by Jean Stubbs
‘No, not here. I shall go to Paris.’
‘As you please. Just as you please.’
‘I shall not live with Natalie. I shall not live like her. But I shall see her, if you permit, because I love her.’
‘There’s no need to ask my permission.’
‘But I wish it.’
‘Then, of course, you have my permission. Even my goodwill.’
Mrs Tilling knocked softly, and entered. ‘Would you be wanting me to light the gas, sir?’
He, who had been contemplating the luxury of electricity, now said, ‘Oh, candle-light will be sufficient, Tilley.’
‘And won’t you be dining nor wanting anything, sir?’
He raised his eyebrows at Claire, though he could not have eaten, but she shook her head. ‘Will you bring us a bottle of my father’s claret, Tilley? Any bottle. They are all good. Thank you.’ He added lightly enough, as the housekeeper left them, ‘I can tell that our excellent friend is not herself, or she would certainly have informed me that wine turned to acid on an empty stomach.’
But Claire, bereft of humour, said, ‘I shall be desolated without her, without her too. It is too cruel, too hard.’
He was silent, striving to keep up some appearance of composure.
‘Ah! How you are English!’
He could bear nothing more. He withdrew to safe ground, to stoicism.
‘We shall be wretched for some considerable time, I know that. But we must remember that humankind is adept, above all else, at personal survival. So we shall survive. Perhaps, eventually, we shall accept the situation and grow used to it. We must hope so.’
‘Never!’ she cried. ‘Never!’
She saw him already retreating, already drawing on the old armour she had hewn from him, piece by inexorable piece. He would become as remote, as ironic, as he had been when they first met.
She stretched out her hands. ‘Do not die to me again. Do not die to yourself. Better to suffer than to be dead.’
‘Oh my dear girl,’ he said, exhausted. ‘I’m sick of suffering. I’ve had enough. Let’s not clutch the knife to our hearts. There’s no future for us. Better to accept, to make things as easy as we can for ourselves. Best of all, if it were possible, simply to forget.’
‘I accept nothing. I never accept. I rather suffer and die than accept.’
Mrs Tilling moved her tray of wine and glasses rapidly to one side, as Claire ran past her. Then set it on the table beside Carradine.
‘I used to think it was because Miss Claire was French that she flew up so,’ she remarked tentatively, ‘but I think now it’s because she’s like her Mama. Mrs Carradine never gave up without a fight, poor lady.’
Carradine sighed and half-smiled. ‘How did my father react to bursts of temperament, Tilley?’
‘He just used to sit until she came back, sir, quietly. And she always did.’
‘Well, well, Tilley. I’ll sit too. As sorry as he must have been, and with the added misfortune of having no remedy to offer.’
‘If she could look to her God,’ said the housekeeper shyly, ‘and offer up her sorrows. Nothing’s wasted, sir, however hard it seems. You might both of you, in a year or two, be ready to take second-best. That seems a poor way of putting it, but you could settle down yet. I’m not saying it would be all you wished, but then I think folk ask too much of life. Steady and comfortable has always been my motto. If you can’t have what you like, then like what you have, sir. Not speaking out of turn, I hope.’
‘Inspector Lintott once gave me much the same advice, Tilley.’
‘Then you know what I mean, sir.’
‘I do indeed,’ he replied. ‘I do indeed. A safe and sensible policy.’
He sat with his wine until he heard Claire come softly into the room, and held out his hand without looking at her. He knew, without seeing, that she had made herself pretty again. Penitent, she hovered by the door, hoping for reconciliation, for attention.
‘I have been given some excellent advice, Claire. A slice of honest wisdom with which no one could find fault. Come here, while I tell you.’
He turned. She shook her head tremulously.
‘As you please, Claire. All my life this advice has followed me, and I have openly repudiated it — and in secret fashion adhered to it. I was told never to question the ways of Providence. As a child I was informed that boiled mutton and rice pudding were good for me, even if they made me sick. That God, though He rules a wicked and incomprehensible world, knows best and is omnipotent. That I should be grateful for something shabbier and meaner than I desired, envisioned, or needed. Do you understand me?’
She nodded, but only from understanding, never from compliance.
‘I now most recklessly, possibly stupidly, but finally, set it at naught. I know there is no help for me. I know that if I do not thank life for its confounded crust I shall go without bread. I accept that, but I accept nothing else. And if there is a Heaven — which some vigorous minds seem to doubt — then I shall shake the gates until something hears me. And I shall say, “You owe me what I believed in, and what I lived for.” And until I get it, there I shall stay, a perpetual reproach.’ Smiling now, in utter conviction, he said humorously, ‘I shall make a thorough nuisance of myself for a few thousand years, my love. What do you think of that for an idea?’
She was by his side in an instant, placing his hand on her cheek.
‘I like it. I too shall chain myself. I shall say to them, “You owe me!”’
‘Oh, you will be even more tenacious than I. The French have such an impassioned dislike of bad debts.’
‘You mock me,’ she said, looking at the flames, eyes bright.
‘This decision of ours alters nothing, you know, Claire,’ he reminded her, as she sat on the floor and kissed his hand and smiled into his face.
‘I can bear it now you do not die to us. I can bear everything.’
‘Very well. Then no hysterical dashings off to the Continent without your luggage. Take your time. Write to Natalie. Ask her to find you an apartment. Stay here until you are absolutely ready in your mind to leave. Try to be sensible. Won’t you?’
‘I am very English with the upper lip. But you will visit me sometimes?’
‘Whenever you wish. That is for you to decide.’
‘Not always for me. I wish to be surprised.’
‘Then I shall most happily surprise you.’
‘I am now very hungry!’ she announced.
‘And it is nine o’clock at night, and Tilley can hardly be expected to produce a dinner out of nowhere. Shall we go to Rule’s? Jugged hare — and you can mop up the sauce with a slice of bread. Do you know how very impolite that is, in good English circles? Only our working class clean their plates with bread.’
‘Pff! They are the common-sense. I leave nothing on my plate. Never. The enemy shall not have it!’
But coming home afterwards, she cried, ‘I hurt here. I am damage here,’ and struck her breast lightly but emphatically with her clenched fist.
‘I know,’ said Carradine. ‘We’re both damaged, and both alive.’
‘My dear one,’ Claire wrote to Natalie, ‘My name is Odette Carradine. All has changed for Nicholas and me, except in our hearts. I am writing to ask you to find me a small apartment near you, and yet I am not. Oh yes, find me somewhere. Not very grand, not very large. You know me, you are clever, you understand what I want. I leave this in your hands. But I am writing to ask you for what is not possible, for my happiness.
‘You are my sister. It does not matter that your name is Picard, and mine Carradine. We have shared so much, and been so much to each other, that we are sisters as few real sisters are. I do not have to explain. When we were children you said I could ask you for anything, and though many things were beyond you — still, you tried. So, though you cannot help me in this matter, it gives me comfort to ask. Forgive me for my foolishness.
‘Here all is very English. I stay, as I have stayed from
the beginning, at a good hotel. Very respectable, very dull. I spend each day with Nicholas. The English are not like us. They like to pretend that all is proper. So, for the sake of the servants, we are still engaged. Mrs Tilling said it would be difficult for her if we said I was Nicholas’s sister. Soon I shall return to Paris, and then they will say the engagement was broken. It is easier that way. I do not understand why, but I do as Mrs Tilling says. She is a good woman, and kind, and she loves us both.
‘I wait to hear from you. I love you. Help me. Claire.’
‘You’ll excuse me interrupting you, sir, but there’s a lady wanting to see you,’ Mrs Tilling said, with such slighting emphasis that Carradine first stared, and then came over to question her privately.
‘That sort of lady, Tilley?’
‘Never set eyes on her before, sir. But she looks like one of those madams as you used to paint.’
‘Where have you put her, Tilley?’
‘In the study, sir, while I asked you if it was right.’
‘Very commendable. I’ll come at once. Excuse me, Claire.’
He was back in moments, head round the door, crying, ‘A surprise for us!’
‘Bijou!’ Natalie gasped, weeping a little from sentiment, dishevelled a little from the Channel crossing. She clasped each of them in turn. They all spoke at once, in French. The housekeeper’s disapproval washed coldly on this emotional shore.
‘Have you dined, Natalie?’ Carradine asked, amused and embarrassed.
‘I can’t eat a mouthful! I want nothing — perhaps a small glass of wine to settle my stomach. A morsel of bread, a piece of fruit, some pâté — nothing at all!’
‘The lady will be joining us for dinner, Tilley,’ said Carradine. He explained. ‘Madame Picard is an old and dear friend of ours.’
‘But what excellent taste!’ Natalie cried, mentally costing the furniture. ‘Quite exquisite! I thought the English only bought ugly, heavy things.’
‘This was all chosen by my stepmother.’
‘That makes sense! Ah yes!’
She longed to finger the velvet curtains, and would do so when dinner was over.
‘Your housekeeper dislikes me, Nicholas. But I don’t care! Perhaps she thinks I am a former mistress?’
‘Very probably.’
Natalie threw back her head and laughed. She had gained a little weight, which added to her exuberance.
‘Come with me, Natalie, and I’ll show you to Maman’s room,’ said Claire. ‘Where shall she stay tonight, Nicholas? At my hotel?’
‘Are you short of rooms here?’ Natalie enquired ironically, drawing off her gloves. ‘My respectability is of no consequence, Nicholas!’
‘I hardly think ... under the circumstances ... how was the crossing?’
‘Ah! Your Channel is a monster. I am almost dead.’
‘I suppose the Channel changes nationality with the weather,’ he remarked, ‘and will find itself suddenly French, when fine!’
‘To be French is to be reasonable. It wasn’t reasonable.’
‘But why are you here?’ Claire cried. She formed her own conclusions. ‘You’ve found me an apartment? You know I’m unhappy? So you come to take me back, that I might not journey alone?’ She reacted to her own notion. ‘I’m desolate! With or without you I’m desolate!’ She attacked those presumably responsible for her desolation. ‘You wrote to Nicholas and he advised you to come! That isn’t kind, isn’t loyal. If you are my friends why do you treat me like a child?’
‘Claire, Claire, Claire,’ he said patiently. ‘Don’t make a theatre!’
‘What you say is stupid, ridiculous,’ said Natalie firmly, ‘and I shan’t tell you until we have eaten.’
Claire put out one hand for help, looked from face to face for reassurance, resigned herself.
‘No theatres!’ she promised, without life.
‘And how is my dear Inspector Limcock?’ asked Natalie, accepting a second helping of apricot pudding. ‘Did he tell you I entertained him in my boudoir?’
‘No, he certainly did not!’
‘He is very shy. He didn’t know what to do with his hands, his eyes or his boots!’
‘He’ll probably spend the rest of his days trying to forget the incident!’
Natalie pointed a solemn finger at Carradine.
‘Oh no, he won’t, my friend. He’ll spend the rest of his days trying to remember every detail!’ She pronounced the dessert excellent. ‘A little too sweet. But I’ll speak to your housekeeper and advise her to use less sugar, and a squeeze of lemon.’
‘I would far rather you did not, my dear.’
‘Why? Doesn’t she want to learn? How very English. We French always want to learn.’
‘You must try to forgive us, Natalie. We prefer to cling to our own barbaric recipes.’
She shrugged, uncomprehending, unperturbed. She offered to try the Stilton out of kindness.
Claire had eaten less and less. Now she sat silent, watching Natalie. Carradine glanced at her frequently, and tried to draw her into conversation. Her attempts to respond were more painful than her stillness.
‘And now, do you wish to sit by yourself, Nicholas, over the port and walnuts?’ Natalie demanded, appetite sated, ‘and tell yourself dirty stories?’
‘I’m prepared to forgo that pleasure for one evening, under the circumstances.’
‘Good! Yes, I’ll take cognac with my coffee. It settles the stomach.’ As they retired to the drawing-room she cried graciously to Mrs Tilling, ‘Your food is very good, madame. Too much, but very good.’
‘I’m glad you enjoyed it, Madame,’ said the housekeeper, tight-lipped at the amount Natalie had consumed. ‘You will pour the coffee, Miss Claire, of course?’ Fearing that the stranger would carry even this small custom before her.
Natalie paced the room and narrowed her eyes at the silver. Then she settled herself, arranged her gown becomingly, spread one round arm across the sofa back.
‘Now I’ll tell you why I came!’ But she could not, without first describing her feelings. ‘Oh, I thought you were doomed when the Inspector told me of his suspicions. So impractical, so romantic, my friends! You beg life to wound you! I wept for you both when I received Claire’s letter. And then I asked myself — why do I weep? Why don’t I use my head? So I stayed in bed all day to think for you. My baby knocked at my door — I sent him away. The young must learn to be patient. It is a salutary lesson.’
‘And what conclusion did you reach, Natalie?’ asked Carradine, entertained in spite of their trouble. ‘Claire, my love, may we have our coffee?’ For she was sitting listlessly, hands in lap, watching Natalie’s face.
‘I reached a further conclusion than your Inspector Limcock! Oh yes, he is clever, but he’s English. What can an English detective know of the French heart? Nothing! So I went to see Berthe Lecoq. Le Jallu told me where to go, where to stay, where to hire a carriage. And I paid much less money than he did! I bargained, my friends!’
Carradine could not help himself. He laughed aloud. Claire’s head lifted quickly. She caught his mood and smiled. But Natalie, tremendously dignified, ignored them both.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
The village was empty in the sun, the silence meant siesta. Thick white walls shielded sleepers from the fierceness of heat. Slumber removed dumb lives from the treadmill of the daily round. Their world was contained within a few miles. The dark wine-shop acted as their social centre. The church carried fear of hell and hope of heaven.
Natalie rang again, louder and more impatiently. Sweat started under the crown of her hat. Patches of wet stained her tight sleeves, her tight bodice. Her stays were damp, her flesh protested.
The silence was so absolute that Berthe’s clogs sounded like a regiment on cobbles.
‘I shan’t open, whoever you are. We know nobody. We want nobody. Go away!’ From behind the locked door. ‘We want no money. We want nothing.’
Natalie concluded that Berthe asked little of l
ife. Her brows drew together. She lowered and furled her parasol, though the sun was pitiless. She decided on the attack direct.
‘Madame Lecoq? They have found Odette Carradine. She is alive and well. I wish to speak of her.’
Another short silence. Then the bolts scraped top and bottom. The door opened two inches, revealing a stout iron chain.
‘Who are you, madame?’ Berthe demanded.
‘One who knew Odette Carradine for twenty years, and was a sister to her. She asks your help, through me, madame.’
Berthe jerked the chain from its slot, pulled Natalie into the dim hall, secured the fortress once more, and surveyed her from head to foot. Contempt struggled with curiosity.
‘She sends a strange messenger!’ Reading the signs.
Natalie shrugged, good-humoured, unrepentant.
‘Nevertheless, madame, I am all you have in way of news.’
A wailing tone from the back of the house alerted Berthe. She motioned Natalie to follow. The old man was crawling on all fours, chuckling at his new freedom, whimpering at the terror of it, needing his nurse to tell him whether this was a good or bad idea on his part. Berthe picked him up like a child, thumped him down in his chair, retied his linen bond. While she settled him she scolded reassurance. He listened, fretful but comforted, gaping at Natalie’s Parisian splendour.
‘This is hard for you, madame,’ Natalie observed, with some sympathy.
‘He is all I have. Tell me of Odette.’
‘I can’t speak without water, madame,’ said Natalie firmly, seeing that neither a seat nor refreshment was to be offered. She removed her hat and sat down unasked. ‘I have been travelling too long in the heat.’
Berthe filled a mug from the bucket beneath the sink, handed it to her guest, folded her arms.
‘Odette Carradine was mistaken in the train accident for an orphan, madame. She and I were brought up together in the same orphanage. I knew her as Claire Picard, and so did M. Carradine. As Claire Picard she fell in love with him, and he with her. They wish to be happy together. As brother and sister that is impossible.’