Cuckoo

by Anne Piper

  “Well let’s make another wish,” I said. “May you have a cake every year from now on.” And to myself I made a resolution that I must nerve myself to speak to Prue about Jean-Pierre this very evening. Wrist-watches indeed.

  I called her into my room where I was feeding Nicholas, while she was running a bath for the girls.

  “Prue,” I said. “There’s something I want to say to you.” I hadn’t meant to sound so like a schoolmistress. She stood in front of me shuffling her feet, and as I spoke she raised startled eyes and looked at me with terror. Oh Lord, I thought, it must be too late already. It’s happened. Whatever do I do now? However, I went on in an ordinary voice, “I do hope you realise that Jean-Pierre is —”

  “Is what?” she looked at me more steadily now.

  “— is older than you. I mean he’s a man of the world,” I finished lamely. “Oh, you must know what I’m getting at, Prue. Don’t encourage him too much, that’s all. He’s not English.”

  “Oh I won’t, Mary. I don’t — he’s very nice to me, that’s all.”

  “Then don’t let him be too nice. I should hate anything to happen to you while you are in our care. We are all very fond of you, you know — Tom too.”

  “Oh Mary — you’re too kind. I can’t bear it.” Her voice rose to a wail, she burst into floods of tears, clapped a clean nappy to her face, and rushed out of the room. Nicholas raised his head from my breast and stared after her.

  “Well, well, well,” I said to him. “What do you make of that little drama?” He gave himself a shake and returned to the all important business of drinking.

  “Tom,” I called, hearing him in the passage. “Turn off the bath water and come in here. Listen.” He sat down on the end of my bed. “I’ve been warning Prue against Jean-Pierre and I’m afraid I’ve upset her a little. Will you go and cheer her up, get her to bath the children, and then take her out to supper somewhere? After all, it is still her birthday.”

  “Do you really want me to?”

  “Yes, I’d be glad to go to bed early myself, and not cook.”

  “But you didn’t get up till midday. Aren’t you well?”

  “One gets tired of cooking even in the best of health.”

  “I’ll see what I can do then. She may not want to go out.” But of course she did, and once again I had the house to myself for the evening. I undressed and trailed about the kitchen in my house coat frying up some leftovers. As I walked into the larder I heard the kitchen door open behind me.

  “That you, Caro?” I called, and was surprised to have no answer. “Jean-Pierre?” I tried, coming back puzzled, a jug of cream in one hand, two bananas in the other.

  The burglar greeted me amiably, begged me to sit down and continue my supper, assured me it was useless to scream, and asked me where I kept my furs and the silver. I stood still in the middle of the kitchen gaping at him, finally I put down the cream before I should spill it, and lowered the flame under my frying-pan. I asked him who he thought I was to bring my furs on a summer holiday, and who he thought he was, coming in upsetting innocent citizens, adding that a young strapping chap like him should be doing something useful. A touch of anger kept my fear at bay. He grinned at me and told me to calm myself.

  “Madame is English,” he stated. I agreed. “Do you know Baker Street?”

  “Of course I know Baker Street. I live near there,” I improvised hastily. He held out a large dirty hand. I shook it.

  “I was in Baker Street with the Free French Forces during the war. What happiness to meet again someone who comes from there.”

  “Are you hungry?” I asked. He nodded hopefully.

  “We might as well eat,” I said, tipping the contents of the frying-pan on to two plates. We sat down side by side. He broke some bread for me.

  “Now then,” I said severely, “what’s all this nonsense about being a burglar?”

  He shrugged his shoulders. “It is the profession in my family. My father wanted to send me to a university, but I was afraid I would become too snobbish towards him, then with the war we were all criminals, and there was no question of difference. When I came back my father was still working his trade in Paris. It was very good and patriotic to steal from the Germans, but since the war it has not gone so well, and he sent me down here to try new ground. I think the Swiss are jealous because I am French and naturally quicker than they, they have given me wrong information about this house, saying I should find a rich American family here. One should always make one’s own renseignements. You have nothing here for me to take?”

  “You can have a look round,” I said. “My husband won’t be back before eleven, but he has all the money, and I really don’t think there is anything else worth your while. Have a banana?”

  “Thank you. Your husband is not perhaps a bibliophile, owner of rare editions? You have no little Rembrandt I could roll up in my bag?”

  “Nothing like that, I’m afraid. I have a pair of new shoes that cost a lot of money.”

  “English shoes?”

  “Yes.”

  “To sell to the ladies of France or Switzerland? Think again, Madame.”

  “A cup of Nescafé?”

  “Delightful. Are you sure your husband won’t be back before eleven?” I stirred the cup and handed it to him.

  “I doubt it. But perhaps you had better leave at ten-thirty to be on the safe side.”

  “This husband of yours has gone to Geneva? To amuse himself?”

  “Yes — in a way.”

  “I don’t think he is a very nice man. To let his charming little wife remain behind, all alone in the house unguarded — a prey to thieves. Show me his room, I wish to take something from him.”

  I led him upstairs and into our bedroom. I put my finger to my lips. “Don’t wake the baby,” I implored him. He bent over Nicholas entranced.

  “I have one like this at home. It is a boy?” I seized his forefinger which had been about to poke Nick’s brown chest.

  “Yes, yes,” I said, “but you came to steal, you remember.” He stood up regretfully.

  “Certainly you can rest assured I shall not steal him. One at home is quite enough. Has your husband no gold tiepins?” I pulled open the top drawers and rummaged among Tom’s socks, finding underneath them half a bar of chocolate, an empty cigarette packet, and two half-crowns. The burglar held out his hand.

  “It’s English money,” I said.

  “I should like it for old time’s sake.”

  I handed over the half-crowns and searched the underclothes. No good, but Tom’s favourite blue shirt caught his fancy.

  “Must you take that one?”

  “Why do you ask?”

  “My husband is particularly fond of it.”

  “Then I shall particularly take it.” He hustled me on to the landing. “Now these other rooms — what are they?” I told him. He gave a cursory glance into Prue’s room and came out with a little gold heart locket that had belonged to her grandmother.

  “Oh not that,” I said. “Really — it’s of no value. I’ll give you one of mine worth much more.” I snatched it from him and he let me change them over.

  Downstairs he found nothing he liked except two new packets of cigarettes and a bottle of Cinzano. We finished our tour in the kitchen, and he gulped down the remains of his cold Nescafé.

  “Another cup?” I suggested.

  “No. I must be on my way.” He knotted the red hankie more firmly round his neck, hitched up his blue jeans and saluted me, “Vive l’Angleterre,” he said. “Perhaps a few bananas for the road?”

  I went to fetch them from the larder and as I turned my back he seized my arms neatly, tied them behind me and carried me over to a chair.

  “Well, you are a stinker,” I said crossly as he roped me in.

  “Stinker?”

  “No gentleman — no sport.”

  “Ah alas no — no gentleman. It is no longer customary in my calling. You see I must have good time to get away,
and I cannot trust you not to run next door and telephone the police as soon as I am gone.” At this point he thrust a gag in my mouth so I could not tell him that Tom would now certainly call the police, and I had not thought of doing so.

  “Au revoir, Madame, je regrette,” he bowed deeply. I inclined my head slightly and snorted through my gag. He shut the kitchen door quietly behind him, I could not even see my watch. It must be nearly time to feed Nicholas on top of everything else. But the first child to wake was Caro. She began to call me, sleepily at first, then more loudly, and finally with a note of fear. I raged impotently, chewing at the gag, but the burglar was much too expert. Then to my relief I heard her pattering downstairs still calling, and she appeared in the kitchen door. I could not even tell her to come close, I rolled my eyes frantically as she looked me over. She evidently thought she might still be dreaming.

  “Really, you do look funny,” she said. She walked round the back and examined my ropes. “Is it a special game?”

  I gurgled so madly that she put a hand up to my mouth, and at last she began to understand. She climbed up on my knee and pushed and tugged until it came loose.

  “Oh good,” I gulped, “thank you darling. A burglar came and tied me up while you were asleep. We’ll have to wait now till the others come back. Will you be a good girl and go back to bed?” Nicholas began to cry.

  “Mummy — I think I could do it with your big scissors.”

  “Oh no, darling, it’s very tough string.”

  “Let me try.” She ran into the sitting-room and came back waving the scissors encouragingly. “Where shall I cut?” she said.

  “Try down here by the chair leg first, where I can see what you’re up to.” I was desperate to get free and wash up the guilty cups and plates before Tom returned. But Caro was still kneeling on the floor with her tongue out, trying hard to bring the scissor blades together, when Tom and Prue walked in.

  “For Christ’s sake, Mary, what’s happened?” Tom seized the bread-knife and began chopping me out.

  “Prue, go and pick up poor Nicholas will you, please?” I asked. “I had a burglar,” I added. I raised myself stiffly and stood carefully between Tom and the table.

  “Did he take anything?”

  “Not much. There wasn’t anything very suitable, he was expecting Americans here.”

  “You’re not hurt?”

  “No. Just sore. He gagged me too, only Caro rescued me.”

  “I must go over to Jean-Pierre’s and phone the police.”

  “Hadn’t you better check first on what’s missing? It’s probably hardly worth notifying them.” He went out, and I began hastily to stack the plates and carry them to the sink.

  I started violently as he returned to say, “Did he go upstairs?” Something strange about the kitchen table struck him at last. He walked over, “Since when has Caro been drinking Nescafé?” he asked.

  “Caro? Oh, I had two lots.”

  “In two different cups? Mary, you are a rotten liar. You must have given some to the burglar. Did you?”

  He swung round on me accusingly, and I dropped a small plate which broke at once on the tiled floor.

  “Yes, I did,” I said. “He seemed very nice to begin with.”

  “Good Lord. Sometimes I wonder whether you are out of your mind.”

  “Tom, please, not in front of Caro.”

  Caro lounged in the larder door eating a banana. I suddenly noticed her bare feet under her nightgown.

  “Darling, run up to bed quickly, you’ve got no slippers. I’ll come and tuck you in in a minute.”

  “Can I have a drink of water, please? That’s what I really came down for.” When she had gone I told Tom as far as I could remember what the burglar had taken. He gave a sort of roar when I got to the blue shirt and rushed upstairs. I washed the two greasy plates and knives and forks before I followed him. At least he should not know that I had shared my whole supper.

  I said good night to Caro before going into my room, where Prue walked Nicholas up and down, while Tom counted feverishly in his shirt drawer.

  “I’ll take him now, you must be tired, Prue,” I said. “Thank you — sleep well.” She shut the door softly behind her, and I lay down on my bed and began to feed Nicholas. Tom sat back on the floor with a sigh.

  “I can’t see much in this dim light,” he said. “But I think there’s only one missing.”

  “What a relief,” I was trying hard not to laugh at him.

  “If only he hadn’t picked on just that one. I think you’re right about the police. I’ll tell them in the morning. It’s a bit late to start knocking up Jean-Pierre now.” He was facing me, leaning back against the chest of drawers. “And I must talk to you, Mary.”

  “Oh, what about?”

  “I want to go away.”

  “Away? But we are away.”

  “No, I mean leave you.”

  “Are you talking about divorce?”

  “God knows,” he put his head in his hands, “I’m in a hell of a mess, maybe divorce, maybe not.” He was too far away to see me trembling and I kept my voice steady. “Why all of a sudden today? Has Claire written?”

  “Claire?” He looked up at me completely baffled. My heart rose. If he was just going off for a bit by himself, I could bear it.

  “But Mary — surely you must have guessed?”

  “Guessed what?”

  “Oh God, this is worse even than I thought. I’m in love with Prue.”

  “With Prue?”

  “Oh don’t keep repeating everything I say. Just listen and try to take it in. I’m in love with Prue, desperately in love with her. I don’t know whether I’m coming or going, I can’t think of anything else. We’re going away from here together, but where it’ll end up God knows. I want to marry her, but she may not want to marry me, I just don’t know.”

  “But how will I get home?” I could think of nothing else to say.

  “Mary — our whole marriage is breaking up and all you can think of is a detail like that.”

  “I can think of a lot of other details, such as what are your three children going to live on, but the problem of going home seemed the most immediate.”

  “You are strange, Mary. I’d been dreading this evening, I thought you’d cling and weep all over the place and instead you are completely calm and practical. I suppose we don’t know each other at all really.”

  “Evidently I don’t know you. I never dreamt that anyone as young as Prue could attract you after Claire.”

  “I’d forgotten how genuine, how delightful a really young girl can be, so imaginative, and so keen to learn, oh there’s no point in going on.”

  No that’s right, leave out the honey-cream skin, and the velvet eyes and the tense little breasts. But you wanted the children, you made me this shape. But no self-pity, not yet. “When are you thinking of leaving?” I asked coldly.

  “I don’t know.”

  “Well, I should like you to make all arrangements tomorrow, and travel the day after, and I should also like you to take Prue out and keep her out all day. I don’t somehow want to see her again.”

  “She’s very fond of you, Mary.”

  “Strange way of showing it.”

  “No, really she is. We are both very upset that it’s happened.”

  “Splendid. Then we are all upset. I suppose you’ll send me an address when you have one. And by the way, I shall definitely start a divorce at once.”

  “But, Mary, if Prue doesn’t want to marry me, I’ll come back.”

  “Oh no you won’t — no Prue’s left-overs, thank you. Now if you’ll clear out, I think I’ll go to bed.”

  “Mary — don’t be too hard on me. It’s something beyond my control. It’s like an awful disease.”

  “More enjoyable than most diseases.”

  “I’d no idea you had this cruel streak in you, Mary. I always thought of you as so soft and pliant.”

  “Well you are learning a lot about me now,
aren’t you?” I laid Nicholas back in his cot and covered him up lightly. I would have prayed for him if I’d known any Gods to pray to. When I turned round Tom had gone without another word. My knees gave under me suddenly and I sat down on the bed covering my face, trying to control an anguish of trembling that seized me from head to foot, like the trembling that comes with the first pangs of child-birth. After a time the tears welled up slowly and with the deepest relief I abandoned myself to crying. I cried until I could scarcely breathe, burying my face in the pillow for the sake of the children next door. I fell asleep in the end in all my clothes and woke stiff and cold with an aching head about five in the morning. I undressed and got into bed properly, sleeping again till Nicholas began to complain at nine o’clock.

  Caro came in carrying with immense care a big cup of coffee. “Prue sent this for you,” she said. “And I’m going back to fetch the bread and butter. Susan isn’t safe with plates, but she’s bringing you a peach.” Susan trotted in behind.

  “Oh darlings,” I nearly burst into tears all over again. How do children know to do the most touching thing at the most sensitive moment, and how also at the other end of the scale to do the one last thing that will breach the dykes of rage in a long-suffering parent?

  “Prue’s going out today,” said Caro, breathlessly returning. “She said to tell you she’d be gone by ten o’clock.”

  “Oh yes,” I said.

  “She’s washing the nappies now.”

  “She is — is she?”

  “She didn’t say to tell you that, but I thought I would because then you could stay longer in bed.”

  “Thank you, Caro. What are you and Susan going to do?”

  “Hay school.”

  “Can you play that on the terrace? I don’t want you to go near the water till I come down.”

  “Oh yes. It has to be on the terrace, because we need the stones.”

  When I came down in my house coat to put Nicholas to sleep outside, I found Jean-Pierre crouched on the gravel with the children.

  “Hullo,” I said. “No one told me you were here.”

  “I wanted to wait till you came down. The others are out again?” We walked towards the cherry-tree.

  “Yes, I’m afraid I have bad news for you, Jean-Pierre.”