Presently we passed a high bank with bushes on top of it and a large white gate; Monsieur Delormes pointed to it and told me it led to the front of the house. . . . then he drove on a little farther and turned into a big yard paved with cobbles and surrounded by buildings of different sizes and shapes. The house itself was white-washed and the windows had green shutters, all tightly fastened.
Monsieur Delormes led me through a scullery into the kitchen, a large room with a red-tiled floor, an old-fashioned dresser with blue and white china upon it and a kitchen range of immense size. A small woman in a white apron was standing at the range stirring something in a pot; she gazed at me with interest . . . but Monsieur took no notice of her and walked on through another door into the front part of the house.
This seemed strange to me so I smiled and said “Bonsoir.”
She looked pleased. “Bonsoir, Mam’selle; je m’appelle Suzette.”
I nodded and said, “Bonsoir, Suzette.”
There was no electric light nor gas, but the house was well lighted with oil-lamps in every room. I found afterwards that one of Suzette’s duties was to trim the lamps and keep them clean; what with this, by no means an easy task, and preparing vegetables and cooking, and washing the enormous piles of dishes which were used at every meal, Suzette was hard at work from early morning until late at night.
Madame Delormes and her daughter were sitting in the dining-room having supper. They rose when we went in and Monsieur introduced me and explained that I spoke French very nicely. The news was well received.
“But you are late, Jules,” said Madame. “We waited for half an hour but we could wait no longer.”
“Is it my fault that the train was late?” asked Monsieur. “Yvonne must take Mees Morreese to her room so that she may tidy herself after her long journey.”
“Please call me Sarah,” I said.
Madame nodded. “Yes, that will be better.”
My room was small; it was on the top floor and had a sloping ceiling and, as the window was never opened, it was very stuffy; however it was neat and clean and the bed was comfortable. Later I managed to open my window at the bottom and prop it open with a piece of stick. This was considered very eccentric by all the female members of the household.
During the next few days Yvonne and I were together most of the time. She was a year younger than myself, short and plump with fat cheeks and smooth dark hair. Her black beady eyes gazed at me with an unwinking stare. She wanted to know all about me: why I had come to La Touche; what my home was like; how many rooms there were; whether I went to school daily; how many brothers I had; how old they were and what were their names. Then she asked if my father were very wealthy (she admired my clothes) and when I told her that he was a curé she was shocked and horrified. I explained that in England it was the custom for a curé to be married and have a family but she shook her head and replied that “le bon Dieu” would not like it.
Madame Delormes was tall and thin with a white face and sandy hair which was going grey. She was so colourless that she looked like a ghost; she wore felt slippers and moved swiftly and quietly so that you never heard her coming. She was quite pleasant to me but sometimes I heard her raging at Suzette. . . .
At home I was used to going into the kitchen and talking to Minnie and I saw no reason why I shouldn’t chat to Suzette when I felt inclined – besides I wanted to find out how she cooked the vegetables – so I went in, when I could escape from Yvonne, and I got some useful tips about French cooking. Suzette was coarse and “earthy” but she was very good-natured and I liked her. I was sorry for her, too; she had a very different life from our Minnie.
Chapter Eleven
The Delormes family seemed queer to me: at meal-times Monsieur and Madame chatted; little André was too busy eating to speak and Yvonne was practically dumb . . . but when we were alone she never ceased to ask questions. She asked the same questions over and over again in different words; at first I thought she was stupid and then I discovered that she didn’t believe what I told her and was trying to trip me. I didn’t like this (who would?) and I didn’t like the way she treated her mother: she seemed completely under her mother’s thumb and replied, “Oui, maman,” and “Non, maman” – as mild as milk – but she was quite different behind her mother’s back.
Yvonne had been told to take me round the farm and talk to me and show me everything. “But do not go to the village,” said Madame. “I dislike that dirty little shop which sells bon-bons.”
“Bon-bons?” said Monsieur, pricking up his ears. “The doctor told us Yvonne was not to eat bon-bons; they make her too fat.”
“You hear what your father says, Yvonne?” asked Madame.
“Oui, maman.”
The farm was interesting. I spoke to some of the men and learned how the grapes were gathered and the various processes by which they were made into the golden wine of La Touche. I saw the cows being milked and I saw the pigs which were being fattened for bacon. The Delormes killed and cured their own bacon and the sides were hung upon the rafters in the kitchen.
I was quite happy wandering round the farm, it was all so new and strange, but Yvonne took no interest in it and one morning she suggested that I might like to walk in the olive grove.
The olive trees were beautiful, with their silvery-green foliage, and the shade was pleasant; I should have liked to linger here but Yvonne wouldn’t wait. She walked on quickly and presently we emerged through a gate into a village. It was just a cluster of little cottages and a post office and a small shop which sold goods of every description: newspapers and tins of fruit and sweets and children’s toys and boots and cheap jewellery and bottles of lemonade all mixed up together.
“But, Yvonne,” I said, “we were told not to come to the village.”
“Maman will not know. I want to send a letter to my friend . . . have you got some money, Sarah?”
I had a ten-franc note in my purse so I gave it to her and she went into the post office. Then she went into the little shop and bought a bag of sweets.
“We must hurry or we shall be late for déjeuner,” she said. Her mouth was so full of sweets that she could scarcely speak. “You can have one if you like,” she added, holding out the bag.
As she had bought the sweets with my money I took one, but it was bright pink and very sticky and tasted of cough mixture so I spat it out when she wasn’t looking.
“We must hurry . . .” she repeated, glancing at her watch.
It was a very hot day and Yvonne puffed and panted as she hastened up the path.
“Ecoutez, Yvonne,” I said to her. “If you were not so fat you could run. Why do you eat so many bon-bons? They are bad for you.”
“They are not bad for me!”
“But, yes, they are very bad.”
“I like bon-bons,” she gasped. “It is good to eat . . . what one likes. . . .” She looked at her watch again and exclaimed, “We shall be late! Maman will be angry!”
We were very late. Monsieur and Madame and little André were half-way through their meal when we arrived.
“Oh, are we late?” asked Yvonne in a surprised voice.
“Very late; where have you been?” demanded Madame.
“It was Sarah’s fault,” declared Yvonne. “Sarah wanted to look at the cows. I did not know it was late; my watch is not going.”
“Give me your watch,” said Madame, holding out her hand.
Yvonne handed over her watch with an innocent air.
Madame looked at it and shook it and held it to her ear, then she nodded, “Oui, c’est vrai, il ne marche pas,” she said. “It must be mended; we will take it with us when we go to Nivennes.”
I was horrified. I tried to imagine the same sort of scene taking place at home . . . would mother have asked to see my watch when I said it had stopped? Would I have expected my word to be doubted and stopped my watch so that I should have a watertight excuse for being late?
When you thought of it like th
at it was laughable . . . but I didn’t feel like laughing.
Every now and then I was beset by a wave of homesickness, a longing not only for my home and my family but also for what I thought of as “the clean air.” The clean air where you could talk comfortably and laugh and say what you thought without having to worry. All the same I was too proud to admit in my letters home that I was unhappy or that things weren’t as they should be in the Delormes family. I had wanted to learn to speak French fluently . . . and I was learning fast. Another reason why I didn’t complain was the discovery that father was paying Madame Delormes a substantial weekly sum for my board and lodging . . . it was Suzette who told me this.
I wasn’t unhappy all the time. Everything was new to me – and interesting. I enjoyed playing with André, who was a dear little boy and very clever for his age. I taught him to sing some English nursery rhymes and he sang them very sweetly in his shrill little treble. “Leetle Boo Peeep ’as lost ’er sheep” was his favourite.
His parents were delighted with the performance; they laughed heartily and exclaimed, “Bravo! Encore!” . . . and André was only too pleased to sing it as often as they liked.
Monsieur Delormes was astonished to discover that I could play piquet and insisted that I should play it with him nearly every evening. I had often played with grandpapa but Monsieur was a very much better player, shrewd and wily, so he always beat me. I thought it couldn’t be much fun for him because it is much less amusing to win all the time than to lose (if you lose you have always the hope of doing better next time); but Monsieur Delormes seemed to like winning. I beat him once when the cards fell exactly right for me and he was quite annoyed.
Madame, who happened to be there at the time, said quite seriously, “No doubt Sarah was cheating, Jules.”
This was so ridiculous that I wasn’t even angry . . . in any case it would have taken someone a great deal more clever than I to cheat Monsieur Delormes.
*
Madame had promised to take us to Nivennes when she went to do her marketing so we set off in the “auto” one very warm morning. Nivennes was a delightful town; it looked very “foreign” to me with its tall houses by the side of the green, slow-moving river and its wide streets with little cafés where crowds of people sat at tables on the pavement, drinking wine or coffee. We left the auto in the car-park, Madame gave us each a basket to carry and led the way. It was terribly hot in the streets, the sun blazed down and the pavements were hot to walk on. I was wearing a thin cotton frock – and very little beneath it – but quite soon I was so hot that I was sticky all over, and Yvonne’s face was crimson. Madame was arrayed in a voluminous black dress with gold chains round her neck, but the heat didn’t seem to worry her at all; her face was still white and she ploughed her way through the crowd like a ship in full sail.
The market was in a huge square; it was gay and noisy; there were scores of little stalls, with striped awnings, which displayed all sorts of merchandise for sale. It had been hot in the streets but here the heat was like a furnace and crowds of people were surging in all directions and talking and laughing excitedly. I was determined not to get lost so I followed Madame’s tall black figure closely. She pushed her way from one stall to another, bargaining with the butcher for a joint of veal, prodding it with her fingers and decrying its quality . . . and eventually buying it for a good deal less than he had asked. At the fruit stall the same thing happened: the oranges and the grape-fruit were no good, they were wizened and light, there would be no juice in them! The stallholder became angry: the fruit was perfectly fresh – the best in the market – Madame could go elsewhere if she pleased, she would find no better! However she stuck to her point and bought what she wanted for less than had been demanded.
My basket was full by this time so Madame looked round for Yvonne. “Where is she?” exclaimed Madame. “Where has she gone? The poor child is lost. Mon Dieu, what shall I do?”
I said nothing. I knew quite well that she had escaped from her mother’s eagle eye and had gone off to buy bon-bons but I had learned to hold my tongue about Yvonne’s doings.
“Oh, well,” said Madame with a sigh. “No doubt she will be waiting for us in the auto.”
I wanted to buy some presents to take home with me, so when Madame had bought all she wanted she led the way to a stall which sold coloured head-scarves, such as the peasants wore, and little figurines and rosaries and small pictures in wooden frames. I chose scarves for Lottie and Minnie and two little ornaments for mother; father’s present was more difficult but I found a little wooden bear which had been carved by a peasant; it was a queer little beast but I thought it would amuse father. Madame bargained for the things and I was able to buy them for very little.
Then we made our way back to the car-park . . . and there was Yvonne, sitting in the auto and looking as innocent as a newly-born lamb.
“I got lost, maman,” she bleated plaintively. “I could not find you anywhere.”
“Ah, pauvre enfant!” said Madame in commiserating tones. “The crowds were very bad to-day.”
It seemed strange that Madame’s eagle eye had not observed her daughter’s cheeks; they were even fatter than usual, puffed out with sticky sweets.
Chapter Twelve
One morning about ten o’clock, a car drove up to the front door. This was unusual; most of the visitors to La Touche left their cars in the yard and came in through the back premises. I was in my room at the time so I leaned out of the window to see who it was . . . and was amazed and delighted to see Charles get out of the car and stand on the gravel sweep stretching himself – as he always did when he had been driving. Then he disappeared into the house and I ran downstairs nearly crazy with excitement. Charles here! It was almost too good to be true!
I opened the door of the living-room. There was Charles, sitting at the table, talking to Monsieur and Madame, and enjoying a glass of golden wine!
‘When I went in he rose and bowed stiffly and said, “Bonjour, Miss Morris.” Then he sat down and continued his conversation with Monsieur Delormes, praising the wine and asking intelligent questions about the vines.
I was so astonished at this extraordinary behaviour that I sat down on the sofa beside Yvonne without saying a word.
Charles continued to chat; he turned to Madame Delormes and complimented her upon the highly polished furniture . . . it was easy to see what an excellent manager she was! She smiled and bridled; Monsieur Delormes laughed and declared that his wife kept everything up to the mark – including himself.
Charles was “foreign”; his manner was insincere. He wasn’t Charles at all! He never looked at me once, nor spoke to me. I was almost in tears. It had been so wonderful to see him arrive – but it was no good; he wasn’t my friend any more.
Presently he asked Monsieur for the address of a wine merchant in Paris where he would be able to buy La Touche golden wine and scribbled on a leaf of his diary. Then he rose to go. He kissed Madame’s hand and Yvonne’s, and turning to me said in French that he intended to write to my father, would I care to send a message?
I said in English, “Give them my love, that’s all.”
He kissed my hand casually and crumpled up my fingers. Then he went away.
There was something in my hand. I slipped it into the pocket of my overall and ran upstairs to my tiny room under the sloping roof. When I looked at it I found it was a little screw of paper, torn from a diary; scrawled upon it were the words, “I shall be waiting at the front gate from 1.30 to 4, but be careful.”
In a moment I was transported from the depths of despair to the heights of happiness. I felt quite giddy with joy. It would be easy to escape for déjeuner was at midday and everyone retired to bed and rested in the afternoon.
To-day, as it happened, déjeuner was later than usual; Monsieur had a guest, a big coarse-looking man. They ate quantities of the good fare provided by Madame and talked about the prospects of the harvest. At any other time I would have been intereste
d in their conversation (I could understand all they said quite easily) but to-day I was so impatient and excited that I could scarcely sit still. The hands of the big grandfather clock in the corner moved on inexorably . . . and still they continued to eat and talk.
At last the meal was over; the guest departed and Madame and Yvonne went upstairs to rest. I followed them, for although it was now half-past one I knew I must wait until they had settled down before I could escape safely.
I waited for twenty minutes; and then ran down the path to the gate and looked eagerly up and down the road. He wasn’t there! He had got tired of waiting! He had come – and gone!
Then the bushes at the side of the gate parted and he jumped down on to the road.
“Charles!” I cried and flung myself into his arms.
He held me tightly for a few moments; then, taking my hand, he dragged me up the bank and through the bushes.
We sat down and he put his arm round me. “Sarah, you’re trembling! I shouldn’t have asked you to come.”
“I’m glad you did.”
“I had to, because you looked so – so lost and miserable. Your father asked me to see you and find out if you were all right; he was a little worried because your last letter sounded unhappy. I promised I would call at La Touche and find out what was the matter – and write and tell him. If you aren’t happy he’ll arrange for you to go home.”
I wanted to go home; the unhealthy atmosphere of La Touche was beginning to get me down and the sight of Charles had raised a wave of nostalgia . . . but I hesitated.
“Well, what about it?” asked Charles.
“I’ll stick it out,” I said. “It’s only another week. Then Mademoiselle Bénet is going home and will take me with her. That was the arrangement. Yes, I’ll stick it out.”
“Good girl! But why did you look so miserable?”
“You were different.”
“But, Sarah, what could I do? Madame would have been horrified if I’d shown you any attention. She was suspicious, as it was. I had to be nice to the old gorgon. If I’d spoken to you or shown that we were friends she would have had a fit. Don’t you understand?”
Sarah Morris Remembers Page 9
