  It was a long hot day for me. The doctor, a jolly fat man, assured me that Caroline was only suffering from a chill. I watched her anxiously and tried hard to believe him. In the afternoon she fell asleep, and while the babies slept also, I dozed uncomfortably in a deck-chair in the shade of the cherry-tree and dreamt, of all people, of Prue’s old grandmother.

  I saw her sitting bolt upright on her tombstone, wearing the black hat she always wore if she went outside her house, even if only into her garden. She was knitting vigorously, but suddenly she stopped and began to speak earnestly to me in Spanish. I tried hard to understand her as she seemed very upset, poor thing, but just as I was explaining to her that I would go and fetch a dictionary I woke to hear one child crying and one child calling.

  With a sigh I took up the querulous day again, running to and fro with drinks of orange juice, and pencils, settling Susan in the gravel with her bucket and spade and hat, reading a story to Caro, changing Nicholas, then back to Susan to chase away an impertinent bee. And so on, until finally, after extra glasses of water all round and the usual bed-time search for the right woolly animal — Where did you leave Teddy, darling? Did you have him in the garden? Can’t you remember at all? — they were all contentedly in bed, Caro with a sleeping pill inside her, by eight o’clock, and I began to worry about Prue and Tom.

  Surely they should be back by now? Tom had not said they’d be out for supper. I walked to the gate and looked up and down the empty tramlines. For the first time I wondered if Tom could really manage that vast car. All the Swiss drove to kill anyway, suppose for one fatal moment he had forgotten to keep to the right?

  I crunched round and round the gravel of the terrace, oblivious for once of all the beauties of the sunset, seeing instead the car a twisted wreck at the bottom of a precipice. So vivid was the picture that I had to beat my hands to prevent myself crying out, and for a second when I saw Prue, very pale, standing in the window I thought she was her ghost. My second thought was that she had come to tell me Tom was killed.