by Bev Spicer
Estelle had on her jacket. She waited for Clement Berger to come so that she could show him to her employer’s office. Her mind raced with what she had found out that morning. There was time, but not a great deal of it. In fact, it would be easier to let things lie and get out – move on to another job and forget about all of it. After all, what did it matter to her that Felix Dumas would become richer at the expense of one more of his clients? Clement Berger meant nothing to her. But she had read his file and she had understood the reason for the sale. It was only the most heartless of people who could ignore the injustice of his father’s fate, should the sale proceed. She cursed herself for caring.
‘Hello. I hope I’m not late?’
There was a woman’s bag on the desk.
‘No. You are on time, actually. How are you, today?’
In the shadows, Estelle almost glowed.
He hesitated, then smiled. ‘Sorry, it’s just this building, I suppose. Makes me nervous.’
‘I know what you mean. Perhaps it’s not a very healthy place to be for either of us.’
‘I suppose not.’
There was not a sound in the building.
‘Shall I take you up?’ she asked. ‘He is waiting for you.’
‘Then we had better not keep him.’
She led him up the stairs and announced his arrival. And, as she turned to go, he put out his hand to shake hers, wishing her a good weekend.
Estelle nodded and blushed a little. This man was a good man, and very handsome too. She would not like to see him taken advantage of. It would not be fair. She went down to her desk and took out a large plastic wallet, before going out into the evening, looking up at the clear blue sky and wondering at the fact of the invisible stars beyond it.
Clement waited a few moments, marvelling at the ignorance of a man with obvious education, who preferred to shuffle papers while his client waited to be greeted and invited to sit down. Eventually, the notaire looked up and gave him what must have been one of his attempts at a smile, coming around the desk and greeting him as though he had the greatest news in the world to impart, indicating a chair and returning to his own much more comfortable one.
‘If you are in agreement, Monsieur Berger, we can have your father’s apartment sold before Christmas,’ he announced.
Clement would have given anything not to be forced to listen to what was to come next. He was sure that he did not want to hear it, and yet he knew that he must. He did not speak, but looked into the notaire’s eyes to discover some clue. There was none.
‘I have received an offer, Monsieur Berger. A very reasonable offer, given the current state of the housing market and the time of year. Nobody is interested in buying in the autumn. But, if you waited until the spring, who knows how much further prices might fall!’
It took all the young man’s strength of mind to remain silent.
‘Madame Dautriche was very taken with the property. She liked the location and the well-kept gardens. There are of course a number of aspects that would need attention. I have listed some of them here, and Madame Dautriche is willing to take on the repairs herself, so that the sale might go through more quickly.’
Clement read through the rather long list, thinking that it was reasonable and, at the same time, presumptuous. When a price was set on a property, he had naively believed that the price would take into account the condition of the property as it stood.
‘As you can see, some of the work will carry a significant cost…’
‘I – ’ Clement did not know what to say, although he thought it important to say something.
‘The offer is one hundred and thirty thousand euros,’ cut in Dumas, in a manner expertly timed. ‘And, as I have said, this seems to me to be a fair and realistic offer in view of the present climate and the condition of the property. The funds would of course enable you to settle your father’s bill and to contribute towards his future care. If you would like me to act on your behalf to arrange extended finance…’
‘A hundred and thirty thousand euros?’ repeated Clement. ‘But, that’s… that’s ridiculous. It’s fifty thousand euros below the asking price!’
Felix Dumas sighed, exuding patience. ‘As I explained to you at the outset, Monsieur Berger, the asking price has nothing to do with the selling price.’ It would take him a while to get his client’s agreement. He had expected such a reaction and knew that, with a little time and perhaps a little intervention, Clement Berger would come around.
Forty-five
Martha switched off the engine, checked her face in the mirror and got out of her car. The place looked different in the daytime. At the gate she rang the bell and entered, coming into the porch and calling out.
‘Anyone at home?’
‘In the kitchen. Come in!’ Angeline kissed her and said it was a pleasure to see her again.
‘I hope you are not too busy?’ Martha handed her a bottle of wine and a bag of chocolates.
‘Oh, no! Thank you! I’ve got time before the afternoon shift. Time for lunch and to talk to a friend.’
‘I suppose you are wondering what it is that I want to talk to you about?’
‘I thought it might be to tell me that my husband is not doing his homework!’ she laughed.
Martha laughed too.
Angeline put the food out and said that she was ready to listen, as soon as Martha was ready to tell her.
Martha waited until her friend had sat down, mentioning, in the meantime, small improvements that she noticed about the place and commenting on the food Angeline put before her.
‘I went to see Clement last night. I think there’s something terribly wrong.’
‘In what way?’ Angeline thought it might be that this woman did not understand that French men do not like women who chase after them.
‘Well, that’s just it! I thought you might know. He was… well…he seemed worried about something. We… we…have started a kind of… friendship, and I thought…’
‘Have something to eat, Martha. Take some pâté. And a small glass of wine? I want to tell you something.’ Angeline watched her guest eat the good food and wondered how someone who was at least eight years older than she was could behave in such an undignified way. It was obviously the British mentality! There was no easy way to say what she wanted to say. ‘You should know that Clement is young. He is not looking for a serious relationship…’
Martha’s mouth fell open. ‘No! It’s not that. I don’t mean that at all!’ She stared at her friend and momentarily wished she had not come.
Angeline reached out and took her hand. ‘I’m sorry. If I am mistaken, I’m truly sorry.’ She held Martha’s gaze. ‘Then, what is it about?’
Martha withdrew her hand and took a sip of wine, feeling the heat rising in her cheeks, and then, still hoping for an explanation, spoke: ‘Something about his job perhaps, or his father? I thought maybe his father…’
‘His father is staying in a home. You know he is not well?’
‘Yes, Clement told me.’
‘You may also know that Clement has difficulty in paying for his father’s care at the moment.’
Martha hesitated, surprised to hear such personal details so easily. ‘Then… then that’s it! It must have been that.’ What would Clement say if he knew his friend were telling me this? But she must know. She must. ‘Tell me, will you? Please tell me. I would like to help, if I can.’
So Angeline told her about the bills and the imminent sale of his father’s apartment, probably at a very low price. She said that he had found a job, but that the salary was not enough to cover his outgoings; that he was worried about his father’s health and what would happen if he found out about the sale of his home. Martha, for her part, asked her friend to keep secret their conversation and said that she would like to pay the outstanding bill for the care home, insisting that it would be her pleasure, and that Clement should not be told.
The atmosphere was lighter after that, and the two
women finished their lunch talking about everyday things, after which, Angeline showed Martha around the garden and spoke about her business, until it was nearly two o’clock and she had to give her attention to the next load of washing.
Martha waved as she drove away and Angeline smiled. Inside the house, the younger woman could not help thinking about the sum of money that would be paid over so easily to her friend by a woman who seemed to have infinite funds. It was questionable whether Clement would take the cash, even if he did not know it was from his admirer. The whole thing was doomed to failure, in her opinion. She closed the door of her new washing machine and set the programme, listening to the almost silent purring of its mechanism, running her eyes over the bags of newly ironed clothes ready to be packed and delivered; calculating how long it would take her to earn enough to pay for her dreams.
Martha was relieved, although she had been acutely embarrassed by Angeline’s comments concerning her relationship with Clement. She had thought at first, although she would not have admitted it, that she had indeed made a fool of herself, and that Clement was, if the truth be known, not particularly interested in her. But it had been cruel and unreasonable of Angeline to infer that he was too young for her. Angeline was very young herself, and full of rather old-fashioned ideas it seemed. Clement must be almost thirty. There was not much in it. Nevertheless, the girl had made her feel uncomfortable.
As Martha parked in the square, Michel came out of his house with a dark-haired girl. Despite Martha’s best efforts, he spotted her and waved, making her feel a mixture of regret and loathing. At least he had someone else now, which meant he would not bother her again. He had found someone, and she had not.
When she got into the house, she emailed Jane and told her everything. It was risky, and she would probably not like her friend’s reaction, but she had to tell someone, and she supposed it would be wise to have the opinion of a trusted friend. Martha was beginning to feel she should have gone directly to Clement with an offer of help. Perhaps she would do just that, after all. The email was long and fairly mixed up, but Jane had known her a long time and would be able to sort it out, so she clicked ‘send’ and went into the garden. Guy would be coming for his lesson at seven. She had time to do some gardening before then, followed by a long hot bath.
There was another email she wanted to write, but that would be tricky and she was not in the mood for it at present.
Forty-six
Martha was kind. She was thoughtful and considerate. Clement had, of course, considered what it might be like to undress her and make love to her, even though she was not the type of woman he was usually attracted to. His girlfriends so far had been younger, plumper and more fiery. He was not used to being mothered, which was how he felt with Martha.
When she had turned up on his doorstep, playing the Good Samaritan, he had not wanted to talk about his problems and so they had ended up rescuing the pasta, opening a bottle of cheap wine and listening to music. She looked nice in her floral skirt and yellow blouse, she smelt good too. It would have been so easy, but for the look in her eyes that dragged him down and made him think twice, and, once he had thought twice, it was too late.
They had talked about everything but his father, idle chat for the most part, laughing at each other’s jokes and going round in circles. He had not asked her about her past and, when she had asked him about his, he had kept things simple, telling her that he was just an out-of-work journalist who had found a job in an office where he sold stationery. Her face had been a picture. But her comments had been polite and superficial, just as he knew they would be. He had waited until she wanted to leave, handling her gently, saying that he would like to see her again, that they would be friends. But he left her some hope, so that she was not disappointed, and he kissed her on the lips, running his hand down her back a little, which she seemed to like.
When she had gone, he forgot her instantly and set about continuing his search for a more suitable job, widening his field and even looking at a Spanish site. He sent off a letter and his CV to a magazine in Bordeaux, and a newspaper for young readers in Madrid, where they required a foreign correspondent. Then, he watched a film and went to bed.
The next morning was fine. Clement took his father to the beach and sat with him on a bench where they could watch the sea and the tankers crossing slowly.
‘Are you warm, Papa?’
‘Yes. I am warm, my son,’ he replied, staring out to sea.
It was always the same on a Saturday morning, when he picked his father up from the home. They had given him his medication and it took some time for it to wear off a little, before he became more aware of himself and his surroundings. Then they could talk. But for the moment, he stared out to sea with a troubled expression and Clement wondered what stories were running through his father’s mind, what hallucinations tortured him. The sun was warm, but the breeze cut through its heat and soon, despite his father’s reassurances, it was time to move. He would have liked to take him to a café, to sit and watch the world go by, as they had at first, before his father’s savings had run out and he had received the first letter from the bank, then another from the care home.
‘I remember there was an ice-cream parlour your mother liked along here somewhere,’ his father said, stopping to look for it amongst the other shops. ‘She always chose the same flavour,’ he chuckled. ‘Caramel. Caramel Fleur de Sel. That’s the one she liked best.’ He looked at Clement and put a hand on his arm, which was threaded through his own as they walked.
‘You always tell me that, Papa. But we can never find the place…’
‘That’s because it’s gone, my son. It has gone now,’ he said, his voice trailing off.
‘Would you like some tea? We can go home if you like.’
‘Yes. It’s cold out here. Let’s have tea.’
His father searched the shops for the ice-cream parlour where he had taken his young wife, and Clement wished that he could make it appear for him. But his father could not remember the name of it.
When they got home, Clement had to check the stairs for German snipers before his father would go up. Before the snipers, there had been dead cats and before that, hundreds of canaries, flapping around.
‘All clear!’ He did his best to make light of it.
‘They’ll be back soon!’ replied his father. ‘ Better keep an eye out!’ By now, the medication was wearing off and he began to understand the madness of his own words so that he looked at his son and laughed a little.
When the tea was made and the time seemed right, Clement sat down and put one of the bills from the care home on the table. Even now, he wondered whether he must tell his father that the apartment must be sold, knowing that only a miracle could prevent it.
‘We’re running out of money, Papa,’ he said.
‘Oh, dear,’ said his father, sipping his tea, his hands beginning to shake a little.
‘Your savings are finished and I can’t afford the payments for Maison Verte.’
His father looked confused and shook his head gently from side to side, but did not speak.
‘I think we will have to sell the apartment.’
At this, his father’s eyes widened and locked onto his son’s. He looked as though he were trying to grab a memory, to get a hold on an idea. And Clement was sorry that he had had to share the knowledge of this financial predicament, angry that he had been unable to save his father from it.
‘Sell the apartment? But why?’
‘Yes, Papa. I’m sorry. So sorry.’
For the rest of the morning his father was more chatty than usual, asking about where things were that had been stored away for years; letters, papers, boxes of trivia that had been packed up after the death of his wife. He wanted to telephone the bank and speak to the manager, but the manager he had known was no longer at the bank, and the new one did not know who he was. He said that Maison Verte would know what to do, that they should follow instructions. But, when Clement a
sked his father what instructions they should follow, he would just frown and ask for a ladder so that he could look in the loft. It seemed to Clement that the news had made his father panic; that he had gone into overdrive to block it out.
There were some boxes in the loft, however, and so Clement brought them down, sitting with his father, sorting through the past, believing that it was better to indulge him, watching him pick up an old picture, or a family game they had played, or a notebook with details of furniture measurements and room dimensions from when they had first moved in. Some of the objects brought back memories to both of them and sometimes his father would sit back in his chair and recount an anecdote, clutching the object that had brought the story back, as though it were a magical mirror into a world long gone.
Later, when they played Patience together, his father would get up suddenly and go to look in a drawer, or a cupboard, saying that he was sure he had packed the papers there, shaking his head and tutting, saying that his wife must have moved them. After he had had his tablets, he calmed down and slept in front of the television, exhausted by his efforts, his face a little greyer than normal, while Clement checked emails and cleaned up the kitchen, looking out onto the garden, noticing his mother’s rose bush, knowing that he too would miss this place, perhaps just as much as his father would.
Forty-seven
Marcus Beaumont luxuriated in a bath so full that the slightest movement would cause water to slosh onto the bathroom floor. He resembled a rather handsome, corpulent bear, stretching his chin towards the ceiling, scratching and letting out a contented grunt. He thought about the fine young girl who had gone downstairs to prepare a breakfast of bacon and eggs, black pudding and mushrooms, anticipating the smell wafting up the stairs and under the door, which was not locked.
