‘Think of me sometimes.’
He felt a lump in his throat. ‘I surely will.’
A cloud had hidden the sun and the surface of the river was dark. The afternoon had passed and Robert rose, buttoning his jacket. As he had told Harry, he would miss Judith but he had to accept it was for the best. Now he went in search of her.
‘Listen, I want to get away from folks here for a couple of days. How about you and I make a trip to Deauville? We’ll have a swell weekend.’
She gasped. ‘Oh thank you, Robert, you’re a darling.’
– FORTY-ONE –
JUDITH
P
assage booked Mauritania September 17. All our love Mother and Father. Judith read the telegram once again. It took just two words to spell her defeat, the end of her dream. Passage booked.
Since its arrival the day before, delivered by a boy on a bicycle, she would have found it difficult to describe her feelings to anyone else, let alone herself. There was a kind of comfort, a letting go in her acceptance of her fate. At times, she even found herself thinking of her return to New York; a picture would come into her mind of the busy streets, the streetcars and stores. What new exhibitions would be on show at the Met, would Macy’s have their winter stock in? She imagined the excitement in the house on Madison Avenue, Mother engaged in long telephone calls with Charlie’s mother. Together they would accelerate the machinery, moving inexorably towards the wedding. What was Charlie feeling as it drew near? She had had no recent word from him.
As she walked through Giverny, she felt like a ghost, as if all that had happened was beginning to seem like a dream, or a story she might hear herself recount in the future. ‘I sat in Monet’s studio and talked to him of his Japanese prints. He told me about his life with Camille. He sketched me, Monet sketched me.’
If only she could see him once more and say a proper goodbye, she would have some sense of conclusion, but there had been no word from Blanche.
– FORTY-TWO –
ROBERT
T
here was a sense of ritual about his preparation of the automobile in readiness for the trip to Deauville. It seemed to Robert as if they were about to enact some rite of passage, complete the sequence that had begun on that June day at Vernon station. He remembered the cloudless sky, Judith dancing the Turkey Trot, her pleasure in the bright hollyhocks, the roses in their summer glory. It seemed appropriate she was leaving as everything began to fade.
As he washed the chassis of the De Dion-Bouton and polished her metal work until it was shiny bright, he was in melancholy mood. He felt stale and rather hopeless, wondering what lay ahead of him, as if Judith had infected him with her zest for life and without her, he would lapse back into the so-so painter who knew he would never go much further with his work.
‘I want to make my life a work of art,’ she had told him once. She did and wherever she went she would take that luminosity with her, the magnetism that made everyone look at her when she walked into a room, whereas he…
The sun caught the windscreen of the automobile and he turned to gaze at it. If there was one thing to gladden his heart it was this. What a piece of superb engineering: how she ran like clockwork, obedient to his touch, the sheer beauty of her. His mind turned to the account he had read of the marquis’ conception, how it had all began with a fascination with toys, albeit scientific ones. It read like a fairy story: a titled, wealthy man walking in Paris takes a turning off the rue de la Chapelle into little Passage de Léon. He sees a shop with a toy locomotive in the window and is intrigued. The two shopkeepers are engineers who have made a starvation living so far, but have dreams of building a steam car. They are delighted when the Marquis de Dion asks them to build another miniature. Eventually, the company is formed, De Dion-Bouton, and becomes the largest in the world, producing such vehicles as this little darling, renowned for their quality and reliability.
Robert gave the gleaming door handles a final wipe and stood back to admire his work. Perfect! She was a fitting carriage for this jaunt together. He was determined to show Judith everything, treat her like a princess; it would be such a thrill to be at the side of such an elegant, young woman. He could see them walking along the promenade, cheering on their horse at the races, then she in the Fortuny dress, stacking the chips in the casino. Of course, they would win. He would ask the manager of the Normandy Barrière whether the young lady might have a little tour. He had heard so much about the recently completed hotel with its half-timbered turrets and gables, making it resemble a grand English country house. He imagined her expression as they walked through those stately rooms and finished with a cocktail in the garden. He wanted her to have a weekend she would always remember.
– FORTY-THREE –
CLAUDE
P
re-dawn light slinks into his bedroom, enlivening the paintings on the wall. Their titles are a mantra in his mind: Haystacks, Gate onto Flowering Cherry Tree, Camille on her Death Bed. He heaves himself out of bed and pads to the window to watch as another day dawns, the garden gives itself a shake and reasserts its presence. A red stain spreads across the sky. Oh dear, rain on the way.
He dresses, choosing something suited to the city, a dark grey tweed, loosely woven, one of his favourites. A cravat? No. He opens the door of Alice’s bedroom but this morning it is not to say good morning to the empty bed but to take a chair and sit beside it. He has things he wants to tell her.
‘Listen, cherie, and tell me what you think of this. I am going to Paris today to see that nice specialist you always thought so much of. The old Panhard is coming out of hibernation and Silvain will drive me there.’
He stares at the white bedcover with its broderie anglaise edging. The room seems preternaturally silent and he yearns to hear her voice once more, reminding him of how she fell in love with that first Panhard and throve on speed.
‘Remember the 937-YZ? All of us muffled up in those fur cloaks I brought back from Norway, gloved to the elbows, and those goggles? What a sight we must have looked. Those picnics!’
He sees the enormous wicker basket stuffed with enough food to feed a siege. ‘Remember the terrible roar of that wall of water, rolling in across the mouth of the Seine; the equinoctial tide we went to see? And, oh Alice, remember that journey through Spain to stand before Las Meninas, that brushwork, the harmony of colour, shapes and individuals?’
How long has he sat here, lost in the past? Claude pauses by Alice’s photograph, brings it to his lips with a kiss. ‘How I wish you would be there beside me today, my love,’ he murmurs and leaves the room.
– FORTY-FOUR –
BLANCHE
W
ith a shiver, Blanche moved from shadow into sunlight and stood with her arms hugged across her chest. It was beginning to be fresh in the early mornings. So he had gone off to Paris; in spite of all her advice, he had decided to take no notice. When you think about it, why not? Isn’t that what he has always done, right from the time he was a child who neglected his homework and filled his notebooks with caricatures? He had told her often enough, and of the day he had packed up his paintings and left home to board the train for Paris. She imagines him, a disorganised youth, spending too much time in the beer hall, but set on the uncertain path of his own choosing. Women saved him, of course, Aunt Marie-Jeanne buying him out of the army, then Camille, his muse and lover. Blanche remembers Camille’s wonderful eyes and the unconscious way she took a pose. She finds it difficult even now to accept her father began an affair with Maman before his wife’s death. Wilful, always wilful, and she made to feel it was her duty to look after him, that was until the arrival of Judith.
In spite of herself, she had been affected by the young woman’s lack of guilt, that New World culture, which seemed to pay scant attention to duty. Judith. Had she been too hard on the girl? Was there something in her last, cruel words, accusing Blanche of being middle aged and clinging to any remnants of power? Sh
e wondered when she would depart on her journey back to America. There was still time to allow her to come to the house, one last time. Maybe, if she had told her father about the letter, he might have stayed, instead of dashing off to Paris. Was she paying him back for his treatment of John Leslie?
There was no doubt, Judith’s influence had not been entirely bad, had given him back his courage. Again she had this sense of indifference, why should she care so much?
As she entered the house, there came a tremendous crash from the kitchen, an exclamation. Blanche hurried in that direction and found Annette staring down to where a tray of cutlery lay, strewn over the floor.
‘Well really Annette, what is all this?’ she began, then realised the girl was unduly upset.
She screwed her fists into her eyes and moaned, rocking her body backward and forward.
‘What is it? Blanche cried. ‘What is it?’
Annette continued to rock and Blanche took her arm and led her gently to a chair. ‘Sit down for a moment and tell me what this is about?’
‘Lilli,’ the girl stuttered. ‘Lilli.’
‘What about her?’
Annette gazed at her and Blanche noticed what beautiful eyes she had, hazel with a touch of green and docile as a baby animal.
‘She’s taken to ordering me about, madame, getting me to carry things for her,’ she laughed shortly. ‘Anything that’s too heavy for her precious arms. A madame, she has become.’
‘I haven’t heard about any of this,’ Blanche remarked, thinking that it was some time since she had had any real conversation with Lilli. ‘Why should she be behaving so?’
Annette dug in her apron pocket and brought out a large checked handkerchief, that looked like a man’s. She blew her nose loudly.
‘Fancies herself, she does. Now there’s an engagement in the offing, she thinks she’s the cat’s whiskers.’
An engagement! So she had decided to forgive Michel, forgiven him and never said a word to Blanche.
Annette was quietly sobbing again, muffled by the checked handkerchief. ‘It will never happen for me,’ she wept. ‘Not with my foot, I’ll die an old maid.’
‘Oh little one.’ Blanche laid her hand on the other’s shoulder. ‘Who knows in this life? Your knight may still come along and sweep you off your feet.’ Oh dear, she thought, perhaps not the best phrase to use.
‘It’s not what my mother says,’ muttered Annette. ‘She says she will have me at home all her life; that it is her punishment for something she did when she was a girl.’
Blanche patted Annette’s shoulder before moving away. The thought of Lilli moving serenely towards marriage reminded her of Suzanne and her own reaction when her sister was making wedding plans. She understood exactly how Annette was feeling now, disadvantaged, lacking in some vital respect. Oh, the inferiority of the unmarried state.
– FORTY-FIVE –
ROBERT
P
ale early morning light, ground mist rising from the road, trunks of trees ghostly in the forest. A warming of the atmosphere, sun filtering through the mist, pink on the bark of a silver birch, orange across a farmhouse roof top; glimpses of river like polished silver, moving cloud patches the meadows, extinguishing, illuminating a field of scarlet poppies. A road among trees, shaft of light through leaves, dapple of sun and shadow on the road ahead.
Mist, piercing light, enchanted, magic, dreamlike. Road empty, dashing along. Autumn, roots, branches; sky, bright, beautiful… clutch glides beneath the hand, taking wing. Impressions. Impressionism. Optical mixing, putting touches of pure colour, side by side, the brain blends the colours to obtain the effect.
The girl’s flowery presence, carnation, iris, vanilla, speaking, singing:
‘Oh go ’way man I can hypnotise dis nation,
I can shake de earth’s foundation wid de Maple Leaf Rag
Oh go ’way man just hold you breath a minit,
For there’s not a stunt that’s in it with the Maple Leaf Rag.’
Laughing.
Forest again. Gloomy, trees pressed close together, undergrowth, mysterious, monochrome; light, rushing towards the light, dazzle.
‘Robert!’ Horror.
Robert opened his eyes and found himself lying on the side of the road, his face pressed into a mound of leaves. He did not know how he had got there, remembering only a thump then nothing after that. Raising his head, he saw a tractor skewed to the left and two men climbing out of it. He heard their voices, watched them running towards his overturned car.
Judith? He pushed himself up to a sitting position and then, when it appeared he was uninjured, managed to get to his feet. Giddiness for a moment, but he closed his eyes and took deep breaths. What about Judith?
The men were standing by the car and he hurried across to join them. Gazing down at the huddled figure, Robert noticed marks on the pale beige fabric, recognised it as the same two piece she had worn on her arrival at Vernon Station.
He knelt down beside her and took her hand, turning it over to feel her pulse. Thank God! She was alive.
‘Shall we help move her out of the road?’ One of the men, the older asked.
‘No, it’s better she stays here until we can get help. If she’s broken anything, it will only make it worse.’ Robert realised he must take command. ‘You…’ pointing to the younger man, who he now saw was scarcely more than a boy, ‘can run for help, a doctor and alert the hospital while you, m’sieur, can flag down traffic, while I stay with the young lady.’
He fetched the tartan car rug, scarcely taking in the ugly dent in his beloved’s bonnet, the caved in metalwork. While he covered Judith, he gazed at her face, shocked by its ghastly colour. There was a flask in the car but he pondered the wisdom of giving her brandy. He didn’t know what to do, that was what was so awful. He had never been in a situation like this before and felt useless. If only help would come quickly. She still showed no sign of regaining consciousness so he sat there, chafing her hands between his own. After what seemed an age, Judith opened her eyes. He saw her pupils widen, her gaze flicker about fearfully, then up to his face.
‘What happened?’
‘Shh, it’s okay.’
‘But where am I?’
She was struggling to sit up but he held her down.
‘Just stay where you are, help is on the way.’
With a sigh, she let her body subside and he took her hands again. ‘It was a stupid old accident,’ he told her. But we’ve survived, he thought. Thank God, we’ve both survived.
‘A tractor,’ she muttered, ‘now I remember, it was coming towards us.’
Robert saw that moment again, as his eyes adjusted to the light and the tractor had seemed to appear out of nowhere, too late for him to turn the wheel, take the automobile out of its path. Judith was trying to shift her body.
‘Try to keep still,’ Robert urged. ‘Just for a little while.’
‘Robert, I must. My legs seem to have gone to sleep.’
* * *
Although Robert protested he felt fine, the doctor insisted he stay in hospital overnight and he was put unwillingly to bed.
‘You’ve had a bad shock, M’sieur Harrison,’ the nurse who brought him supper insisted. ‘If we let you go home, we couldn’t be sure you were resting.’
Robert eyed the sausage cassoulet. ‘I don’t think I can cope with that.’
‘Then eat as much as you can. It’s good food and shouldn’t be wasted.’
The nurse had a rosy countrywoman’s face and small, dark eyes. Her apron crackled as she moved. She bustled round him, propping his pillows and setting a table across his knees.
‘How is the young lady?’ Robert asked ‘Mademoiselle Goldstein. She was in the accident, too.’
The nurse straightened up and looked at him. ‘I don’t know, M’sieur Harrison. The doctor is going to examine her again shortly, I believe.’
‘Her legs,’ he persist
ed, ‘There is nothing wrong with her legs, I trust.’
As he spoke, he noticed a change in the other’s expression, her gaze shied away from meeting his.
‘Too early to say, m’sieur.’
He slept badly. The ward was noisy and there was activity throughout the night, it seemed. Sometimes, he glanced across to the lamp lit night table and saw the nurse seated there, reading. Somewhere in this hospital, Judith also lay. Was she awake too, thinking as he was of where they should be, what they would be doing? For a moment he fantasised, creating an alternative scenario, the drive ending as the automobile entered the town, stopping outside the hotel he had chosen, their stroll along the promenade, the sun sparkling on the sea. He imagined her arm through his, her voice, ‘Gosh, Robert, isn’t this swell?’ Staring into the darkness, it seemed to him the accident was a dream from which he would awake.
‘Nurse, nurse!’ A call from the other end of the ward and footsteps passing his bed brought him back to reality.
The following morning, when he was up and dressed, he asked to see Judith. The nurse had gone off duty, replaced by a younger, prettier one.
‘I’ll have to ask Dr Brown,’ she said. ‘She didn’t have a very good night.’
Dr Brown, also quite young and wearing spectacles, invited Robert into his office. He appeared ill at ease, taking off the spectacles only to put them on again.
‘It’s early days,’ he began.
‘So everybody keeps telling me. Can you explain?’
‘Mademoiselle Goldstein is under observation. There appears to be injury to her legs. Now whether this is temporary trauma or something more sinister…’
Robert felt his heart race. ‘What do you mean? What are you telling me?’
Dr Brown brought out a folded handkerchief and began to polish his spectacles. ‘I am sorry, M’sieur Harrison, at the moment, the muscles in the young lady’s legs appear affected, it is what we call flaccidity.’ His eyes without the spectacles were blue and candid. ‘There could have been some damage to the lower motor neurones which, in turn, could lead to paralysis.’
Monet's Angels Page 32
