by Bev Spicer
Michel followed her round the garden and teased her about the flowers she insisted on growing, stubbornly pointing out the best places for beans, carrots, peppers and potatoes. She barely listened, knowing that this man would not last, that he would interfere too much.
She saw the good and the bad in him all at once. Here he was, with his strong body, his shirt unbuttoned in the morning sun – this was what she liked about him – his casual air. But the way he wore his trousers, buttoned and belted too tightly, made her cringe just a little for some reason that she could not grasp. It was the same feeling she got when she read a poem that pleased her, only to find that in the last stanza there appeared a petty conclusion. She would prefer the buckle to be left open.
And, now that she came to think of it, there were other things that irritated her about Michel – the way he did not consider her opinion, assuming that she understood his authority, diminished him in her eyes so that, at best, he seemed like a spoilt child and, at worst, like a pompous pedant, made ridiculous by his erroneous assumptions about what made her happy.
‘We should go to the brocante in Saintes today,’ he announced, on cue.
Saintes, with its Roman architecture, rustic cobbled streets and broad river, was a favourite venue for Martha, but the last thing she wanted today was to go to a brocante. They had been to too many already. Hundreds of stalls, full of things that people wanted to get rid of, at prices that were extortionate. Junk. Dirty, worn out junk. She didn’t want to go to another market!
The bitterness of her reaction surprised her. It was not true that she hated brocantes. Some of her best days out had been spent browsing collections of books, bric-à-brac and even second-hand clothes. It was Michel who was affecting her mood. He stood with his coffee in one hand, looking around the garden with a proprietorial air. Already, he was becoming a burden on her, forcing his will upon her and she wished that he would understand how much she hated it.
‘Do we really have to go?’
He gave her one of his looks that she detested. It reminded her of Marcus. He was hurt. It was pathetic.
A cat walked along the garden wall then, paused.
‘Why don’t you go and I’ll prepare some lunch for when you get back?’ she said, brightly. It was a simple solution.
Michel did not respond, but wandered slowly back to the house to get ready. He would not go without her.
The cat flicked its tail and walked on.
Three
Martha had lived in St. Martin-le-Vieux for almost two years. She loved the place for its picturesque houses, its quiet streets, its family-run shops and its, well, its ‘Frenchness’.
She had moved to France on a whim, on her own, against the advice of her friends and family. They had warned her that she would be lonely and would not be able to cope with the culture shock, especially in a small village. But she had come anyway. There was nothing to hold her in England. No children, no husband any longer, and no job.
In fact, she had been quite sure that she had done the right thing as soon as she had moved into her lovely Charentaise house. Her parents had come over to help her settle in and she had assured them that Marcus had been very generous with the divorce settlement, which had, she admitted only to herself, amazed her.
Marcus had made wise investments and had turned a modest nest egg into a considerable fortune, which he had not hesitated to share with his ex-wife. It crossed Martha’s mind that he might feel guilty about his infidelities, but she preferred to think of him as being straightforward and fair when it came to financial dealings. At least she could say that for him.
Finding a place to buy had been a long business. The more properties she viewed, the more confused she became. The estate agents would take her to a ramshackle barn in the middle of nowhere and then to a pokey apartment above a shop in a busy city street. They didn’t know what to do with her. And the prices were inexplicably random, according to a figure dreamed up by the seller that might be double what was reasonable. So, she had rented a gite and continued looking, convinced that she would know the house of her dreams when she saw it.
And so it happened that one day, at the end of a visit with Madame Beranger of Maisons Coup de Coeur, when they had been on their way back to the gite, that the careworn agent had suggested a village house, in need of a little up-dating, which had been on the market for some time and which might be of interest. It was practically on their way home. Martha had not been keen, but had given in to a fragile sliver of intuition.
From the outside, the house had not seemed very appealing, with its flaking paintwork and white polyurethane door. Inside, the lurid wallpaper and aroma of damp had left Martha feeling that she was wasting yet more of her time. Madame Beranger caught her client’s mood and half-heartedly threw open the shutters in a room that had been used as a bedroom for the old couple who had lived there. The first thing that Martha noticed was a toilet in the corner of the room, unscreened-off and with the lid up, but then she saw the beautiful fireplace, the exposed beams and the rich oak flooring.
Despite having told herself to show no emotion when she found the house she wanted to buy, she felt a shudder running down her spine and an unmistakable smile spread across her face.
‘Let me show you the rest of the house, and the garden.’ The estate agent had caught the scent of a sale.
Every turn brought new delights. More beams, more wooden floors, central heating with beautiful old-fashioned radiators, a bouanderie with ample space for a washing machine, and equipped with a useful double sink. The chai was a surprise, running behind her neighbour’s house and adding a lot more space than was visible from the front. It would provide good storage and might even make a useful office.
Then, there was the garden, so rare a find in the middle of a village. Of course it was a jungle, with grass and weeds a metre high, overgrown vines and dilapidated sheds and shelters – it would be a lot of work to uncover what lay beneath, but Martha saw the stone walls, the tranquillity, the privacy, and was convinced. This was the one. This was the home she had been looking for.
Madame Beranger showed her a large garage in a side street two minutes from the square that came with the house. The roof looked as though it might fall in on their heads at any moment – it would be a costly liability and may not be worth renovating, but she could leave it or sell it, it would not be a problem. Back at the house the estate agent commented on the strength of the locks and the excellent condition of the shutters; with a little cleaning up, the house would be habitable straight away. She need not have bothered. Martha had already made her decision.
So, when Monsieur Roué, seeing the weakness in her, refused to lower the price by even one euro, Martha knew that she would have to pay through the nose. The price was inflated, there was no doubt about it. The estate agent agreed, but told her that the owner had already turned down a couple of ‘derogatory’ offers. He had put the house on the market four years ago and had been in no rush to sell. But, for once, there was something Martha could work with: Albert Roué, who currently lived near Paris, had put in an offer on a large, newish house on the outskirts of Saintes. He wanted to move back to the place where he had made so many friends in his youth, and where he could be near to the family that still remained in the area. He had been waiting for this particular house to come onto the market. He needed to sell.
Six weeks later, after all the inspections had been done to check for termites, asbestos and lead, and when the final contracts had been read out and signed at the local notaire’s office, Martha moved her few possessions into her new house and waited for the electrician to arrive. Trailing round with candles, and cooking on a small gas stove, whose eerie light danced on the walls, had brought her visions, sometimes disturbing, yet more often comforting, as though her quiet presence in the house were an appropriate transition from a gloomy past to a more splendid future. The house felt right. The shadows held no malevolent ghosts, these she had left behind her.
; All of this seemed as though it had happened only yesterday, and yet, here she was, installed, with a lover on her doorstep and a house that was practically finished, thanks to her own hard work and the invaluable assistance of Robert Palmier, a quiet and methodical local craftsman, who had come highly recommended and whose rates were reasonable. Michel told her that the man was not a professional and that she should have looked elsewhere for a proper artisan to complete the renovations. Martha smiled charmingly and ignored him. Robert Palmier was perfect. Dark and brooding, he kept his distance and did his work. Michel could think what he liked!
The brocante was huge. It took up the whole of the car park outside Carrefour. People parked where they wanted to – in the road, on the grass verges, outside houses with signs that said ‘No Parking’. They sauntered in the middle of the road and ignored the hoots and curses of motorists trying to pass by. Michel pulled into a newly vacated space and proceeded to have a very loud argument with a woman who had been waiting longer than he had. Martha left him to it. She walked under the subway and came up the hill to see the enormous supermarket, closed up apart from the busy café.
Michel caught her up. He had done up his shirt and put on a thin brown waistcoat that made him look older than he was. Martha supposed that he must be in his late thirties, older than her. He put his hand in the centre of her back and piloted her towards the stalls, which were already crowded with people.
‘Are you looking for anything special?’ she asked, wriggling free.
‘Not really. I suppose I need some nice glasses, if we see any. Oh, and I want a log basket.’
He did not ask whether she were looking for anything for herself. It would not occur to him to do so. A muscle twitched at the base of his jaw, and Martha wondered that she knew so little about this man she had invited into her bed. It felt rash to have gone so fast, to have started something so soon after meeting him, and she wanted to break it off right then and there, to tell Michel it had been a mistake, that they should be friends and no more.
He turned to smile at her and she knew she couldn’t tell him today. It would have to wait. But inside she felt a low level of panic because hadn’t she already wasted several years of her life telling herself that her doomed marriage had been worth fighting for? And hadn’t she felt relieved and excited when, finally, she had admitted that a divorce was the only answer?
People swarmed around her, and for a moment she wanted to escape the crowd and be on her own. It was irksome to her that she felt she could not.
‘How much are the glasses?’ Michel asked a robust middle-aged woman, indicating a set of six ornate wine goblets.
‘Ah, monsieur. These beauties are crystal! Top quality, passed down by my grandmother.’ The woman did up the top button of her coat with fingers that were ingrained with dirt.
Michel selected one and held it up to the blue sky, although what he was looking for Martha had no idea. She thought the glasses tacky and too small for wine. The woman glanced from Michel to his companion, and back again.
‘Do you like them, cherie?’
‘If you like them, get them.’
The woman scowled and turned her most radiant smile on Michel. ‘Une Anglaise?’
‘Yes. English.’ He smiled at Martha, who did not want to wait. She wandered over to another stall, showing the woman her back.
‘I got them,’ said Michel, catching her up and opening the bag. As the glasses were wrapped, there was not much point in doing so. ‘She wanted twenty-five euros, but I got them for twenty.’
‘Great.’
They looked for a log basket. It had to be large, strong and traditional-looking, made of willow stained dark brown, not yellow. Martha found Michel’s doggedness amusing. In the end, of course, they gave up.
‘Shall we get some lunch at the café?’ Michel looked at his watch and two deep lines showed on his forehead. He was a very handsome man, with thick brown hair and beautiful soft brown eyes.
Martha suddenly thought of his body on top of hers and of the look on his face when he had … and she grinned.
‘What? What is it?’ Michel grinned too.
She wouldn’t tell him, but it was obvious that he had guessed, anyway.
Four
It was after school, and the boys gathered purposefully, in threes and fours, outside the gates of the lycée, their trousers hanging down to reveal brightly coloured underpants, some of them with the designer’s name clearly visible around the thick waistbands. They shuffled their feet, looking down and sideways from time to time whenever a group of girls passed by. There were scuffles that broke the tranquillity of the afternoon, sudden laughter that made the birds burst from the trees.
The girls, with their long shiny hair, grabbed one another’s arms and whispered, stopping to bring out a new treasure or to adjust a piece of clothing, glancing over at a boy they liked and perhaps blushing. Most of the students smoked, lighting up as soon as they were off the school premises, taking their first gasp after a long afternoon of deprivation. They were young but they were savvy. They were rulers of their own universe, quite different from the beings they became when they went home to their parents, who always asked them the same dull questions, which they had learned to answer efficiently.
A little way from the gates, in a natural alcove formed by rhododendron bushes already covered in pink scented flowers, stood a tall girl with straight dark hair, parted in the middle and shaped so that, when she bent forward to set down her backpack, it hung like a fine curtain and when she looked up again, as she did now, her young face emerged almost miraculously, like a pale moon. She stepped forward, greeting the boy who had approached her with a kiss on each cheek and let him put his arms around her, resting her head against his chest. After a moment, she spoke.
‘You’re late.’
‘I know. Monsieur Notte gave us extra homework.’
The girl rolled her eyes and looked in the direction of the boys by the gate.
‘Are you coming on Wednesday?’ the boy asked.
‘Do you want me to?’ The girl turned away, nonchalantly.
A horn sounded and, before he could answer, she grabbed her bag, kissed him quickly and ran towards her father’s car. He looked after her, laughing, but with a small knot growing in his stomach. He waved as she went past, but her father raised a hand, and the boy was forced to meet his eye. Then it was too late for him to see her. It didn’t matter though, he would meet her before school the next morning and they would have an hour together after the match on Wednesday.
Patrice Dumas went to join his friends. ‘Hi, Jean. Hi, Alain. Like the hair, Xav!’ He looked at their eager faces and saw that Xavier had brought his football. Beatrice was forgotten in an instant, as the level of conversation rose and the game began.
An hour later, Patrice sat beside his father, listening to how many clients he had seen that day and gazing dully out of the window, picturing Beatrice’s face as she had looked up just before she kissed him. He sniffed the air gently, making out the residual scent of her skin and his eyes closed for a moment as the hairs on the back of his neck rose.
His father was cheerful, which meant that he had had an easy day, probably making a great deal of money for doing very little.
‘Let’s have a meal,’ said the notaire, cheerfully, bringing his hand down on his son’s knee, making him jump. ‘Where would you like to go? Pizza Place? La Table? You say. I don’t mind.’ He kept looking round quickly, watching for a sign, a flicker of enthusiasm.
‘Sound good?’
‘Yes, father. La Table sounds great.’ He knew that his father would prefer the French restaurant.
‘That’s settled, then.’
One day, Patrice would take Beatrice to La Table. He would drive her in his own car.
‘Can I start driving lessons with you soon, father?’
‘Just as soon as I have some time. Yes. Of course. By the end of the summer things will be quieter at the office.’
Wh
en I have time. It was what he always said.
Five
As Martha stepped out of the shower, the telephone rang.
It was Michel. ‘Shall I make dinner?’
For some reason, she found the question amusing and for a moment she almost laughed too loudly.
‘I could get some fish? What do you say, cherie?’
‘Great. Get some fish. Yeah.’
‘Okay. See you at seven.’
Michel was happy. Happy to cook her a fish dinner. The idea made Martha smile every time she thought about it.
The phone rang a second time and she half thought it would be Michel again with another question about fish, but it was her friend Jane. They chatted for a while, wishing this and that, planning to see each other, complaining about the usual things.
‘How’s Ben?’ Martha asked.
‘Oh, you know. The same.’ This made them laugh.
‘What about yours? What’s his name?’
‘Oh, Michel’s happy – he’s cooking me fish tonight.’ This set them off again.
‘Lucky you! I’d like to have a gorgeous Frenchman cook my dinner for me! Send him over, if you don’t want him.’
‘Perhaps I’ll do just that. What would Ben say?’
‘Oh, I doubt whether he would notice!’
When they had finished, Martha felt refreshed, rejuvenated.
There were no emails of interest and so she turned the computer off and looked at her watch. Time for some work in the garden before lunch. The sun was hot and she put on a high factor cream and wore her hat, keeping to what shade she could find. The decking she had had put down was bordered by rudbekia that would flower from the beginning of July and there would be sunflowers that she had grown from seed. They would be tall enough to need support; more stuff to get at LeClerc. For now, there were masses of daffodils and some hyacinths. Next to the decking was a pebbled area, bordered by a herb garden and one of the vines that she had kept from the original garden. Now, she stood on the decking and wondered what was missing. It needed something, but what, she could not tell. It would come to her. Perhaps she would go to the garden centre in Saintes later and have a look around. It was something she loved to do when she had a free hour or so. The thought made her feel happy and filled the small hole in her afternoon. When she had come to France, there had been so many things she had wanted to do: painting classes, photography, French conversation. She had done none of these things. Life was busy enough without taking on lots of new hobbies – she would take her time and do as she pleased. After all, there was no one to stop her.
