The House with Blue Shutters (5 page)

‘Well done, William!’ answered the priest heartily, and Oriane spoke again more quickly now, and again the boy seemed to make
sense of her, for he put down the rattle and sat quietly, staring placidly at his sister.

Oriane made no explanation for him, as though it were perfectly usual that this dumb child might, after a fashion, speak,
and switched to French. Her accent was heavy, with the thin, strained ‘i’ sound short and mean, as was typical of the region,
but her grammar was good.

‘Please sit down, Father. Can I serve you a glass, a small glass, of wine? We have plenty left over from—’ she breathed, recovered
herself, ‘Madame Nadl was very kind, we have a whole jug.’

This was the right form, and it amused Père Guillaume to see this child so gravely observe it. He accepted the wine, of which
he would taste, as was his habit, one or two polite sips. This practice saved him, he thought, both from insulting his parishioners,
to whom a refusal would be a serious breach of etiquette, and from falling into the bibulous habits so distressingly associated
with country priests. Oriane poured the wine from a glazed pot, lifting it effortfully with both hands, and then sat down
at the table facing him, her hands still in her skirt.

‘How have you been, Oriane?’ asked the priest kindly.

‘Well, Father, I could not truthfully say well, of course, but I think I am managing. There’s a lot of work, but I’m used
to that.’

He had not expected such containment. Perhaps she might weep, ask for help, advice, suffer, but she was measured, strangely
dignified, not pathetic at all.

‘Have you been able to think, my child, of what you might do?’

There was a pause, her eyes passed over the room, over William. ‘Yes, Father. I am going to stay here and take care of my
brother. I went up to the chateau yesterday, and they’ll take me as an out-servant, to help in the kitchen and the laundry.
Cathérine Nadl works there already. Madame Nadl says she will keep an eye on William, but I think, in time,’ and here she
looked hopeful, childish for a moment, ‘that I can teach him how to be useful, carrying things and so on, and he might be
able to help, with simple things. I can manage the farm in the evenings. I’m going to let the back field to the Nadls, so
I shan’t have to worry about that.’

‘Let it? Oriane you can’t, that is, the law won’t allow you to do such things. You are what is called a minor, you can’t just—’

She cut him off, not boldly or impertinently, but precisely. ‘Forgive me, Father, I don’t mean to be rude, but it is mine
isn’t it? Mine and William’s, the house and the land? Monsieur Nadl says that it can be done legally, with papers.’

‘I’m sure he does,’ said the priest drily.

‘And if I can’t yet, about the field I mean, then it can go to grass and I can still live here, can’t I?’

‘No. It’s not right, not decent. You are very brave, Oriane, but you are too young.’

She was quiet, thinking. ‘If my mother was still, still here, then I would do exactly the same things that I do now. I can
do everything, really. I do the goats and the chickens, and the vegetables, and I can cook, I wash the clothes, everything.
I’ve always done it. And I am not leaving William, or putting him into a hospital, they do terrible things there, they cut
pieces out of people’s brains and take photographs of them, and it’s not a sin to stay in your own house, you never said it
was!’

The tears were starting, her lower lip pulled tight against her teeth in an effort to stop them falling. Père Guillaume felt
it was time to be firm. ‘I am here to help you, not to listen to silliness, Oriane. Now, there’s a place in Monguèriac for
you, where you can receive a good education, and find a better way to take care of yourself and William than going into service.
Wouldn’t you like that?’

Oriane Aucordier turned up her face to the priest and she wept at him. She did not cry like a woman. She did not snuffle shamefacedly
into a handkerchief or pass a grubby sleeve across
smudged and coarsened eyes, or grab mortifyingly at his shoulder. There was a pure quality to her beseeching, neither affected
nor ashamed. She let the water stream defiantly from her black eyes and down her cheeks, so pale the skin, grained fine as
expensive soap, wept like a statue, like a miracle.

Père Guillaume took out his handkerchief, and she wiped her face, but did not duck her head away. She handed him back the
bunched wet cloth, and said nothing.

‘Let us pray together, my child,’ he said, and she folded her hands obediently on the table, but he knew, and she knew, that
she had won.

The Froggetts were not expected until six, and Claudia appeared to be reading by the pool. Jonathan often felt vague when
Aisling was gone, as though she drew the energy of the house, its point, away with her. He thought he should ask Alex to accompany
him in his appointed task for the afternoon, driving to the co-op at Saintonge to collect the wine, the PG white, which they
often actually drank themselves, and the rich, heavy local red about which Jonathan invariably remarked to visitors, as he
poured it from one of Aisling’s big white china jugs, that it really deserved an
appellation contrôllée
. Wine was something the PGs didn’t seem to understand, they preferred lugging precarious bags of bottles from the supermarket,
regarding the idea of wine
en vrac
as dirty and industrialized. Jonathan took pleasure in loading up his tenlitre containers, their plastic moulded in an utterly
unconvincing and yet somehow authentic imitation of wood, the two funnels, one stained dark berry-colour, and their
loyalty card, an innovation recently introduced by Madame Chaveau, and of which she was touchingly proud.

It was a short drive, and Jonathan spent it informing Alex about the various grape varieties of the region. Alex listened
peaceably, storing the information for production later over a wine list. He imagined himself presenting a bottle of Madiran
to Henry, saying, ‘You really ought to try this. Quite as much depth as a burgundy, really smooth. My brother’s a bit of a
wine buff, lives over there.’ In the airy, corrugated iron shed, so unsympathetic to paying guests, Jonathan filled up his
flagons from a hosepipe. ‘We’ve got guests arriving tonight, so I’m filling up!’ he remarked brightly to Madame Chaveau, but
he spoke rather too quickly, his French falling over itself in his effort to impress Alex. She looked at him as though she
had never seen him before.

‘You know, at Murblanc. We’ve got guests.’ He waved a flagon encouragingly.

‘That will be fourteen euros sixty, please,’ said Madame Chaveau, pressing a button on her computer and presenting Jonathan
with a briskly printed receipt, which also gave the price in francs.

Jonathan suggested going into the village for a beer at the café. He did not tell Alex that he sometimes went there with the
boys to play pétanque, and that it had really taken quite a few visits for the owner to realize they weren’t French. There
was no one to say hello to today anyway, because the bar was empty. It was not Castroux’s most attractive building, a newish
two-storey house in yellow plaster with a concrete terrace scratched out from the bus stop. Posters of women in frilly lingerie
astride violently coloured Japanese motorbikes
adorned the walls. ‘Bit early for a drink around here,’ said Jonathan as they carried their demis briefly through the sharp
light to a table in the shade of the plastic awning, ‘only tourists have nothing better to do.’

‘Good beer,’ offered Alex politely.

Jonathan and Alex were essentially uninterested by one another. The ten-year gap in their ages meant they had never been companions,
playfellows. Jonathan had been married with his own business and two children when Alex left university, and was perfectly
aware that if he saw more of his brother now than he had when he lived in England, it was because Alex thought Murblanc a
smart place to invite girls. Jonathan felt affectionate towards his brother, and they did not bore one another, letting Aisling
take the burden of conversation and confining their own to comments about cars, Alex’s work at the bank, Jonathan’s boys,
and sports. They both supported Chelsea. Alex had given Jonathan quite a profitable tip about some shares in a Moroccan mining
company a few years ago; Alex played the metropolitan mover and shaker to Jonathan’s country squire. They did not investigate
their mutual belief in these roles.

‘So,’ said Jonathan, ‘here’s to the joys of marriage.’

Alex took this defensively. ‘I really am sure, you know. Claudia’s a wonderful girl.’ He paused, coy with sincerity. ‘I love
her very much.’

‘Of course you do,’ said Jonathan quickly, ‘she seems very nice, attractive, bright.’

They sipped their drinks.

‘Do you know her family?’

‘The father’s dead. Claudia’s an only child and her mother
lives in Spain. They don’t seem very close. I had lunch with her, the mother, when she was over for a weekend. She’s fine.’

‘Selling the flat?’

‘Claudia wants us both to. I’d rather hang on, to be honest, see what the market’s going to do.’

‘You think you’ll make more if you wait?’

Alex told Jonathan about a friend of his who had made a fortune with two ex-council properties on a buy-to-let mortgage in
Hackney. Jonathan asked which areas he thought were up-and-coming, Alex talked about nought per cent finance deals on prospective
rental properties, and the advantages of living a bit further out. They finished their beer and had another. It was a very
satisfactory conversation.

The Glovers came to supper on Saturday evening. They lived in a little stone barn at Saintonge, part of what had once been
a pig farm. Charlotte, who used to teach ceramics at a College of Further Education, had cleverly turned one of the sties
into a kiln. Malcolm had worked in a bank.

‘Oh God!’ laughed Claudia charmingly, ‘I came here to escape from bankers!’

Malcolm Glover looked a little offended.

‘Who were you with?’ asked Alex, certain that they would know someone in common. Malcolm explained that he had been a branch
manager at the HSBC in Tunbridge Wells. Claudia stopped herself from saying how funny, I didn’t think anyone truly came from
Tunbridge Wells.

Malcolm smiled and said, ‘Disgusted of Tunbridge Wells?’

‘You must show Claudia my jug, Aisling,’ said Charlotte, later.

Aisling went indoors and returned with a green jug. ‘How pretty,’ Claudia exclaimed. ‘What kind of a glaze did you use to
get that effect of depth?’

‘Well,’ answered Charlotte, ‘the colours here are so inspiring. I made a series called seasons, you see, each inspired by
the different colours of the seasons, and this jug is “June” for the colours of the leaves when they are so full on the trees.’

Malcolm said, ‘Contented of Tunbridge Wells, I should think. I don’t know how you do it, Aisling. I wish Charlotte could cook
like you!’ Everyone laughed, this was a familiar topic.

Aisling arranged her face. ‘But Charlotte’s cassoulet is divine. I can never get that depth of flavour. Do you use a special
pot?’

Aisling had cooked individual goat cheese soufflés, a Portuguese-inspired fish stew with pancetta and chickpeas, and the pistachio
custard. The Froggetts had not seemed distressed by the baked peaches, though the elder daughter was a vegan, which was a
bore. She had decided that she really disliked Claudia, and listening to her make poor Charlotte look small was in some way
satisfactory. Claudia drank a lot, she thought, finishing her aperitif before anyone else, and knocking back Armagnac like
a man. This was also satisfactory. Aisling did not particularly like her friend Charlotte, when it came to it, she found her
woolly, though she was certainly more interesting than Malcolm, but then living abroad did mean that one had to find one’s
friends where one could, and poor Charlotte had a kind heart.

Malcolm and Charlotte made love vigorously on the sofa in their converted barn. They liked it there, because Malcolm
could enter Charlotte from behind while her head was propped comfortably over the back. Afterwards, Malcolm lit a lavender
candle and poured them out a glass of whisky to share. The Glovers had very little money. Charlotte lay naked on the ethnic
cushions, stroking Malcolm’s shoulder and occasionally raising her head to give it a soft, clinging kiss. Malcolm stroked
her plump tanned thigh.

‘Aisling hates that Claudia girl,’ said Charlotte, ‘I could tell.’

‘What did you think of her, wise beloved?’

‘I thought,’ said Charlotte, raising her head, ‘that she seemed terribly unhappy. But then who wouldn’t be, engaged to that
awful Alex?’

‘He seemed sound enough.’

‘Exactly, darling,’ said Charlotte. The Glovers smiled at one another in the candlelight.

Claudia had decided to tell Alex about the baby on Monday. They would go to dinner at a restaurant that Aisling had recommended
in Landi, and she would tell him over coffee. She would say, ‘Darling, we must give Aisling a night off,’ and then she would
tell him. Once she had done so, she thought, it would be irrevocable. Claudia had no illusions that she was doing anything
but wrong. The baby ought to have a father, she said to herself, and Alex would do very well. He really did like children,
always asking Jonathan about the boys, he wanted to marry her, as she had known he would the first time she had dinner with
him, and he had not the imagination for flamboyant or humiliating infidelity. Claudia’s father had been exuberantly unfaithful
to her mother, and though Claudia had to some extent sympathized with his motivations, they
had caused complications. The Wessons had divorced eventually. Claudia’s mother had moved to Spain, becoming in the process,
Claudia thought, rather vulgar, and then Claudia’s father had died. Her mind shied from that, with Alex sleeping next to her,
his arm ironically protective across her waist. Her mother played golf a good deal.

Alex began to snore. Snot gurgled in his throat and Claudia wanted to kick him. She lifted his arm gently away from her and
he turned over, quiet. Claudia turned too, shoving the sheet away from her and dangling her feet into the coolness, but it
was no good, she was awake. The wide varnished planks of the floor were cool under her feet as she found her cigarettes and
lighter on the bureau, and crossed the landing, a spectre, she thought, in her white pyjamas. From their bedroom, three crooked
steps twisted to the drawing room, where the balcony doors were open to the air. Claudia sat cross-legged on the broad stone
parapet, not yet cool in the night. She was surprised by the moonlight, real silver moonlight, sharpening the white edges
of the house and filling the lawn with deep, reptilian shadow. She could pick out the lustre on the shutters of the guesthouse,
and beyond that the square tower of the church over the river at Castroux, backed with bright stars. There were no stars in
London, she thought, but here she could see what few constellations she recognized, the Plough and Orion, and trails of unknown
others, childishly abundant, so clear she thought she fancied she could see moon-dust hovering in their radiance. There were
no lights in the valley, but the night was not peaceful. There were owls here, peacocks, Aisling said, in the garden of the
chateau, boar and deer that sometimes came to drink from the swimming
pool, foxes. She tucked her hair behind her ears to prevent it falling into the flame of her lighter, and as her thumb clicked
the little bevelled wheel there was a rustling from the trees at the end of the lawn. Claudia held her breath, excited. There
was something big there. She held the unlit cigarette and peered into the trees, half expecting to see a figure emerge, some
terrible moon-faced idiot from the village creeping around the house, or a mysterious man, secret and purposeful in the shadows.
There was no more sound. Claudia felt foolishly disappointed, as if she were on a safari and had missed a glimpse of a lion
or giraffe. She lit her cigarette.