A Period of Adjustment (19 page)

He was sitting slumped at the table, a scatter of cards and envelopes, his fist screwed into his cheek. ‘All the addresses,' he mumbled. ‘I've got to write
all
the addresses? I mean, I go to Arthur and Dottie every single day! And I could easily just walk to Florence's house when we are in the village, and give Frederick his when he comes to Dottie's – three times a week – and I can't spell “Violette” or whatever it is.'

I heard Clotilde singing in the kitchen, little bursts of
song between heavy thumps of wood on flesh. Giles looked up with sudden interest. ‘Whatever's that? Clotilde banging away?'

I finished lacing my garden boots, stood up. ‘She's tenderizing the veal. Schnitzels. You have to beat them hard with a rolling pin. I'm going down to the potager. When I come back I would be extremely pleased to see that you had done those cards. Tough luck! So get on with it.'

He scowled and I went out into the heat of the morning. It was Saturday, so no ‘school', and I was trying now to assert my authority. Writing out the invitations was one way. I knew, perfectly well, that I could just have telephoned everyone. But that was not the right method of setting an example.

Anyway, I wasn't over-anxious to speak to Madame Sidonie Prideaux honestly. There had been no message from Florence. No card, note or call. Perhaps she was back? Perhaps she had news? Perhaps she was
not
back, and had no news, and, anyway, I couldn't very well ask Sidonie Prideaux if her daughter had had a satisfactory trip to Marseilles. And, in any case (I picked up my pioche and the heavy spade), I didn't have a number for the de Terrehaute place. She had mine. She hadn't called, and now it was the weekend she probably wouldn't.

So Giles could write the things. It made the supper table larger, inviting Frederick and his mother, but it also made it rather jollier. For Giles anyway. He had complained that his birthday was going to be full of old people. Well, now it wouldn't be. So that should please him. If they came. And that would please me: but perhaps I'd meet her before then? It was still almost two weeks away. I realized, fully, that I was far more concerned for myself than for Giles. I wanted to see Lulu de Terrehaute very much more than he did. She had said, hadn't she, ‘I can fix that. No problem'?

Suddenly, down at the little iron gate at the end of the path, there was a sharp stab of brilliant-laser light: the sun blazing on a motorcycle standing just outside the wall. A bright, red and chrome, glittering Honda, with a hefty blue plastic-wrapped chain to secure it. But no sign of an owner anywhere.

I wandered back to the potager, began hacking slowly, thoughtfully. I had plenty to think about. Pleasing things, curiously erotic things. And the time passed, hacking through the dry soil, shaking earth from dead roots, watching the pile of sun-dried weeds and grass by the path grow larger, feeling the sweat run down my neck and chin, drip down my chest. A far cry from Simla Road. I wouldn't ever get a sagging gut doing this. And then Giles came wandering slowly barefoot down the path to say that he had finished the cards and where were the stamps and did I know that there was someone in the kitchen with Clotilde? I didn't. How did he know?

‘I haven't actually
seen
anyone. Just heard a voice. When she had finished the thumping business, she spoke to someone and he answered her and she laughed. That's all. But I heard, not clearly, but voices anyway. A man.'

‘Perhaps someone has come to deliver something from the village. There's a Honda parked outside the gate down there.'

Giles looked over to the path. ‘I don't think so. I think it's Mon-Ami.'

‘Mon who?'

‘That's what Clotilde calls him.'

‘Calls who?'

‘Her friend.'

‘I didn't know she
had
a friend. How did he get here without me seeing him?'

Giles shrugged, kicked a stone and sent it scuttering through the rough grass. ‘I don't know. Maybe he came up
through the little orchard. You were inside anyway. I think that's his bike. Must be.'

‘Well, who is this friend? She tell you?'

‘Nope. Just said, “Mon ami est très beau, très gentil.” Pretty silly. I saw him leaving one day, far away down through the trees, and she was just going home, and I said who is that? And she said, “Mon ami,” and that's all. And where are the stamps? Have we any?'

I was sweaty and curious. Who was this stranger in my house? Could he be a threat to the stability of the place, the comfortable arrangement we had come to with Clotilde and her father? Could this be the reason for the pink lipstick, the deeper cleavage, the flower tucked in her hair, the softness of her, now that the plastic combs had been removed? Anxiety pulled at me. I was hot. So I had every reasonable excuse to go down the steps to the kitchen and get an iced beer from the fridge and check the visitor out. If I lost Clotilde, God knows who I'd ever find to replace her. She ironed my shirts as if they had come straight from Jermyn Street, was starting to run my life. Sod him!

In the kitchen Clotilde was flouring the schnitzels, her face flushed from heat and labour, hands snowy from the flour carton, a single red rose pinned to her hair. On a chair, across the room, sitting with long legs wide apart, hand clasping a shining helmet between his thighs, a burly young man with tight gold curls and red and white leathers. When he saw me he instantly got heavily to his feet as I came down the little steps into the room. Clotilde smiled happily, sprinkled flour over the chopping-board, nodded brightly.

I said, ‘Bonjour!' and went to the fridge for the beer, and Clotilde said, in a pretty, but unusual little-girl voice, ‘Ah! Monsieur Colcott. This is mon ami. He is a very good worker, he knows all about the land, the vegetables, the
trees, the seasons, he is a good carpenter, a maçon, and he has come to offer you his services. C'est vrai, mon ami, eh?'

Mon-Ami appeared to be about six foot three or four, and I began to feel like a shrimp indeed. Not even a prawn. I would not have been in the least surprised to learn that he had modelled for Greek coins or that he had once reduced Praxiteles to tears of envy and despair. He stood there before me in the modest kitchen among the pots and pans and ropes of garlic and peppers like a misplaced god. Strong, clear of eye, firm of mouth and chin, large capable hands holding his glittering casque.

Now I understood why Clotilde had taken herself in hand. Here was the reason for lipstick, cleavage, tight ribbon and flirtatious rose. This spendid specimen of about twenty-two, erect, strong, perfectly secure and quietly confident.

‘Mon ami est
tellement
timide!' said Clotilde, casting flour about in a little cloud.

And shy indeed he was, blushing red, and lowering eyes, but standing his ground. Legs apart, shoulders square.

‘You must say to Monsieur Colcott all the things that you can do!' said Clotilde as if to a child. ‘He is a busy man, and you must unstick your tongue. He will be patient. Hein?' Mon-Ami nodded. A thread of exasperation slipped into Clotilde's voice. ‘Bien. Tell him where you are working now then? At the pépiniéristes near Saint-Basile-les-Pins? Eh? Chez Gavery? Say?'

Mon-Ami turned his casque in his strong hand. ‘C'est ça,' he said, and looked to Clotilde for help. He may well have had splendour between his legs but it would seem that there was precious little between his ears.

‘Why', I said kindly, ‘do you want to offer your services if you work for such a big firm as Gavery? You have that splendid Honda, eh? He must pay well. Hondas and leathers and casques like yours are not won at a village fête.'

Clotilde was setting anchovy fillets on to a tin plate. She looked apprehensively at Mon-Ami, who seemed not to have quite understood me. Perhaps I had used too many words and confused him? Possible.

‘You are not, perhaps,
satisfied
at Gavery? Is that it?'

Mon-Ami shifted his feet, lowered his casque in one large fist and murmured, ‘Yes, Monsieur. I don't like it there.'

Clotilde decided to interpret cheerfully. She was determined to keep him on the premises somehow or another. ‘Monsieur, écoute! He wants to work for himself, there are twenty men at Gavery. He feels that he can better himself. Some are specialists in trees, in laying drains, in making swimming-pools for the rich in Saint-Basile-les-Pins, the people who live in the big lotissement there – the Paris-Rustiques! It is not a real existence. It is so, mon ami, eh? You want to work alone. For yourself.'

Fortunately, to prove that god-like or not he was not also mentally retarded, as I was beginning to fear, he nodded his head vigorously. ‘Yes. That is true. For myself. And one boss. That is so. And to have pride in what I do.' This effort at speech exhausted him.

I told him to sit down, and to encourage him to do so sat on the edge of the table with my beer. I offered him one to ease shyness, but he refused politely with a raised hand and a shake of his head.

‘Imagine!' said Clotilde, reaching for a big jar of capers. ‘Twenty thousand primulas every spring to water! A thousand pots of chrysanthemums for the Jour des Morts in November! Christmas trees and
poinsettiasl
He is not
that
kind of worker! He loves the soil, the land. C'est vrai, mon ami?'

‘Yes,' said Mon-Ami. ‘I like very much the land. Not to work for rich Dutch or Germans, to plant their patios, clean their swimming-pools. They only like concrete and pots, and little lawns. Boff!' This was the longest speech he'd
made. I hoped it had not exhausted him again, but I had begun to get the picture.

As if perhaps I had not, Clotilde, spooning capers and black olives into bowls, said, ‘The rich in those new villas only stay for a month in the summer and a week at Christmas! From Paris, from New York, London, Brussels. They don't care about their land, except that it is clean and pretty, like a photograph. A maison secondaire, that is
all
those places are in the woods. The people never see anything grow. Never plant a seed, prune a rose, they think strawberries grow on a cabbage! Tiens! C'est juste, mon ami?'

I was quietly surprised that Monsieur Maurice's daughter was so loquacious, so eloquent. It was a pleasant discovery. Clotilde seemed to have found her place in life, determined to settle Mon-Ami in his and, above all, share that life with him. Not a bad idea. She was certain to be a good mother and a very capable wife. She screwed the lid on the caper jar, knuckled her floury hands on her hips and looked from one to the other of us questioningly.

I took the hint and went with Mon-Ami out on to the terrace and down the path to the garden and potager all hopelessly overwhelmed by the prodigality of late June. He stooped, his leathers creaking lightly, and took a handful of soil in broad fingers, spread it between thumb and forefinger, murmured sadly, ‘Fatigué.'

I said that it was
all
tired, everything needed feeding, nourishing, caring for, that once upon a time it had all flourished gloriously, had produced beans and peas in abundance, spinach and cabbage, potato and celery, that roses blazed, figs were plentiful, and almond, cherry and apple were prolific and presently burdened with fruit, in the little orchard, and were now waiting for his attention.
Urgent
attention, I added. And, for the first time, he smiled.

Then Giles, who had been hanging about all the time on
the periphery of the action, his eyes glistening with envy at the sight of the Honda, the casque and the trim leathers, eased himself cautiously into the conversation and said that there was plenty of water everywhere too, a stream up at the top, and that he'd show him if he liked, and where the well was. He knew, he added reasonably, the garden much better than his father. Which was quite true, as he spent some considerable time on his own there damming the stream, trying, in vain, to fish, catch lizards or dig out a space for the future pond.

Mon-Ami smiled agreeably, and asked if he would like to examine his casque more closely. Giles grabbed the thing and stuck it on his head, almost breaking his neck, and we all laughed. Clotilde came down the path waving some scissors.

‘For some sage, Monsieur. Mon ami is also very useful in the house if the weather is bad. He can mend a pipe, clear a sink, re-lay the boards in the bedrooms, clear the chimney. There is a hornets' nest in there, I think! Mon ami can do
everything.
Even electricity.' She went off gaily to find the sage bush.

Mon-Ami retrieved his casque, and we walked together slowly up to the house discussing when and how he could come, and what salary he felt would be acceptable. We reached an agreement before we got to the little terrace. His name, he said, was Luc Roux, his parents owned the traiteur in Saint-Basile. (I had written my telephone number on the back of one of their receipts for Lulu de Terrehaute, who had still not made use of it alas.) He had finished his army training (an important point – he wouldn't suddenly be called) and no, he hadn't known Clotilde, but he knew that her father was the brother-in-law of the maire of Bargemon-sur-Yves, and therefore knew that Jericho had a new master. He had passed the place often and always felt sadness at the neglect, he said, and he would be happy and proud to try
and restore it to its past glory, for it was well remembered in the area that, when the ‘
other
Monsieur Colcott' had owned it, it was a most bountiful property. He had just wandered in one evening to look about (apparently when I left for London) and found, to his mild dismay, Clotilde mending some linen on the terrace. He had been, of course, trapped from that moment. But, naturally, did not say so in as many words. I was very pleased with Clotilde, and when she rejoined us, a bunch of blue sage in her hand, I told her the good news that Mon-Ami, as I would always call him, was now a part of the household of Jericho. At least he would be, as soon as he had given in his notice to Monsieur Gavery, and then at that very moment Giles yelled, ‘Telly-phone! Telly-phone!' and I turned and raced up to the Long Room.