Beyond the Arch

by David Evered

  ‘I shall persist. I know I haven’t totally burnt my bridges behind me but I have dismantled them sufficiently to ensure that I shan’t have the face to go back without producing something, however mediocre.’

  Sally leant across and kissed him. ‘You’re being too hard on yourself. You’re welcome to continue to stay here, as I said a week ago, but if you feel it would be better to establish an eremitic existence back home then you should do that. I’m not suggesting that you should – you should simply do what you feel is likely to work best for you.’

  ‘No, I should like to stay. Perhaps my mistake was to expect that this bewitchingly beautiful environment would somehow diminish the harsh realities of attempting to write.’

  ‘Peter, I should be very happy if you do stay but remember the choice is yours and you are free to decide otherwise at any time.’

  They lay back and basked in the sun for a little longer before swimming across the river and back again, arriving many yards downstream due to the strength of the current.

  * * *

  They drove back to the house and left as the sun was setting to spend the evening in Domme. They parked on the edge of the village and walked to the centre where they sat in the square enjoying a glass of wine and observed the scene. The market place filled progressively with revellers as a band played in the background. Just before seven they joined a throng moving along the cliff top walk towards the Jubilee Garden for the firework display. They stood at the back of the crowd and watched as the display erupted, throwing multi-coloured stars into the air in the shapes of exotic flowers of chromatic brilliance, glittering multi-hued rain and luminescent waterfalls, all of which hung over the river and slowly died in the valley below. Each fresh manifestation was greeted with rounds of applause. Finally the spectacle was over and they re-joined the crowd to walk back to the village, enlivened by a group of lads who threw firecrackers amongst the walkers.

  They decided to drive down from the promontory to one of the quieter villages by the riverside and installed themselves on the terrace of a restaurant in Beynac, overlooking the river.

  ‘Peter, I had a call yesterday and I have to go back to London on Wednesday. There is some problem with the contract for my last series of articles and my agent feels that it’s imperative that I should be there to sort it out.’

  ‘Is it really necessary?’

  ‘Unfortunately, it is but since I have to go I shall catch up on one or two other things while I’m there. He also hinted there might be another project in the offing which would interest me. I should be grateful if you could drive me into Brive to catch a train to Paris. I’ll fly from there. There’s absolutely no reason why you shouldn’t stay on at the house. Since it would be your week to be responsible for the catering, you’re getting off lightly!’

  ‘Probably more to your advantage than to mine!’

  ‘I’m not sure how long I shall be gone but I’ll call and let you know. Is there anything which I can do for you in London?’

  ‘I don’t think so, although I might get you to post a letter to my parents. They know I’m in France but they don’t know where, nor did they know I would be away for more than a week or ten days. I’ll write tomorrow. I might perhaps write to one or two others too. There’s also one other thing. I never expected to be away this long. Would you have time to go over to my flat and see if there is any post and also give a key to Sue Hepscott who lives below? I can give you a letter for her and perhaps you could post the others for me.’

  ‘Consider it done. Now let’s enjoy the remainder of the day.’

  They lingered after dinner on the lighted terrace looking out into the night, enjoying a coffee and a brandy. They sat at ease, lightly clad and relaxing in the warm evening but as they sat there quietly in each other’s company, an urgency developed between them and the conversation lapsed. ‘We must go,’ said Peter.

  ‘Yes, it’s time to go.’

  Peter drove back in silence with Sally’s hand resting lightly on his knee. The still night air fanned their faces through the open roof of the car. He opened the passenger door for Sally when they reached the house and they walked through to the terrace. She came directly into his arms as he kissed her and held her tightly to him. Through her light summer dress he could feel her breasts and the firm points of her nipples against his chest. Their thighs touched and she swayed slowly from side to side against him. Eagerness and anticipation flared and she led him across the terrace to where the airbeds and rugs still lay on the ground. Slowly and gently they removed each other’s clothing and then with pleasure, enhanced and prolonged by previous knowledge, they explored each other’s bodies sensuously and lingeringly with their hands, their lips and their tongues. She gently moved on top and encased him and they reached their climax together. They remained for some time in that position and then Sally whispered in his ear with a smile, ‘I think we’ve got the hang of this.’ She slowly rolled off and they lay back embracing. Peter leant across and whispered, ‘I’m beginning to understand that being a loving friend could be quite habit-forming.’

  She kissed him and whispered back, ‘Yes, and it’s a habit I would not want to kick any time soon – and it need not be restricted to weekends.’ She got up for a moment saying, ‘Stay there’, and went into the house for some more rugs. They slept under the stars until awakened by the sunlight of another day.

  17

  Peter turned away shortly before the train was lost to sight. He stayed in the town just long enough to buy some provisions for lunch before driving back along the river to the beach which he now regarded proprietorially as their beach. He suddenly felt the isolation of the solitary foreigner abroad, largely cut off by language, customs and culture from those around him. Alone, he was drawn back into the uncertain vortex of his own thoughts. He sat on the beach for a short time and then, ashamed of his own lack of resolve, gathered up his lunch and drove back to the house.

  He carried the small desk from his room out onto the terrace, made himself a coffee, and settled down to write. Mindful of Sally’s suggestions he wrote three vignettes, the first recalling the scene in Domme on Bastille Day, the second describing the market in Sarlat and the third an account of his two chance encounters with Cass and Stefan. He stopped and read these through as he took a late lunch. Although not wholly satisfied with the prose, he felt they had an immediacy and appeal. He reflected on the need to imbue anything that he wrote with authenticity and it was clear this could only be achieved if based on his own knowledge and experiences. He thought back over the last year and felt that he could create moving pictures, in words, of many of the events which had finally led him to this quiet sun-stippled terrace in the Dordogne.

  It was late afternoon by the time he had revised the three vignettes and he drove back to the river in a more relaxed frame of mind. As he enjoyed the late afternoon sun, an idea started to evolve in his mind. The personal stories of many of his clients frequently contained dramatic elements ranging from tragedy to comedy to high melodrama. He could construct a tale around what the tabloid newspapers were inclined to refer to as a “tug of love” over a child but with a twist. The twist he envisaged was that the husband would be an English potter domiciled in France while the wife would be French but holding a senior and secure job in the financial sector in England. This would draw together his knowledge of the law and the opportunity to create scenes and episodes in both countries. He drove back to the house and then walked into Sarlat for the evening. He bought himself a reporter’s notebook and sat outside at a restaurant in the balmy night air. He leant back to enjoy the scene as he drank a kir before ordering his meal, observing the promenaders and making notes, his senses more alert after composing the three vignettes earlier in the day.

  His newly found focus made it possible to establish a routine and, although he did not always achieve quite the same level of discipline as Sally, he was determined to reach
a target of fifteen hundred words a day. The completion of each day’s task was at times a burden and at others a pleasure. On some days it was gratifying to note how quickly the pages of script accumulated and on such days he would often continue writing until late in the day, more than filling his self-imposed quota. He spent little time re-reading the product of his day’s labours. It seemed more important to construct the story and then return to re-shape and embellish the narrative as necessary.

  He took time each day either to swim in the early afternoon or to walk in the early evening after the heat of the sun had diminished. He remained in the house most evenings, taking a solitary meal and reading before retiring. Some evenings seemed interminably long and it was difficult to suppress thoughts of Sally. Her company and her encouragement had been essential but the precise nature of his relationship with her remained an enigma. He recognised and envied her sense of detachment and autonomy and her wish to retain her independence. He released himself from his introspection on two evenings by eating in Sarlat and in one of the nearby villages, occasionally exchanging trivia with English or Dutch tourists.

  * * *

  It was in the middle of the week after her departure that Sally called to say she would be concluding her business that week and had found a flight to Bordeaux which would arrive early on the Saturday evening. Peter consulted the map and saw that it was over one hundred and fifty kilometres to Bordeaux with the airport on the far side of the city. He decided to drive there on the Friday afternoon and stay overnight before meeting her the following day. It was a slow journey alongside the ever-widening river as it made its way to the great funnel of the Gironde. The holiday traffic was heavy but he reckoned that it would have taken much longer the following morning. He reached Bordeaux shortly after four in the afternoon but circled the city and drove the additional fifty kilometres to the coast through the maritime pines of the regional park of the Landes de Gascogne. He arrived late at Cap Ferret and found a room for the night close to the Bassin d’Arcachon.

  The following morning he checked out of the hotel and drove to the broad beaches of the silver, shimmering Atlantic coast. With six hours in hand before he was due at the airport, he strolled across the beach and watched the long breakers rolling in. As the sun rose to its height, he had little hesitation in stripping to his trunks and entering the water. After a few paces he dived through a breaker and swam effortlessly out from the shore. He watched the sparkling reflections of the sun on the spray flying off his arms as they drew him through the water. Finally he reached an area of flatter water well beyond the breakers and, rolling onto his back, he floated on the swell. The shore seemed remote, and beyond the waves he could see the sand, hard and white in the sun. The occupants of the beach moved remotely, shouting soundlessly, locked in their own worlds. Behind the beach was a row of tall, gabled villas with ornate, baroque balconies; the summer haunts of wealthy Parisians he assumed. The largest of these at the extreme northern end of the village stood a little apart from the others. Here it was clear that the summer season was in full swing. The windows and doors facing the beach were all open. Figures moved purposefully in and out carrying undistinguishable articles while a group of workmen were erecting a marquee in the grounds to one side of the house. He lay for some minutes absorbing the sun and cooled by the water until disturbed by a small cloud crossing the face of the sun. Turning, he saw that the outgoing tide had taken him some distance from the beach. Initially unconcerned, he started to swim towards the shore but it was apparent after a few minutes that he was making little progress against the tide and the current. Stopping to tread water he found that he was being carried southwards and further out. He decided to swim obliquely across the current, aiming to reach the beach nearer the mouth of the bay and then walk back to his clothing. He was beginning to make slow progress towards the shoreline when the distant drone of a motor yacht disturbed the soft sound of the swell and increased as it approached. He wondered if he should hail the boat and was about to dismiss the idea when the motor was cut and it drifted towards to him. There were four people aboard, young, tanned and relaxed. The helmsman stood holding the wheel.

  ‘Monsieur,’ he shouted and Peter waved. ‘Monsieur, il me semble que vous avez peut-être un petit problėme.’

  Peter hesitated. His limited French was certainly sufficient to understand this but his knowledge of conversational French was not adequate for him to say that although he was confident he would reach the shore he would nevertheless appreciate being picked up. He swallowed his pride and a great deal of sea water. ‘Oui, monsieur, c’est vrai, s’il vous plaît.’

  He swam across and two pairs of arms pulled him aboard. As they did so, he slipped and fell into the well of the boat. He lay there gasping as the throttle was opened, the engine accelerated and with the wake flowing out astern the boat circled and headed towards the solitary house at the far end of the beach.

  ‘Gee, that is something we have landed,’ drawled a female American accent from somewhere above his head.

  Peter looked round at the various ankles which were at his eye level and selected a slim pair which he hoped would match the appealing quality of those tones. He pushed himself up with his arms, looking up as he did so, and it was with a shock as his eyes travelled up her legs and on towards her face that he saw she was not only very beautiful and evenly tanned but also that she was totally naked.

  ‘Oh, my God, I’m sorry,’ he said involuntarily as he quickly averted his eyes and sat on the thwart. He then saw that the other two, apart from the helmsman, were also unclothed.

  The other occupants of the boat laughed at his obvious discomfiture. ‘You’re a long way out of UK territorial waters. It was a firm bet you were English,’ said the young American woman at the stern. ‘Even with a mouthful of sea water no Frenchman could speak with such an appalling accent!’

  ‘Ah, yes.’ He looked up momentarily and then, driven by some involuntary compulsion, he glanced down at her firm and evenly tanned breasts.

  ‘Hey!’ She took his chin and lifted his face so that he was looking directly into her eyes. ‘Monsieur l’Anglais, my name is Julie Christie – what’s yours?’

  He recovered quickly and looking at her said, ‘Oh yes, and mine’s Gypsy Rose Lee.’

  She laughed. ‘That’s better, but that really is my name. Nobody had heard of the other one when my parents were selecting a name for me.’

  ‘I’m sorry, you must have more than enough jokes of that nature. I’m Peter Bowman.’

  ‘Well, that’s cleared that up. That’s Marie,’ she indicated the other young woman, ‘and the guy with his arm around her is Danny. The helmsman is Pierre. He’s Marie’s brother.’ The others waved greetings and, as the boat approached the shore, they slipped into their bathing costumes which made Peter feel able to look around with less overt embarrassment. ‘I guess we would have dressed earlier if we had known we’d be receiving guests.’ They docked at a small landing stage by the house which had been the focus of all the earlier activity.

  The marquee which Peter had seen while swimming was now fully in place and, as they approached, he observed staff erecting tables, arranging chairs and setting out glasses and cutlery on linen cloths. Others were rigging ornamental lights in the trees and along the terrace. A figure ran down from the house to the jetty to hold the bow steady as they disembarked.

  ‘This is Pierre and Marie’s house – or more correctly their father’s.’ The house looked even larger close at hand and architecturally more disproportionate than it had from a distance. The balcony overhung the wide open French windows, the dark wood was extravagantly decorated and the eaves projected over the terrace with exuberant carving in a style more suited to the Tyrol than the Atlantic coast.

  Marie shouted something across the lawn in French and Peter was embarrassed when a man appeared carrying a large towel and a beach robe which, after some protest, he put on. ‘You’
ll stay for a coffee, of course,’ she added in almost accentless English. It was more of a command that an invitation.

  ‘I must go and retrieve my clothes and see that my car’s alright.’

  ‘Of course, but have some coffee first.’

  Fifteen minutes later he insisted that he should set off to retrieve his clothes and thanked his rescuers profusely for their help. ‘I’ll take a walk with you,’ said Julie.

  It was a stroll of about a kilometre up the beach to where he had left his clothes. Julie explained that this was a summer property belonging to Marie and Pierre’s family. Their father was a wealthy businessman from Lyon. The Carnot family was well-known for throwing extravagant parties two or three times each summer season. The house had been taken over by caterers for the last couple of days so they had decided to take the boat out and swim offshore. These evenings were well-known and invitations were freely and widely distributed among the influential, the beautiful and their followers. Julie explained that she had become a friend of the family since she had worked in New York for a number of years with Marie where they had shared an apartment. She had been coming to France regularly for many years but was now working in Lyon, dealing in commercial property and thus she now saw more of Marie and her family. ‘You must come to tonight’s party,’ she said.

  ‘I couldn’t possibly, you hardly know me.’

  She laughed. ‘You have at least met two members of the family which is more than can be said for some of those who show up at Chez Carnot. You’ve also seen rather a lot of them!’ she added with a smile.

  ‘No, I won’t know anyone and I should be quite out of place in that company.’

  ‘You would fit in just fine and you would help decrease the average age of the guests a bit, which would be no bad thing.’