by Bev Spicer
‘Ha! You think she is pretty?’ Angeline had scoffed.
It was the day before he had arranged to meet with Estelle, and he arrived at Maison Verte to pick up his father, as usual, only to be told that he was unwell and could not be allowed out. He had come down with a cold that had taken hold and gone onto his chest; the doctor had said he must keep warm and not exert himself. Clement sat with his father for most of the morning and said he would come back the next day to see how he was. Then he drove back into town and called at Sofia’s house. She was pleased to see him and took him to the bedroom, kissing him as soon as she had him inside the house.
‘I like your hair longer,’ she said to him, afterwards.
Clement hadn’t realised it had grown much and smiled broadly, accepting the compliment.
‘It suits you,’ she insisted.
His mobile phone rang then and he looked at the number displayed on the screen. It was Martha’s.
‘Who is it?’
‘Nobody.’
Sofia was fun. They went out to sit in a café and she ordered ice cream, wanting to be outside so that she could smoke, not caring that the weather had turned colder. He liked her carefree attitude, her naivety. She made him feel happy, as though he were a child again.
‘Will you stay at the office?’ she asked him, as she had done before.
‘Not if I can help it!’ he answered, as usual. But, this time, he had meant to be less off-hand, not wanting to hurt her.
‘If you go, it will not be the same without you.’
Clement did not hear her. He raised his hand to a woman passing by on the other side of the street.
‘Who is that?’ asked Sofia.
‘A friend,’ he replied. ‘An Englishwoman I know.’
Sofia grinned and blew smoke in his face; the woman was not young and she had no bosom. It was all right for her to be friends with Clement. She ate her ice cream and Clement said that his father had eaten ice cream with his mother when they had been young, but that the ice cream parlour had disappeared, been taken over.
‘What was it called?’
‘I don’t think he can remember.’
‘Ask him again when you see him, I know every place to buy ice cream for miles around!’
‘I will. Most definitely, I will,’ he said, believing her, and laughing at the seriousness of her expression.
Later, when Martha called, he told her that Sofia was his cousin.
‘Will you come to dinner next weekend, with your father?’ she asked him.
‘He’s not well at the moment.’
‘I hope it’s nothing serious.’
‘It’s just a cold. If he’s better, we’ll come.’
‘Good. I’d like that.’
Clement thought that his father would enjoy doing something different for a change and was grateful for Martha’s kindness. Before he went to bed, he checked his emails and found one from a magazine he had applied to in Saintes – it wasn’t as lively a place as Royan, but it was more beautiful. They wanted to meet him and had invited him to call to arrange an interview. His last thought, though, was that he no longer had to worry about the enormous bill from Maison Verte, a thought that had been running through his mind constantly. Perhaps this was the miracle he had longed for. Perhaps he would not have to sell his father’s apartment, after all.
Fifty-three
After two years, Claude had reluctantly left his apprenticeship under the guidance of Felix Dumas, to return to his father, who could no longer fulfil the occasional contracts required of him. The time had come when he did not have the stomach for his trade and preferred to busy himself with his undertaking business, making arrangements for the dead instead of providing new corpses for the coffins he sold. So, despite his overwhelming wish for his son to qualify as a lawyer, he sent for Claude one cold afternoon, when his heart had been touched by ice for the last time.
Claude had not hesitated. He would not have said so for the world, but he knew fundamentally and categorically that Felix Dumas would never make anything of him. The former was restricted by the law he served, despite his undeniable intelligence. The law was a prison. Claude coveted his freedom, both physical and spiritual – he would never be able to abide by such petty rules.
And now, his father was dead.
Rosa Cousteau had grown older and fatter, her expression set and sullen. She worried about the past and the future, leaving no time for the present. She had no love for her son, but grieved still for the daughter she had lost years ago to a cruel virus. Claude was no substitute, with his cadaverous features, his sunken eyes and his untidy, mouse-coloured hair.
She could not bring herself to kiss her son when he came to visit, but listened politely to his descriptions of the places he had been. It was always places that he spoke of and never people. Almost never. Only one name came up in conversation: Felix Dumas was a paragon of virtue, selfless and generous to a fault. She was sick of hearing about him. His father had been a constant drain on her husband. Such a big man! Wealthy and educated. Pah! Her husband had been caught in his flame, like a moth, bobbing and blundering to remain in the circle of light, just as her son now did, a generation on.
The life had been sucked out of her husband slowly but surely, until his heart had given out one day during dinner and he had died in front of her, the agony on his face a memory she could not forget, his love for her too tragic to be savoured. Dumas had not attended the funeral but his son had sent a message – she remembered how Claude had read it out to her. It had made her sick to her stomach.
Rosa Cousteau’s bills were paid, and food was put before her. She lived on, cared for by servants who whispered behind her back, and a son who fulfilled his professional obligations with a sang froid that her husband had lacked. The sun rose each morning and lit the room where she slept, but could not warm her heart. And when Claude came to visit, it was without love that she surveyed the dull features of a man who killed, she suspected, without conscience. More than once, she had considered taking the shotgun from the cabinet and pretending that she had mistaken him for an intruder, for, the thought that she had brought such a monster into the world was, at times, unbearable.
Her husband had killed, it was true. How many, she did not care to imagine. But the man had worked tirelessly to defend the integrity of his clients, fully aware and generally in agreement with the action to be taken. What was more, his clients had always understood when he had refused to accept a contract, never obliging him to do so. There were always others who were not troubled by such sensibilities. In the end though, the killing had taken its toll so that he had nightmares and called out in the darkness for God to lead him to goodness. Rosa had mopped his brow and told him that God would understand and forgive him. Then he had wept, and promised her that their son would not follow in his footsteps, would not know the tortures he had suffered.
But Claude’s apprenticeship had never been a viable prospect. Rosa had known this from the start. Her husband had put too much faith in people who did not care whether people lived or died. Power was all they wanted. The power to command and to be obeyed.
For his part, Felix Dumas had simply been following instructions. His father had required him to offer the boy a helping hand and Felix had known that it must be part of a business arrangement that had been agreed with Claude’s father. Just what the arrangement had been was never explained. His father’s affairs were a secret to him, and for this he was grateful. Felix was not a violent man. A crook he might be, but he drew the line at the taking of a life.
Claude made him feel uneasy. From their first meeting he had disliked the boy, and he had not savoured being in such close proximity to him during his peculiar apprenticeship. When he looked at Claude, he imagined a mind capable of such evil that he shuddered. With just one glance, the boy could evoke imagined terrors that gave a grown man nightmares.
Felix Dumas would have given anything to avoid taking Claude on. Unfortunately, his father was not
a man to be argued with, and so the notaire gave over a portion of his time to instructing Claude in the basics of Criminal Law, certain that the boy would never qualify, but finding that he could weigh up evidence in a surprisingly logical way, never hesitating over the veracity of his harsh pronouncements. The boy was dangerous, even at sixteen he inspired fear.
Claude had devoured the books Dumas had given him and had developed the confidence to comment on cases in the news, spending hours researching facts and organising them on spreadsheets. He quickly became obsessed and equally as quickly moved on to a new case as soon as he had concluded the one he was working on.
When Claude Cousteau had visited Felix some time later, at his father’s Italian residence, he had shaken his hand and thanked him, promising that he would be ‘at his service’ in anything he needed, for the remainder of his life, maintaining a steady, chilling gaze that lingered on in Felix’s memory whenever he thought of him in the days, months and years that followed.
Rosa Cousteau tended her garden and hoped she would never look up to see her son opening the gate, never be obliged to look into his eyes again.
Fifty-four
Alicia was getting big. Her belly swelled and her breasts became rounder. She took on a quiet lassitude in the way she moved, and a small smile played around her lips while she thought of what was to come and how her life would be altered.
‘You look as though you are keeping a secret,’ said Angeline, as she folded clothes to keep her friend and employee from having to bend too much.
Alicia smiled and said that there were no secrets when you lived in a village.
They worked hard and the deliveries were ready by ten o’clock. When her employer had gone, Alicia ate her biscuits and drank milk from the fridge, looking around the place, as she always did, wondering when she too would have a home of her own, like this one, which had a large oven, a wood burning stove, a modern fridge and good cupboards. André was looking for somewhere. But it was difficult. They would have to wait a while and, in the meantime, they would stay in their small room at her mother’s house.
When she had finished eating, she went back to work, ironing and singing along with the radio to French songs. She liked Adele, too, but not the other music Angeline listened to. When Adele sang, you didn’t have to understand the words. Her songs went into your heart and made it grow large with emotion. Sometimes, she let herself go and her voice soared, making her imagine that she were on stage, in front of thousands of people, just listening to her sing. Then she would laugh at herself, blushing at her daydreams.
At midi, Angeline was back and they had lunch together. Sometimes they did this, when there was a lot to do. But Alicia found her work more tiring now and knew that, soon, she would have to admit that the hours were too many, in spite of the extra money. She planned to last out until Christmas, if she could.
Angeline set off with her afternoon deliveries, a little bored with her day. Her customers were getting fussy. There had been two complaints that morning. One that a blouse had not been folded carefully and another that clothing had not been properly aired. She had apologised and adjusted the bills accordingly, although it cost her a great deal to do so, in pride and in money. Now, she was not so sure she wanted to listen to any more criticism. She hoped her afternoon customers would be more appreciative of her efforts.
By three o’clock, she had finished. And, although she had not received as many tips as usual, there had been no unpleasantness. On the other hand, she had lost one of her customers. Madame Benoit had said that she was taking on a home help and that she would not need to send out her laundry. It was the first time Angeline had been faced with such an occurrence and she did not know what to say. So the door had closed and she had been left standing on the doorstep, feeling as though she had been dismissed, that she had done something wrong and was being punished. That everyone knew what it was, except her.
Her final visit was to her lover’s house. She was not in the mood; she was busy and would have liked to stay away. He cajoled her and complimented her, but in the end, he too seemed dissatisfied and gave up a little so that they parted coolly. Angeline took more than usual from his wallet, not caring what he thought of her.
The day had gone badly, but she was not prepared for what happened next. At six o’clock, she went to the after-school club to pick up Adrian. She stood back from the other mothers, looking out for Marie, who was one of her friends with a child at the same school. But she too stayed away, looking over from time to time, waving but not coming to say hello.
Oh, well, let her please herself, thought Angeline, although she felt a tightness in her chest and in her throat, because she needed a chat after such a dull day.
‘Maman!’ called Adrian, running up with something he had made, wanting to show her.
‘Hello, my darling. What is this? Oh, how wonderful!’
Adrian hugged her and said that his friend Ellie wanted him to come for tea, dragging her back to the entrance.
She laughed and went with him, looking for Ellie’s mother. But, when she saw her, she was walking quickly away towards the tabac, pulling Ellie along, as the little girl looked back at them over her shoulder.
‘Oh!’ said Adrian. ‘She’s gone!’ The boy stamped his foot and then looked up at his mother with tears in his eyes.
‘Never mind,’ said his mother, quickly. ‘Ellie can come tomorrow. It will be better because you come home earlier and you will have longer to play.’
‘All right.’ He was still watching the corner where his friend had disappeared.
Angeline waved again at Marie, who was still talking to three other mothers. It was clear that her friend had more important things to do than talk to her! But, in the back of her mind there was the small push of an intuition that told her again that there was something wrong, and she had the feeling as she walked along, people were watching her, averting their eyes when she turned to look at them. Just as she was coming up the street where she lived, feeling worse than ever, full of confusion and self-doubt, she heard Marie calling.
‘Wait! Angeline, wait!’
‘Marie!’
‘I must speak to you! Quickly, before anyone comes!’ Her friend looked nervously down the small street.
‘What is it?’
Marie looked pointedly at Adrian and then back to his mother. ‘I’ll tell you inside.’
Angeline got a glass of milk and some cake for Adrian and sent him to watch the television. She sat down opposite her friend and waited.
Fifty-five
Patrice had spent the afternoon playing football with his friends. He liked Wednesdays because there were no classes and you could do sports with the school clubs. There were some girls who came to watch, and Beatrice was one of them. She had first spoken to him several months ago, telling him that she too wanted to become a vet, that her love of animals made her sure that she could not imagine doing anything else.
He walked slowly, thinking about the way her hair fell over her face when she laughed, ducking her head and then throwing it back. It made his stomach feel light, almost like when he was hungry just before midi. He did not want to go to his father’s office, but there was no school bus on Wednesday afternoons and so he had no choice. Also, he did not want to miss his English lesson with Madame Burton.
He hung around outside for a while, sitting on a bench, looking at the sea, watching the few people out for a walk along the beach. The air was clear and he felt as though his thoughts could fly out freely. Today, he did not want to be a notaire’s son. He would prefer to be a sailor, with his own ship, setting off for an unknown destination, letting the sea take him. It would be fun to set sail and run with the breeze, feeling the pull of the sails and looking out to the horizon, which, he marvelled, would always be just as far away, no matter how long he travelled towards it.
There were only three people on the beach. A couple, hand in hand, and a man in a jogging suit. The latter ran, then did press-ups, ran
again and did squats. Patrice had seen him before, doing exercises on the beach. Once, he had taken off his clothes and run down to the sea. There was something alienating about him. Patrice preferred not to look at him.
A dog ran towards the couple, bringing back a ball, which it deposited, watching intently as its master picked it up. Patrice would have a dog. Just as soon as he had a house of his own. That much was certain.
When he got to the office, he hung around outside, then dallied in reception, waiting for Estelle to finish her telephone conversation.
‘Good morning Patrice,’ she said. ‘Your father is still busy.’
‘Good morning, Estelle.’ He couldn’t help feeling overawed by the efficiency of the young woman.
‘You can help me prepare the post, if you would like to.’
He came forward and she showed him how to fold the letters to fit them inside the envelopes, which had already been addressed. It struck Patrice that the letters were short; sometimes only two lines, and he wondered why they were necessary if they did not really say anything. His father’s elaborate signature filled the bottom half of the page.
When he had finished, Estelle handed him a sheet of stamps.
‘Do you like working for my father?’ he asked, horrified at his own forwardness and blushing terribly.
‘Your father is a difficult man to like,’ she replied, turning to him, ‘but an easy man to work for.’
