A Period of Adjustment (22 page)

Sometimes great happiness is almost uncontainable. The gesture which Aronovich had made, tracing and securing (at some cost I felt certain) James's treasured watch, moved me greatly. I would, as soon as I saw her, hand it to Florence. She could keep it or not, as she saw fit. Sell it again, or retain it, not for Thomas, alas. He would never be in need of such a glittering prize. I'd write immediately to Aronovich to thank him.

Maybe tomorrow would bring an acceptance note from Lulu? Naturally she would have had no time yesterday. God only knew what her movements were after she had put all her things together, tidied up the rooms in the ugly little flat and driven herself, and the hamper, at some speed out of the
parking.
She had murmured something about an appointment in Cannes with some designer and possibly a ‘light supper' with ‘a crazy girl I know'. At any rate, she was nowhere to be seen later when I got to the Villa des Violettes around five to collect Giles. Prudently she had kept her distance. As far as Giles and Frederick were concerned, I had spent the day hacking at brambles in the orchard, and Frederick's mother had spent her usual socially busy day somewhere along the coast. We had behaved with
great caution and left no signs for anyone to pick up. Apart, that is, from a few vicious scratches and a bruise or two. Falling about in the orchard with the strimmer. Nothing at all to worry about. And very soon forgotten.

Looking at my rented Simca, standing soberly in the shade of the Jericho wall, I decided that it was time for a change. Useful, sturdy, capable of carting all manner of stuff from fruit, logs, vegetables, suitcases and, on occasion, small pieces of furniture from some brocante, it had now become, to me at any rate, a symbol of staid dependence and my London existence. I didn't want that any longer. I would do better: I was still renting, idiotically, from the mayor, which was extravagant and pointless.

I came to a silent decision, dropped Giles off at the Theobalds', went into Sainte-Brigitte and bought myself the car which I felt better expressed the slowly emerging new model of myself. Younger, energetic, responsible, even daring, possibly sexually adroit? I would never dream of going further. Admitting only that limited list to myself was embarrassing enough, immodest if I thought about it. So I didn't. I knew precisely the car I wanted. I had seen it the last time I was in the town getting the tyre pressure on the Simca checked (essential on the local roads and in the heat). The car was hidden in the backyard of the garage, half covered with a stained grey tarpaulin. Not covered enough. I saw a brilliant flash of yellow, the white wall of one tyre. Lust, of a different kind, but none the less urgent, rose within me. I was twenty-four years old suddenly, and curious, as I casually lifted the edge of the tarpaulin. I knew immediately that I had to have it.

The garagiste, a pleasant, bellied man with a red face and oil-ingrained hands, shook his head, smiling kindly. It was not the car for me, he said, it was a
young
man's car. He hoped I would excuse the remark? I wouldn't. I was, as far
as I was aware presently, a young man. Lulu had a great deal to answer for. If she had appreciated my performance, and it had been made clear that she had, then I was perfectly capable of dealing with this elegant, slender, sophisticated machine, now uncovered completely, glinting and winking at me in the sun. It was canary yellow, a two-seater, drop-head, white-wall tyres, polished leather seats, giant headlamps an MG of uncertain age, lovingly cared for, waiting for me. It flirted, sparkling in the sun. I played back. Ah! No! said the garagiste.
Surely
it was not what I wanted? It belonged to his son who had now – hélas! – gone off to do his military service, fathered two children and was to be forced into a reluctant marriage. Yes, it was for sale … but only of course to a real specialist, a collector, and fanatic car-lover. He was about to send out some photographs to two collectors he knew, one in Antibes and another, an Arab prince, in Monaco. He was desolate, but… He had shrugged. I had come too late, hélas!

I explained quietly that I fulfilled all the criteria which he had expected. What is more I was there, before him, my cheque book in my hand, and I would not haggle the price. I was a local man, as he knew, I would bring the canary yellow car back to him for all its servicing, he would see the love and care that I would lavish on it, and how could he possibly think of selling such a beauty into the harem, so to speak, of a rich arab in Monaco who was very likely too fat to drive it and would use it only as a background to roasting his sheep, and cover it in sand if he took it home? It was not much of an argument, but the cheque book and my presence (serious and intense, I hoped) began slowly to erode his caution and satisfy his avarice.

I still managed to remain a ‘real specialist, a collector and a fanatic car-lover' even when he stated his price. I knew that I had taken him slightly off guard. The price was higher than he had expected to ask, and higher than I had
expected to pay. Nevertheless, I had started, so I would go on. In his trim little office below a picture of the Virgin Mary looking appropriately heavenwards, and a fireman's calendar with a view of grazing goats, I signed a cheque which could have easily bought me a brand new Peugeot, except that I didn't want a Peugeot. I wanted, and I got, the canary car and drove it, first carefully round the streets of Sainte-Brigitte, and then out on to the main road, with the fat garagiste wedged uncomfortably at my side. I tried it out, made arrangements to have the Simca driven over to Jericho (I would, after all, still need a car for marketing and so on) and, with a glass of pastis to seal the deal, I drove through the lanes in the brilliant sun playing with my new image and my new toy, its engine purring in pristine splendour. The garagiste's son had obviously cherished the beauty of his car. Every rivet, every nut and bolt, door handle, the exhaust, glistened in lovingly polished, cared-for glory.

Dottie, who was slowly walking up the drive as I turned in with a crunch of white-walled tyres on the gravel, pressed herself against the lichened figure of her stone goddess, her face slack with surprise. I stopped precisely beside her.

‘Have you taken leave of your senses, Will! Where did you get it? It's not yours?'

I assured her that it was mine. ‘Do you think I've gone mad, Dottie? Male menopause?'

‘Well, I begin to wonder. I mean, it's beautiful, but, well, I don't know. I think the menopause business is a little unlikely, don't you? I don't think that's caught you up yet? But, somehow, I do see you in the Simca. Not this. It's a playboy's sort of car. Know what I mean?'

‘That's my whole problem. We all see me in a Simca Brake. Tweedy. Dependable. Elderly. Unadventurous. In a word, dull. Ageing in my Fair Isle sweater and Viyella shirts.'

‘That's going too far, I didn't mean that. You know I didn't.'

‘I've flustered you. You know that is
exactly
what you
did
mean. Well, I am altering rapidly. This is, as I said, a period of adjustment for me and the adjusting has begun. I'm enjoying it greatly.'

Dottie was smiling, hand on the yellow rim of the car door. ‘It is really very lovely. All long and sleek. Look at that bonnet! You'll be polishing like a mad thing. When did this metamorphosis take place? Where exactly did you discover your road to – what is it? – Damascus?'

I know that I laughed, and I know that she didn't really know why when I said, ‘In bed! The other day. I was just lying there. In bed! Feeling rather helpless, aware that there was a very strong force at work around me that I couldn't ignore, and had to deal with. And I decided to deal with it there and then. And I have. I always find that being in bed is extremely
good
for concentration and coming to decisions! Don't you?'

‘It depends. I have
no
idea what you're talking about.' She opened the door and slid in beside me, slammed the door, grinned up at me from under her straw hat. ‘Off we go. What fun. Have you found some delicious scented lady to drive about with you? Frightfully intimate. We are almost lying prone. Goodness!
Do
drive up and honk your horn. I can't wait to see the faces up top.'

We moved off and began the gentle climb to the house.

‘Mrs Theobald, I really believe you approve of this.'

She laughed, pulled off her hat. ‘It's the sort of car that brings out the tart in every woman. You know that.'

‘I do. Didn't know that you did.'

‘Schoolmaster's wife? That what you think? Granny glasses, chalky fingers, algebra, good-woman shoes? You'd be amazed how women think sometimes, Will. Deep down there at the bottom, we have our fantasies too, you know.'

‘I do know. I
do
indeed. Very important to have fantasies … I was talking about that just the other day.'

We drew up at the terrace just as Giles and Arthur, a book in his hand, came hurriedly through the bamboo curtain.

‘William!' he called, laughter and admiration lurking, his eyes blue as china. ‘What
do
you think you are doing with my wife! What a glorious machine! Dottie! You'll be compromised in that. Out you get!'

She opened her door and, almost reluctantly, got out, hat in hand. ‘Hardly be compromised before so many agog faces. Isn't it jolly, Giles?
You'll
fit in very comfortably.'

Frederick had joined the others on the terrace. ‘Good grief. Is that ever a real old-fashioned thing! Is it safe to drive?'

‘Is it for me?' Giles had come down to the car, ran a hand in a light caress along the door, just as Dottie had done. ‘Or is it for you?
You
I suppose?'

‘Me. All for me. You can sit in it sometimes. If you behave.'

‘I reckoned it was for his birthday. A present. Wouldn't that be just great, Giles? A yellow antique automobile pre-Pearl Harbor, all to yourself!' Frederick was grinning. ‘I never did see such a thing! Outside of a museum or an old movie.'

Arthur hit him on the head with the closed book. ‘Enough! Impertinent youth. I think it is perfectly splendid. Can you get spares and so on for it? I reckon so. It'll probably guzzle petrol.'

Dottie had gone up the step to the house, brushed through the curtain, called that she ‘was going to wash a lettuce'. We sat, Arthur and I, on the terrace, while the two boys peered and poked about the car. Frederick suddenly called up across the long yellow bonnet, ‘Mr Caldicott! I forgot. My mother said to thank you sincerely for the invite, and we'll be there. Thank you very much.'

Giles said, ‘It was
me
who sent the invitation. I did. I had to do them all. In French.'

‘Well, so what? I told you it was okay. My mother just said to tell your dad personally. She hates to write things. Look at these headlamps! You could go elephant-stalking at night with these.' They moved about in a blur of trite conversation.

Arthur said, ‘Well, a change of image, I daresay? Good thing to do, I always think. Jericho must be working its charm on you. But of course you'll wince every time you brush a leaf in that thing. Where
did
you find it?'

So I told him, and the telling took time, time enough for Dottie to carry out a tray and a jug of iced wine. ‘Lunch? There's plenty. The boys do the washing-up.'

Arthur and I took a glass each and then I excused myself to set off for the splendours of Futurama.

‘Good God! Why that place?' Arthur looked astonished.

‘It's got a zoo-shop. There's a birthday in the offing. And there's a natty gents' outfitter in the mall there, with some quite decent things – for me. And it's a good time, everyone is either eating or going to eat. I hate being shoved about by all those women with credit cards.' Everyone waved goodbye and cheered as I drove away carefully down the drive.

Driving back from the concrete hell of Futurama, and the drifting hundreds of bewildered people pushing trolleys up and down its fearful aisles, on my way back to Jericho, I saw the little car pulled roughly into the side of the road. The out-of-date green Renault ‘easy to park', abandoned with one flat tyre. The doors were locked. Nothing inside, the engine still warm. She couldn't be far down the road unless she had hitched a lift. But she hadn't. Round the second bend of the high-walled lane there she was, trudging slowly, resignedly, two straw baskets in her hands.

Hearing the car she half turned, made a signal to stop
with a raised basket, and as I drew up beside her she was squinting in the high sunlight, then sighed with relief and surprise.

‘Ouf!
You!
How funny – in a yellow car! I didn't know: the sun was in my eyes. Will you help me?'

We loaded up, she pushed my bags aside, slid easily, wearily, into the seat beside me.

‘How lucky that it was you! I have a flat and there was a terrible popping noise from somewhere inside, ever since I left Sainte-Brigitte. No one stopped for me. No one. One man just shook his head and went faster. The world is full of awful people.' She looked, in spite of being hot and tired, extremely well. Pretty, flushed, her hair tumbled. But I'd have known that straight military back anywhere, the determined walk, the trim elegance of Florence. ‘This is new? The car? Foreign, eh? And yours? Yellow!'

‘Mine. I bought it this morning. Quite mad, I suppose. Saw it and wanted it and bought it. It's English, an MG, pre-war.'

‘It's very pretty. Tres chic! Can you take me into Bargemon-sur-Yves? I must get on to the garage, Mama and Céleste expected me an hour ago – and Thomas.'

‘And Thomas. We'll be there in a moment or two. I didn't know that you were back, apart from the fact that your mama accepted my invitation. Giles's invitation. So I suspected you were home.'

She nodded, looking straight ahead. ‘I'm home. All was well in Marseilles. All was clear.'

I felt an enormous inner slump of relief, but let nothing show. ‘I
have
wondered. I was a little bit concerned that there was no message.'