The Undertaker's Son

by Bev Spicer

  Twenty-seven

  Patrice’s father agreed to the summer classes and even said that he might increase the hours to three a week. His son’s enthusiasm for the language surprised him, and he thought it a subtle turning point in the boy’s attitude to his studies.

  Patrice studied hard, doing more than the homework his teacher set him, repeating the lessons and watching the video clips they had studied together on the Internet. He wrote a diary, too, as she had told him it would be an interesting way to improve his vocabulary and sentence structure, and that she would be able to find out what he wanted to talk about. He enjoyed putting his thoughts down on paper and soon became less careful about what he wrote, explaining that his father, who loved him very much, wanted him to be a lawyer or a doctor because, in this way, he would have a good life and marry well. But, as he wrote, he thought about his mother and how she had left to live with a musician in Paris. This man was poor and yet she had chosen to go with him. He wrote that he did not understand why she should do this. It confused him.

  He was due to have an English lesson and was trying to finish off a diary entry at home, looking at the clock on the kitchen wall to check the time in order to make sure he would not be late. His father had said that he could take his bicycle, as long as he did not go along the main roads and kept his mobile phone with him. Patrice enjoyed this newfound freedom, feeling the strength in his legs powering him along the narrow country lanes, the wind in his face, his hands hanging at his side. Only once did a car come upon him from the opposite direction and force him off the road; even then it had been a new experience, which he welcomed, picking himself up and waving to the driver that he was unhurt.

  Today, it looked like rain and so he packed his waterproof jacket in his backpack along with his books and his homework. He would not put it on, but he had promised his father that he would take it with him in case of a downpour. The clock said 3.30 when he put a final full stop to his work and went to the garage to take out his bike. The sky was grey, but it was not yet raining and so he set off, building up speed on the slopes and pushing hard on the rises. A deer ran out in front of him and, as he looked back, another leapt behind him, making him laugh with delight as he followed the pair’s progress across the fields. He felt as though he were like them, bounding free, at full tilt.

  He did not notice the rain until it was really quite heavy and, even then, he did not stop, judging the distance to be covered very slight and the notion of descending and unpacking his coat very troublesome. He worried a little about his books and whether the rain would get into his bag. Minutes later, he turned into the square and locked his bike, feeling his shirt sticking to his back, unable to keep the rain from running into his eyes. When Martha opened the door to him, she pulled him inside quickly, gasping at the state of his clothes.

  ‘You’re soaked!’ she said, laughing. ‘Haven’t you got a raincoat?’

  ‘I have one in my bag,’ he replied, smiling broadly.

  ‘Goodness me, Patrice! Why ever didn’t you put it on?’

  The boy shrugged his shoulders, shaking his hair and spraying her with drops.

  ‘Hey! You’re wetting me too!’

  ‘Sorry!’ he said and stopped, although he liked the look on her face and the sound of her voice, and wanted to do it again.

  Martha brought him a man’s shirt she sometimes wore around the house and told him that he must take off his own so that she could put it in the tumble drier. She looked at his trousers, which were also soaked and brought out a pair of shorts that Michel had left.

  ‘Here! Go into the lounge and change! Take this towel, too. You’ll catch your death like that,’ she said, bundling the clothes at him and pushing him towards the adjoining room.

  Patrice came out looking very unsure of his new attire and the two of them burst out laughing. It was a number of minutes before they could settle down and get on with the lesson, trying to ignore the occasional drip that fell onto the paper from the boy’s hair, but, before they knew it, the hour was up and he collected his things, waiting for his teacher to bring his dry clothes to change into before he left.

  Martha listened to the sounds of him changing and, seeing the exercise book he had left on the table for her, she opened up his diary and read the latest entry. He described his mother, when she had still been living with them and wrote about the man who had come to take her to Paris. His writing was basic and there were errors, which she underlined and circled automatically, commenting on his mistakes and giving helpful advice where possible. As she read, she pictured the woman leaving with her lover and Patrice, a small boy, standing on the threshold of the family home with his father, watching her leave. There was something even more poignant about the image because it was such a personal subject to write about for his teacher, who would spoil his work with red ink. She changed her pen for a pencil and continued checking, making as few marks as possible on the page.

  Patrice came out of the room and saw her reading.

  ‘Have I made a lot of mistakes?’

  ‘No, Patrice. Not too many. But…’

  He waited for her to continue, looking out of the window at the rain lashing against the window.

  ‘I think I shall wear my raincoat,’ he said, grinning.

  The weather was appalling and Martha decided immediately. ‘You can put your bike in the car and I’ll drive you back. You can’t cycle in this.’

  Patrice shrugged his shoulders and did not argue. If his teacher said she wanted to give him a lift, then he would accept. He lifted the bike into the boot and got in beside her. The rain was getting worse, if anything.

  Martha drove slowly around the square and took the road to Royan, struggling to see clearly and hoping that she would not have an accident. The sky ahead was brighter and the weather would soon clear – it would have been better to wait. Turning off the main road, she followed Patrice’s directions and soon drew into the driveway of his father’s house, impressed by its grandeur, although not surprised. There was no car in the drive, but Patrice had a key and, thanking Martha, he ran to the porch and opened up the front door. Then he came back for his bike, laughing and getting drenched again, signalling to Martha to stay inside.

  She honked her horn and left him, a cheerful bedraggled figure, waving with one hand and holding his bike with the other. And, as she drove away, she had the feeling that the boy had confided his trust in her and that she must not let him down, as other people had.

  Twenty-eight

  ‘Giselle will not be able to do the viewing this afternoon, Maitre Dumas.’ Estelle stood very still at her post, doing her best to hide the sliver of joy she felt to give this man bad news.

  Felix Dumas scowled, going through the post that lay ready for him on her desk. ‘What is wrong with the girl this time? I suppose she has a summer cold!’

  ‘She only said she was unable to come,’ replied Estelle.

  This new information made him slam the post down on her desk again and look up the stairs to his office. He glanced back at Estelle and, for a moment, examined her face as though he had not seen her before. The girl seemed inordinately smug. ‘Very well, then we must cancel the viewing,’ he said, turning to leave her.

  ‘You have no appointments this afternoon,’ said Estelle, suddenly.

  Was it possible that the girl was being impudent? Or might it be that she were simple-minded? Before he could speak, she continued.

  ‘You mentioned that you were looking for a place in Royan, for your son.’

  At this, he stopped short, his eyes widening. She was right. She had thought to remind him, that was all.

  Estelle waited, holding her breath and wondering if, this time, she had gone too far. She only wanted him to go out and leave her in peace for the afternoon.

  ‘At what time is the viewing?’

  ‘At three o’clock.’

  And after a moment’s consideration, Felix Dumas agreed that it might be a good idea for him to go himself, after
all, his son had been keen to have his own accommodation and it would be a shame to miss a good opportunity.

  When he had gone, Estelle shuddered once more, as she had become accustomed to doing. She had succeeded in spoiling his afternoon, at least. But then she thought about the tall, good-looking man who had come in, and she wished there were a way of warning him that her unscrupulous boss would probably beat down any price he suggested, using every means at his disposal. She hoped that Clement would see as clearly as she did, the callousness beneath her employer’s smooth exterior and oily charm.

  After she had sorted the post and taken it up, she searched an online site for secretarial positions and noted down a couple that interested her, more sure than ever that she could not stay any longer in the employ of such a man.

  At three-thirty, Felix Dumas called ahead from the café where he was drinking tea and sifting through some notes for another case. He wanted to make sure Clement Berger was waiting at the property. He was, and so the notaire paid his bill and ambled over to where his car was parked. He fiddled with the radio and programmed his GPS. He hoped there would be somewhere to park his car off the road, but he doubted it very much. Sure enough, the first thing he saw was the narrow street, with cars parked inexpertly along each side. Eventually he found somewhere and walked back to number ninety-seven, going in through the open gate and surveying the small courtyard with its surprisingly attractive garden.

  It was a two-storey building, which seemed to be in good repair. He examined the neighbouring houses, which were of various contemporary designs and of a superior quality to many he had seen. He looked up to see Clement Berger at the window, beckoning him to take the side entrance and come up. There was no sign of anyone in the ground floor apartment.

  ‘Ah, good afternoon, Monsieur Berger. I hope you and your father are well.’

  ‘Good afternoon, Maitre Dumas,’ Clement replied, deciding not to mention the time he had been kept waiting.

  ‘I have come in person to give an initial inspection, as my viewer is unavailable today. May I look around?’

  ‘ Please. I shall be in the living room if you want to ask anything.’

  Clement did not like the man one bit and was glad not to have to show him around, although the thought of his running his grasping gaze over his father’s home did not please him. He went back to the computer, where he was composing an email in response to a vacancy he had found for a local community magazine editor. It would be better than nothing, until he could find something more interesting. He picked up the copy they had sent him and wondered how anyone could produce something so glossy, and at the same time, so dull. But he had progressed to the second interview, which was encouraging, and was putting together a few of his best articles to attach to his email. What a relief it would be to have a salary coming in regularly.

  Dumas opened the doors to the various rooms, noticing their ample dimensions, their high ceilings and ornate features. The parquet floors were in excellent condition and the windows were double-glazed. He touched the frames and was surprised to find that they were of PVC – they had the appearance of hard wood. There were three bedrooms, a small but well-fitted kitchen, a large bathroom and a shower room, too. He entered the living room and asked if he might sit. Finally, looking up from his notes, he addressed his questions to the proprietor’s son.

  ‘May I ask where your father is today?’ he began.

  ‘My father uses the apartment only at the weekends.’ How I hate your false concern, he thought.

  ‘I see.’ The notaire paused, considering the notes he had made, before continuing. ‘And have you any idea who is living in the apartment below, Monsieur Berger?

  ‘The apartment is vacant during most of the year. I believe it belongs to a lady who lives in Paris.’

  ‘Ah, yes. Paris. A beautiful city,’ Dumas smiled. ‘Have you spent much time there?’

  ‘I prefer the countryside.’

  Felix Dumas got to the point, realising that he would not be offered hospitality. He would have liked a glass of the Pineau he had noticed on the sideboard.

  ‘Well, Monsieur Berger, I think the apartment has a value, although it is not the kind of residence that most people are looking for these days. They prefer something more modern, more …’ He searched for the word in the air around him, ‘…exciting!’

  ‘What value would you put on it?’ enquired Clement.

  The notaire replied without hesitation. ‘I would say that you could ask a figure of one hundred and eighty thousand euros, but of course you would not achieve it!’

  ‘Then what figure do you think my father would achieve?’

  ‘No more than one hundred and fifty thousand, and then only if you could find the right buyer.’

  Clement Berger showed his visitor out and promised that he would speak to his father about the sale. He went back to the living room, but could not concentrate on his application. The apartment was worth well over two hundred thousand euros. The man was either a crook or a fool. For the first time, it occurred to Clement that, with the mounting bills and no certain income on the horizon, he may be forced to advise his father to sell, no matter what the offer price.

  Twenty-nine

  It was a Charentaise summer’s evening, with a still-blue sky. The heat of the sun would be amplified in the enclosed courtyard. The guests had spilled out into the garden across the road and were wandering among the beans and tomatoes, peering into the stream that irrigated vegetable plot.

  Martha was in the mood for a party, for it had been a long time since she had been to one. There had been convivial evenings spent with friends, or alone with Michel, where extended aperos had lasted well into the night and conversation had flowed. But, at the sight of the glamorous girls and their loose-limbed young men, she felt a lurch inside her stomach – as though she were famished and were about to be fed a delicious meal.

  She rang the bell at the side door and went into the courtyard, which was full of pot plants blooming in profusion, and people brightly dressed, conversing easily in a language she recognised but which now appeared like the excited chattering and squawking of birds. In the adjoining kitchen, she spied Angeline, who looked amazing in a green off-the-shoulder dress that set off her dark colouring and hugged her figure, making the most of her voluptuous bosom. Martha stood for a moment half-way between shock and delight, breathing in the life, until Guy spotted her.

  ‘Martha! You look beautiful!’

  Angeline looked up and smiled.

  ‘Thanks. I think I really needed this! Thanks for inviting me! This is for you.’ She felt a surge of happiness and had an urge to spin around and hug anyone who came near her.

  ‘Would you like a drink?’ he asked, grinning and taking the beautifully wrapped chocolates.

  ‘I’d love one. A glass of white?’ She leaned in to receive his kiss and winced at the cigarette smell. But his eyes were as bright as her own, dispelling petty distractions. She breathed in and smoothed the material of her dress from her waist to her thighs.

  ‘Wow! But you look…!’ Guy shook his head, not finishing the compliment.

  Martha was introduced to various people and stood about in groups, listening to a lively kind of gossip that often evoked hilarity. She told people that she loved living in France, but that she did not hate England and they nodded, understanding, asking not about the weather or the food, but about the people, about where the British took their holidays, how they entertained themselves, what kind of music they liked. And they listened, enthralled, it seemed, by a culture they had little knowledge of. Then, prompted by an anecdote, they talked about the schools their children attended and the profs they loved or hated, chatted about television programmes she had never heard of but, afterwards, wanted to watch. And as the evening passed, she became a little girlish, touching the arm or the waist of the women she met, conspiratorial and delighted to be on the same wavelength and to feel so accepted. The women were younger than she was, but, in he
r red dress, Martha did not think it mattered. It certainly didn’t seem to! Life was good. She was out. It was a brand new start, away from Michel and his tedious judgements. She raised a glass to the future and went in search of a little party food.

  ‘Have you met Clement?’ Angeline asked, looking up as she refilled the platters.

  And suddenly everything changed.

  ‘Hello,’ said Clement.

  ‘Hello.’ Martha blushed instantly.

  Angeline looked from one to the other and her eyes widened with surprise. She left them to find Guy and tell him more wine was needed, looking back over her shoulder and putting a hand to her mouth.

  Before they had time to speak again, the music became so loud that making conversation would be impossible. People started to dance around them and they laughed, letting the tension between them melt away, still gazing into each other’s faces. Martha took him in all at once: his hazel eyes and large, smiling mouth, his brown hair that almost touched his shoulders and fell across one eye; his strong, large hands, his height – she found no fault with this man and wanted to know everything about him, instantly.

  They had a choice. They could stay where they were and dance, holding their drinks close to their bodies, (it would be ridiculous but fun!) or they could go outside into the garden where there would be peace in the fading daylight. Martha would let him decide. Clement took her hand and they went, weaving through the others, holding onto each other lightly.

  ‘I can’t dance? Can you?’ he said, once they were under a large willow, looking out through the branches that hung down around them.

  ‘Everyone can dance!’ she replied, laughing.

  He let go of her hand and pushed back his hair. ‘What’s your name?’