by Bev Spicer
It was true. Angeline had not told him. Or else they had not heard her say it.
‘I don’t like my name,’ she said, wondering whether she could lie and change it.
‘What is it, then?’ he said, amused.
If she made one up, it would seem like an odd thing to do, later. ‘It’s Martha.’
‘And why don’t you like it?’
‘It makes me think of someone I knew,’ she said, suddenly remembering why.
‘And you didn’t like that person?’
‘It was a student. And, no, I didn’t. She was… irritating.’
‘I see.’
And, as it was obvious that he didn’t see at all, she laughed.
It was two o’clock when Martha found Angeline and Guy to thank them for the party and to say goodbye. Most of the other guests had left. Clement walked her to her car and they spoke about very little.
The night was humid with the scent of cut grass, and heat rose from the deserted streets.
Martha was nervous, knowing that this was the moment they would part, wondering whether something would come of it. The lights of the car flashed as she unlocked it and the noise was loud in the empty night, making her speak in a whisper.
‘It was nice to meet you.’
‘Likewise,’ he smiled.
And the moment when a kiss might have brought them together passed.
Clement was preoccupied. He liked this woman, but the other things happening in his life held him back. He had lowered his eyes, just for a moment, and released her. He wandered back to his own car and drove home, going up to the apartment alone, and with nothing to look forward to but collecting his father later that morning and finding a way of telling him he would have to sell his home. He had had a pleasant evening and, perhaps, he would call Martha. Perhaps.
Martha played Kasabian loudly on the way home, and, suppressing her momentary doubts, she revelled in the memory of this new man. She felt more alive than she had done for years. She didn’t care what happened – as long as she could feel this way a little longer.
Thirty
July was always a hot month. And this year it had begun exceptionally so. August would be hotter.
Angeline woke in a torpor, moving languidly around the kitchen, making coffee and remembering that Adrian would be coming back from his grandparents’ house before lunch. She thanked God that her husband had taken the trouble to clear away the party debris and sweep the floor. There was not much for her to do, at least. Guy would sleep for most of the morning and probably have a hangover, as he had enjoyed more than a few glasses of pastis before going on to wine.
The party had gone well. Angeline sat at the table with her breakfast and remembered some of the conversations she had had, laughing quietly to herself. It had been a great surprise to her that her old friend Clement had been so taken with the Englishwoman, and she with him. She wondered whether something had happened between them; she would phone him later to find out.
After a few minutes, Angeline’s thoughts turned to business, as they usually did in quiet moments like these, when, once more, she weighed the present against the years to come and calculated the money she had yet to put away to be able to move to a bigger house, in a better area, and to take a holiday, staying in the best hotels, eating at the finest restaurants. It excited her to think that she had already accumulated such a tidy sum, but she knew that, sooner or later, it would depend on Guy’s getting a better job, with a higher salary. She could not make her dreams come true on her own. She knew in her heart that she would not leave her husband and her child, even if there were a better life to be had without them, and she sometimes admitted to herself that there was a chance that, if she stayed, her dreams might not come true. But, as soon as such a thought came into her head, she dismissed it. She would take on more customers and work more efficiently. She could employ an assistant to help with the ironing, which was what took most of the time. If she found a girl in the village and trained her well, she would be able to earn more. It was so obvious that she could not believe she had not thought of it sooner, and, as there was no time like the present, and not a moment to lose, she took her notepad and made a list of the likely candidates, going through them carefully, remembering good and bad points about each of them and eventually ending up with two names. She looked up their telephone numbers and, as both girls were keen, she made an appointment to see them the following Monday.
When Guy came down at just after ten o’clock, she kissed him and made him coffee.
‘I love you!’ she said, when he asked her what the matter was.
‘But of course you do!’ he replied, happy that his wife was not the type of woman to complain that he had lain in bed all morning.
‘What would you like for breakfast, cheri?’ she asked, running water into a bucket to wash the floor.
‘Just coffee. I’ll go out for a cigarette and leave you to get on with the mopping.’
‘I notice you didn’t do it!’ she teased.
He held her and kissed her again, before going out into the sunshine and seeking a shady corner in which to count his blessings. There was the sound of his wife humming a tune in the kitchen as she mopped. Sometimes she listened to music while she did the housework and he had seen a hi-fi in LeClerc that she would love. If he got the new job, he would buy it for her, perhaps for her birthday, when he had saved up the money he would need. The letter might even arrive on Monday, or it could be a phone call, he supposed. He remembered the interview and thought it had gone well. Monsieur Valerie had liked him. And Madame Alizee had met up with them both as they walked the grounds, explaining to him that he would be required to make small repairs from time to time. He had told her that he could speak a little English and she had been pleased.
He lit up his second cigarette, deciding that he would cut down. They were expensive after all, and he knew that Angeline had ambitious ideas that would cost money that they hadn’t got. The salary at the hotel would be a great boost, but he couldn’t help thinking that it would not be enough. Why was it that some people had so much and others so little? Martha, for example. She didn’t really work. She didn’t have to. And she was still young. Almost as young as he was, he assumed. How could she afford to spend her time so freely? He knew that she had been married and wondered whether her husband were a millionaire businessman who had split his fortune with her. In England, things like this were possible.
‘I am going to phone Clement,’ called Angeline.
Guy didn’t answer. He was lost in his own thoughts.
‘Hello, Clement? It’s Angeline. Are you awake?’ She laughed.
‘Of course I am! I’m not as lazy as you are!’
‘Ha! I suppose the Englishwoman kicked you out of bed, did she?’
‘What! What do you mean, you hussy? My God! I met her only a few hours’ ago!’
‘Don’t lie to me, Clement. I can hear her snoring in the bedroom!’
And so the conversation went on for a while, until he told her that he must go to collect his father and that he was thinking that he must sell the apartment to pay for the cost of his care.
Angeline listened and sympathised, saying that she would help if she could, thinking of the euros she had saved in her bank account, knowing that she would not offer him a loan, in spite of their friendship. She told him that he should get himself a job and goaded him, saying that he was getting old and soon his looks would fade so that he would never find a beautiful wife. She said that he could marry a wealthy widow and steal her fortune, all the time feeling that, in his place, she would resent losing her inheritance and would never sell. But Clement was a man. He could not care for his father, as a daughter might. He would struggle to work and pay the bills, too. So she told him to make sure he got the best price, to advertise with more than one agent and to drive a hard bargain. When she put the phone down, she felt less happy for a while, wishing that she could help her friend in some other way. She would not part with ca
sh – it had been too hard to come by. He had a bill to pay for more than three thousand euros. It wasn’t much, but Angeline was well aware that when you needed money you hadn’t got, it could lead to all kinds of problems.
‘Clement is having to sell his father’s apartment,’ she told Guy, when he came back inside.
‘That’s bad news,’ he said, looking concerned. ‘With the market these days, he’ll be lucky to get a good price.’
‘He has a bill to pay and no money to pay it.’ She poured more coffee for him.
‘How much is it? Can we lend him the money?’
She knew that Guy would help Clement sooner than she would, even though he was not a particular friend of his.
‘We don’t have three thousand euros, unless you are hiding our money away somewhere!’ She laughed again, as though the whole thing was a huge joke, marvelling at the easy lie.
Guy hoped the letter would come sooner rather than later. His wife would be very happy with his news. And perhaps there would be enough to make her friend a small loan.
Thirty-one
The morning passed very slowly for Michel and after he had eaten his meal at midi he went out for the afternoon in search of a brocante to pass the time. He found one on not far from Saintes, set up in a field, with music playing too loudly from poor quality speakers. The sun was strong and he stuck to the tables with shade, picking up the objects on sale and striking up a conversation here and there. There were boxes of bric-à-brac and he liked to sort through them, looking for something that others might have overlooked; it was surprising what you could find if you got down to ground level and rummaged. Soon he had a pair of silver candelabra and an exquisite gas lamp, which he got for an excellent price. He was thinking of the terrace in the house he would buy, of the summer evenings sitting out with a glass of wine and the sight and sounds of the sea at the bottom of his garden. It gave him a sharp pang of excitement to picture himself there, with Martha and perhaps a child or two. Martha would be even more beautiful when she was pregnant. He would stroke her swollen stomach and bring her the foods she craved, no matter how much trouble it took him. The more the better!
‘Good afternoon, monsieur,’ said the brocanteur. ‘I have some beautiful homemade jam today. An old family recipe.’ The woman put a finger to her lips.
Michel liked jam and he liked the look of the jars – polished and of a generous size. He bought one of strawberry and one of plum. He would take a pot to Martha later. And, now that he had thought of the visit, he decided that he would like to buy something for her, for the house, or for herself, giving a new focus to the afternoon and spurring him on to look out for something special.
‘How much is the barometer?’ he asked, coming to one of the last stalls.
The old man insisted that it was a fine piece and would not bargain, which made Michel all the more keen to buy the thing, so that in the end, he paid too much for it. No matter, he was pleased, and he carried it carefully to the car, where he stowed it on the back seat. Once he arrived home, he cleaned it and set it down on the kitchen table, studying the hands and reading the pressure, wondering if it still worked properly. It really was a handsome piece. If Martha didn’t want it, he would certainly not mind keeping it for himself, for the new house.
He looked at his watch. Six o’clock. Wouldn’t it be a great idea to make an offer now? It had been over a fortnight since the visit, and the estate agent had not called back. This might mean that she was sure he was not interested, that he had been out when she called, or that the property had been sold to another buyer. And, although she had told him there were no offers on the house, he was seized by panic, suddenly sure that the girl did not have her finger on the pulse and may have misinformed him. He picked up the phone and put in the number.
‘Hello, Bourse Immo, Danielle Bosquet speaking.’
‘Ah, good afternoon. My name is Cannelle. I am phoning concerning the house in Ronce les Bains, rue de la Plage, which I viewed several days ago.’ He tried to sound disinterested.
The woman put him through to the young estate agent who had shown him round.
‘Good afternoon, Monsieur Cannelle. How may I help you?’
‘Good afternoon, mademoiselle. (He could not remember her name!) I’m phoning to enquire about the current price for the property you showed me in Ronce.’
There was a pause.
‘The price is unchanged, monsieur, and stands at 290,000 euros. Would you be interested in making an offer?’ She sounded as though she would not care in the slightest whether he were interested or not.
Michel wondered whether it was the same girl. He hesitated now, and thought that perhaps he should not have been so hasty, but at the same time, he was impatient to see things progress and so he said, ‘Yes, I would like to offer 240,000 euros, which, in view of the extensive renovations necessary, I believe to be a fair price.’
There was a longer pause this time.
‘I will put your offer to my client Monsieur Cannelle, although I am almost sure it will be rejected,’ came the reply. This time, the coolness was unmistakable.
‘I would appreciate that. I look forward to hearing from you.’
It hadn’t gone terribly well and it had put Michel even more on edge. He could not imagine how he had offended the estate agent and decided that the wretched girl would not give his offer the seriousness it deserved. All he could do now was to wait and see. How he detested tis new limbo he had engineered for himself.
At seven o’clock, having showered and changed, carrying the large barometer under his arm and the strawberry jam in a decorative bag, Michel went along to Martha’s house and rang the bell. He hoped that she would be wearing something similar to the red dress, and was disappointed when, instead, she was in her gardening clothes. She had forgotten their appointment and apologised, laughing carelessly.
‘Come in Michel,’ I can stop and sit with you for a while. She eyed the barometer and stepped into the kitchen. She washed her hands in the sink, pushing back the hair from her brow, where it stuck from the effort of her exertions.
There were noises coming from one of the rooms above and, shortly, someone called down: ‘Could you come up for a moment, Madame Burton?’
Martha wiped her hands on her shirt and took the stairs two at a time, leaving Michel confused and irritated, still contemplating the barometer. He came over and peered up the stairs onto the landing, listening. Martha laughed and then there was a man’s voice, low and measured. It was difficult to hear what they were saying. They must be in the front bedroom with the door closed. Michel paced, returning each time to the stairs and scowling, catching the odd word and hearing Martha laugh again. When he heard the voices get louder, he went back to the other end of the kitchen and assumed an awkward pose in front of one of Martha’s paintings. He put his hand to his chin and then let his arms fall to his sides, where they hung like dead weights.
Martha’s voice was clearer now: ‘The cupboards are beautiful, Robert. No, really, I like them very much.’
‘Well, if you are sure?’
‘Yes, yes! I’m sure!’ There was that laugh again.
Martha came quickly down the stairs alone and soon the banging noises above them resumed.
‘Having some work done in the bedroom?’ he asked, his eyes burning into her, in spite of his efforts to be casual.
‘A wardrobe. Built-in.’
He wanted to ask who it was upstairs and to know why it had all been so amusing.
‘Lets go out into the garden, shall we? It’s too noisy in here! Would you like a drink?’
‘A glass of something would be nice,’ he replied. He had lifted the barometer again and now set it down on the table, gathering his strength to say what he needed to say.
‘I hope that’s not for me!’ she said, lightly, like a young girl.
‘This? Oh, no! I bought it at a brocante and …’ it was too obvious a lie. ‘If you don’t like it, I can take it away.’
&nb
sp; ‘You shouldn’t buy me presents, Michel,’ she said, and he knew that she liked it.
Michel followed her outside, remembering her body and the way she had looked in the mornings as he rose to make coffee and fetch croissants. These thoughts made him feel helpless.
She set down a tray with half a bottle of chilled rosé and two glasses. Michel did not like rosé, surely she knew that!
‘What was it you wanted to see me about?’ she asked, pouring out the wine and drinking most of her glass.
Michel looked directly at her. ‘I think I’ve found a house.’
‘Oh! That was quick!’ Martha refilled her glass.
He told her about it and she said that it sounded beautiful, but, when he asked if she would like to come and see it with him, she declined.
They talked about this and that and avoided going over old ground. Michel stopped short of confronting her about whether she would come back to him and she stopped short of saying she wouldn’t. Neither of them could quite find a way to say how they felt. Martha, not wanting to be cruel, and Michel not wanting to be categorically rejected.
‘I’ll be going now.’ Robert Palmier stood, tall and handsome, in the kitchen doorway, his bag of tools in one hand and a earnest smile on his face. Seeing Michel, he advanced and put out the back of his hand to greet him, not wanting to offer his dirty hand. The men exchanged a few words and Robert left, assuring Martha that he would be back the next day to finish his work.
It was only Robert Palmier! Michel was relieved and became almost gay for a while, making Martha laugh with his stories, putting on the voices he was so good at. But, in the end, he went home no further forward.
When Michel had gone, Martha swore under her breath and cursed her cowardice. She eyed the barometer with mixed feelings. She probably would not keep it. Then she went back to her garden. Even though it was dinnertime, she didn’t feel like eating and knew it had something to do with the butterflies she had in her stomach when she thought about Clement. All she had been able to do since she had met him, was to smile and remember, remember and smile, her head crowded with new and exciting possibilities. He would call her soon, of this she was certain. Of course he would.
