by Rumer Godden
“He never asked us to have a lemon,” whispered Hester as Willmouse was told to go and order one.
“I?” asked Willmouse, deep in his book.
“Yes, you,” said Eliot so curtly that Willmouse went.
It was Mademoiselle Zizi, her telephone call finished, who brought the drink. She was puzzled. “Eliot, Willmouse says you want a citron? Is that true?”
As she came Joss stood up. She need not have, under the circumstances, but her schoolgirl habits were strong upon her. She stood up and Mademoiselle Zizi looked at her, as surprised as Eliot had been . . . but, I thought, not at all in the same way.
She and Joss were standing side by side and now I saw Eliot look down; his glance stayed down for a moment as if it were arrested, and I moved my chair to see what he saw. He was looking at their feet. Mademoiselle Zizi was wearing sandals too, open-toed black ones with high heels; they showed her toenails painted deep red, but the toes were brown and twisted, thickened with corn marks, the big toes turned inwards with an ugly bump. If I had been Mademoiselle Zizi I should have hidden them, and once again her stupidity gave me a pang, for beside her Joss’s feet seemed to rest lightly under the white cross straps of her sandals, pretty dim feet, straight-toed, unblemished, the nails pearl pink. Mademoiselle Zizi had followed Eliot’s eyes too. Abruptly she put the lemon down and walked round the table to the other side.
“Merci bien, Mademoiselle,” said Joss and hesitated. “I have to say ‘good evening’,” she said uncertainly.
Mademoiselle Zizi did not answer at once; she only looked at Joss. Then, “I had not understood,” she said.
“Understood?” asked Joss.
“That any of you were . . . so big,” said Mademoiselle Zizi.
CHAPTER 8
DINNER WAS not comfortable that night. If anyone French came to the hotel, Eliot dined alone, not at the table by the screen, and tonight, all through dinner, his eyes kept coming to Joss, still with that amazed look, and from her table Mademoiselle Zizi’s eyes followed his. At last she got up and left the dining-room. I do not think he noticed her going.
We, at our table, had long waits because Paul did not come to us at all. He had on the white coat he wore when help was needed in the dining-room, but he only brought dishes to the service door for Mauricette and took the dirty plates from her. I heard her order him, in angry whispers, to come in and help her, but he would not. Joss, of course, did not know it was different; she sat innocently well mannered and patient, but Vicky began to nod with sleep and Willmouse yawned and even fidgeted. It was absurdly late for them, but for a long time now their bedtime had been forgotten. I had given up worrying about it after that first day and Joss must have been bemused, because she did not say anything. “I never went to bed before eleven, not once,” Vicky told Uncle William afterwards.
Hester beckoned to Paul to bring us the dish he was holding in the doorway, but he scowled and turned his back. There was celery soup, stuffed tomatoes, veal with potatoes, flageolet beans served separately as they did here, cheese and fruit. We had only reached the veal when Mademoiselle Zizi called Eliot from the office. He threw his napkin down impatiently and went out. Soon the visitors finished and left too, but Mauricette still walked past us, putting things away instead of bringing our fruit. We, who were familiar, began to be annoyed, but Joss said, “Naturally they have to attend to the more important visitors first.”
She seemed not to know that Mauricette was taking it out on us, that Paul was shunning us. How could she? When Mauricette at last planked down our plate of greengages, the cut-glass bowl of water for our fingers and the clean plates, Joss said, “Merci,” as if Mauricette had been normally polite. “Mademoiselle Zizi vous attend dans le bureau,” said Mauricette, “si des fois vous auriez fini,” she added sarcastically.
Joss looked enquiringly at me; she was not used to Mauricette’s quick talking. “Mademoiselle Zizi wants us in the office,” I said. “Oh, Joss!”
She was a little startled, and we others looked at one another. The table, with us round it, seemed suddenly small and the dining-room big and foreign.
“Who gave you permission to change your time for dinner?” asked Mademoiselle Zizi.
Joss looked at me in surprise. “We have been having it when Monsieur Armand and the others have theirs,” I explained to her.
“What others?”
“Mauricette, Paul, Toinette, Nicole.” I was beginning to regret this childish helter-skelter week; it was partly regret that it was over, our happy obscurity was lost; Joss was dragging us into the limelight.
“Who said you could change?”
Joss turned her eyes on Mademoiselle Zizi. Her voice was still gentle as she asked, “You want us to eat with your servants?”
Mademoiselle Zizi’s neck went red. “Mauricette cannot manage with so many in the dining-room.”
I should have accepted that, but Joss answered, “But Cecil says you often have sixty people for luncheon. Tonight we were only fifteen.”
“I do not wish”—Mademoiselle Zizi floundered a little—“to have children with adults.”
Joss’s soft answer came relentlessly. “But Monsieur le Colonel and Madame . . . I don’t know their name . . . had their little girl with them tonight.”
“Do not argue with Mademoiselle Zizi,” said Madame Corbet to Joss with such venom that Joss was surprised again.
“I—I’m sorry,” said Joss, “but our mother would not like it.”
“Your mother left you in my charge,” said Mademoiselle Zizi.
Joss could have taken refuge in being small, a child, but, “Could I?” asked Joss afterwards. “I am as big as I am.” I suppose she had to be, but I see now that what she said was like a stone thrown into a pool; it spread ripples.
“Your mother left you in my charge,” Mademoiselle Zizi said.
“She left us in Mr. Eliot’s,” said Joss. “Shall we ask him what he thinks?”
I thought Mademoiselle Zizi was going to slap Joss, but she controlled herself and, after a moment, “You may have your dinner with the guests,” she said, “but I forbid you, absolutely forbid you, to trouble Monsieur Eliot.”
After a while Hester and I went to the back steps. We did not want Paul to think we had deserted him, but, though he saw us and knew that we knew that he saw us, he did not come. He worked ostentatiously in the kitchen, and each time Monsieur Armand passed him he said, “Bougre de gâte-sauce! Marmiton miteux! Expèce de mitron de merde! Va donc, eh! Ordure!” I knew they were swear words, but what they meant I fortunately did not know; and I did not know, either, why he should be out of temper with Monsieur Armand.
“What is the matter with Paul?” asked Hester.
CHAPTER 9
THEN CAME the three days. “I had rather you did not write about those,” Joss said after I had put that down.
“I must. They were part of it.”
“They were—the only part.” When she said that she looked away from me, and neither of us spoke.
The next morning Mademoiselle Zizi had met Eliot in the hall; he had on his linen trousers and dark-blue shirt, the canvas shoes that we now knew were espadrilles, his old cap, and was carrying dark glasses. “But you said you were going to Paris,” she said and seemed troubled.
He laughed and put his hands on Hester’s and Willmouse’s heads. “I must see to my family, Zizi.” When he saw her face he went to her and, holding her arms, swayed her gently backwards and forwards. “Can’t a man have a day or two off?”
In the wilderness he picked a bunch of roses and took Joss and me to see Mother. The doctor, Monsieur le Directeur, met us and, as if we were grown ladies, took us over the hospital. In the men’s ward we bowed, as Eliot did, and said, ‘Bonjour, messieurs’; in the women’s and maternity wards, ‘Bonjour, mesdames’, and felt as if we were royalty.
“A French hospital is not different from English ones,” said Joss, determined to be sophisticated, but 1 was too uplifted to care if I were
sophisticated or not. “English hospitals are not called the Hotel of God,” I said. “They don’t have nuns with their nurses; they were not built in 1304 by the Queen of Philip the Beautiful. There has never been a Philip the Beautiful in England. And the patients don’t have wine with their lunch”—we had seen the noonday food trolleys coming up—“and their relations can’t come in and out when they like. French hospitals are more interesting and more friendly.”
“She is observant, this young Mademoiselle,” said Monsieur le Directeur when Eliot had translated for him, and I was flattered.
Eliot talked in the passage with the nun in charge of the private wing while a nurse took us in to see Mother. “For two minutes,” said the nun through the open door. I was glad it was only two minutes, for I must admit that seeing Mother dashed the day. The private rooms were blue-and-white cubicles that seemed shut in another world of hushed quietness. A strange smell hung round Mother—“They had to open her leg again yesterday,” Eliot had warned us—and tears ran out from under her lids while she held our hands. I could never have imagined Mother pale, but she was yellow-white like wax. We were frightened.
She asked us, “Are you quite . . . all right?” It was a far-away whisper.
“Quite all right.” I said it absently for, though I was frightened and full of pity, I could not help listening to Eliot in the passage outside. He can talk to anyone in French or English, I thought with a pang. I listened to his easy voice and heard the agitation of pleasure in the little nun’s answers, and wondered if a woman could ever be like Eliot; and, if she could, could I be she? I was suddenly more grateful for my punishments at St Helena’s, and to Monsieur Armand and his newspaper lessons, and decided to stop being shy and practise my French on everyone from that day.
“I have been . . . so worried,” breathed Mother.
I do not know how Eliot caught that, but he broke off what he was saying and came to her. “You are forbidden to worry,” he said. When he was there Mother opened her eyes and smiled at him; she seemed to quieten, not to want to talk any more, and he motioned us to go away. Presently he stood up and came out too, leaving the bunch of roses on the bed.
As we walked back through the town many people greeted him; he was continually stopping and shaking hands with someone. “In France you must always shake hands,” he told us. “Watch the children.” There were scores of children. If it had been term time, Eliot said, they would have been in black overalls, carrying satchels that were like briefcases while the ones from far off would have square luncheon baskets as well; we watched and saw, sure enough, that as soon as the children met anyone they knew they gave their hands. The streets were full of people; there were women in slippers, wearing shawls like Madame Corbet’s and carrying heavy shopping bags; there were men in blue overalls, patched and faded, with berets like Monsieur Joubert. There were business men in heavy suits, lorry men and carters, nuns, boys and girls, children all dressed in pinafores, and I said, “Children don’t wear pinafores in England.”
The town was always gay, with its café tables and chairs under striped awnings along the pavements. I had always liked the shop names. ‘Aux Joyeux Carillons’, a happy ring of bells was fitting for toys and games. ‘A la Fourmi’, dresses. Why an ant for dresses? “Ants are industrious,” said Eliot. “I expect they sew with little tiny stitches.” ‘Graines potagères, Graines de Fleurs’; I had wondered what that meant. “A seed shop, juggins. Vegetable and flower seeds.” ‘Anne Maria Ferrière. Modes Transformations’; ‘Crémerie Centrale, en Gros et demi-Gros’; ‘Les Meubles Tulin’; ‘J. Binet. Bonneterie Lingerie. Spécialité de Bas.’
We had often longed to buy flowers for Mother at l’Eglantine: roses, carnations and glowing spikes of gladioli, and in the hardware shop there was a set of twin cups and saucers in green china lettered ‘Toi’ and ‘Moi’. “Thou and Me,” whispered Hester; we thought that touching and meant one day to buy them for Father and Mother. “If we ever have any money,” sighed Hester. “And we must take something back for Uncle William. Perhaps one of those pipes with crests and pictures on it or perhaps a vase of those beautiful wax flowers.”
Now Eliot let us linger at the sweet and cake shop that Joss had not seen; he explained the different kinds of cakes to us: éclairs, rum babas, meringues with crème chantilly, pears and apples crystallised whole in sugar. He did not make the mistake of offering us any but took us inside to buy a carton of chocolates to take back to Hester and the Littles. There was a rich smell in the shop from the chocolates, and of liqueur from the brandied cherries for which Vieux-Moutiers was famous. There were sugared almonds, matrons glacés, and crystallised violets, rose leaves and mimosa balls. “But are there no ordinary sweets?” I asked.
“You buy those at a grocer’s,” said Eliot, “but here they have sucettes.” Sucettes were lollipops, and, “I don’t think Mademoiselle Zizi would like us to have those,” I said.
We watched while the mademoiselle did the carton up in white paper, tying it with golden thread and sealing it with a golden seal. It seemed inexpressibly elegant to us. “Don’t you get tired of using that word?” asked Eliot when I said this to him, but we did not.
“They don’t do boxes up like that in Southstone,” said Joss.
“In London they might,” said Eliot.
“This isn’t London. This is a little town, smaller than Southstone.”
“The French understand living,” said Eliot, and I longed to be French.
Then he took us to the Giraffe. Dazzled, we sat at one of the small marble-topped tables I had passed so often. The waiter poured wine and water for me but filled up a glass for Joss; Joss tried not to glow but she glowed. When Monsieur Gérard, the proprietor, came and talked to us she sat very erect, holding the glass of pale golden wine, her eyes going from Monsieur Gérard to Eliot and back again as she tried to keep up with the quick French. I remember that her hair caught the sun again as it struck down through the awning, and from the heat, or perhaps the wine, tiny beads of sweat came out on her forehead and neck. Eliot put out a finger and touched one. “Dew of Joss,” he said, and Joss sat oddly still.
“Does it taste of salt?” I asked.
“Sugar and spice,” said Eliot and once again his eyes stayed on Joss and he seemed to listen half absently to Monsieur Gérard.
Then we went back to Les Oeillets and on the hall table were our packages laid out.
“What are those?” asked Eliot.
“Our picnics,” and I explained to Joss, “We have to go out now.”
Eliot looked at the packages, at Joss, and then out to the orchard shimmering green in the sun. A noise of people came from the bar, loud voices and laughter, the sound of glasses, hearty tones, and, “I will have a picnic too,” said Eliot.
“A picnic! For you?” asked Madame Corbet.
“For me,” said Eliot. Madame Corbet seemed not to know whether to be shocked or pleased, but she went to get another package ready.
“What was he thinking of?” asked Uncle William afterwards.
“He wasn’t thinking,” I said. “Just for once he forgot to think.” I believe now I hit on the truth. I am still haunted by Eliot’s voice saying, “Can’t a man have a day or two off?”
We went to the cove, “All six of us,” said Hester. Willmouse left his sewing and came, Vicky deserted Monsieur Armand though there was going to be oeufs à la neige for lunch. “Alone, with that man!” Uncle William said afterwards of Joss, but they were never alone. We were always with them, a chorus and, though we did not know it then, a guard.
At the blue door we met Monsieur Joubert coming in. When he saw Joss he took off his hat—he changed the beret, when the sun grew hot, for a panama. He smiled and stood back to let us pass, and stood looking after us, the hat in his hand. Joss walked one side of Eliot, her head level with his shoulder. Vicky was on the other, swinging on his hand. Willmouse and Hester were in front, Hester walking backwards and talking all the time, and I came behind. When I
looked back Monsieur Joubert was still gazing thoughtfully after us.
It was a gay picnic. We felt more as if we had escaped than as if we were shut out. After luncheon Vicky fell asleep, her head on Joss’s lap; Hester and Willmouse paddled, and I lay, as Eliot liked to do, flat, face downwards on the sand. Joss’s and Eliot’s voices were a low murmur; they seemed to have a great deal to talk about, but I was too peaceful to be jealous; everything—and everybody—was at peace.
Then, “Come along, all you lazybones,” said Eliot; “I have to go to Soissons. Who would like a drive?”
I sat up, and, “In your Rolls-Royce?” breathed Willmouse, coming out of the water.
“Yes. We can look at the cathedral.”
In the Rolls-Royce! We looked at one another, excitement spilling out of our faces. “But . . . won’t Mademoiselle Zizi mind?” I said.
“Why should she mind?” Eliot’s voice had the coldness that only I knew and I was quiet, but none of us went into the house; we washed our faces and hands in the river and left our packages on the back steps.
As we drove along the road to Soissons the stooks were piled in the fields, stooks of dark-coloured corn, darker than in England. In the woods the wood-cutters had stacked cut logs to dry. “Think of having fires!” said Hester. The heat was shimmering between the trees, and hot air fanned our cheeks. It was unmistakably France not England; we passed a statue of the Virgin standing above the cornfields, a cart laden with casks of wine, a French military cemetery with a crop of the small wooden crosses we had seen in the guidebooks. At last we drove into Soissons, with the twin towers of its ruined Abbey, its thick-walled houses, honey-coloured plaster wash and wide cathedral square.
Outside the cathedral, “Put something on your heads,” said Eliot to Joss and me, “the people like it,” but neither of us had anything.
Eliot lent me his handkerchief, but there was nothing for Joss; then a woman coming out paused to admire us—it was part of the warm happy day to be admired; she had been in the cathedral and in her hand had a black lace veil. I had seen women with them in Vieux-Moutiers; they wore them to go into the churches, and she came up and put it gently over Joss’s hair. “Voilà ce qu’il vous faut, Mademoiselle,” she said and showed Eliot a door in one of the houses opposite where we could bring back the veil.