Beyond the Green Hills (11 page)

‘Thank you so much. I’m so grateful for your help,’ she said, as she handed over the first of her franc notes.

‘A pleasure, mam’selle. A great pleasure,’ he said with a bow, as she put her travel bag on her shoulder, settled the roses carefully in her free hand and gave him a parting smile.

Even the Metro seemed full of delights as she hurried along the familiar corridors. She listened for the clatter of doors that told her there was no point hurrying, or the rush of air that suggested she might just catch the train about to emerge from the darkness. She ran her eyes over the posters, reading off their messages, restoring them to memory, as delighted to be reminded of her favourite brand of coffee as to see what ballet was being performed at Châtelet.

She had forgotten how the corridors sparkled with minute specks of some light-refracting mineral in the matrix of their dark surfaces. The first time she’d negotiated them, she’d thought of the forge and the tiny bright scraps of metal filings that lay in the soft piles of dark dust. Now these tiny points of light were themselves the jewels of the Paris underground, part of her own experience, part of present and future, no longer tied to the past.

The journey out of Paris was slow, but pleasant, the trains uncrowded as the evening moved on. Much of it was not underground at all. She looked out
over parks and gardens, breathed the warm, summer air, rich with the scent of cooking. The
smell of roast lamb made her mouth water and she realised she was hungry. But the emptiness of her stomach seemed nothing compared to the hunger of her eyes. It seemed to her she’d been living in a world of black and white for a very long time now. Avidly, she sought out light and movement and colour, shops with trays of fruit and vegetables arranged in contrasting patterns, striped awnings, a woman in a red dress, children kicking a yellow striped beach ball beneath the trees, umbrellas outside a terrace café, a gendarme, perspiring in the warm evening air, wiping his face with a spotted handkerchief.

‘Oh, ma petite, how tired you must be,’ cried Marie-Claude as she opened the door and stretched out her arms.

She had watched the small figure walk up the driveway and stand looking around at the well-kept gardens which lay beyond the entrance to the apartments. Such a solitary little figure, with a suitcase and a bag, carrying two yellow roses tied with ribbon. How like her, how very like her. Even when she came the very first time, an unknown student, she had brought them each a little gift.

‘Come, chérie, tell me how we can best restore you. Shower or aperitif? Rest or food?’

Clare followed her up the wide marble stairs to the thickly carpeted landing, from which the main rooms of the apartment opened.

‘What I should like most of all is to sit by the window looking over the gardens while you tell me about Michelle and Philippe and Gerard,’ she began,
aware that a picture had been forming in her mind as her arrival drew nearer. ‘But perhaps I do need a shower,’ she added, laughing. ‘It seems a long time since London this morning, and even then, there was no hot water!’

She could see the concern in Marie-Claude’s eyes and knew that the weariness of the journey was showing clearly in her face. She would have to tell Marie-Claude what had happened. But not tonight. There would be time enough. Tonight was a gift, a homecoming she had not expected.

D
espite Clare’s protests, Marie-Claude devoted the next three days to making sure her guest went to bed early, slept late, and ate much more than usual.

‘You are too good to me. I don’t deserve all this kindness and attention,’ said Clare, when she woke up to find Marie-Claude putting a tray on her bedside table and drawing back the curtains.

‘Eat your breakfast and we will continue our argument of last night,’ she replied, smiling. ‘I’ve been awake for ages so I have the advantage of you.’

‘Mm.’ Clare sniffed her coffee before sipping it appreciatively. ‘I keep thinking this is all a wonderful dream. I shall wake up and find I’m in Belfast in the rain and I have a long essay due for tomorrow,’ she said, laughing.

To her surprise, she saw a shadow pass across Marie-Claude’s face as she turned away from the window.

‘What are you thinking, Marie-Claude? Please tell me,’ she asked, as she tore a croissant into pieces and began to butter them.

‘I was thinking, my dear, that your life has not been very easy for you. When you told me about Andrew
and all the terrible unhappiness of poor Edward’s death, I wondered if perhaps you had suffered a little
too
much
misfortune. I think even the Fairy Blackstick would agree with me.’

She smiled with pleasure as Clare licked her fingers after spreading strawberry conserve liberally on a piece of croissant.

‘The
Rose
and
the
Ring,’
said Clare, grinning. ‘You still remember?’

‘Of course I do. It was not just the children who benefited from your efforts, my dear. Gerard and I, we loved your stories too, whether they were your English classics or your own inventions, or your tales about the forge and the people who came there. If I might make a small, loving criticism, sometimes I think you do not know the pleasure you bring. More important still, you sometimes do not expect to receive, but only to give.’

‘But it is more blessed to give than to receive,’ Clare retorted swiftly, a twinkle in her eyes.

More than once these last long evenings, lingering at the table by the window, they’d returned to the Jansenism that Marie-Claude had known as a child, similar in its effects to the Presbyterianism that Clare had been exposed to in her church-going days.

‘Yes, true,’ Marie-Claude agreed promptly. ‘But you have to let other people be blessed as well. It is selfish to keep all the being blessed for oneself.’

Clare giggled.

‘Touché,’ she agreed. ‘One up to you, but I can’t argue properly when I’m all sticky with beautiful strawberry conserve and blissful croissants. I’ll
retaliate when I’ve got my clothes on. A nightie puts me at a disadvantage.’

‘If I might suggest your pretty green dress, I have a proposal to make to you, over lunch at Le Chat Vert,’ said the older woman, her eyes twinkling, as she picked up the tray. The plate on which she had placed two large croissants bore not the slightest trace of a crumb.

A week later, Marie-Claude was well pleased with the progress of her protégée. With several days in hand before her husband’s return from Geneva and the predictable reassertion of Clare’s anxiety about intruding, she’d seen the strain and weariness fade away, the droop in her narrow shoulders disappear, the sparkle return to those lovely Irish eyes. They’d talked hour upon hour, walking in the park, over lunch in little restaurants an easy drive away, or by the window overlooking the garden, Clare’s favourite place in the apartment she so loved.

As the older woman sat drinking her own breakfast coffee in the empty kitchen, she recalled just how downcast she had been a week before. She had so looked forward to having space in the day, once Michelle too had gone off to boarding school. Instead, an awful inertia had set in, the longed-for space transforming itself into an emptiness she seemed quite unable to fill.

Then the call had come from Calais, so unexpectedly, a breath of fresh air in a life grown stale, despite its
pleasures and privileges. She sighed. Truly, miracles did sometimes happen and Clare had
been hers.

On their very first day together Clare asked her what she was planning to do, now she had the long months of term in which to take up her own work. Ashamed of her inertia, she’d confessed only to indecision. Immediately, Clare gave her whole mind to the problem. Under her lively questioning, she felt her own mind begin to work again. Ideas began to shape. She smiled to herself. Indeed, so active had it become she wakened early each morning, found herself able to enjoy the solitary hours while Clare went on sleeping.

She poured herself another cup of coffee and gazed through the glass door to the balcony. Although it was not yet eight o’clock, an old man was at work in the gardens below, hoeing steadily between the shrubs, the sunlight filtering down through the trees and splashing his green dungarees with patches of light. She thought back to their lunch at Le Chat Vert, the pretty green floral dress Clare had worn, one they’d bought together at the end of her second summer with them.

‘Now, my dear, about being blessed,’ she had said lightly, hoping the wine and the liveliness of the riverside restaurant would come to her aid. ‘There is something I should like to do, something which would give me great pleasure, but I cannot do
it without your co-operation. In fact, I am totally dependent on you for my satisfaction. Will you help me?’

‘But of course. You’ve been so kind to me, you know I’d do anything I could to help you. Just say
the word,’ replied Clare, immediately looking serious.

‘I have your word?’ Marie-Claude insisted, as she dropped her eyes and hoped she could maintain her sober expression.

‘Yes,
of course. Anything whatever I can possibly do that would please you.’

‘So …’

Marie-Claude had permitted herself only the gentlest smile as she outlined her plan. Clare needed a job. Bien. They had studied the newspapers and talked at length. There were excellent opportunities for someone who spoke French as well as she did, but Marie-Claude thought her chances would be even better if she not only spoke like a Frenchwoman, but dressed like one as well.

Marie-Claude would take her to her own couturier for a suit, to her own dressmaker for dresses and skirts, and to Galeries Lafayette, so that she could show her how to buy scarves and accessories to add that unmistakable touch English women always envied. It would be her gift. It would chalk up so much blessedness she would have something to keep her going when Clare found her job and she had to part with her.

Marie-Claude almost repented the trick she had played when she saw the look of horror on Clare’s face. She knew perfectly well the poor girl was thinking how much her shopping list would cost.

‘You may pay your own bill at Galeries Lafayette if you
wish,’ she said, easily, gazing out of the window, to give Clare time to recover herself.

When she turned back, she was surprised to see
that Clare was smiling broadly.

‘Touché again, Marie-Claude. Have I been horribly arrogant and independent because I’m poor?’

‘No, ma petite, never arrogant, but prickly, like a hedgehog. Defensive. You have had to struggle to survive, so you may not have noticed that often things are given for our joy, for our pleasure, as you were given to me and to my family. As I’ve told you, you must teach yourself to receive as well as to give. Let me help you.’

Clare had been as good as her word. She had not protested when Marie-Claude had taken her to places where she herself was well known and could command the very best of attention. She had patiently tried on item after item, walked up and down on thick carpets, adopted strange poses so that Marie-Claude could run her practised eye over the cut and line of whatever garment was under review, stood patiently while she was pinned and tucked, and listened, fascinated, to the language of the dress floor and those who earned their living creating clothes for the rich.

‘Chérie,’ she said, startled by the sudden appearance of a pale face at the kitchen door. ‘You are awake so early?’

‘I’m sorry. You were enjoying the quiet,’ Clare said, apologetically. ‘I had a horrible dream and I couldn’t bear being alone. Today is the day.’

‘Oh, I
am
sorry, Clare. How could I have forgotten? Let me make us some fresh coffee. How soon can you ring your friend in Belfast?’

‘I don’t know,’ she said wearily, ‘I haven’t even
checked for British Summer Time. We might be an hour ahead in Paris. I can’t remember. Besides, it’s often ten o’clock before anything happens. And then I have to give Keith time to cycle back home.’

‘At nine-thirty I shall ring Gerard’s secretary. She is formidable. She has in her mind everything about the time, anywhere in the world. Now tell me about the dream,’ Marie-Claude said firmly, as she poured coffee for them both and concentrated her full attention on Clare’s pale and anxious face. ‘I’m not an expert on interpretation, but horrible dreams are always better when exposed to the light.’

The hours dragged by. Neither of them could think of anything but the need to make the phone call. They tried a walk in the garden, but found themselves hastening back to be near the phone.

‘Do try, Clare. I can’t bear to wait any longer,’ her friend declared as they came back upstairs to the apartment. ‘You should have asked your friend Keith to ring you.’

‘I didn’t know where I’d be,’ she replied honestly. ‘It’s awfully expensive to ring abroad. I couldn’t ask him to do that.’

Marie-Claude hadn’t thought of a young man not being able to afford a telephone call to Paris. She herself had never had to consider the limitations of being poor. It made her sad now and rather ashamed to think how unaware she’d been of her own good fortune. The beloved daughter of a successful businessman and now the wife of an equally successful stockbroker, she’d always been able to have whatever
she’d wished for.

She watched Clare dial the operator, stood restlessly by as she attempted to connect her. Clare put the receiver down and mimicked the prissy voice at the other end of the phone. ‘All the lines to London are occupied. Please try later.’

She tried three times more with no success.

‘Here, let me,’ said Marie-Claude furiously, as she took the phone from Clare’s hand.

Clare listened in amazement to a tone she’d never heard Marie-Claude use before. Her secretary had tried three times and been told there was no line available. It was outrageous. At the Banque Nationale one could not tolerate such poor service. Would she please ask her director to connect this call immediately. Yes, it was to Belfast. No, that was not in the Republique Irlandais, it was a part of Grande Bretagne and could be routed direct from London. Any further delay in this important call would not go unnoticed or unreported.

Marie-Claude handed back the receiver and Clare heard a sequence of clicks and buzzes.

‘Six four ate, seven five nine. Hallo?’

Clare’s heart sank. With that pronunciation of ‘eight’, it had to be Belfast, but if it was Keith’s mother, then he certainly wasn’t back yet, though it was now mid-morning.

‘Is that Mrs Harvey?’ she enquired politely.

‘Aye, ’tis. Wou’d that be Clare Hamilton?’

‘Yes, indeed it is. I wonder if I could speak to Keith.’

‘Ach, I’m sorry. He had to go to an interview for
a job. He said ye’d be ringin’. He was real sorry he couden stop. He left ye a message.’

There was a pause, and even on the thin, crackling line Clare could hear the mutters and scufflings as papers were sifted through.

‘Aye, I have it in ma han’.’

Clare braced herself. The silence continued. For one awful moment she thought the line had gone dead. Then the voice came through again more clearly than before.

‘Wou’d you just hold on a minit till I get ma glasses?’

Marie-Claude was signalling frantically to know what was happening. Clare shook her head in desperation, too anxious to speak.

‘Here yar,’ the voice echoed suddenly. ‘He says “Congratulations”. There was three firsts, Mary McCausland, Ernest Chambers an’ …I can’t read me own writin’.’ There was another pause. It seemed to go on for ever. ‘Ach, sure it says “Herself”. That’s why I coulden read it. I was wonderin’ what sort of a Christian name that was and no surname. Amn’t I stupid?’

Clare stammered and asked her to repeat the message, then she remembered to ask about Keith.

‘He got a two one and he’s well pleased. Why don’t I get him to give you a ring whin he comes in?’

‘Oh no, I couldn’t possibly trouble him. I’m in Paris.’

‘Paris? The dear save us. Sure I thought you’d just gone back up to your people in Armagh,’ she said,
horrified at the thought of the distance between them.

A few moments later, Clare put the phone down, not knowing whether to laugh or cry. In the end, she flung her arms round Marie-Claude’s neck and did both.

‘I got a first, Marie-Claude. I got a first. Can you
believe
it?’

‘Of course I can, chérie. Easily. However are we going to celebrate when I have no champagne in the fridge? We will simply have to go out to lunch when you’ve stopped crying,’ she said, quite unaware that her own cheeks were wet with tears.