The House with Blue Shutters (17 page)

His mum smiled.

‘I should say,’ said Alex that evening, ‘that the Sternbachs are “A Cut Above”.’

‘You’re a dreadful snob about Mondeos.’

‘Guilty as charged.’

‘Shall we switch to red?’

‘Thinking on it, you’re right. Maybe the PG white was a mistake. Do you think it looks mean?’

‘It was good enough for the Froggetts.’

‘Exactly,’ said Aisling, and everyone laughed.

Actually, Aisling thought, the Sternbachs had been most appreciative. Ella had said the bakery in the village looked lovely
and that she had heard the Saturday market was fabulous. She’d even noticed the bathrooms, remarking knowledgeably that they
were exceptional compared with what one usually found even in places that were supposed to be smart in France. Otto, the husband,
had remarked that the view across the valley, broken by the poplars on the river bank, reminded him of a Cézanne. Ella had
been wearing a very elegant pair of cream linen palazzo pants with beige suede ballerina flats, and a huge chunky silver necklace,
which always looked so wonderful on the kind of women they looked wonderful on. Aisling had experimented with the look herself,
but it had never got further than the bathroom mirror. Not the sort of thing one associated with Amsterdam somehow, but then
she probably got her clothes in Paris, or Italy even.

Richard and Oliver sat on the roof of the poolhouse. The PGs had the lights off. Richard was smoking a fag he’d sort of nicked
from Claudia, at least she’d left the packet on the table
and not said anything when she saw him take one. Olly had a drag because he’d threatened to tell otherwise, although it was
gross.

‘D’you think they’re sexing?’

‘Gross, they’re well old. Older than Jonathan and Aisling.’ Richard liked referring to his parents by their names.

There wasn’t much going on, but it was dark and they were away from the music and the wine jug on the terrace. ‘Kevin’s getting
an MBK,’ said Richard after a while.

‘Rice eater.’

‘So’s Honda, actually, dickhead.’

‘Claudia was crying today,’ added Oliver, to get back some ground, ‘I heard.’

‘You were spying on her, you dirty little bastard.’

‘Actually, I heard her through the door. I was only going to the loo. She was hysterical, practically.’

‘Prob’ly had a row with Alex.’

‘Prob’ly.’

Richard reluctantly ground out the cigarette and put the end deeply in the pocket of his shorts, to be wrapped in loo paper
and flushed away. ‘Alex knows piss anyway. He said their car,’ he jerked his head at La Maison Bleue, ‘was a three series.
As if.’

‘X5,’ said Oliver eagerly.

They were quiet for a bit. Richard said, ‘Kevin wouldn’t actually know if we said that car was our uncle’s, would he?’

‘It’s got a Dutch number plate. Dickhead.’ They rolled on the roof of the poolhouse, pretending to try to kick one another
in the balls.

There was a storm that night. As the two houses slept, the clouds banked thickly over the plain, bunching around the moon,
and the first smash of thunder came with a tearing sound, as though they were being peeled roughly from the sky. Claudia woke
with the lightning, a shaft as bright and quick as if someone had switched on the light. It felt suddenly colder, she reached
for the sheet where she had kicked it off, and pushed the hair from her eyes. There was a rustling sound outside, she thought
of an owl beating its wings against the shutters like an irritated ghost made suddenly corporeal, then she realized it was
the rain. She lay on her back and listened, counting between the claps of thunder and the lightning. Five at first, then three,
three again, then four, six as the storm travelled towards the Pyrenees and the rain picked up in the space it left, settling
into a steady rhythm like dropped needles. She thought of going outside, to stand on the balcony again and let the cool water
soak her skin, but the gesture seemed obvious even if it were performed only to herself, and she turned on her front, wrapping
her arms around the pillow, sending her ears away into the freshening dawn, far from the gargle of mucus in Alex’s throat
that slurped each time he inhaled.

It was a surprise, next morning, to see that the sky remained the mauve grey of skimmed milk, that the air was not soft and
rich over the saturated earth, but chill and thickened, a sullen day that looked unlikely to shift its mood. ‘Typical,’ said
Aisling as Jonathan came in with the duck bucket in his hand, looking foolish in wellingtons and shorts.

‘What is?’

‘This weather. On the Sternbachs’ first day.’

‘Well it’s not your fault. They’ll hardly hold you responsible. Anyway, it’ll burn off by this afternoon.’

Aisling felt like kicking him on his rubber shin. ‘It won’t.’

Jonathan put two large blue eggs in the basket on the dresser. ‘Suit yourself.’ He spent the morning in his study with the
door closed.

Aisling took a jar of last year’s apricot jam down to the guesthouse. She rapped on the glass door and called ‘
Bonjour
!’ Otto and Ella were looking tidy and composed, eating
pain aux raisins
, which had obviously been fetched that morning from Castroux.

‘You’re up early,’ exclaimed Aisling brightly, ‘I hope you slept well?’

‘Delightfully, thank you,’ replied Ella. These Dutch really did have fabulous English.

‘I feel dreadful about the weather. It’s been absolutely perfect up until now, almost too hot. It’s always the way, isn’t
it?’

Neither of them said anything, though Aisling fancied that Otto looked amused.

‘Well, I’d better get on.’

‘Thank you for the jam,’ said Otto after a swallow of coffee, ‘and please, we don’t mind the rain. In fact, we’re driving
to Monguèriac today, to go to the museum.’

It was unjust, thought Aisling, that the sun had shone so for the Froggetts. The pool would have to be skimmed, it was full
of all sorts of rubbish from last night, and that wasn’t nice for the Sternbachs, was it? Not that anyone else would think
of it. She could ask Alex maybe. Still, there was plenty to do, and bad weather was a good chance to catch up. If Alex did
the pool, Claudia could help her finish the cherry compote,
and the barn could do with a good tidy, the boys could do that. She felt purposeful, her irritation with Jonathan lifted,
but her sense of injustice returned when she got up to the house and saw Ginette’s bicycle outside the back door. ‘What now?’
she hissed to herself.

Ginette looked even more depressing than usual in a blue mackintosh on top of her overall and green plastic clogs. She was
talking in French to Claudia, who had a pink cashmere sweater over her pyjamas.

‘Good morning,’ said Aisling a bit tightly.

‘Morning,’ said Claudia in English, then turned back to Ginette. ‘That’s fine, really, I’ll be along about seven.’

‘Very kind,’ muttered Ginette, made a sort of bob at Aisling and scurried away.

‘Oh, I feel saintly, Aisling,’ Claudia smiled.

‘What did she want?’

‘Oh, it’s sweet really. She’s going to some knees-up in the village with your cleaning lady. Madame Lesprats? And anyway,
apparently she’s worried about leaving the old lady on her own, because it goes on quite long, the bingo or whatever, and
Mademoiselle Oriane gets a bit nervous, and she wanted to know if one of us could possibly look in and keep her company for
an hour. Poor thing, I doubt she gets out much around here.’

‘So?’

‘So I said I’d go. You can’t possibly, you’re much too busy, and I don’t mind a bit. Good practice for my French.’

Aisling felt unreasonably cheated. She had planned to be a bit annoyed with Claudia for presuming, and here the girl was doing
favours for old ladies. ‘Well, I do have a lot to get on
with today. The bad weather’s such a good chance to get caught up. Thanks.’

‘I feel so worthy I should feel guilty, really. And I can give you a hand this afternoon. I was going to suggest Alex drove
the boys into Landi, for an ice cream or something. They’ll only get on our nerves hanging about.’

Aisling felt played, although it was unfair. Still, perhaps she would get to sit down with her book for once. She brought
a box of novels and biographies back from England every time they went over, and they were lined up in the drawing room, making
her feel guilty. There was just so much to do in the country.

Claudia had to know how the old woman had known she was pregnant. Ginette had given her the opportunity, and it was always
nice to be praised for something that cost one no effort. Besides, the thought of an evening of Sternbach-speculation in the
kitchen was dreadful. It was pathetic the way Aisling got so involved with her guests, for better or worse, it made her life
seem impoverished, which Claudia supposed it was, stuck here with dreary Jonathan, but why be so transparent about it? Claudia
wanted to let Aisling know just how unimpressed she was by the Sternbachs, in the same way she thought she had given the impression
of not really noticing that the Froggetts were awful. That ‘Otto’ was a doctor and ‘Ella’ a painter could not have been less
interesting to Claudia, though the woman did seem to have nice clothes. She thought it vulgar of Aisling to make it obvious
that she had noticed what was obvious anyway, that the Sternbachs were rich. Were doctors very wealthy in Holland? Claudia
wondered why they
had come as boarders for their holiday when presumably they could have afforded something much smarter, and then felt irritated,
because that was the sort of thing Aisling might wonder about.

Ginette, in a drooping olive skirt and patterned blouse that did no more for her than the overall, was waiting anxiously at
the door when Claudia turned into the yard, warm from taking the steep road at a march, angrily combating her previous weakness.
She fussed about showing Claudia the tea things and explained that Claudia need only stay an hour or so, Oriane went to bed
early and she could manage for herself, it was just for a bit of company. Madame Lesprats arrived and honked imperiously,
there was a small crisis regarding the whereabouts of Ginette’s worn navy handbag, and they were off.

‘Have a lovely evening!’ called Claudia, waving at the angry little car. Indoors, the television was showing a quiz game.

‘Shall we turn this off?’ asked Claudia brightly.

‘If you like.’ Claudia did so, then sat down on one of the wooden dining chairs, dragging it towards the sofa. She was waiting
to see if Oriane said something surprising again, but the old woman looked at her mildly, without hostility or interest. Nothing
in the room seemed to have been touched, the harsh electric light was on, though it would be two hours before the sun moved.
A fire had been laid, but not lit, prepared with spills of glossy coloured paper. Johnny Hallyday’s sinister lizard face smiled
stiffly under a log. Claudia thought that perhaps she had not been recognized, and wondered how to explain who she was without
being rude. She began to talk about the drinks party at the chateau, thinking that would
interest Mademoiselle Oriane and also that it would remind her that she was Claudia, staying with Madame Harvey at Murblanc.
Oriane nodded along as Claudia talked of the garden and the wonderful view.

‘I used to work up there,’ she interrupted. Claudia’s French was not quite so good as to be able to make many distinctions
of timbre, but she thought Oriane had a nice voice, surprisingly deep and much younger than the rest of her.

‘Really?’

‘Yes, before the war.’

‘That must have been interesting.’

‘Not really. Why would it have been? I was a servant, I did the laundry and the ironing and I helped with the cleaning. There
was nothing interesting in all that.’

‘But the family, I meant. Didn’t they give parties, have guests to stay?’ The chateau was a coveting sort of place, no matter
how one tried to help it. It would have been fun to hear about its grandeur, but Oriane did not seem much interested in the
conversation. Old people were supposed to like telling stories.

‘Monsieu d’Esceyrac was away a lot, gone to Paris. There was the Marquise and her little boy, the Monsieur d’Esceyrac your
friends the Harveys are friendly with. I didn’t see Madame much. The house was lovely though, and I suppose there were the
usual things. Tennis, dancing. I didn’t see much of that, I just did my work and came home.’