The Undertaker's Son

by Bev Spicer

  ‘Ah, there you are! Good. I have some letters for you,’ said Felix Dumas, coming in quickly and going straight to his desk.

  ‘Of course, Maitre. Good morning,’ she said, still watching the boy.

  ‘Yes. Of course. Good morning. The letters! I will dictate.’ He scowled at the girl staring out of the window and shook out his coat, clearing his throat and beginning to speak before he had even sat down at his desk.

  Estelle retrieved her notepad from her pocket and took down the letters, marvelling at the passion of the son and the officious nature of the father.

  As soon as she had a moment to herself, she emailed Clement Berger, telling him that she would like to see him, leaving her address and home phone number with strict instructions not to contact the notaire’s office before she had spoken to him.

  When Patrice Dumas came in, she looked up and smiled. ‘That was a wonderful thing to do.’

  ‘His dog is called Fifi,’ he replied, his face looking very young. ‘She’s only a year old.’

  Estelle nodded, happy for the boy. ‘Your father is upstairs.’

  And, when she saw his expression change, she added, ‘At his desk.’ Then the boy knew his secret was safe.

  Fifty

  Angeline parked her van in the visitors’ car park and walked up the steps to the rather grand entrance of Maison Verte, feeling nervous and important in equal measure. To her right, she could see beautifully kept gardens and some of the residents walking near a large ornate fountain. If this were the kind of place you could afford when you were old, then she would not mind in the least, she thought, although at her age, she did not truly believe that she would ever be old.

  She told the receptionist that she had an appointment with Madame Villeneuve for ten o’clock and was impressed by the friendliness of the welcome she received.

  ‘If you would care to wait in the reception lounge, Madame Roche. You may help yourself to coffee, of course. I shall inform Madame Villeneuve that you have arrived.’

  ‘Thank you.’ Angeline moved off to an area with two comfortable sofas and a number of impressive plants.

  She sipped her coffee and, setting it down on the table, opened her bag to check, for the umpteenth time, the envelope she had in there next to her cheque book; still deciding which method of payment would be better. She had a vague notion that there might be advantages either way. Perhaps paying in cash would cause trouble later, if it were traced back to her: perhaps people would want to know where such a large sum had come from. A cheque might be a more straightforward solution. The tax office would not assume she was hiding something, if they investigated.

  ‘Ah, Madame Roche? I’m Madame Villeneuve. So nice to meet you.’

  Angeline stood and greeted the rather short, middle-aged woman who did not have the immediate charm of the receptionist.

  ‘If you would like to follow me, we will be more comfortable in my office.’ The two women set off across the reception area and entered a spacious room overlooking the gardens at the back of the building

  ‘What a beautiful office!’ Angeline said, before she had time to stop herself.

  ‘I like it,’ replied Madame Villeneuve, who was obviously used to such comments. ‘Please, sit down.’

  And, when both of them were installed, leaning forward, she asked, ‘What is it that I can do for you today, madame?’

  Angeline sat up straight and explained that she was there to settle an outstanding bill in the name of Monsieur Henri Berger. She was a friend, who had heard about the difficulty Monsieur Berger was in and, having the means to help, had come to put things right. She would, of course, wish to remain anonymous and hoped that this would be respected, as her dear friend, Monsieur Berger, would not accept her kind gesture otherwise. It occurred to her, as she spoke, that she should not have assumed responsibility for the gift; that she could have mentioned a third party benefactor.

  Madame Villeneuve did not dwell on such details. She understood completely. It was not an uncommon occurrence, she confided and, at Maison Verte, they were nothing if not discreet, valuing the privacy and confidentiality of their clients and their benefactors.

  Angeline was fascinated by the director of the establishment, admiring the air of calm that surrounded her and the ease with which she handled such a delicate turn of events. It calmed her and lent the proceedings a certain automatic progression that made the fact that she was there to hand over a huge amount of money on behalf of an Englishwoman she hardly knew, who had an urge to help a man she had only just met, a little less incredible.

  ‘I wonder whether you could show me a copy of the outstanding bill so that I may settle it here and now?’ Angeline slid a hand inside her bag. ‘I have a general idea of the amount, but…’

  ‘Of course, Madame Roche. If I may have a few details – your address and full name, your telephone number, just for our records, I will get a copy of the invoice and write out a receipt for you.’ Madame Villeneuve picked up the telephone and spoke in low tones, while Angeline filled in the top half of a registration form, wondering for a moment whether she should put in Martha’s details and then remembering that she too wished to remain anonymous. If the truth did come out… well, it probably would not.

  When Madame Villeneuve had put the telephone down, she turned the paper she had written on the other way round so that her most welcome visitor could read the figure she had written there.

  ‘This is the outstanding balance, Madame Roche, which includes advance payment for the coming month. The relevant paperwork is being prepared. And, do not worry, your details will not be communicated to Monsieur Berger or his family.’

  The amount was just under ten thousand euros, far more than the five thousand Martha had given her. She felt a moment of cold panic and wondered what on earth she should do. Martha had said that she wanted to pay the full amount, no matter how much it might come to and together, they had agreed that it would probably be no more than five thousand. But, now she thought about it, Clement had mentioned his debt to the care home sometime in July or August and it was now the end of October.

  Madame Villeneuve observed her visitor’s hesitation and was on the point of suggesting that she would be willing to accept the amount in two or even three instalments, when Angeline pulled something out of her bag.

  ‘Will you take a cheque?’ she asked, brightly.

  ‘That would be perfectly acceptable.’ The director smiled serenely and handed her a pen. ‘Could you make it out to Maison Verte, please?’

  Angeline’s hand trembled slightly as she wrote out the largest cheque of her life so far.

  ‘The amount is rather more than I had expected,’ she said, coolly. ‘I shall have to make an additional transfer. Would you ensure that the cheque is not presented to the bank before the end of the week?’

  Madame Villeneuve eyed her for less than a second and said that she would see to it personally.

  As soon as Angeline got out of the building and into her van, she breathed more easily, and a feeling of exhilaration flooded through her body. A thousand tiny needles pricked her spine as she savoured the power and the delicious surge in self-esteem she had felt signing the cheque at Madame Villeneuve’s desk. What it was to be rich! She telephoned Martha and told her what had happened, still buzzing with excitement. Martha was unsurprised at the size of the bill and assured her friend that she would transfer the balance the following day, asking her to email her bank details.

  ‘Thank you for doing this, Angeline.’

  And Angeline Roche, her eyes bright and her cheeks flushed, said that she was sure that Clement would be amazed and delighted, promising to keep their secret forever, no matter what.

  Fifty-one

  The email from Jane began with a bang and ended with the force of a supernova.

  Who was this man she barely knew, who wanted money from her? Didn’t she realise that he was almost certainly a confidence trickster and that she was being taken for a ride? What on
earth was she doing getting involved with a man who was so much younger than her, who was obviously only interested in her for her cash? She was naïve, she was gullible, she should tell him to shove off. Ben agreed. Had she told Marcus? Did her parents know? For God’s sake, don’t do it!

  Martha re-read her own email, wondering how it could have generated such a violent response, after all, she was only helping out a friend, not getting married again or signing over her fortune to Clement. It was absurd of Jane to react in such an extreme manner. It probably meant that she and Ben had rowed again or that she was envious of her old friend, who had a house in France, a young, handsome companion and a great deal of money in the bank. Martha read Jane’s email once more, then deleted it. There would be no point in telling her that she had already paid over five thousand euros and was about to add five thousand more. She would not explain that it gave her a great deal of pleasure to do so and, after all, represented a tiny sum when set against her huge and growing investments.

  The next morning, she went to her bank in Royan and transferred the money into Angeline Roche’s bank account. When she arrived back in St. Martin, she called in to see her friends Lesley and Brian for a chat, feeling as though she would burst if she went straight home alone.

  Brian was putting in a new sink in the utility room and Lesley was on the telephone to her sister, as she opened the door and waved her inside.

  ‘Martha! How lovely!’ said Lesley, putting the phone down and greeting her with a kiss.

  Soon, Martha was under the sink, helping Brian position some brackets correctly while Lesley made coffee and chatted from the kitchen, saying that the heating was not working very well and asking whether she knew a plumber who might actually arrive when he said he would, to fix it.

  ‘I might, actually,’ replied Martha, hoping that there were no spiders crawling on her.

  ‘Oh, good! Our plumber is very efficient, but is always busy! I do so hate being cold in the winter.’

  Martha stayed for an hour, catching up with village news and hearing about their planned trip to England for Christmas. She told them about Michel, and hinted at Clement. The lessons were going well, the house was almost perfect and she was thinking about getting a teaching job at a lycée after Christmas. She managed not to tell them about the money, knowing that they would not quite understand.

  She stood on the doorstep with Lesley, promising to call again soon. Lesley looked up and down the road and said that she was glad that Martha was happy. ‘Isn’t that Michel?’ she added, more quietly.

  Martha looked down the road at a large transit-type van and saw Michel at the steering wheel, staring directly at her. As he passed, he did not wave and he did not smile.

  ‘Oh, dear,’ said Martha.

  ‘He’ll be all right,’ replied Lesley. ‘I hear he’s got a lovely girlfriend, very energetic! They’re moving to Ronce-les-Bains after Christmas.’

  ‘He bought, then?’ said Martha, too distracted to smile at her friend’s cheeky comment.

  ‘Yes. I believe the house is beautiful.’

  ‘That’s good. Very good,’ she said, looking after Michel, without regret.

  As she approached the square, Martha saw Robert Palmier outside her door.

  ‘Good morning, Madame Burton.’ He put his bag of tools down to shake hands.

  ‘Good morning, Robert,’

  She had forgotten that he was coming to renew and lag some pipework that would not survive a winter freeze.

  ‘It doesn’t matter. I can come back later.’ He shifted his position to look back at the square, where his van was parked.

  ‘No, Robert. Come in. I’m sorry. Please come in and I’ll make coffee.’

  He stepped into the hallway and followed her into the kitchen, wondering how English people could drink coffee all day.

  ‘No coffee for me, thank you!’

  Martha laughed at his tone and he laughed too. It struck her, not for the first time, that Robert Palmier was a charming man and that he was rather handsome, with his straight nose, broad smiling mouth and his intelligent dark eyes. My God! She was turning into a predatory woman!

  Robert set down his bag once more and selected the tools he needed while she busied herself with a number of trivial chores. She had two lessons in the afternoon, one of them with Patrice, so she took her coffee into the lounge and looked for some interesting activities on the computer, listening to the sounds of the plumber working. And, all of a sudden, she felt lonely. Perhaps it was Robert’s presence that reminded her of her solitude, it was hard to say. It was just one of those feelings that comes out of the blue and feels like a portent. Martha thought about Clement and wondered why he had not called, suspecting that it may not simply be that he was preoccupied with his father, but that he was truly not interested in her, and she felt a deep embarrassment returning.

  ‘Excuse me, Madame Burton?’ said Robert from the kitchen. ‘I will need to turn off the water for at least one hour.’

  ‘That’s all right, Robert.’ Her voice was shrill. She didn’t want him to see her.

  Martha recalled the conversation with Angeline and remembered her coolness. She had made her feel ridiculous, it was true, telling her that Clement did not want to settle down – implying that she were chasing him. But, at the time, it had not seemed terribly important. Now, she began to doubt her own judgement, allowing Jane’s comments in her email to filter back into her thoughts. Could it be that everyone else was right and she was wrong? Could it be that her marriage had failed because Marcus had been telling the truth when he told her that he had had his affairs because he had been bored by her complacency and what he called her ‘appalling righteousness’?

  When Robert stuck his head around the door to say that he needed to go out to his van and would leave the door open, he saw the tears running down her face and, stepping quickly into the room, crouched down beside her, taking her hand. The sudden intimacy of this made Martha look directly into his eyes and burst into tears, putting her head into his neck and feeling the weight of his large hand on the back of her head.

  He did not speak, but let her cry, offering her a handkerchief after a moment, to dry her eyes and clean her nose.

  ‘Thank you, Robert,’ she tried to say, although, whether the words came out intelligibly she had no idea.

  It was several seconds before she looked up, her face still hot and her eyes smarting, to see the strong features of his face, taut with concern. She sniffed and nodded, trying a smile and hoping that the twitching sensation in her lips would not let her down with a further outburst of emotion.

  ‘I’m so sorry, Robert,’ she said, her bottom lip trembling.

  ‘Do not be sorry. There is no need to be sorry.’

  ‘I… I don’t know why… I –’

  ‘I understand. I understand. Sometimes the world is a little overwhelming,’ he murmured.

  His words, strangely apt and gentle, surprised her and, a moment later, she told him that she would be fine. That it was nothing. That she must be tired.

  He nodded, and she watched him go quietly back to his work, while she turned again to her lessons, as though nothing out of the ordinary had happened. In fact, she had the feeling that something inside her had been steadied by Robert Palmier, that he had somehow given her back her balance.

  Just before Patrice arrived, she went into the kitchen to pay him and thank him, having the idea that she should ask him not to mention what had gone on. But, when she saw him, she knew that it was not necessary; that he would keep what had happened to himself.

  ‘I will bring the bill around next week, if that’s all right.’ He gathered his tools and left quietly, glancing back at her with a warm smile.

  When Patrice knocked, she half hoped that Robert had returned for something he had forgotten, and found that she was grinning like a young girl as she pulled open the door.

  Later, when she checked her phone messages, she was happy to have word from Clement. Her insecurit
ies were unfounded, after all.

  Fifty-two

  Clement could not understand it, but the director of Maison Verte had been quite clear. Someone had paid his father’s bill and she was not able to tell him who it was. She advised him that the benefactor had wanted to remain anonymous and had paid the bill up to the end of the following month. If Monsieur Berger wished to refuse the payment, she would return the monies, of course. It was a very pleasant surprise and at the same time deeply unsettling, however, Clement already knew that he would accept this act of altruism, if only for his father’s sake. The mystery of who would or could perform such an act of charity played on his mind. No matter how much he racked his brains, he could think of no one who might do such a thing, unless it were a distant relative, unknown to him. He had asked his father, in the subtlest of ways, whether he had been contacted by anyone recently, but it was to no avail. It was a most bizarre situation to be in.

  What was equally puzzling was that, only that morning, Estelle had told him that Felix Dumas was not to be trusted and that he should not go through with the sale until she had found out more. He had not understood this either, but had promised to do as she asked and wait, despite Dumas’ enthusiasm for him to set a date for the signing of the Compromis de Vente. There was something about Estelle that made him trust her.

  His father had continued to spend most of his time looking through boxes, digging out things from the past, some of which upset him. But, when Clement had taken away the boxes, he had demanded them back again and sent his son up to the loft to bring down yet more. It might be that he was getting ready to move, mentally, going back over the past before leaving the home he had shared with his wife for over thirty years.

  In the meantime, Clement worked hard and saved what he could. He took Sofia out from time to time and went to see Martha when she called. He listened to Angeline warning him that the Englishwoman was in love with him, laughing at her theories and telling her that she over-complicated things. He liked variety, after all, and believed that happiness came from an open mind. If Martha attached too much meaning to his interest in her, then it was not his fault. The woman was fun to be with and good to talk to, she was a great cook, and was pretty, too.