Chapter Five
We walk down the rue Albert Bouquillon towards the Harringtons’ house in a creamy dusk. Clouds of rose and violet drift across the pale evening sky. We walk in silence, each lost in our own thoughts. My hand rests lightly in the crook of Ben’s arm and I can almost imagine us as an elderly couple, a little bowed and grey, our lives behind us. What troubles me, not just now but often, is the more existential question of what our lives will have been about. Will we feel satisfied with the lives we’ve led? Or will we have simply gone through the motions? I often wonder if other people think about this as much as I do. Many people seem content to lead lives of routine and habit, never reaching beyond the everyday to find something more fulfilling. I wish I could be one of them. I truly do. The thought of us growing old gives me an odd empty feeling as though time is accelerating and our lives are almost over with nothing worthwhile achieved. I wonder what can be truly meaningful in a life without children, and still no answers appear.
An older woman wearing a black coat and brown hat passes us, walking in the opposite direction. I smile and nod. ‘Bonsoir, Madame.’ Ben murmurs something inaudible. His confidence is a bit bruised by the less-than-enthusiastic response towards his French from the locals.
‘Messieursdames.’ The woman bobs her head and gives us a curious side glance.
When she has passed, I ask Ben if he’s seen her before. She looks familiar to me.
He glances over his shoulder briefly. ‘Nah.’
‘I think I remember seeing her standing at the gates … as though she wanted to come in. I remember the hat.’ I turn around and see that the woman has paused outside our house. She sees me watching and hurries away up the road.
Clusters of tiny magenta cyclamen grow wild alongside the Harringtons’ laneway. The sight of them draws my thoughts back to the beauty of the evening around us, the sounds of birdsong and smell of woodsmoke. It’s hard to imagine that the novelty of walking to dinner along these peaceful country lanes and returning home by the light of a torch could ever wear off.
The Harringtons’ house is set about half a kilometre across the fields behind ours but it’s much easier to access by a road that leads away from the village. The two-storey farmhouse stands on its own surrounded by fields. A stone wall encloses a courtyard with a few out-buildings attached, one of which has a dusty silver Audi parked in it.
The little pugs bark excitedly as Susannah welcomes us at the door and ushers us into a hall cluttered with umbrellas, boots and coats for all seasons hung along a row of hooks. She takes us into Dominic’s study, which looks out into the front courtyard. He gets up to greet us from behind a polished timber desk dominated by a large electric typewriter. The neat bookshelf, French impressionist prints on the wall and a couple of leather armchairs give it the timeless feel of one of those exclusive London clubs. The living room is also furnished in a conservative English style with antiques and florals, and an open fire, exactly as I had envisioned for the Harringtons.
‘I’ve selected a little something from my small collection for this evening,’ says Ben, handing Dominic back his gift.
‘Ahh, the antipodean sense of humour.’ Dominic smiles, accepting the wine from him.
‘Sorry, it is a bit rude,’ I say. ‘We wanted to enjoy it with you … also we haven’t had time to get out.’ Ben figured this was the simple way to meet Dominic’s wine expectations.
Dominic gazes fondly at the label. ‘Don’t apologise, I’m more than happy to have this little pony return to the stable. We might just save it for a special occasion. In fact, come down and see my cellar before it gets too dark …’
‘They’ve scarcely got in the door, Dominic,’ says Susannah. Ben reassures her that we would like to see the cellar and we all make our way out through the sort of conservatory that leads off the living room into the garden. Outside is a pergola, like an archway entwined with roses, with a bench seat built into it. Like a romantic English garden.
‘Dom wanted this house because of the cellar,’ explains Susannah. ‘But it was this lovely arbour that sold me. I adore roses. I’ve put in several of my favourite English tea roses to add more variety, so there’s white as well as pink and peach —’
‘It’s something of an obsession for Susannah,’ interrupts Dominic, and beckons us towards a path that leads along the back of the house. When I realise that Susannah isn’t joining us, I offer to help her in the kitchen but she waves me off, insisting she’ll attend to the dinner.
The cellars are tucked neatly under the house and accessed through a big alcove furnished with a rustic dining table and chairs. Dominic explains that this area is beautifully cool in summer and still has the original bread oven, which they use occasionally.
He unlocks the heavy steel door that leads into the cellar itself. ‘I had this security door installed. I have some very rare vintages. One can never be too careful. Only problem is if the bloody thing slams, it deadlocks and you need the key to get out. I locked myself in here once; fortunately Susannah noticed me missing at supper-time. I keep an extra key in here now, just in case.’
He props the door wide open and switches on the lights. It’s like a series of two or three tunnels, interesting but creepy at the same time. I don’t like these sorts of enclosed spaces, especially ones with slamming doors, and find myself glancing anxiously at the hook inside the doorway where the spare key hangs. I know it’s silly, I’m a grown woman and it’s not as though he’s going to lock us in the cellar. But it has a dense, earthy smell like tobacco that conjures up visions of being buried alive. The walls seem to push in on us. But much as I desperately want to get out of here, I sense that Dominic would think … I don’t know what he’d think, but nothing good, that’s for sure. Not aware of my growing anxiety, Ben listens, arms folded, nodding and asking questions while Dominic expands on his collecting strategies, pulling out various bottles to show us. I move in close beside Ben, comforted by the proximity of his bulk and warmth. Intuitively, he enfolds me in his arms and hugs me close, resting his chin on my head and I am safe.
Chapter Six
Susannah ferries each individual soufflé ramekin nestled in a heavy oven glove to the table while Dominic opens a second bottle of wine.
‘I don’t know why you have to bring them out one at a time. Why not a tray, Susannah? Just for dramatic effect? You should know that Susannah was an actress – it will explain a lot.’ He seems mildly amused, teasing more than criticising, so the expedition to the cellars was evidently a success.
Leaning over her dish, Mia sniffs the pungent smell of Gruyère. ‘Soufflé au choufleur?’
‘Yes, well done,’ says Susannah, bringing the final ramekin to the table. ‘An old favourite.’
‘My mother used to make it for us when we were children,’ says Mia.
‘Ah, cauliflower cheese,’ says Ben. ‘We had it too but with tasty cheese.’
Dominic looks from one to the other. ‘Tasty cheese? Well, we’re pleased it’s hit the spot.’
‘Is your mother French?’ asks Susannah as she sits down, still a little flustered. ‘Bon appétit, everyone … careful, it’s hot!’
‘No, she’s Dutch. That’s how we qualify to live in the EU. Actually, we call this bloemkool met kaassaus.’
‘So, are you members of the Australian squattocracy or are you expecting to make a living of some sort here?’ asks Dominic.
‘Diversity. That’s our strategy. Multiple income strands,’ says Ben. ‘I work online anyway. We can both work online, but we’re open to all possibilities.’
‘I think it’s wonderful. You’re young and energetic,’ says Susannah. ‘Why not try something new?’
‘You probably know that renovating these old houses involves one nasty surprise after another, and heating them is another story altogether,’ says Dominic. ‘Buying one is an act of sheer folly, in fact – that’s why they’re so cheap.’
‘We quite like the house as it is, that sort of grand sha
bby chic. We’re not planning a massive renovation; more of a preservation,’ says Mia.
Not to be deterred, Dominic continues. ‘Plumbing, electrical, you’ll find it all needs doing. The French are quite cavalier about these things. We had live wires poking out of the walls – deathtraps for the amateur. We’ve been through it all, so more than happy to offer counsel.’
Susannah has a growing concern that Dominic is now determined to pursue this topic until the Tinkers reveal the full depths of their ignorance. Nothing less will do. He has been in a generous, expansive mood, but now he seems to be searching for a fissure in their self-confidence. As though sensing this, Mia changes the subject, asking what brought the Harringtons to France.
‘Sort of semi-retirement, really. Roles had dried up for me,’ explains Susannah, launching into the story she now has off pat. ‘We didn’t want to stay in London. France was cheaper than Dorset or anywhere nice outside London. We looked at the Côte d’Azur. Much too expensive.’
‘And too many bloody Russians,’ adds Dominic.
‘Then the Dordogne, or Dordogneshire as they call it.’ Susannah smiles. ‘That’s become quite expensive too. Friends recommended that we look at Cordes-sur-Ciel. Obviously a gorgeous part of the world, then we saw this house all tucked away and fell for the whole package. That was a year ago.’
‘What did you do for a living, Dominic?’ asks Ben.
Unable to resist any opportunity to be centrestage, Dominic hesitates only for the briefest moment before inviting the Tinkers to make a guess. Not wanting to sit through this excruciating process, Susannah gets up and briskly clears the dishes, even though they have barely finished, and rushes them back to the kitchen. This is exactly what she asked Dominic not to do. She expressly told him not to make himself a subject of curiosity. Now she suspects he’s doing it to spite her.
From the kitchen, Susannah can hear Ben suggesting all sorts of wishful Boy’s Own pursuits: race-car driver, airline pilot, architect, private detective, spy, double agent – urged on by Dominic’s laughter and encouragement. At least it’s restoring his good temper. Mia says nothing. She’s the more observant one. When Ben runs dry, Mia asks if, perhaps, since Susannah was an actress, was he a director or producer? No. Lawyer? Doctor? Susannah begins to wonder if Mia might be pandering to his ego. Clever girl. He, of course, is thoroughly enjoying all this speculation, basking in a self-imposed air of mystery.
Returning to the dining room with the main course, Susannah carefully places a plate in front of each of them, giving it a practised tweak to show the dish off to its best advantage. She looks up to see Mia observing her with interest.
‘Were you a chef?’ asks Mia, turning to Dominic.
Although he shakes his head, he looks guarded.
‘Restaurant owner? No … okay. A food writer … a restaurant critic?’
For a split second he looks crestfallen, disappointed to be unmasked, but then raises his glass in tribute to her powers of perception. ‘How did you arrive at that conclusion?’
Mia shrugs modestly. Susannah suspects it’s the way Dominic watches her when she serves a meal, as if he’s assessing her for a hospitality certificate. Over the years she’s got used to it. Besides, he has many more annoying habits than that.
‘Well done, Mia-Cat,’ says Ben admiringly. ‘She’s the smart one in the family.’
Dominic gives Mia a doubtful look and quickly wrestles the focus back to where it belongs. ‘I was always interested in food and wine; an epicure from an early age. My favourite pastimes are eating and drinking. Never thought of making a career of it. For years I was an unknown news hack – did the odd column, standing in here and there. Had the chance to do some restaurant reviews, they gained a certain notoriety and the paper was virtually forced to give me my own column. And the rest is history.’
‘History?’ asks Mia.
‘A figure of speech, ma chère. Although, all humility aside, I was highly regarded in my day. Perhaps the best …’ Susannah catches his eye and he hesitates. Changing this subject will be difficult now but Dominic does make an effort. ‘Ben, you mentioned you liked a merlot; you’ll find this has similar plummy overtones.’ He holds the bottle aloft, eyebrows raised expectantly at them both. Mia shakes her head, insisting she’s not much of a drinker. Susannah gets up and goes to the cabinet to fetch Ben another wineglass.
‘Did you wear disguises?’ asks Mia. ‘Like fake beards and glasses?’
‘The ones with a nose attached to the glasses and eyebrows?’ suggests Ben.
‘No disguises required. Kept my face out of the press. My name was known but I made my bookings under pseudonyms, obviously.’
‘What were some of the restaurants you reviewed? Perhaps we can find your reviews online?’ asks Mia.
Susannah is not sure whether she let go of the glass involuntarily – perhaps a sort of survival mechanism – or dropped the thing deliberately, but she’s as startled as the rest of the party to hear the explosion of crystal as it hits the terracotta tiles.
Dominic stares at the mess of smashed crystal on the floor. Unnerved by his calm silence, Susannah trips over herself to apologise. ‘Oh, darling, I’m terribly sorry … I’m so clumsy … I’ll clear it up. Ignore me, everyone. Keep talking.’
Dominic turns to their guests. ‘Baccarat crystal. Belonged to my mother, a woman of impeccable taste. Worth about two hundred pounds each, I’d say. I inherited a full dozen. Now there are just three left intact.’
Mia and Ben sit in the now uncomfortable silence broken only by the sound of Susannah hurriedly brushing the remains into a dustpan while she frets that the Tinkers will make their excuses and escape.
‘But, as Oscar Wilde so wisely opined,’ continues Dominic evenly, ‘the one charm of the past is that it is the past. Do we have another glass for Ben? Try and keep a firm grip on this one, ma chérie.’
Susannah brings a second glass and disposes of the breakage. The talk turns to more general things, Susannah steering the attention towards the Tinkers. Ben reveals that he works as a software engineer; a computer programmer.
‘Ahhh … the ubiquitous internet,’ says Dominic. ‘If you didn’t clamber onboard when everyone else did you’re standing on the shore watching that particular vessel sail away. For many, it’s a speck in the distance now.’
‘I don’t know. Any idiot can use it and a lot do,’ says Ben.
‘I’ve a reasonable grasp on the technology,’ says Dominic. ‘Simply don’t have the use for it.’
‘Was that something you always wanted to do?’ Susannah asks Ben. ‘I’m not sure what’s involved in computer programming, to be honest.’
‘Not really – when I was a kid, I always thought I’d be a farmer. Then my dad was killed in an accident when I was fourteen and the farm had to be sold. I managed to finish school and went down to Sydney to do vet science and ended up doing software engineering instead. It’s pretty good. Plenty of work in a growth industry. Better paid than farming and you get to stay dry. I like problem solving. Mia’s the creative one.’
‘I met Ben’s sister, Olivia, at university,’ explains Mia. ‘We ended up sharing a house with some other students. Ben moved in with us, so that’s how we got together. I was doing fine arts, textile design. Bit of a useless degree so I went on and did education training and became an art teacher.’
Susannah makes all the right noises but knows nothing about computer work and very little about art. Dominic could hardly be less interested but does make an effort to appear so. After dessert, Susannah suggests they adjourn to the living room for the cheese course.
Even though Ben is clearly struggling to focus and Mia has two bright-red spots on her cheeks like a painted doll, Dominic opens yet another bottle of wine. Oblivious to their guests’ waning attention, he insists on availing them of the provenance of each cheese, directing their attention with his little finger in the most pretentious way as though he’s the maître fromager. Ben swallows a series of yawns,
Mia’s lids droop, and it falls to Susannah to set their guests free and send them home.
After they leave, Susannah clears up the kitchen, turns on the dishwasher and switches off the lights. She had assumed that Dominic had gone straight to bed, but now, from the darkness of the living room, she sees he’s outside, sitting in a deckchair, staring up at the sky and smoking one of his expensive cigars. From his relaxed posture it’s obvious he’s reached the point of intoxication she considers the embodiment of his higher self. It’s the middle part of drunkenness when he is at his worst: unpredictable, uncensored and over-invested in his own opinions. In the latter stages, he mellows. It’s as though the alcohol warms his soul and releases the reserves of kindness and generosity he has buried deep in there. She has no desire to join him. Far from it. More than anything she wants to get to her own room without further ado to ensure that the evening ends on a high note.
It all went well enough, apart from the smashed glass and Dominic boring them absolutely senseless about the blasted cheeses, but she felt on edge the whole time. She has stupidly already invested too much in them to completely relax. It makes no sense, really. Perhaps it’s just her pitiful state of loneliness but it feels like more than that. It’s as though both she and Dominic see a chance to straighten themselves out. A sort of second chance at a time when third and fourth chances have already failed. With all their other friendships, bridges have not so much been burned as disassembled, with no return possible.
The Yellow Villa Page 3
