by Bev Spicer
There was plenty of time to drive to the garden centre along the back roads and have a mooch around for something to put next to the decking. Jane had told her she was getting middle-aged with her interest in gardening and painting and decorating. She supposed that this might be true, but she didn’t miss going out to bars and clubs as she had in England. She had enjoyed it at the time, but now there were other things to do.
The roads were clear that afternoon and so it only took fifteen minutes to reach the gates of the garden centre. There were quite a few cars in the car park and a number of people pushing trolleys filled with pots of flowers and shrubs.
There were olive trees, some planted and some in pots, most of them cropped quite short and sprouting untidily in clumps. There were dazzling camellias – too tricky for Martha – and a huge variety of tea roses, which she loved. The climbing roses and bushes were further back, next to the palms. There were already several rose bushes in her garden, but it was always the place she came back to, generally taking yet another interesting specimen back with her, even though she had nowhere to put it. But she did not want a rose today.
She decided to take a walk around the tree section; perhaps that was where she would find what she needed. A medium sized tree, decorative and preferably not too messy – she didn’t want loads of dead leaves or more squashy fruit everywhere. She already had her plum tree for that! So, she wandered up and down the avenues of saplings, looking at the photographs of them in full bloom and checking their proportions. She did not know all the names of the trees, but, if she found one she liked, she would ask.
In the meantime, she continued her random inspection, eventually finding herself at the outer limits of the centre, amongst a mass of olive trees in pots. There was a young French couple choosing one and receiving guidance from an assistant. She listened in to their conversation as discreetly as she could, looking at the ones they were considering and wondering which one she might choose for her own garden. The assistant took a ribbon from his pocket and tied it around the trunk of the tree they’d settled on and the couple walked away, towards the reception.
The trunks were twisted and gnarled; the trees had been pruned to leave three and sometimes just two main branches. Martha thought most of them unbalanced and ugly, but there were a few that intrigued her and she started to wonder whether one of them would be just the thing for the space next to the decking. She stood back and squinted, moving her head from side to side. Maybe. Perhaps.
‘That’s one of my favourites,’ said someone close by, and she turned to see that it was the assistant who had been dealing with the couple who had just left. He was casual in his green jacket, smoking a cigarette the way that so many Frenchmen did, his forehead wrinkling with unspoken opinion.
Martha wanted to say that she liked the tree very much, but for some reason she hesitated.
The man looked down at his watch and then away into the distance. ‘Are you interested in an olive tree, mademoiselle? Or can I help you with something else?’
It was flattering not to be addressed as Madame, but it made her nervous again. ‘I… I don’t really know what I want. I just ended up here and now I think I like this one very much. But…’
‘What kind of garden have you got?’ He smiled and put her at ease.
‘Well, I would say it’s a medium-sized garden. Quite sunny and sheltered and I think the soil is very good.’
‘The olive tree can be planted in almost any position, as long as there is a little sun and not too much water. Of course it will thrive in hot sunshine, too.’
‘I see. Well, I don’t know… It’s difficult to decide… You know?’ Martha didn’t like to be pressurised into making a decision. How on earth did she know whether an olive tree would be right for her?
‘Where do you live?’
‘Pardon?’ It seemed a strange question to ask.
‘Where do you live? Is it near to here?’ He smiled at her obvious confusion. ‘I can come and take a look, if you like. It’s all part of the service. If it’s not too far away, of course.’
‘Oh, really? That’s… But I haven’t decided…’
‘No matter.’ The young man grinned and waited.
‘Actually, I live in Saint Martin-le-Vieux,’ she said, pointing and laughing.
‘Good. Not so far away. Very well, we’ll see what can be arranged,’ he said, turning and leading her back to reception like a fish caught on a line.
Six
Claude Cousteau had rented a small apartment above a confiserie in one of the side streets near the centre of Royan. He liked the town for its simplicity and its proximity to the sea, so he always returned there when he had business to conduct in the area. Also, it was not far from his father’s birthplace, where he had stayed until he had married and, when Claude considered how different his own life would have been if his father had not moved to Italy and his young wife’s family home, it was not without a bitter tang of regret. But, what was the point of dwelling on things that could not be changed?
The ornate window display of handmade bonbons did not interest him as he descended into the street, but the sweet aroma of candy and chocolate hung in the air and reminded him of something far away and long ago; of a bright kitchen, with cakes on the sideboard, and a large wooden table around which he had eaten his meals as a child, his mother never smiling, never gay.
He had grown to be a man of simple needs and regular habits. He had no need of company. As a matter of routine, Claude would walk along the beach and follow the coastal path until he came to Pontaillac. Come rain or shine, he would go out at ten thirty and walk at a brisk pace, stopping often to stare down at the rocks and watch the jets of sea water leaping up; the water flowing where it could and spouting when there was no alternative issue. At times, it was as though he travelled with the force of the water and could feel the mass of its power, he raced in with the waves as they crashed and burrowed, insidious and unstoppable, into the underwater crevasses and caves. The power of the physical world entranced him, so that he frequently stood until, according to the season, the chill got into his bones or the sun made him dizzy and roused him.
Today, he strode down to the beach and past the harbour, jammed with boats of all shapes and sizes. These, too, made him stop and search for a while, although his eyes never rested on any one for long. The boats he wanted to see would not be found here, they belonged to the past, a sunny afternoon at the edge of a meadow bordered by a stream, when the world had seemed made for him. He briefly contemplated the line of a hull, the twist of a sail, the jutting of a prow, before moving off, unsatisfied.
It was market day and there were more people around, swarming, curious and brutish. He shunned them. At last, he reached the quietness of the path out of town. The day was warm, but there was the threat of rain, so that people stuck to the centre, not venturing far along the coast. There were occasional walkers, some kitted out in purpose-made clothing, some strolling together before lunch, some in love and oblivious to everything and everyone. Claude counted himself closest to the lovers, although he himself had never experienced a woman’s love. He recognised the look in their eyes, from somewhere: a look that did not need acknowledgement or endorsement, a look that closed out the rest of the world.
He breathed deeply and felt the ozone flowing into him, making him tingle. There was a purity in the air, unspoiled and brimful with mineral richness. It was a time to recharge the strength that resided in the pit of his stomach, in his groin and in his brain, so that his body would be ready.
The restaurants were open when he arrived in Pontaillac and he went to his usual table, sitting with his back to the other diners, keeping the sea in view. The proprietor brought him the menu and he chose quickly. It was essential to nourish his body, as well as his soul, he could not live on the cans of cassoulet he kept in his accommodation, and so he was obliged to come out and be provided with a balanced lunch. When the food arrived he ate slowly, savouring the vitality of t
he salads and vegetables, absorbing the goodness of the meat and allowing for the sweetness of the dessert. As he ate, he pictured a young woman he had encountered one night some years ago, recalling the smoothness of her skin, the beatific smile in her large intimate eyes, the wideness of her hips and the helplessness of her disposition. A shudder ran through him and a thin smile spread across his face as he closed his eyes and pictured his hands around her plump, soft neck.
The proprietor took away his dessert dish and set down an espresso, eyeing his customer for less than a second. Claude Cousteau was aware that he inspired uneasiness in his fellow man. It had been something he had fought against at an early age, an inhibitor, as it was, to making friends in the playground, a handicap in his first attempt at taking his place in society as a clerk in a bank. He had chosen not to follow in his father’s footsteps, not wanting to enter a profession where he would have such intimate contact with the dead. It was true that he had not balked at helping his father prepare the bodies for viewing when he had been a child, but later he found himself revolted by the mechanics of the process: the exchanging of fluids, the cleansing of flesh, the arrangement and beautification of lifeless limbs. He became bored, too. The endless procession of made up faces lying in state; faces made garish with an excess of powder and a blush of rouge. It was a sadness to him that his father had chosen such a petty art.
When his father had been younger, he had followed a more exacting career. A career that had demanded the rarest of skills. But his nerves had got the better of him, his conscience had made him weak, and he had fallen back on what he knew. People would always need a good undertaker, he had said, putting his arm around his son’s shoulders. In vain, Claude had questioned him. What was it like to take a life? But his father had not wanted to speak of it, indeed, he had become most agitated, and insisted that Claude should not become preoccupied with such questions.
In the playground, the other children had jeered at Claude, approaching in groups, jabbing fingers and calling out insults. He had believed that they hated him, but now he understood that they had feared him.
No, the thought of administering to the dead had not appealed to him. Gradually, he had lost interest in helping his father and had watched impassively as the corpses were dressed, enhanced and arranged in wooden boxes, waiting for the lids to be screwed down and the coffins transported to a sacred hole in the ground. Standing next to his father in the midst of the congregation, the disposal of the perfect corpses did not touch him in the slightest. The process was absurd. The ropes would snag on the sides of the grave and, fascinated by the congregation’s grief, Claude wondered how anyone could care for the lifeless marionette, bouncing and jiggling inside the coffin. There was no dignity in it. And the only thing of value in a human being was his dignity, his worth.
Over the years, Claude had watched the faces of the living transform into the faces of the dead. People he had seen walking around, shopping at the grocers or going to the local cinema, ended up on his father’s table. And, out of the enigma of life commuting into death, there had come a revelation that had thrilled him to his core. It had started with the twisted look of agony on the face of a young woman who had lost her husband in a freak accident. The young man had been drowned, thrown overboard on a family boating trip that had gone terribly wrong. Claude had seen drowned bodies before, but they had been in the water for a long time and were bloated. This one had been fished out early and brought to his father’s establishment soon after. As a result, the victim’s features still bore, or so it seemed to Claude, a taint of the surprised agonies he had suffered in death, a tincture of the life he had left behind so that, when Claude looked into the young man’s eyes, it was as though he were trying to get back, stuck fast between two worlds, a glimmer of light still visible. This, according to his father, was the reason that his widow could not bear to have the body near her.
At the funeral, Claude examined the woman’s face and, before he knew it, he began to imagine the life draining out of her. What was this most essential of sparks? How easily it could be extinguished! The gap between life and death could be crossed in a matter of seconds.
The funeral gathering had awoken an interest in Claude that he could not suppress. From that moment, he had known that he would have to find out for himself how such a transition would feel. He imagined dying in endless different ways. But what would be the point, if he could not observe the change? It was then that he began to see the living as the dying and his fascination built so that it became an obsession. An obsession that would not let him rest until he had satisfied his morbid curiosity.
He paid his bill and tipped the clammy waiter, rising immediately and starting back along the path. Soon, he would experience once more, the thrill of taking a life. A life that must be sacrificed to save the destruction of a man’s reputation for, although he killed to satiate an appetite, he did not kill arbitrarily. There was always a reason, and that reason was based on worth. Some people were worthier than others. Simple. Life was simple. And death was simply a currency of life.
Claude Cousteau walked briskly, never meeting the eyes of the people he passed. Neither did he return the occasional greetings he received. He listened to the sound of the sea and smelled the salty air.
Seven
‘Why do you want to spend so much money on a tree?’ asked Michel, immediately Martha told him that someone would be calling the next morning to have a look at the garden.
He was opening a bottle of wine and had set out some rounds of soft bread with cream cheese and smoked salmon. He looked tired.
‘Did you get the fish?’ she hoped that he hadn’t.
‘Yes. And I’m making dauphinoise potatoes.’ It was her favourite.
‘Would you like me to do anything?’
‘No. Just a kiss!’ He put his arms around her, the bottle still in one hand.
‘Let’s have our wine!’ She was tired too, and not in the mood for intimacy. Besides, Michel needed to shower.
They sat outside and Michel told her about the customers who had come into the shop, putting on their voices and making her laugh. He said that he was in line for promotion and that then he would have the chance to move to a different branch, perhaps nearer the coast. He said that he would buy a house there, with a big garden and a view of the sea. It would be somewhere to settle down and start a family.
Michel watched Martha and waited for her to comment, but she just said that he should do it, if that was what he wanted, so he went inside and cooked the fish, bringing it out to her, walking faster than normal and telling her to wait for the sauce, the special buerre blanc sauce.
Trails of swifts chased each other across the sky.
Sipping wine and listening to their cries, Martha had the impression that everything was perfect. But, if everything was perfect, why did she feel restless? What was the niggling doubt that she had all the time?
Michel came out of the house again, walking double quick, so that she almost could not swallow her wine. He was carrying a pan of creamy sauce, scattered with peppercorns, and giving off an aroma of something sharp that caught the inside of Martha’s nose. He was proud of his take on the old classic and spooned it carefully over the fish.
‘Bon appetit!’ he said, nodding enthusiastically at her plate.
‘Cheers!’ replied Martha, finishing off the glass of wine in one large swig.
Michel tutted, but refilled her glass. And, suddenly, she knew what was wrong. It was Michel. He was the one who was spoiling the perfection with his constant commentary, either spoken or withheld. She did not need anyone telling her how to live her life and she knew she would not tolerate him for long.
The next morning, at about ten o’clock Martha opened the door and let Guy Roche into her house. She made coffee while he went outside and paced up and down, looking up at the buildings that surrounded her garden. He was probably in his late twenties or early thirties, younger than Michel, and he had an easy manner that drew her
. She did not find him attractive in a physical way, despite his good looks, but she was certainly curious to find out more about him. Getting to know more people would be good for her.
‘Well? What do you think my garden needs, Monsieur Roche.’ She brought the coffee outside and he offered her a cigarette.
‘Don’t smoke? Never mind.’ He drew hard on the cigarette and looked as though he were on the verge of voicing an idea.
When he did not, Martha resumed the conversation. ‘I thought a medium-sized decorative tree. Nothing that will spread too much or make a lot of mess.’
‘What do you want it for?’ He checked the position of the sun. ‘You would only get shade in the morning.’
‘It’s not really shade that I want,’ she replied, hoping that he would not miss the point with his calculations. ‘I just think that something is missing.’
He looked at her for a long moment, pursing his lips and frowning a little. Then he smiled. ‘You need an olive tree!’
Martha laughed then, and let him explain why. In the end, she allowed herself to be convinced. She would come back to the garden centre and choose one that would fit through the front and back doors, but she already knew which one she wanted.
