A Period of Adjustment (30 page)

‘Agreed,' she said. ‘We are accomplices.'

Outside there was a scrape of chairs and clatter of cups and china, Thomas crying out with some barking noise of delight, Giles shouting, Céleste chiding, Clotilde, who had obviously joined them, calling that she would show the way. Madame Prideaux began to cross towards the terrace in short, sudden little jolts of movement. I wondered, for a second, if she was unwell. But it was soon clear that she was moving in such a manner because she was in fact ‘considering'. At the door she turned slowly.

‘You have given me much to think about. Unexpectedly, to be truthful. I was not certain that you were, and this you must forgive me for saying to your face, a man of honour. Was uncertain. I have had a life of cruelties, not all my fault … some, no doubt, but not all. And one becomes untrusting. Do you follow?'

‘I do. I follow. I understand exactly.'

‘Will you accept my apology, then?'

‘I will. I will, very gratefully, Madame.'

She suddenly began to pluck nervously at a button on her shirt.

‘My husband was murdered. In 1962. You did not know that, eh?'

‘No. I did not know that.'

‘By the FLN. His car was ambushed. Outside Oran. They mutilated him and nailed him to a door.'

I was quite still and silent. She brushed an imaginary hair from her cheek. Her fingers trembled. ‘One learns hate so easily. When I saw him …' She looked away, out through the door.

‘I think I can imagine, Madame.'

‘Can
you!' There was a half-smile on her lips, her eyes hard. ‘There have been cruelties in my time. My son was crushed to death by a speeding truck. Cruelties. Not my fault. All that I have left to me now is Florence. She is my life.'

‘And Thomas?'

She looked at me sharply, shrugged. ‘And Thomas …' She took up her cup and saucer and turned away swiftly.

She went out on to the terrace with her empty cup, stood silently by the scattered chairs and the disarranged table. ‘You should put a lid on the confiture. It is full of wasps.'

I flapped about, screwed the top on the jar in a swarm of angry insects. Far down the path Mon-Ami had straightened up and was talking to Florence, who had just come through the gate. She laughed, he nodded, she laughed again and Mon-Ami pointed up towards us on the terrace. She came up the path, throwing a backward remark to him over her shoulder. I heard him call, ‘Ah si, si, Madame. C'est vrai.' Then Florence, seeing us, waved brightly.

‘I have a feeling that she got the job,' I said, cupping the now tepid teapot. ‘I'll leave you both, and put the kettle on. I can do that. Amazingly.'

I went across to the kitchen. The telephone suddenly rang, a shattering sound, totally unexpected on this ‘family' afternoon. I set the teapot down quickly and raced to get to it before it stopped, barked my shin on the corner of the Simla Road sofa, swore, grabbed the receiver and shouted ‘Allô! Allô! Oui?'

At the other end a high flustered voice. ‘Hello? Hello? Is Mister Caldicott there? Is it his house? Do you speak English?
Anglais?'

I pressed the mouthpiece to my chest, shut my eyes. The voice was blurred now but still shrill enough to be heard.

‘Hello? Hello? Oh
God! Is
that his house? Bloody hell!'

It was Helen.

I had just finished raking up the grass which Mon-Ami had been scything all afternoon when I noticed (because I was right up beside it) the door of the round, squat, tiled pigeon house which stood at the very end of my land. Hanging on the handle, a supermarket bag, a bottle neck sticking out, the bulge of something or other thrusting against the shiny yellow plastic. Mon-Ami had forgotten his refreshment.

I pushed the weathered door wide, stepped into the gloom of the little round tower-like building. A floor of hard beaten earth, untouched for years, sunlight slanting in long fingers of light through hundreds of small openings in the stonework, holes for the birds to come and go. There were one or two broken perches, a scattering of mildewed straw, bat droppings, some planks high up in the beams. It smelled cool, musty, forgotten. No one had been in this place for years, not even, it would appear, James or Florence. There was almost no sign that it had been used since the de Terrehaute château, far across the rough fields, had been burned and pillaged. I thought, instantly, of Lulu. Banished the thought. Considered idly that the building was too small for a house, but quite large enough for a room. A round room? Perhaps two round rooms? A useful place to have.

I went out into the sunlight. The intense heat of the day was ebbing, shadows had begun to steal across the potager, a hoopoe was making plaintive little calls, gritting up at the top of the path, crest flicking up and down, alert, its scimitar beak probing deep, and then, in a light ripple of laughter, Clotilde and Mon-Ami came down from the house together and the bird sped away in alarm.

Clotilde had dragged her hair back now, replaced the pink combs, stuck a frill of lace in the cleavage of her plain blue dress, removed the silver ribbon, lipstick and rose, and waved. ‘You should leave it all,' she called. ‘Better for another day in the sun, M'sieur.' Mon-Ami was almost beside me, his grotesque helmet swinging from a calloused hand.

I said, ‘We don't want the hay. I'll burn it away sometime. You left your water bottle and stuff on the door here.'

Mon-Ami went across and took it up. Clotilde had started to steer her Mobylette carefully through the gate, a wilting white rose on the handlebars.

‘A happy day today, eh? Poor little child. He loves to be in the air, in the sunlight. He is trapped in that house in Émile Zola. Trapped in his little body. Trapped.' She bounced the front wheel carefully up over the stone step.

‘It has made you late, Clotilde, I fear. All the washing-up … more than usual.'

She laughed, shook her head, and said it was nothing, ‘Pas de problème'. It had been such a happy day for everyone. Eugéne at the hotel would have to be patient. Dinner was never served until seven-thirty anyway. ‘Mon ami had English tea too! And one of the biscuits for Thomas. You didn't like? Hein?'

Mon-Ami was fixing the strap of his helmet about his throat. He shook his head, smiling.

Clotilde suddenly gave him a quick little kiss on his chin,
the only part of his face available to her at that moment. ‘Deceit! We live in deceit,' she said. ‘I don't like it, I don't like it.' And then with a wave she straddled her bike and, tying a handkerchief round her head, told Mon-Ami to be careful, called goodbye to me, and rattled off cautiously down the ruts of the track.

Mon-Ami pulled his Honda from its stand, started to unchain the wheels. ‘She turns to the left. I turn to the
right!
You see that, M'sieur? It is crazy. Her father is a stupid man.'

He was squatting, fiddling with padlock and key when I said, ‘Mon-Ami, I've had an idea. Just this moment. This very moment. The pigeonnier … empty, useless. You know what I mean?'

He got to his feet, wrapping the heavy chain round his arm. ‘I know. It is empty. It has always been empty. No one keeps hundreds of birds for the table any more.'

‘I was thinking when I saw your bag hanging there what a good site this would be for a maison de gardien. Built on to the loft, to the old tower. You know? After all, we never use the grass, the hay. It's a lot of extra work, we don't cultivate the land and it is level, beside the track, beside the gate, and in view of the house. Do you see what I mean?'

Mon-Ami removed his helmet, pushed a hand through his hair, looked about with a considering eye. ‘Yes. A good place. Full sun too, near all the services as well…'

‘Water and electricity. All near at hand. And what would you think? A half-hectare? To go with it? Surround the house with its own land. For a potager, a dog …'

Mon-Ami pursed his lips, shook his head. ‘Protected land, all this. It is protected, M'sieur, a half-hectare is a lot of land.'

‘But if we built carefully, included the old pigeonnier in the fabric, used ancient tiles, stone, left all the trees. I
need a
maison de gardien. I intend to remain here now for as long
as I can, at least for three years. And Monsieur le Maire would probably be understanding? For a “consideration”? Eh? It is possible?'

Mon-Ami started to show signs of stirring interest. He walked into the centre of the plot, looked about him, nodded, dug the heel of his boot into the earth, kicked up a clump of red soil. ‘Si, si. Possible. If you can get the permis de construire … difficult. But for a maison de gardien …' His voice trailed away, he squinted about him, hands on hips, the helmet swinging. ‘And chickens? There could be chickens too? Eh?'

‘Of course! Chickens. Maybe a goat even? A goat. Good idea? But it's a bit far from the village, that's the trouble. From Saint-Basile and Bargemon-sur-Yves. Pretty remote. Unless they could drive. Can you think of anyone in the area who might accept a job like that? If I get permission?'

Mon-Ami started to adjust the helmet on his head, fingers at the buckle beneath his chin again. ‘I can ask,' he said, with a slight flicker in his eyes. ‘I can ask. Clotilde knows people – in the village, or Sainte-Anne-le-Forêt.'

I took up the rake, handed him his plastic bag, and began to move, slowly, away. ‘Think about it, Mon-Ami. I shall talk to Monsieur le Maire this week. Try and get some reaction from him. But, of course, it is useless to build a maison de gardien without a gardien. Eh? Idiotic'

He called out. I had just got to the path up to the house. ‘A
couple?'
he called. ‘Would a couple be acceptable, M'sieur? Perhaps you could think of a couple?'

‘Of course! Let us consider a couple. Without children. To
start
with. Okay? Now, you get on to your supper, you are late this evening. We'll talk when I have been to the mairie, shall we? When you have spoken to Clotilde.'

For the first time since I'd known him Mon-Ami actually grinned. A conspirator's grin. Then strode down to the gate swinging his bottle in its plastic bag.

Giles was sitting on the terrace steps fiddling with some tubes and a screwdriver. He looked up as I arrived.

‘What were you doing? Down there?'

‘Getting things to work, Giles, that's what.'

‘I wish you could get this to work. I can't.' He was holding a grey plastic figure of a deep-sea diver, masked, booted, a plastic tube wriggling from its helmet.

‘What is it?' I sat beside him resting my back against one of the iron support pillars.

‘It's the diver Florence brought for me today. For my aquarium. It's an oxygenator, you see? When I get it all wired up, the tubes and everything, it'll stand in the water and look quite real … all bubbles.'

‘Looks awful. A dreadful bit of kitsch.'

‘It's brilliant! The air all comes bubbling out of the helmet, you see? It shows you on the box. But I can't join it all up. Will you help me?'

‘You know me and screwdrivers. Put it all back in the box. We'll look at it tomorrow. I've had enough for one day. Tea parties … God!'

He started repacking the bits of his diver. ‘Are you still angry?'

‘What do you mean angry? When was I angry? I haven't been angry.'

‘When Mum telephoned. You were then. I could see.'

‘Saw wrong. I was just a bit surprised. Everyone here, and you all up at the stream. How did you know I looked angry?'

He had fitted everything together, stuck it back in its box, put the screwdriver on the stone step. ‘Well, Florence thought you were angry. She said you
looked
angry; and you were, when we got back here. Was it something about Mum?' He was not looking at me, fiddling with the box, avoiding my eyes.

‘Florence merely said, “You look cross, William.” She
didn't say anything about being
angry.
Anyway, I
was
cross … right in the middle of all that … Florence had just arrived … I
was
a bit cross. Of course nothing more. Irritated.'

‘Is she in London? At Chalfont with Gran?'

‘No, she's here. At Valbonne. And Eric's in Nice on business. She was bored. That's all.'

He was suddenly rather quiet, hunched up on the step, his elbows on his bare knees, chin in his hands. Then, ‘She want something?' He was still looking away from me, as if by looking at me he might find confirmation of his worst fears in my face. That she would be coming to see him, or asking to see him, or deciding to take him back to England. Which was precisely what she had wanted. So I, partly, told him.

‘She wants to see you, Giles. It has been a long time since Simla Road you know. And she's a bit worried about … well … about what you are going to do about school. You know?'

‘It's the holidays! Why is she worried about that?'

‘Can't be holidays all the time. She is right. We'll have to discuss it all very seriously soon. School, I mean.'

He got up, picked up the diver, wandered slowly towards the Long Room door. ‘So when do I have to see her?' He was standing with his back to me, running a finger up the hinges of the open door.

‘You don't
have
to see her. She is your mother, Giles. You
want
to see her. She longs to see you, and Eric Thingummy won't be here, don't worry. I made that clear. She's coming over to have lunch on Friday. I'll send Maurice and he can take her back after. Her idea. So just be civil, well behaved, look forward to seeing her. She loves you, even if you think she doesn't. It's been difficult for us all. We'll have to be very grown up and sensible and polite. No good in sulking.'

‘I won't sulk. But I won't go back to school in England. I really won't.'

‘When it comes to it, you'll just have to do as you're told. You aren't twenty yet. In ten years' time maybe …'