Plain Jane Wanted

by Rose Amberly

* * *

  To give credit where credit was due, his father had swallowed his shock very well when George walked in behind the two officials. But seeing his father at the centre of the dining room table surrounded by business papers, it was George and not his father who was surprised.

  He couldn’t remember the last time he’d seen his father wear his seigneur’s sash and medals. Easter Sunday, of course, he’ll have been at the formal service in the church. But why hasn’t he changed? There had to be a reason his father needed the appearance of authority for this meeting. He certainly looked formidable. Was that why it was scheduled for today? So his father would have an excuse to wear his sash?

  “Gentlemen, I see you have taken the opportunity to share your views with my son.” The old man spoke loud and bright. Only George heard the uncertainty, only George realized the phrasing was deliberate. His father couldn’t be sure if George was here because Morris or Sweeny had contacted him beforehand and canvassed his support.

  Sweeny blurted the truth. “We haven’t had a chance. We only ran into him over the bridge.”

  And George saw his father’s subtle, almost invisible relief. He’s a wily fox, my dad, I forgot.

  An hour later, George stifled a yawn. He hadn’t slept since Friday night, and even that had been three hours. After the two days he’d just had, the last thing he needed was a long, boring meeting about a building licence for some garment manufacturer. So he had taken a back seat, and whenever Morris tried to draw him in, to ask questions to which George couldn’t possibly know the background, he simply inclined his head and said, “I agree with my father.”

  He allowed the talk to go over his head while scanning his emails on his phone. Arguments and counter arguments went round in circles, more boring than watching paint dry.

  He scratched the back of his neck, then remembered Millie’s hands clasped there, pulling his head down. Muscular memory, unlike his brain, didn’t obey his orders—his hips still felt fused to her body, wet heat and motion, his hands under her knees, pushing them up. He only had to move his tongue inside his mouth to taste her again—

  “The workforce is mostly women from rough neighbourhoods and ethnic minorities,” Morris was saying. “They probably need preferential terms?”

  Something in Morris’ tone, the way he phrased the question, rang distant alarm bells. George kept his eyes on his phone, but his attention was now fully focussed on the discussion in the room.

  Something inside him, a sixth sense, was telling him to jump in and interrupt. But say what? He’d missed chunks of the discussion.

  “I’m not allowing it,” Du Montfort replied. “A gaggle of immigrant women with thieving husbands and delinquent children coming to ruin the island? Out of the question.”

  George winced. His father was seventy-one, and back in the 1940s when he was born, racism and sexism were considered good European values. He had a wide reputation for political incorrectness, and everyone knew of his quick temper.

  Morris had clearly manipulated the old man into ill-advised words. “As you wish,” he now said with oily politeness. “But I suspect the investors will take us to court for discrimination. I hope Glinn-Etsell don’t have good litigators.”

  Bloody hell. Glinn-Etsell? That’s who the investors were? George knew of them, an arm of a multi-national corporation. Calling them good litigators was like calling Godzilla an irritated lizard. He remained perfectly still, but his mind worked furiously.

  A discrimination case would not be against the island’s municipal administration; it would be against his father personally.

  He’d be disgraced in the press. Racist Lord Says No Jobs For Black Women, Evil Du Montfort, Queen Must Renounce Count Dracule of La Canette.

  What a way for his father to end his tenure as seigneur.

  That’s why Sweeny was here. Morris needed a witness to any indictable comments. They had his father over a barrel now; he would have to agree to the deal or face prosecution.

  “Let them do their worst,” his father said irritably. “I’ve made my position clear. This meeting is at an end.” His father knew. He didn’t show it, but for a fleeting moment, their eyes met and George saw the deep worry behind his father’s temper. The discussion had gone on for so long; he’d become tired and slipped up. Clearly, Morris had planned it that way.

  Why was he playing dirty? What was in it for him?

  “Just a minute, Father.” George kept his voice innocent. “I wonder if we can negotiate with Glinn-Etsell through my connections. I can probably strike a new deal with them.”

  The smile slipped from Morris’ face. “I don’t think we can do that. I mean they can’t.” He looked to Sweeny for help.

  But the other man looked confused.

  Morris tried again. “They wouldn’t want to, because…” he said, panic creeping into his voice. “Because they have already started the deal through the official channels here.”

  So, Morris was worried he’d be cut out of the deal? Got you, you vile hyena.

  “Morris?” George pinned him with a stare. “I wonder if you would help me in this.”

  “Of course, but how?” Morris seemed desperate to salvage something of the deal for himself.

  “There was a case against Glinn-Etsell in Holland,” George said, “for offering kickbacks.” Actually there wasn’t, but there was no way that Morris, a small provincial office-jockey, would know.

  Morris’ face turned an ugly shade of ash.

  “Since then, Glinn-Etsell have been at pains to demonstrate they are above suspicion.” George continued. “So, I would like you, Morris, and please ask Sweeny to help, I’d like you to investigate if there’s been any backroom deals here.”

  “I’m sure there aren’t,” Morris said with huge emphasis. “We have nothing like that in our administration.”

  “I’m pleased to hear it. But run the investigation anyway. I’d like to assure our new investors that we, too, are above suspicion. In the meantime I will draft a new directive that anyone working for La Canette Municipality caught accepting perks, back-handers, commission or sweeteners of any kind will be dismissed for gross misconduct.”

  Morris was now green.

  Sweeny jumped in. “I’ll be glad to see it through and will report to you ASAP.”

  “Wonderful.” George stood up. “Gentlemen, it has been a pleasure as always. Have a good day.”

  He watched the two men gather their files and leave. If these small-time swindlers think they can exploit a disabled old man, then they should think again.

  George blew out a long breath; he was bone tired, and his legs moved like lead. Sleep, I need a pillow and clean sheets.

  “Your room’s ready,” his father said. “We’ll talk when you’ve had some rest.” George’s eyes snapped to his father. Could the old man read minds?

  His father could no doubt read the look in George’s eyes because he suddenly laughed. “You think I don’t know what happens on my own island, my boy? We’ve been expecting you since you got off the ferry yesterday.”

  “I went—” George stopped himself; he didn’t want to discuss last night with his father.

  “I know where you went, and by the look of you, I know she sent you away. We won’t talk of it now. Go and sleep.” And his father made himself busy shuffling the papers on the table in front of him.

  George had no intention of talking of it now or later. He left the room and climbed the stairs to his old bedroom.

  * * *

  Easter Monday. The Garden, afternoon

  It was one of those days George loved about spring in the English Channel. It was sunny but gentle, cool like a caress. The formal gardens were in full bloom, especially around the terrace where he sat with his father for afternoon tea. He took another bite of the hot cross bun and chewed, watching his father read the paper.

  “S
o, ‘trouble at t’mill’ yesterday.” George used the nineteenth-century cliché, a half joke to open what must be a difficult topic for his father.

  “There’s always ‘trouble at t’mill’ here,” his father answered from behind the newspaper.

  I bet there is. Now they think you’re alone. George could see his father the way others must see him. Du Montfort looked older and visibly tired. The seigneurship should’ve been a merely ceremonial position by now. Yet he’d been forced to take an active role in running the affairs of the island at an age when most people enjoyed retirement. Worse, the old man was out of his depth with modern legislation, and George’s absence left him vulnerable. How long before another Morris or another Sweeny succeeded in catching him out in a mistake?

  “Father.” He waited for his father to look at him over the top of the newspaper. “I can arrange my work commitments so I can come here once a month and deal with administration. If you’d like me to.”

  “If you can find the time.” His father’s words were relaxed, carefully indifferent, but in his eyes, just for an instant, a different expression blazed and was quickly hidden. An expression that tugged at George’s heart.

  “I’ll speak with Rob Matthews and the agent, and I’ll set up an office at the town hall again from next month.”

  He braced himself for a return to the old spiky question of inheriting the seigneurship. If his father said anything about that, George was ready to withdraw his offer and return to London.

  His father nodded. George waited for the usual tirade. But nothing came.

  Stop pretending you have nothing to say, Dad. I know you. “Another cup of tea?” George asked.

  “Yes, please,” his father said from behind the paper.

  George filled his father’s cup.

  Still nothing. As if they had nothing else to discuss, is if this were just a lazy spring afternoon in a normal family.

  “Why did you give her Mum’s cottage?” The question had been biting the edges of his artificial calm.

  His father went very still for several moments before he finally lowered the paper, folded it and put it away. Then he looked up and met his son’s eyes.

  “It wasn’t your mother’s cottage. She never wanted it. It was your grandfather’s.”

  “He left it to her in his will,” George said.

  “Who else was he going to leave it to? The plumber? She was the only family he had left.”

  George scrubbed his fingers into his scalp, trying to rally his thoughts. There was an important argument here. “Did you give it to Millie to prove something to me?” The old mistrust simmered behind his words.

  “I gave Blue Sage Bay to Millie because it was the only piece of property I had. Everything else was tied up in trust. You should know that. You did the tying up yourself.” His father glared at him.

  George wasn’t going to be distracted into discussing the trust again. “But why did you give it to her?”

  “What possible gift would be worthy of the woman you wanted to marry? A CD? A personalised coffee mug?”

  This was like a game of cat and mouse, trying to pin blame on the man who had cheated and broken his mother.

  “You didn’t even tell Millie the truth about how you came to own Le Cou,” George pressed his father.

  “Of course not. Because she’d have refused it.”

  There was good logic here, logic which was hard to argue with. But behind it, there was another truth, a deeper, more painful truth.

  “It was my mother’s property, her refuge, from you.” The words were out of his mouth before he could stop them. He did his best to keep his voice level, but grief and anger, long bottled up, rose in his chest.

  “Is that what she told you?” His father’s blue eyes turned hard.

  “She didn’t have to. I knew.”

  “You knew what?” Challenge flamed in his words. “How long did you know her, boy? You were barely out of playschool. I knew her for twenty years, inside and out. She was my wife.”

  George was out of his chair and had closed the distance to his father. He towered over him, breathing hard. His hands trembled, and he knotted them into fists to stop himself from putting them around his father’s throat. How dared he call her his wife? When for too many years he didn’t treat her like a wife, when he neglected her and gave his love elsewhere.

  His father looked back at him, unflinching. Challenging. Go on, kill me if you dare, his eyes seemed to say.

  Why are you so old? Why can’t you be young enough and strong enough for me to fight you? George’s chest heaved. He wanted vengeance. For his mother’s silent tears, for her loneliness when her husband went out all night, for the false smile she plastered on her face. He wanted to make his father suffer as his mother had suffered. Justice, he wanted justice.

  They remained like that, eyes locked.

  Finally, his father spoke. “We cannot help who we fall in love with. Or who we fall out of love with. No one knows what goes on behind closed doors.” His face turned away, lips pressed together, hard. A vein pulsed in his jaw.

  George, still standing over his father, watched his face. Was the old man showing emotion? At last?

  “Sit down, George,” his father said through clenched teeth, still looking away.

  He went back to his seat. His father’s face had drained of colour and remained set like marble. Neither of them spoke. Ten, maybe fifteen minutes passed in rigid silence. Normally, George would have dropped the subject. But he was heartsore and too much had happened this weekend; his usual control was deserting him. Disappointment, guilt, rage and grief were pushing against his walls, and so he didn’t let the old man off the hook.

  “You broke her heart. I watched her cry.”

  Like a bullet, his father turned to him. “And how many women have you made cry? How many did you hurt by leaving them?”

  Angry words died on George’s lips. Not the same. I didn’t love them. I didn’t commit to any of them.

  But here, in his father’s house, there was another memory beside his mother, another broken heart. Less than a year ago. And that one, he, George, had broken.

  So this was his punishment, losing Millie. He’d had a happy future in the palm of his hand and crushed it. Unable to sit still, George pushed himself out of his seat and strode to the edge of the terrace. He wanted to leap over the topiary, run to the end of the garden, the end of the island. But the end of the island was Blue Sage Bay. George tensed his back straight, folded his arms over his chest and pressed hard on his diaphragm to hold back the wave.

  “We all make mistakes.” His father’s voice behind him was gentle. George couldn’t remember hearing gentleness from his father, ever. “Sometimes very big mistakes that we can’t unmake.”

  He wanted his father to stop talking. He needed to go for a swim in rough waters. Where’s a storm when you need one?

  But then his father spoke again. “You are lucky, my son. You can still correct your mistake.”

  The words filtered slowly, and something hard began to loosen its grip on his insides. He looked back at his father’s unexpectedly wise face.

  “But not,” his father said, “if you’re busy trying to correct mine.” He rubbed his hand across his face. “Millie isn’t your mother. And you are not me, and it isn’t twenty-three years ago. You can’t rescue your mother.”

  He’d had enough. “I have work waiting for me in London. I’ll see you next month.”

  Summer

  TWENTY-THREE

  June 21st St Mary’s Churchyard, La Canette, 10pm

  Easter was long forgotten by now in the warm summer. The longest day of the year. There were always celebrations in the village. Old traditions transformed into tourist attractions. As the day came to an end, and the ferries had sailed back, taking the day trippers away, leaving La Canette pea
ceful and quiet.

  The light at dusk threw purple shadows on the grass in the churchyard where George knelt on the grass. He placed white flowers against the headstone and wiped stray dry leaves off the old lettering.

  In loving memory of

  Lady Isobel Du Montfort nee Cotentin

  1959-1994

  Beloved wife of Richard.

  Beloved mother of George.

  George’s hand was gentle over her name, her dear name. “Forgive me, Mum. I never came to visit you here. I was angry, and I couldn’t bear to see you hidden behind a stone. I didn’t want to accept what happened, so I stayed away. But I have missed you every day.” His fingertips traced the engraved prayer.

  Love Is Patient, Love Is Kind.

  It Is Not Proud. Nor Easily Angered,

  It Keeps No Record of Wrongs.

  Love Does Not Delight In Evil

  But Rejoices With the Truth.

  It was quiet in the churchyard. A lone bird chirped and sang his sweet song as the dark fell slowly and the breeze rustled the leaves in the trees. George sat very still, and he read the lines again and again.

  When he finally spoke, his voice was barely a whisper, “Forgive me, Mum, for turning your loving memory into anger and bitterness. Forgive me for hurting others because they were not equal to you.”

  His gaze travelled around the graveyard, the church beyond, and the fields of his mother’s island.

  “I lost my way, Mum. I need your help.”

  TWENTY-FOUR

  Three months later. Le Cou/Blue Sage Hill, 6pm

  Millie had wooden steps and walkways constructed around the hilltop to connect Blue Sage Café with the isthmus, so people would not have to walk over loose rocks and wild shrubs. She normally took the quicker, more direct route over the hill but not tonight, not in her heels. The sun, sinking low behind her, threw her shadow long in front of her on the wooden boards, like a mermaid’s silhouette.

  The invitation had specified formal evening wear, and this was the first time she’d worn her green silk dress since that dinner with George last year. Many memories brushed across her mind just as the soft silk brushed her legs. The September evening would have normally required the shawl she carried folded over her arm, but the island had been enjoying an unseasonal heatwave, and the evening breeze was warm on her bare arms and back.