by Bev Spicer
‘I have asked someone I know. He is reliable and not too dear.’ She came forward and stroked his neck, looking into his eyes.
‘Do you need money?’ He took out his wallet.
‘A little would help.’ She stroked his head while he took out the notes and then, pushed them back.
‘Take what you need,’ he smiled, slipping his arm around her waist and burying his head in her neck.
Angeline Roche delivered the remainder of her laundry, chatting easily with her customers and mentioning the increase in her prices casually. She took out a notebook and complained that there was not enough time in the day to satisfy the growing list of people who needed her services.
When she got back to the house, she counted out the takings, noting that the tips were larger than usual. And there would be two hundred euros extra for her account this week. Not bad for a morning’s work.
Twenty-four
In the shadow of the arena, on the ground all around, there were cigarette butts and litter, left by tourists after a cultural evening out. Visitors came as part of an organised stay, probably chosen from a list someone had made of places to see before you die. So many sheep. Claude was not offended by the desecration of the monument and unsurprised by the behaviour of the visitors, in their fine clothes and expensive jewellery. Their trivial pursuits were inconsequential to him.
The shadows were cool, as the warmth of the day faded and sent gusts of pungent air between the narrow surrounding streets where people lived, warren-like. To his left, a stout man in a flapping summer coat whistled, looking up at the arena, his mouth open, his teeth bared in an expression that, to Claude’s mind, epitomised the stupidity of the human race. To his right, a girl in a yellow dress laughed at something her delighted boyfriend had said, putting her hand to her mouth and blushing. None of the things he saw moved him. Claude had no personal experience of love and little understanding of what it was like to have fun.
A horn blared, and he looked towards the canal, listening to the sound fade, like a cry. A muscle twitched in his forehead and his eyes glazed over with a memory.
A woman approached, walking fast. As she neared him, she dropped her bag.
He went over to her. ‘May I be of assistance, signora?’
‘You are kind, signor, the ancient stones can be hazardous,’ she replied, looking into his eyes as they crouched together to collect the contents of her bag.
‘They do not weep for us.’ He took the envelope from her bag and slipped it into his pocket.
As dusk settled, the arena lights came on. There would be no performance that evening, only the gathering of couples and family groups, come to stare and take pictures, oohing and aahing obediently, in the presence of the past.
Claude strode across the square and disappeared into Vicolo Tre Marchetti past the Escalus and, turning three times, entered a small doorway into a family-run bed and breakfast. He had no need of luxury, abhorred pampering of any kind.
The woman who ran the establishment understood her new customer’s wishes instantly and left him to himself. She did not particularly like the look of him, but as long as he paid his bill in advance, it was no concern of hers what he got up to.
The shower did not work properly so Claude ran a bath, sank beneath the water and closed his eyes. Pictures of the past came to mind, always the same pictures: Felix Dumas, appearing in the orchard and leading him down to the busy stream; he could hear the sound of the water and smell its freshness in the warm afternoon. Then, there was the chest. He watched as Felix opened it, viewing this simple act from every angle in his mind’s eye, settling on an over-head view this time. And soon there were only the boats. The ones they had chosen and the ones that remained, all of them higgledy-piggledy, their potentials unknown. It would be wonderful to be there again, under the shade of the sheltering branches, away from the world and its pettiness.
When the bath water had cooled enough to wake him from his quietly looping dreams. He dried himself and checked his appearance in the mirror, satisfied that his new hair and patchy skin would fool even those people who knew him well. He looked twenty years older. The skills his father had taught him as a child were invaluable to him in his work.
The small window that looked out onto the buildings opposite gave little idea of the time of day. It must be late. He checked his watch. It was time to sleep for a while, but first there were the details of his assignment. Claude Cousteau put on his pyjamas and sat on the edge of the bed. He turned the envelope in his hands and opened it. There was a picture of a man, with a girl on his arm. Two people. A single piece of vellum, folded once, contained instructions for the assassination of the girl. The man was not to be harmed. The place was specified and the method also. It would be easier than he had thought, but not as satisfying. For now, it would be best to rest and in the morning he would prepare.
Outside, the sounds of people arguing distracted him and a moment later, his breathing became regular as he slept.
Twenty-five
The house was perfect. Michel eyed the estate agent, who was young and inexperienced. He would get it for a good price, even though the area was desirable. It was a good street, with well-to-do neighbours, mostly from Paris, who used their summer residences rarely. He would find work looking after empty properties. It would be a different life, but a good one, and he would have the time to start a family.
The young woman followed Michel around the house, spouting details that were supposed to impress him and justify the inflated asking price. If he had been a tourist like Martha, then she might have been able to convince him that the ancient heating system was a bonus, or that the dilapidated open terrace at the back of the house, looking out onto the sea, was charming. Michel knew how much these things would cost to make good. He wanted comfort, not original features.
There were three bedrooms, two bathrooms, a small office, a laundry room and a large modern kitchen. The garden was small and ran down to the beach, where it was fortified against high tides by huge rocks. Ronce les Bains lay to the west and La Tremblade to the east. The house would be private, but only a stroll away from the local shops. It was perfect.
The other two houses he saw that afternoon were not suitable. One was too far from the coast and the other too near a tourist street that was jammed with holidaymakers and shops. He did not want to have rubbish thrown into his driveway or drunks keeping him awake at night. All the time he was away from the first house it was in the back of his mind, it asserted itself at every turn, until, clapping his hands together he announced to the estate agent that none of the houses really interested him and that he should like to go home.
As he let himself in to his front door, he glanced up the street and saw that Martha’s car was parked in the square. He looked up and down for Guy’s battered Renault, but could not see it. At least that was something. Michel had not been to see Martha since their walk together, over a week ago. He wanted to pay her a visit and talk things over in a civilised way, after all, her decision had been hasty and now she had had time to come around, to realise that she had made a mistake. So, he showered and went to the florist’s on the corner of the square for some daisies. Roses would be too obvious. Daisies would be just right. Martha loved daisies.
‘Good afternoon, Sabine. I would like a bunch of your finest daisies.’ A small, blonde woman was arranging a bouquet of lilies.
‘Good afternoon, Monsieur Cannelle. I have a selection here, shall I mix the colours?’ She showed him a bucket full of flowers.
‘As you think best, Sabine,’ he laughed.
‘Do you know that Monsieur Rimbaud has been taken ill?’ she asked, as she selected some yellow and white heads.
‘No, I hope it is nothing serious.’ Michel tried to remember who Monsieur Rimbaud was.
‘Oh, I think it’s quite serious this time. He has a weak heart, you know. His wife has gone to sit with him at the hospital and their daughter has come from St. Jean d’Angeley. She’s a pharma
cist, you know?’
‘That is worrying, then.’ He really had no idea whom she was talking about.
Sabine carried on, unaware of his indifference, telling him details that astounded him. It was not a place to have secrets. And, as she looked at him, when the flowers were wrapped and handed over, he wondered what stories would be told about the shop manager and the Englishwoman in the square.
‘Thank you, Sabine. You have done a good job. How much do I owe you?’
‘Twelve euros, Monsieur Cannelle.’ She knew that the price was too high, but that he would pay it for the Englishwoman.
He gave her the money and left the shop to cross the square, knowing that she would be watching when he knocked at Martha’s door. He did not turn around and embarrass her, but he hoped that Martha would not leave him too long on the pavement, as he felt awkward now, wondering how many other eyes were upon him. It had never struck him so strongly before that living in the centre of the village left you open to observation from all angles.
The door opened and he was almost lost for words. Martha was wearing a tightly fitting red dress, with a low neckline, red shoes with high heels, and a lipstick to match.
‘Oh, Michel, it’s you!’
He found his voice and managed to answer, ‘Hello, Martha.’
‘I was just going out, actually,’ she said, looking at the flowers. ‘Did you want something?’
‘I…it’s just…I wanted to give you these… and see how you were.’
It was obvious to him that she was fine. He remembered that Sabine would be looking at them and suddenly stepped inside the house, closing the door on the street.
Martha was taken aback.
‘Sorry, it’s just that. Well, people are watching.’ He could smell her perfume. It was one she hadn’t worn before. ‘I wanted to talk to you. To have a chat. That’s all.’
She looked at him, feeling sorry for his awkwardness. ‘Well, I can’t right now, Michel.’ She hesitated. ‘How about you come round for a glass of wine tomorrow at around seven? The flowers are lovely, thanks.’ She had opened the door again.
‘Oh, all right. That’ll be fine. See you tomorrow.’ The door closed almost before he had finished speaking.
From his window, Michel watched until he saw her get into her car and drive away. She had with her a bottle of wine and a gift of some kind. Michel glanced over to the florist’s and Sabine smiled pleasantly.
Twenty-six
It had been difficult to smuggle his suit, shirt and tie out of the house, not to mention his decent shoes, which had been stowed away at the back of a cupboard. As it was, he had forgotten to bring thin socks and so had to keep on his work pair, which were rough and full of holes. Never mind, they would not ask to see his feet! The thought made him smile. Yes, Monsieur Roche, if you could just remove your shoes and show us your socks, I think the job could be yours!
He had the morning off in order to attend an interview at the Hotel Bellevue. It was a large, five star hotel near the centre of Saintes, with a view over the river and the Arc de Triomphe. Guy had driven past it many a time and wondered what it would be like to stay in one of the rooms.
He sat in the car park along the street, the advertisement in his hands. The vacancy was for a gardener/handyman. The post was full-time and the pay was much better than he earned at the garden centre. If Angeline had known he was applying, she would have said that he would miss the freedom and the relaxed atmosphere he worked in. It was true that his job at the garden centre was not difficult and that his boss was a reasonable man, but he wanted something different and he wanted more money. With a wife like Angeline, his friends told him, it was only a matter of time before she would leave him, if he didn’t stump up some cash. They were joking, but their words held enough truth to worry him. After all, she was a beautiful woman and deserved to have beautiful things. His son, too, would perhaps want an education at university.
This last thought spurred Guy on and he got out of the car, dropping his cigarette butt onto the gravel. He patted his pocket to make sure there was an emergency packet if he needed one and set off along the path beside the river, towards the hotel. He noticed a bunch of plastic flowers and wondered vaguely who had died. They were old and faded; it must have happened some time ago. With quiet thoughts, listening to the sound of the river running beside him, he approached the hotel and walked up to the entrance, where he took a deep breath before climbing the steps and being swallowed up by the revolving doors.
‘Good morning, madame. My name is Monsieur Roche and I am here about the vacancy for a gardener.’ His delivery was perfect. He smiled with relief.
‘Good morning, Monsieur Roche. Would you take a seat over in the Garden Room while I locate Madame Alizee. The receptionist had the whitest teeth he had ever seen, and the brightest smile.
He went off to sit amongst the palms and cacti in the appropriately named Garden Room, which was in fact a pleasant place to relax, and allowed him to look out over the grounds to the rear of the hotel, which were large and beautifully landscaped. Guy experienced a moment of panic, wondering whether he would be up to the job. But he soon calmed himself, as he identified the various plants, shrubs and trees before him, recalling how each of them needed to be cared for and knowing that he would be more than capable of the work.
The advert had said gardener/handyman and he had stupidly assumed that he would be his own boss. Now, it occurred to him that the immaculately maintained grounds needed more than one person to manage them, probably at least two people who knew what they were doing and another one to help with the more menial tasks. He checked the salary once again and decided that it was too high for a general dog’s body but perhaps not high enough for a head gardener. Another, more immediate, thought came to him. He was going to be interviewed by a woman. Of course he had assumed that it would be a man, after all, he had never heard of a female gardener and he had imagined that the person interviewing him would know something about the job, if only to be able to ask the right questions.
All this worried him, and he felt for the cigarette packet, knowing that he had decided not to smoke and wondering, in spite of himself, whether it was permitted in such a grand place for the staff to do so.
Guy stood up and walked up and down, tempted to flee and forget about the whole thing. He looked back to reception and then to the revolving doors. And as he came towards the large palm for the fourth time, he stepped out into the lobby and almost bumped into a middle-aged woman with a grey bun and a terrifying expression.
‘Ah, Monsieur Roche. Good morning. Come with me, please,’ said Madame Alizee.
And before he could think about whether he wanted to, he had followed her across the lobby and into a small conference room, where he saw his application form on a table next to a blank sheet of paper and a pencil.
‘Please sit,’ she said, waiting patiently for him to settle himself and look at her, already jotting something down on the paper.
‘Now. I have read through your application, Monsieur Roche and it would seem that you are ideally qualified for the post we are seeking to fill. I see that you hold a position of responsibility at a local garden centre and that you have also spent time as an apprentice builder. How long ago was that?’ She took up her pencil and held it poised to record his answer.
‘It was seven years ago, madame. My father thought it a good trade to get into. But I found that I had a preference for designing and digging the gardens that came with the houses I worked on and so I looked for a position where I could gain knowledge.’ He listened to the sound of his voice as he spoke, willing himself to be articulate, hoping to be convincing. He was aware of a large hole in his left sock, through which his big toe was poking.
‘I see. And you have been in your present employment for… for five years now. Is that correct?’ She ran her finger down the application form and he tried his best to remember what he had written on it.
By the time he made up his mind to answer, sh
e had moved on.
‘So, Monsieur Roche, could you tell me why you would like to work at the Bellevue?’ Madame Alizee sat up and focussed her attention on the applicant before her, unaware of his inner turmoil.
He had known this question would be asked and yet, now, he could not remember any of the answers he had prepared. Instead, he looked at the woman on the other side of her desk, his mouth gaping like a fish’s. Inside, his head buzzed and he knew that he must say something or lose any chance of the job, the money, his new life and of keeping his beautiful wife.
At the moment when he was about to speak, to say something mundane and ludicrous, there was a gentle knock at the door and Madame Alizee said: ‘Come in!’
A man who must have been in his seventies, came into the room and removed his cap. His hair was white and thick, his eyebrows dark, his skin conker brown and sun-ruined.
‘Ah! Monsieur Valerie. I’m so glad you could attend.’
The man advanced and greeted the woman, before turning to Guy and extending a hand ingrained with the soil he lived by. Guy stood and shook it. The man’s eyes were blue and told him not to be afraid.
‘Perhaps you would like to ask Monsieur Roche a few questions, Monsieur Valerie? I shall leave him to you. Goodbye, Monsieur Roche.’ And, with that, she was gone.
The older man went towards the door he had come in by, and through which Madame Alizee had just left. With his hand on the door knob, he turned to Guy with a gentle smile. ‘Shall we look at the gardens, son?’
An hour later, Cedric Valerie waved the young man off and said that Madame Alizee would inform him whether he had got the job by the end of the week, adding that she was not such a dragon when you got to know her and that, in her day, she had been a rare beauty. The old man ruminated on a piece of grass until the boy had disappeared from view, then, wearing his usual pleasant expression, returned to the gardens, satisfied that his new assistant would be just what the place needed.
