The Undertaker's Son

by Bev Spicer

  Guy blew the smoke away from Adrian, who showed his disapproval by refusing to look at his father while he held the cigarette to his lips. Finally, after a third cup of coffee and barely a mouthful of breakfast, he rose from the table, kissed his son on top of his head and pulled on his working jacket.

  Angeline went to the door with him and he kissed her on the mouth, slipping his hand inside her robe.

  ‘You know I love you,’ he whispered, closely.

  ‘I know.’

  When she had gone back inside the house, she heard him calling from the small porch.

  ‘I’ll be late for lunch!’

  By the time she had run out to ask him where he was going and what time he would be back, he had gone through the garden gate and into the street.

  Thirteen

  It was just another morning at work. There were very few customers, even though it was Friday, normally one of the busiest days of the week. It was probably due to the economic crisis and possibly because it was the end of the month. People had no money, and paid by cheque. Whatever it was, it was bad news. No new staff had been hired during the months of April and June, even though three had left. They had been part-time, it was true, but still, it meant that Michel sometimes had difficulty in covering all the hours and couldn’t avoid being understaffed at times. Today, he could have sent most of his staff home – there was very little happening indeed.

  The technology centre was new, enormous, and divided into computer hardware and software, televisions, DVD players, radios and the like, white goods and various miscellaneous accessories. The reason they could survive when other shops were folding was because they offered interest free credit. It was what people wanted, what they demanded. His customers would not give up their extravagances, as long as they could spread their payments.

  As general manager of the store, Michel was not obliged to sell to the public. Nevertheless, he took it upon himself to do so from time to time, partly because he enjoyed it and partly to prove to himself and his staff that he deserved to be in the position he was in.

  Until he had met Martha, he had been happy with his job. Content to pay into his pension, trade in his car for a newer one each year and play the field with the women he met in bars and, more often, at the supermarket, where a man shopping alone was a rarity. He had charm, he had money in the bank, his own home, left to him by his parents, and his health. He had not thought beyond this. Not until now.

  Martha was twelve years younger than him. He knew that she thought he was in his late thirties, but in fact he would soon be forty-four. It was time for him to settle down and start a family. The change in his ambitions had come about subtly at first. He had toyed with the idea of marriage, children, a family home, while living the life of an independent bachelor, in no hurry to give up his freedom. Then, it might have happened in a single moment, he had found that he no longer desired the things that he had, but wanted instead the things that he had not, and, being a man who knew his mind, who saw no obstacle to the fulfilment of his plan, he had set about putting it into action.

  First, there would be the proposal, which would have to be done correctly, according to tradition. However, it might be better to demonstrate his worth in advance, to give Martha a glimpse of a new life, by the sea, in a large, extravagant house, complete with all the equipment necessary to make a woman happy. He thought of the house in Saint Martin, with all its dust and shadowy nooks. A house by the sea would be light and airy, with space for a modern bathroom, an American kitchen, why not? And skylights. He had seen these in a magazine – they allowed the light in from above and created a clean, bright atmosphere, perfect for the modern couple. Yes. It would be best to lay out his stall, so to speak, before moving on to the business of marriage.

  Before she had died, his mother had given him her wedding rings and made him promise to give them to the woman he loved and to hand them down to his eldest child. The rings were beautiful, but small. He would have to find out Martha’s ring size and have them altered. It shouldn’t be too difficult. He wondered what his mother would think about his marrying an Englishwoman. If she had still been alive, she might well have forbidden it. The thought made him chuckle.

  The shop was getting busier and he circulated, wearing his blue shirt and large, plastic manager’s badge with pride. When a member of the public mistook him for a salesperson, he took it well, acting the part they had allotted him, waving away an assistant who had come to his rescue, magnanimous and accommodating, even when a customer failed to notice at all with whom they were dealing. And he invariably made a sale!

  At other times, he confined his efforts to making sure that there were no problems, especially when it came to refunds. Martha had told him once that the best way to lose a customer forever was to make it difficult for them to get their money back. She had even given him proof: she, herself, had tried to return some wine glasses to Intermarché once, because there were two broken, inside the packaging. The assistant had accused her of breaking them herself and, outraged, Martha had never gone back. Michel wasn’t sure that he was entirely convinced by her idea, but it certainly helped if you listened to the customer calmly and did not accuse them of anything.

  Michel smiled to himself. There he was, thinking about Martha again! He would ask her soon.

  ‘Monsieur Cannelle. Could you authorise a refund, please?’

  ‘Certainly, Maud. What seems to be the problem?’ His smile was the smile of an Emperor about to decide the fate of one of his subjects. Today, he would be merciful.

  Fourteen

  Martha’s new student arrived on time and together they went through the work he had been doing at school, to find out where she could start to assist him. Patrice was an intelligent boy, who had a good ear, which would make teaching him less of a chore. They worked in the garden, in the shade of her large parasol, with the sound of an occasional motorbike screaming through the village as their only distraction. At these moments, Patrice would look up from his work, listening and gazing in the direction of the engine noise.

  ‘Do you have a motorbike?’

  ‘No. My father will not allow it.’

  Felix Dumas had accompanied his son to the house, but had refused to come inside, handing over a cheque for six lessons and instructing his son to come out to the car when he had finished. Martha had instantly seen that this man was interested only in the help she could provide for his son. He looked into the hallway and would go no further. He did not approve of something, and she would have to prove her worth as a teacher, if she wanted to keep her very special student!

  At four o’clock, Patrice closed his books, politely thanked his teacher and promised to do the homework she had set him. He walked in front of her across the garden, through the kitchen and down the hallway. Martha decided that the boy had his father’s gait, his sloping shoulders and long legs, but was not yet spoiled by arrogance. He would make a good student and, after a few more lessons, would relax a little.

  When he had gone, Martha cleared away the books and did some deadheading in the garden, letting ideas for the next lesson run through her mind. She heard the church clock strike five for the second time.

  Guy had called in at lunchtime and she had promised to give him a lesson when he finished work. It would be late, Michel wouldn’t like it, but that couldn’t be helped. It thrilled her to be independent of him; she had spent too many years considering the needs of others and putting herself second.

  Here in France it was easy to make a new start because she was exotic enough for people to be interested in her but also unusual enough for them to keep their distance; thus it was she who chose the people she wanted to come closer to her. Sometimes it was easy. Lesley and Brian in the village, Monsieur and Madame Louis a couple of streets away – they had appealed to her instantly. And now there was Guy.

  Martha pulled on her gardening gloves and set about weeding the rose garden with the sun shining down onto her back. There was the heady scent o
f the early roses and the fragrant aroma of a young tomato plant close by, filling her senses, making her feel that there was no better place to be. Jane would have laughed, standing with her hands on her hips, insisting that Martha sit and drink a bottle of wine in the sunshine, instead of fiddling with the plants. The thought of her friend’s mockery made her laugh.

  After a while, her back started to ache a little and so she stood and stretched, taking in her garden, noting the work she had done and the work she would have to do to maintain it in the fast approaching summer weeks. She would need to buy more slug pellets and some tomato fertiliser, a sprinkler for the lawn might be a good idea, and some weed killer. These thoughts comforted her; they were yet more demonstrations of her independence. If she wanted something done, then she would do it herself, in her own way.

  Before she knew it, it was almost six-thirty; Guy would arrive soon. She would see how she felt about him, sitting in her garden, helping him with his English. If it didn’t feel right, she would not ask him back. Taking off her gloves, she glanced over at the olive tree; it was lovely – there was no doubt about that.

  After a quick shower and just as the kettle began to sing there was a knock at the door. Guy’s shadow showed his curly longish hair, his sharp nose in silhouette as he looked down the street. She opened the door and he beamed at her.

  ‘Hi, Martha,’ he leaned in to kiss her on each cheek and the smell of cigarette smoke very nearly overwhelmed her.

  ‘Hi, Guy. Come in.’

  He stepped into the hall and waited while she closed the door.

  ‘How’s the tree?’

  ‘Come and see for yourself!’ She led the way, moving faster now, leaving him to follow on.

  ‘You did well. It’s well done. Yes. You left the roots showing a little, as I told you. And it’s straight enough.’

  Guy walked around the tree, putting his hand on the trunk and touching the branches, as though he were communing with it in some way. He took her clippers from the table and pruned a few of the branches that had been damaged as it had been carried through the house.

  ‘Have you watered it?’ He squinted at her, the smoke from his cigarette rising.

  ‘Yes. But you didn’t say how much water I should use.’ Her tone was a little petulant as he held her gaze, finally shrugging.

  ‘Oh, about a hundred litres twice a week for the first summer.’

  ‘A hundred litres!’

  He put the clippers back on the table and glanced over to the hose.

  ‘Just leave the hose pipe on slowly for a couple of hours.’

  His laconic attitude infuriated her. He gave out information as though it were obvious, and she wanted to tell him that he should be more thorough so that her olive tree would be healthy and grow. Already, she had not been giving it enough water; what else was she doing wrong? But she said nothing and offered him a drink, saying that she would bring some books into the garden.

  At the end of the lesson, Guy gathered up the papers they had been working on and she gave him a folder to put them in. He had arrived with nothing, not even a pen, but his enthusiasm had been genuine, his effort commendable. When it came to teaching, Martha was sure of her judgement – Guy wanted to learn, there was no doubt about it. They had agreed that he should not smoke during the lesson and so, as soon as it was finished, he took out his cigarettes.

  ‘I am an addict,’ he smiled. ‘ I know!’

  Martha said he could come again the following week. He thanked her and went out to his car.

  Madame Bonnard was sweeping her step as he drove off and she lingered on some pretext to watch him. Just as she was losing interest, Michel pulled into the square, parked outside his house and came over.

  ‘Good evening Madame Bonnard,’ he said.

  ‘Good evening Monsieur Cannelle,’ she replied, her eyes sharp as a bird’s, her mouth set in a very thin smile.

  Fifteen

  Angeline Roche stood at her ironing board, steam rising, moving her hips to the music of her favourite band. She liked British and American music. Something with a beat, with a little life. Something to make her dream.

  Adrian was visible in the lounge, playing FIFA on his Playstation. She whizzed the iron efficiently over her customers’ shirts, trousers, jackets and dresses; folded them quickly and placed them into the special bags she provided, labelled with the appropriate names. She never got the clothes mixed up, never had any complaints about her work or her prices, which were higher than they should be, her friends told her. Her customers were wealthy, they could afford to pay more, and they were grateful for her service, always complimenting her and tipping her generously when she dropped the clothes off and collected a new load.

  Angeline Roche was a businesswoman, registered as self employed and paying enough of her taxes to escape scrutiny.

  By lunchtime, she had finished. Guy arrived home at twelve fifteen as a rule, but today it was after twelve thirty when he came in whistling, shouting out to her that he was home, as though she may not have heard him. The table was set and Adrian carried the dishes, setting them down on the mats.

  ‘What’s up, you terror?’

  ‘I beat PSG! And I bought Ronaldo!’

  ‘What! Spending again? How much?’

  ‘Fifty million euros!’

  ‘Sit down, Adrian. The food is ready,’ said his mother.

  Guy winked, and the boy did as his mother asked.

  ‘How is the washer-woman today?’ He came up behind her and put his arms around her waist.

  ‘Be careful!’

  ‘Mmmm! Smells good. What is it?’

  Angeline swiped at him with the teacloth then passed him the fish to take to the table.

  When they were seated, she asked him where he had been to make him late.

  ‘Eat your salad, Adrian!’ she said, waiting for her husband’s response.

  ‘I went to see the Englishwoman, about lessons.’

  ‘Oh!’

  ‘She said she would teach me, so I took her up on it. The hotel Bellevue is advertising for a groundsman.’

  Guy’s non sequitur hung in the air as his wife finished her salad and served out the fish with peas.

  ‘Have you got time to play a match, Papa? Before you go back?’ Adrian took the plate his mother offered him and, because he was looking at his father, knocked over his water.

  ‘Look what you have done! Get a cloth, quickly!’ His mother stood and moved the plate of fish, waiting for her son to bring a cloth. She could not hide her irritation. Why should her husband want the Englishwoman to teach him!

  ‘How much are these English lessons going to cost?’ She started mopping up the water.

  ‘She said she would do them for free. She has no need of my money.’

  Angeline looked at him and he looked back at her.

  Adrian took the cloth to the sink and squeezed it dry before returning with it for his mother to finish wiping up the mess. The boy hid his disappointment. He knew now that his father would not play a match. It was no good asking again.

  At just before two o’clock Guy returned to the garden centre, leaving his wife and child for the afternoon. As he drove, he wished that he had not told his wife about the lessons and that he had had time to play a match with Adrian. He put his hand in his pocket to take out a cigarette and found that they were not there. She had taken them again. He took out the packet he kept in the glove compartment and lit up.

  Adrian had remained at the door as it closed and handed the packet of cigarettes to his mother, a solemn look on his face.

  ‘Don’t worry, darling. We will make him stop.’

  Later, Angeline carried the laundry out to her van and the smell of the fresh clothes made her smile. She was careful to keep them in the chai – where the smell of smoke would not taint them. There were six large bags of beautifully clean and fragrant washing, expertly folded and packed so that her customers would be delighted with her excellent work.

  Adrian did no
t accompany her on her deliveries. He was seven, he did not want to come with her, preferring to stay in the house and play on his computer games. At least he didn’t play war games, like his friends. He loved football. It was the most important thing in his life. On training nights he was happy and, one day, he would play for a team like Paris Saint-Germain – there was not a single doubt in his mind.

  Angeline went in to say goodbye, reminding him to call her on her mobile if he needed her, but he barely heard her and she closed the door, wondering once more whether she should force him to accompany her, just to get him out of the house. But what would that accomplish? Her son would be miserable and her afternoon would be ruined. So she got into her van and drove off to her first customer. She would be finished by four thirty and then she could have some time with her son.

  The first house came into view, its enormous façade newly painted, its windows pristine and its shutters flawless. When she rang the bell, the owner’s young daughter opened it and stood on the threshold, uncertain what to do.

  ‘Maman!’ she called, still staring at Angeline, who met her gaze with a cool expression.

  She set the heavy bag down on the step and the girl ran off as her mother came down the stairs carrying a vase of flowers that had wilted.

  ‘Oh, Angeline! Is it that time already? Thank you so much.’

  ‘It’s just after two-thirty, Madame Fournier. I’ll get the other bag from the van for you.’

  The lady of the house handed over an envelope after Angeline had left the bags inside the door for her home help to put away. As always, Madame Fournier had not brought down the new laundry and Angeline went up to the landing to look for it, while her client complained that she was sure she had asked Christine to bring the bag down.

  ‘I don’t think Christine does it on a Tuesday,’ said Angeline, as she went up the stairs.

  ‘Oh, yes! You’re probably right, my dear. Yes. That’s right. I think…’ Madame Fournier stood as though marooned, at the bottom of the stairs, not knowing where the bag might be, even after all these weeks.