Kingfisher Tide

by Jane Arbor

  was Saint-Guy's card, laconically over-written—'Incident closed ?'—into which Syivies interest read

  none of the mortifying significance it carried for Rose.

  'Incident closed.' In other words—her gaucherie to be overlooked by him; his dispassionate, placating kiss to be forgotten by her ! Love's readiness to look for hurt could hardly have smarted more if he had patted her upon the head with a 'There, there ! We'll say no more about it.' He would not even, she suspected, tax Flore with her breach of his confidence in telling Rose the truth about the 'ploy.' It did not matter enough. He had put the whole thing behind him and would never know nor care about the effect of that unnecessary kiss upon someone who craved to know the touch of his lips in real, shared tenderness and desire.

  With Sylvie looking on, Rose tore up his card and was diffident with the flowers to the point where Sylvie took over their arrangement with an impatient "Tch ! It's not their fault Saint-Guy managed to rub you up the wrong way and had to send them to apologise for him !"—evincing an ignorance of the truth in which Rose was only too glad to leave her.

  Fortunately the net result was to throw Rose into a fighting, 'I'll show him' mood in which she determined the shop should show a growing and continuing profit or she'd know the reason why. She cabled for her aunt's permission to experiment with new lines and possibly new methods, got it, and then went to work on their suppliers with the 'or else' threat of the withdrawal of their trade if they could not have a proportion of their orders on sale or return terms. She did not venture again into luxury goods, but went

  herself to Nice warehouses to hunt down novelties which did not offend Sylvie's critical taste, yet which were low-priced enough to loosen even Maminaire's tight purse-strings.

  From some chance gossip with Marie Durand she realised how much more common home-sewing was in France than in England.

  "Nine Frenchwomen out of ten are proud to make their own clothes," Marie declared—which was the spur to send Rose in search of a paper-pattern agency which was to prove a success from its very first day.

  Sylvie had a real flair for window-dressing. With savage glee she sent every dog-eared, faded showcard to the boiler fire, designed and lettered her own and defied French shop tradition by pricing in plain figures, used flowers, fresh each day, in the window, and with Blaise's help, cut down the high 'linen-draper' type chairs and painted each in a different pastel shade of cellulose. By their combined efforts La Boutique began to approximate to their original pipe-dream of it before they had faced its reality. It was no salon and never would be, but week by week it attracted a little more modest custom, kept the girls busier and paid its way.

  Meanwhile, to their delight, the sun had come to stay, to creep up the cloudless morning sky and at its zenith to create the balm of cool black shadow in contrast to the blazing, shimmering heat elsewhere. It wakened and alerted Maurinaire to busyness from dawn to noon, put it to sleep again for the torrid afternoon hours and brought out its old men for a gentle game of boule on the pavé of the square as

  soon as the rose-pink curdled small cloud gathered to see it down the sky. Almost every day the girls swam before breakfast in a sea which never cooled overnight, and every evening they sat out under the plane trees as everyone else did in the warm, windless air that was like a caress.

  That year Sylvie's birthday would fall on a Sunday, so what would she like to do to mark it, Rose asked. They debated taking a coach-trip into the mountains, spending the day in Cannes or going over to Hyeres for a crossing to the Golden Isles, Porquerolles and Port Gros, and had not decided which when Marie intervened.

  "It is Sunday the sixteenth you are talking of ?" she wanted to know. "But no ! You wouldn't want to go elsewhere on that date, for it's the day of our bravade, and nobody—but nobody !—deserts Maurinaire then !"

  "Your bravade? What is that, Marie?" puzzled Rose, at a loss as to how the French word for 'boast' had any meaning here.

  Equally nonplussed, Marie repeated it. "Yes—the bravade, Maurinaire's occasion of the year. You do not understand this ? Your own town in England does not have one—no?"

  "No— You mean it's a kind of fete?"

  Marie admitted the comparison. "It becomes a fete, with music and dancing in the streets and fireworks at night and, alas, some rowdiness among the men. But it is the bravade that is the thing you must not miss—the fine uniforms and the marching and the musketry and the drums. Yes indeed, it is a spectacle we all turn out to see, and I have heard it said, in

  fact, that there are few towns with as good cause for holding a bravade as Maurinaire !"

  But pressed as to the cause, Marie was vague. That it was 'something that had happened in history—some enemies of France whom the good townsfolk of Maurinaire had thrown out'—was as far as she was prepared to go, and the girls had to appeal to Blaise to learn more.

  Blaise said, "Yes, you weren't far wrong. 'Bravade' literally means a boast or a bluster, and this turnout is to commemorate some time way back when the Moors were invading these parts and a handful of gallant Maurinarians sank a galleyful of them off the headland and threw a landing-party down the cliffs. Hence the band and the fire-brigade--all six of them with their hoses on a handcart !—and the mayor and two Town Captains, chosen for the day, one naval and one military, and every manjack who can scrounge one, in uniform—eighteenth century at that, though why, don't ask me— All too, too puerile, in my opinion. But that's Maurinaire for you—smothered in cork and with a mental age of around seven, and likely to stay that way until someone cuts the apron-strings that ties it to Saint-Guy !"

  As usual, Rose sprang to Maurinaire's defence. "Why shouldn't they enjoy something as simple as their bravade? It's their own, and it sounds delightfully informal to me, and according to Marie, it's a highlight no one would miss for the world."

  "And why wouldn't they, did she say? Because it's Saint-Guy's baby, and they wouldn't dare !"

  "I don't believe it ! Anyway, I'd like to see it—wouldn't you ?" Rose appealed to Sylvie.

  Sylvie was less enthusiastic. "I don't know. As Blaise describes it, it sounds a bit tatty," she demurred, but agreed on Rose's pointing out that after the bravade display they could still go over to Hyeres in the afternoon.

  In a few days more the bravade was everyone's topic, and on her next visit to the Château Rose saw what Blaise had meant when he had called it Saint-Guy's 'baby.' For Madame Saint-Guy explained that by long custom the courtyard of the house was the gathering-point for the cavalcade, and asked Rose's help in sorting the uniforms and firearms and bunting which were stored between bravades in a lumber room over the now disused stables.

  Some of the uniforms were in need of both saving stitches and of cleaning, and as they worked on them they laughed over the lack of connection between uniforms of the time of the French Revolution and a Moorish invasion, centuries earlier. Shaking a dubious head over a daunting triangular tear in the skirt of a tunic, Madame said, "I believe it was Saint-Guy's great-grandfather who decided that the parade would have a lot more dignity if it dressed up. So he raided the region for anything which the grandfathers of that day had hoarded, and, with a few casualties on the way, they've been used for bravades ever since."

  Rose cast a glance at the pile of firearms awaiting Saint-Guy's inspection. "They look a bit antiquated too," she remarked.

  "Yes, they are. But they make a lot of noise, which is all one asks of them, and let's hope that this year people won't disregard the warning to keep their nets at home while the bravade is on— Oh, dear,"

  Madame broke off with a little sigh, "I suppose you think this is all very silly of us, don't you ?"

  "Silly? No, why should I ?" queried Rose.

  "I don't know, except that your generation is so intolerant of tradition; you affect no hope of the future and at the same time you despise the past. Or is that unjust of me, perhaps? Am I only judging by Blaise, who happens to be about your age?"

  "By Blaise, I think." />
  "Yes, perhaps—" Madame smoothed a hand over her work before adding, "You know, I am worried about Blaise. He is so discontented and cynical, and though I tell Saint-Guy that it is a phase, that it will pass, myself I am not so sure. What do you think ?"

  Surprised by the sudden confidence, Rose said guardedly, "I don't think he is a cynic at heart. It's just an act he puts on. A—a kind of weapon against the enforced idleness which he persuades himself isn't his fault."

  Madame drew down her spectacles, regarded Rose over them. "A weapon ? That is interesting. But who forces idleness on him, if not himself ?"

  Rose agreed, "No one, of course. And if he had no private income and no home with you, he would have to find a job. But I think he would be a different and a much happier person if he could be doing the work he wants to do, and believes he is good at."

  "You mean his scheme for a chalet camp? But that cuts right across the tradition of the region. Maurinaire is cork country and always has been. No, Saint-Guy will not hear of such a thing, as I daresay Blaise will have told you ?"

  "Yes, he has."

  "But you think Saint-Guy should meet him in the matter? Do as he asks ?"

  Rose shook her head. "I couldn't say that. But if there were any way round it— Perhaps a loan to Blaise, on condition he didn't ask for the lease of any Maurinaire land as well ?"

  "I'm afraid that wouldn't satisfy Blaise. He argues that Maurinaire should be developed along his lines, not ours. Saint-Guy retorts to that, 'Over my dead body.' Which, you see, is impasse, deadlock. Unless—That is, unless," Madame repeated, "someone else, someone with no axe to grind, could put the case to Saint-Guy on Blaise's behalf." Down came the spectacles again. "I am thinking of you, Rose, my dear. Or did you guess?"

  "Of me?"

  "Yes, why not—if you would? At your age I think your sympathies must be for a little more life and gaiety for Maurinaire, and obviously you are in Blaise's confidence. But as a problem, it does not touch you. Who better, then, to discuss it without heat with Saint-Guy?"

  "But, Madame, I couldn't ! Monsieur Saint-Guy would be justified if he refused to listen to me for a moment !"

  "If he did, Blaise would have lost nothing. Saint-Guy refuses to discuss it with him too. But surely it is worth trying, if some agreement in the affair would give Blaise some incentive and make for better relations between them? Though perhaps you could retort that this is my worry, not yours?"

  "No," said Rose slowly. "I'd like to help if I thought I could—"

  "Then will you try ? Casually, without making an issue of it, mention to Saint-Guy that you know of Blaise's plans and wonder whether they are feasible. And I think you need not fear he will not listen. For what was it he said of you the other day—? 'Rose a plus qu'il n'en faut de sang-froid. Elle n'a point la tete pres du bonne—which shows, don't you think, that, young as you are, he would at least respect your views?"

  Rose translated mentally. More than enough self-possession! Prudent! Literally—'She doesn't wear her head too close to her hat.' Who wanted to hear such things said of oneself by the man one loved, even if one had been at pains to give him that impression ? However, though with little relish for the task, she promised Madame she would do her best if an occasion arose.

  "Thank you," said Madame simply. But in answer to Rose's exploratory question as to whether she, personally, hoped Saint-Guy would help Blaise, she said with a trace of hauteur,

  "I ? I would not dream of dictating to him on any family issue at all! For it is he who is Saint-Guy and his decisions must be his own," a reply which to Rose seemed to underline the whole Saint-Guy image and to put an unbridgeable gap between herself and the arrogance of rank and heritage before which even his mother bowed.

  "Fab," said Sylvie when she came to breakfast on the following Sunday. "Utterly fab—to be quite sure one's birthday will be fine all day. Oh, Rose, you shouldn't have—!" as she opened Rose's present of

  a matching baby-doll nightgown, slip and pantees in lemon chiffon. There was also perfume from Blaise, a foil sac of marrons glacés from Marie and a basket of mixed fruit from the Chateau. There were letters and cards from England and, from their next-door neighbour, the grocer's wife, a china dog which they both recognised.

  Rose laughed, "I wondered, when she bought it yesterday and asked rather furtively if you were about, whether she meant it for you. But she admired it so much and stroked it so lovingly that it could well have been for herself."

  As Marie's husband, Guilbert, had been elected as the naval capitaine de vine, they did not expect to see her at work that day. But she bustled in as usual, glowed at Sylvie's thanks for the sweetmeats, and pointed out their best vantage point on the square for seeing the first parade of the bravade go by.

  "There you will be in the shade, and though of course they will go round again several times, it is never the same later, after the thirsty types have begun to break ranks, in order to call in at the bars."

  She warned them to take up their places early ("All the world will be there"), but when Rose was ready, Sylvie said she was not and asked Rose to go and buy her some cigarettes.

  "It's all right, I've got some," said Rose.

  Sylvie wrinkled her nose. "I don't like yours. So be a lamb and pop down to the tabac and buy me a packet, won't you ?"

  "If you'll be ready by the time I get back," warned Rose, and went, returning a few minutes later to

  meet a set-faced, outraged Marie in the street doorway.

  "Mademoiselle Sylvie has gone !" Marie panted.

  "Gone? Gone on, do you mean? Or where ?"

  "Gone to meet Monsieur Blaise at a rendezvous. She tells me to say to you that she is sorry, but that as neither of them cares about the bravade, they are going out for the day together, and she hopes you will not mind."

  "But she—" Dismayed and hurt as much by Sylvie's trick on herself as by her defection, Rose broke off.

  Marie misunderstood. "Exactly, mademoiselle. I told her again that it is unheard-of to absent oneself on the day of the bravade and that Monsieur Blaise should know better. Such an example from the Château itself ! Not understandable at all—no, indeed !"

  For Marie to allow herself such criticism of Blaise showed how deeply she felt the slur on the bravade. But Rose was more concerned to learn where, how and for how long he and Sylvie had gone.

  "She did not say where. Just that she would be sharing Monsieur's machine and that they might be away all day."

  "Oh, well—" In front of Marie, Rose hid her disappointment and her misgivings as to the effect upon Sylvie's leg of a day spent astride the carrier of a mo-ped. "It's her birthday, after all, and if they didn't care about the bravade, I don't suppose anyone is going to see anything peculiar in their not being here."

  There, however, she was wrong. As she made her

  way to the shade of the plane trees Flore Michelet's car drove past, backed and drew level with her, Flore's smile answering the query of her glance at the car—"Yes, I know ! The square has been closed to all traffic since eight o'clock. But there are ways round red tape of that sort if one happens to be a friend of Saint-Guy's— May I drop you anywhere?"

  "Thank you, no. I'm only going to watch the parade," Rose said.

  "Alone? Where is your sister, then? And Blaise?" "They've gone out for the day together." "Abandoning you to your own devices? How very,

  very naughty of Blaise !"

  "I wanted to see the bravade. They didn't," Rose pointed out.

  "But you are feeling betrayed, all the same? And no wonder. Unless, perhaps, wanting to please Sylvie, you knew you could count on Blaise's inability to say `No' to you, and you sent him out with her ?"

  So that was the trend of Flore's surprise ! Rose said levelly, "I 'sent' Blaise nowhere. They wanted to go out together and they went."

  "Then you know that it's more than a little your fault, I daresay? You haven't believed me; you've been harsh with his devotion to you, and now, you see, the worm turns�
�to teach you a lesson, he deliberately takes Sylvie out instead !"

  At that Rose drew breath for attack. "Please !" she said. "Once and for all, Blaise has no devotion to me of the kind you mean, and I can't imagine why you seem to want to persuade me that he has. If he is falling in love with anyone, it's with Sylvie, and I'd be happy for her if he were. I'm very fond of him, as

  I believe he is of me. But only as friends, and if you

  aren't prepared to take that from me, I hope you'll

  ask him about it and let him convince you himself."

  Flore's smile was seraphic. "And perhaps I will, at that ! Would you like me to report back the result ?"

  "Thanks, but I think I know it already."

  "Do you? Would you care to bet on that ?" Flore teased.

  "I don't bet on certainties."

  "How wise of you! But oddly enough, neither do I !" A glance at her watch sent Flore's hand to the switch. "I must fly. After this bravade caper, I've got a luncheon party at the villa. I didn't ask you or Sylvie as I knew you wouldn't enjoy it. No one there you would know, you see, except Saint-Guy and Claude Odet, who has forgiven me at last. But I imagine it would embarrass you to meet him again socially? Yes, I rather thought so—" Taking the slight inclination of Rose's head as agreement, she pressed the starter, turned the brilliance of her smile on an approaching gendarme and shot away at speed, leaving Rase in little doubt that the slight of her parting words had been intended, even planned, when she had first seen Rose crossing the square.

  The bravade, when it put in its unpunctual appearance, was a small-town experience Rose was glad not to have missed.

  The parade, heralded by the first of a series of musket volleys, had the admiral-for-a-day, Guilbert Durand, at its head; Jean Picard, the local carrier, as his military colleague, bringing up the rear of the bravadeurs, themselves all worthy townsmen In the disguise of their uniform, topped by straw bretons,