The Yellow Villa

by Amanda Hampson

  Lou and Chou snuggle closer and she strokes both their heads simultaneously and feels herself calming down. ‘It’s all right, my darlings. Mummy’s just a little bit sad.’

  On the other hand, she doesn’t need Morel telling other people they can’t pay their bills. The Atkins, for example. Or that ghastly Anne Hopkins. Everyone in the village talking about them. Gloating. She has no choice but to make the call.

  Reggie answers the phone promptly enough but the conversation is unusually strained. He seems guarded. There’s something she can’t quite put a finger on. She’s solicitous about his health and makes a point of asking after Mrs Hemming, his devoted housekeeper. He reminds her that today is Mrs Hemming’s day off and he will dine at the club tonight, as he has every Friday for the last decade. He leads such a pleasant and untroubled existence, enjoying a delightfully cushy old age. Something she might have been able to experience had she not got caught up with Dominic all those years ago. Had she not become distracted from her career at a pivotal time. Had she not married a profligate who had no compunction about taking money from her elderly father. Nevertheless, she feels fortunate and grateful that Reggie is so indulgent. She knows he’s not as generous with Rebecca who makes pots of money doing something in finance. Reggie is actually incapable of saying no; he can’t bear the thought of his youngest daughter suffering in any way.

  ‘Daddy, I’m so sorry, but I’m really terribly short this month, is there any chance …?’

  No sympathetic tutting. No indulgent chuckle. Just a deep well of silence into which she finds herself tumbling. Something isn’t right.

  ‘Oh dear,’ he says tonelessly, as though rehearsed. ‘Becky hasn’t spoken to you?’

  ‘Becky? No, why? Has something happened?’

  ‘Don’t worry, my darling. Nothing terrible. We simply wanted to set things in motion for the future, for when I’m not around … I’m feeling a little weary these days …’

  Tears push up in her throat. Is it the thought of Reggie no longer being there? Or panic at Becky’s involvement in her financial future?

  ‘… obviously Simon is in the investment game, so it made sense to give him and Becky power of attorney. They handle everything now. It takes the burden off me. I’m not on top of things the way I was. Now, even if I go completely gaga, your inheritance will be protected …’

  Gaga? Weary? What on earth is he on about? He lives the life of a prince and has the constitution of a peasant. Was this plan his idea? Or has he been lobbied?

  ‘Protected? From what?’ she asks, even knowing the answer.

  ‘… as Becky pointed out … quite rightly … better to do it now …’

  His words are fragments of sound interrupting the whir of thoughts as she commutates this information. Becky and Simon now hold the keys to the kingdom? Her first impulse is to weep into the phone and beg her father for help. But even as that thought forms, as though anticipating it, he explains that they now pay all his bills and provide him pin money. He assures her that he is delighted with this arrangement. So simple and easy. His tone is gleeful. The king has found incorruptible guards to preserve his coffers of gold.

  No point in challenging him. Deep breaths. Be sweet and congratulatory. Get off the phone before the tears come. Dry-eyed with fear, Susannah rushes from the living room into the kitchen to make tea. She stands staring blindly at the kettle as it comes to the boil. Lost in thought, she almost misses the sound of the phone ringing in the other room.

  ‘Hello, darling, I hear you’ve spoken to Daddy. Sorry, dear, I didn’t realise he hadn’t kept you up to date with everything,’ Rebecca says in honeyed tones.

  ‘No, as a matter of fact … and I was surprised to hear …’

  ‘Really? Perhaps it’s a while since you spoke to him? It was all settled a few weeks ago. You know how generous Daddy is, giving money to anyone who asks. We don’t want him eroding his capital, do we? I’m sure he’s got another decade in him and by that time —’

  ‘But am I able to get some sort of advance … we’re just absolutely …’

  ‘Darling, you’ve already had your advance. That was the house in Camden which you sold to buy the one in France —’

  ‘We couldn’t possibly have stayed there … you know that … with everything …’

  ‘Plus the subsidies Daddy’s provided you over the years – it’s all documented.’

  ‘They were gifts! You know they were.’ Susannah struggles to restrain herself from shouting. ‘I’ve had to mortgage the house. We only have Dominic’s pension. No one could live on that.’

  ‘People do, Susie. Many people. And they don’t live in a beautiful house in France, either. They live in a two-up two-down in Hounslow, under the flight path.’

  ‘You don’t live in Hounslow …’

  ‘I was just making the point that there are people worse off. Look, dear, I understand you have no understanding of how finance works. But clearly one member of the family cannot continue to draw down on their inheritance at the expense of a sibling. I’m sure you understand that.’

  If only Rebecca’s tone were less understanding and sympathetic, and achingly sweet. If only they were shouting at each other. Susannah’s mounting panic makes her want to scream at someone, if only to find some relief.

  ‘It’s not your fault, darling. Daddy has made you dependent with his handouts. Too many fish and not enough teaching you to fish. Plus, of course, you married someone who is even less responsible than you are with money. You just need to curtail your spending and live within your means. Perhaps even sell the house and live on that. Or, you could consider getting jobs. I know it’s a crazy idea, but that’s what we do. We work.’

  ‘But can’t you even help me just this month? I’ll never ask again. I had no notice —’

  ‘I really am sorry but, truly, everything is locked away now. There’s literally not a single penny floating around that I could spirit your way. You need to adjust to a new regime. Austerity measures, as they say. The full Greek.’

  Susannah grips the receiver, almost paralysed with fear by her sister’s obvious enjoyment of the situation. She has a sudden memory of Becky’s wiry little fingers plucking at her flesh, pinching her arms and legs, urging her to cry, promising to stop only when the tears came. Threatening worse if she told. Whenever Becky caught sight of the dirty smudges she left behind, she would give Susannah a sly smile, her eyes bright with triumph.

  ‘Good luck with it all, darling.’

  ‘Becky, don’t hang up … please … I don’t know what to do.’

  There is a long silence. It’s difficult to tell whether Becky is pausing for further consideration or plans to drive the point home. Finally she says, ‘I know it takes absolutely years to sell over there. You could rent the place out in the meantime and come back to London. And get a job. I have a little flat in Chiswick I could let you have cheaply until you get on your feet.’

  ‘You know we can’t come back! Why even suggest such a thing?’

  ‘Well, we may not but I’m sure you could slip back into the country without any fuss. After all, you were, to some degree, an innocent bystander. That would rid you of your main liability in one fell swoop.’

  ‘It always comes back to the fact that you hate Dominic,’ says Susannah, vacillating between fury and despair.

  ‘Susannah, when Daddy goes, you will get your inheritance. Not before. But I’ll wager that within two years, you’ll be broke again. Dominic worked his way through his mother’s bequest, which I imagine was quite substantial, in a matter of a few years. Spent the lot on booze and grub, I’ll wager. And he will fritter yours away as well. Daddy worked hard for years and years … do you really want to see all that go down your husband’s gullet?’

  Susannah fights the tears with everything she has left in reserve.

  ‘And Susannah …’

  ‘Yes?’ Her voice breathless with hope.

  ‘In case you’re wondering, it wasn’t our idea. It w
as Reggie’s. He needed saving from himself.’

  Susannah slams down the phone so hard it bounces off the hook and lies on the table emitting warning peeps.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Drifting clouds pattern the undulating landscape in varying shades of green as Dominic drives the winding road to Albi. Having broken the news to Susannah that they would be subsidising the Tinkers’ electrical work, and having endured the histrionics that inevitably followed, he has set off to Albi to purchase some new shoes.

  His thoughts turn to Ben. It’s hard not to be intrigued by that young man’s enviable confidence in his ability to generate income. At this stage, it’s impossible to know whether that is the misplaced optimism of youth, or the reality of life on the internet. ‘Location independent’, Ben calls it. For Dominic, acquiring money had once been relatively easy and painless. Now it’s practically impossible. Both he and Susannah are unemployable. In fact, Susannah became unemployable without ever passing through an employable phase. But the Tinkers obviously have something going on that provides that surety of income.

  While he has no plans to embrace technology at this late stage, there are times when Dominic has felt a smart phone would come in handy. Convenient, no doubt, to have the font of all knowledge in your pocket, although he finds it irritating the way people are so eager to whip it out and flaunt their search skills – which simply involves typing with their thumbs (quite a feat in itself), as far as he can gather. The problem is that learned people, with actual knowledge and expertise, are now considered bores. Make an attempt to promote intelligent discourse and you risk being branded a ranter. More admired is the ability to flit from one topic to the next, alighting briefly before moving on. It destroys any semblance of dinner-party debate and makes him grind his teeth to see people’s heads suddenly bob down as they start checking things on their phones. What is the provenance of this information, anyway? Where is it coming from? They never seem to question that. Perhaps it all comes from the same source. The Wizard of Oz. It’s like a religion – devotees with blind faith in this invisible world. Fortunately the Harringtons are no longer invited to dinner parties and so spared having to witness this dispiriting modern habit.

  One of the most refreshing aspects of the Tinkers is that they seem to view modern technology as a tool, not a love match. They never wander around with their heads bowed, staring at their phones or substantiate information by saying they have seen it on Facebook or YouTube. Mia can be a struggle to converse with: there’s something ephemeral about her, as though she’s transiting through this world on her way to another. Perhaps he intimidates her. It’s a maddening characteristic of the female of the species, their propensity for being intimidated. They have a preference for people who are ‘nice’; anything stronger than neutral is considered intimidating. Susannah’s forever gasping on about how nice someone is when in reality they are unbearably tedious. Mia isn’t quite tedious but takes herself too seriously and so the potential is definitely there. Thinks of herself as some sort of artiste, no doubt.

  Ben is more interesting. Intelligent and inquisitive about every thing on a large and a small scale. The prospect of offspring has never appealed to Dominic. Not for him the squalling baby, sticky-fingered toddler, disobedient child and surly teenager. Parents suffer through all that only to be cast aside and neglected once the children are no longer in need of a parent’s ministrations. To happen upon your descendants as reasonable, independent, fully formed adults would be ideal. And Dominic would put his name down for a son like Ben, someone a father could be genuinely proud of. Although, had he and Susannah had children, then perhaps they could impose upon them now for funds or, as a last resort, a roof over their heads. It would be comforting to have a safety net to replace Reggie, who is a perpetual flight risk. The only thing that would change their immediate situation for the better was if Reggie suffered a moment’s inattention crossing Kensington High Street, coinciding with the approach of the 452 for Vauxhall. But Reggie is a careful man. He always looks both ways. So that’s an unlikely scenario. Still, nobody lives forever …

  His thoughts wander back to Ben and how much he likes the fellow. Perhaps it’s his Australian-ness, but he lacks any sort of pretension, any guile at all. He’s like a man from an earlier era in many ways. He seems to find almost any subject Dominic raises interesting. It’s quite extraordinary how well the two men get on, given the thirty-odd years age gap. Of course, Ben is not yet aware of the extent of the intellectual wasteland around them and not ensnared by the petty concerns of other members of the local community – and doubtless he won’t be particularly interested. He’s a man who likes to talk about ‘things’, not gossip about the doings of others. All in all, he is the best company one can hope for out here.

  Dominic parks the car and, after a spot of lunch, enjoys a relaxed afternoon wandering the pleasant streets of Albi. He visits one of the galleries to view a Larsson exhibition, a delightfully twee perspective of nineteenth-century Swedish bourgeoisie, and then wanders around the old town until he finds the exact loafers he’s been after for some time.

  All his pleasant pottering comes to an abrupt end when his card is refused at the counter. ‘Encore, Madame,’ he urges the assistant. ‘Encore.’

  She adopts a neutral expression and repeats the transaction but his card is once again declined and she hands it back to him, like the worthless piece of plastic it is. ‘Je suis désolée, Monsieur, elle est refusée.’

  Only slightly concerned, Dominic gets out his second credit card with the same result. He remembers he has a chequebook in the car but the assistant calls Madame la Directrice, a hard-eyed woman in her fifties who insists they don’t accept cheques. This is a flat-out lie – the French trust cheques more than cards. Just not his cheques. While Madame argues the point with him, the assistant discreetly moves the object of his desire from the counter and puts the box out of his reach, as though she thinks him likely to grab it and run – like a delinquent!

  He leaves the shop in a fury and hunts everywhere for a public phone, surely they still exist?! Apparently not. Despite the humiliation of the declined card, he’s forced to return to the shoe shop and insist on using their phone to call home – only to find the line engaged! He waits five minutes, wandering around the store, under the steely eye of Madame and the assistant, and tries again. His efforts to communicate with his wife should logically reinforce the fact that there is an error not of his making. So why does he sense inward smirking behind those expressionless facades? He doth protest too much? Bloody supercilious French.

  On the trip home, his anger is tempered by the realisation that he has less than a quarter of a tank of petrol and useless credit cards. The entire experience, the wasted day, the loss of a pair of beautiful kid-leather loafers, quite reasonably priced at just under a hundred euros, is further compounded by a visit to the bank where he is informed that the credit cards are all over limit and until they are paid there will be no more credit.

  Now he stands in his living room looking at the wretched phone deliberately left off the hook! He shouts for Susannah, only to be met by silence. The pugs are noticeable by their absence. They normally recline on a large green velvet cushion looking like fat little fungi sprouting from a forest floor. The cushion is empty, only their indentations in evidence. So she is either out walking them, which is never far, or they are locked in her fond embrace upstairs.

  Her door is shut. She must have taken the phone off the hook to nap. It’s not as though they are inundated with calls, for Christ’s sake! Typical of her, sleeping the day away while he’s completely frazzled and frustrated by her financial ineptitude.

  Chapter Fourteen

  I have been so looking forward to the arrival of my mother, Eva, to have her witness our new life and, if I’m honest, validate our decision to make this move. She knows what we’ve been through and how we ended up here. I wanted to view our house through her architect’s eyes. I knew she’d immediately see a thou
sand things we haven’t noticed. I wanted to share the village and the little ateliers, which I knew she would love. And I wanted her company. Although any company would be welcome now.

  Most evenings, after dinner, Ben has to join a compulsory ‘stand up’ meeting with the team at the start of the Sydney work day. The project is on a thirty-day sprint, so he’s been working into the night as well as during the day, only appearing occasionally to complain about the internet speed. I’ve spent my evenings sitting in bed, where it’s warm and comfy, binge-watching series on my laptop, which is probably what’s slowing our internet, now I think of it.

  This evening, while Ben goes upstairs after dinner, Eva and I stay at the kitchen table finishing off the wine and cheese. ‘You need to make more friends,’ says Eva, cutting off a sliver of roquefort and pushing the board away from her. ‘Take that cheese away from me, please!’

  ‘You can use your self-restraint, Mum,’ I suggest with a smile, quoting one of her favourite lines. ‘I know we do. It’s a bit difficult right now with winter and Ben working all hours. You saw the village today, it’s really quiet. There must be a lot of people who only live here in the summer. Even when we arrived in September there were loads of people around.’

  ‘I just know it’s going to get you down being on your own too much. You’ll start thinking …’

  Wrapping up the cheeses, I pour the last of the wine into her glass. ‘And we know where that gets us, don’t we?’

  ‘I’m not entirely anti-thinking, it’s just you need to keep yourself busy. Not become too introspective.’

  ‘I know. We have these English friends I told you about, the Harringtons, and the Van den Bergs – you’ll like them.’

  ‘I won’t like the Harringtons?’

  ‘Susannah’s nice … I’m not sure about him. He’s a bit of a character. He’s besotted with Ben. Treats him like his long-lost son. He’s not that fond of me. He’s one of those crusty old sorts who’s not interested in anything women have to say and there’s lots of topics that I wouldn’t raise with him. Politics. Refugees. Feminism. Cheese. But that’s okay. It’s good for Ben; it’s not easy for him here.’