Finding Margo

by Susanne O'Leary

  “Nice to meet you,” Agnès said. “But you have to excuse me. I’m just about to serve dinner. Monsieur Jacques said they would be hungry, and Madame likes the gigot rare. It’s just about perfect, so I have to carve it straight away. The gratin of garlic potatoes and the beans are ready too.” Her French was so rapid, Margo had to concentrate to keep up. “Maybe you could give me a hand and take it all to the dining room?” Agnès added.

  “Yes.” Margo felt her mouth water. “Of course.”

  It was exquisite agony to bring the meal into the dining room and place the dishes on the big sideboard. Margo barely noticed the beautiful room, the big oil paintings of innumerable ancestors, or the huge tapestry that covered the wall opposite the French windows. She clenched her teeth as she carefully placed the silver dish with the meat on the heating tray and swallowed furiously as Agnès placed the other dish with the potatoes and green beans beside it, trying not to breathe in the garlic and herbs or notice the brown crust on top of the rich, creamy potatoes.

  “There.” Agnès wiped the edge of the potato dish with her apron. “I’ll just go and tell them it’s ready, and then we can go down and get you something to eat too, if you are hungry.”

  “A little,” Margo admitted and smiled weakly, again bitterly regretting having had such a light lunch.

  “Well, there isn’t much. Bernard and I ate earlier, but there’s some bread and cheese, I think.”

  “That’ll be fine,” Margo lied, taking a last, longing look at the meal on the sideboard. She wiped her mouth with her hand just to make sure she wasn’t actually drooling and left the dining room.

  “But first we have to go and unpack the luggage of Madame la Comtesse,” Agnès said as she led the way down a corridor into a huge hall with a stone-flagged floor, where the mounted heads of deer and wild boar competed for space on the oak-panelled walls. She started to ascend a curved staircase with ornately carved banisters. Margo looked up at yet more Coligny ancestors staring haughtily at her through hooded eyes. She could hear the voices of Milady and her sons as they filed into the dining room below, then a door closed, and except for the creaking of the stairs, there was silence. Margo trudged after Agnès up the long staircase and onto a landing. They padded silently on Persian rugs through a long corridor lined with many doors, turned a corner, and went in through an open door. Margo looked around the big, bright room. “It’s lovely,” she said without thinking. “Really beautiful.”

  Agnès turned around from the pile of suitcases in the middle of the faded Aubusson rug. “Yes, it’s a very nice room.”

  “The furniture is Directoire. Early nineteenth century,” Margo said with a spark of interest she always felt when she was in an old house. The antique dealer’s gene must be very strong in me, she thought. “We call it regency in England.”

  “Oh?” Agnès said without much interest.

  “Exquisite,” Margo said, carefully touching the green silk curtains with the delicate embroidery of tiny pink rosebuds. She glanced out of the French window at the garden below. In the fading daylight, she could just make out immaculate lawns, lined with beds of red roses and clipped shrubs, yet more roses spilling over old walls, tubs of hydrangeas and geraniums, and the glint of a swimming pool further away.

  “Lovely garden,” she said.

  “Yes. Bernard’s pride and joy,” Agnès nodded. “But we’d better start unpacking, Mademoiselle, if you don’t mind. There are a lot of clothes here, and I need to take whatever there is to be ironed.”

  They worked silently for about half an hour, hanging the clothes in a big double wardrobe, arranging shoes on shelves below them, sorting out underwear and nightgowns and putting them into the chest of drawers between the windows.

  “There,” Agnès said when they were finished. “All done. And there was nothing that needed to be ironed for the moment. Bernard will take the empty suitcases. Now we can go and tidy up after dinner, and Bernard will serve coffee on the terrace.”

  “Oh, yes,” Margo said, a surge of hope lifting her flagging spirits. Leftovers, she thought. There was enough on that leg of lamb to feed ten people. I’ll be able to have some cold lamb and maybe a little bit of that potato.

  But the dishes were empty. Margo stared in disbelief at the pool of meat juice on the serving dish. “What about the leftover meat and the bone?”

  “They must have given it all to the dogs,” Agnès replied as she took the dishes off the heating tray. “And what was left of the potatoes too. Take the big platter, and I will take these two.”

  Back in the kitchen, Margo sank down on a chair by the table, past caring whether she was polite or not. There was a dry knot of hunger in her stomach, and she was beginning to feel weak. Agnès loaded the dishes into a dishwasher under the big, old-fashioned sink, slammed the door shut, and twisted a knob.

  “Et voilà,” she shouted over the noise of the machine. “All done. I can put my feet up now, as soon as I’ve shown you your room.”

  “But,” Margo called, trying to make herself heard over the din, “what about my supper?”

  “Oh, oui.” Agnès smiled apologetically. “I totally forgot.” She went in through a door which seemed to lead to a large pantry and came back with a plate and half a stick of bread. “Here. Some salad from our lunch and a piece of Camembert. A bit tired, but that’s all there is tonight. I think there are some apples in the arrière cuisine.”

  “Never mind,” Margo said and took the piece of bread. “This is fine.” She cut a wedge of Camembert with a knife that was lying on the table and broke off a piece of bread. She put the cheese on top and crammed it all into her mouth.

  “Delicious,” she muttered through her mouthful, feeling instantly better. The bread was tough, and the cheese a little too ripe for her taste, but beggars can’t be choosers, she thought, suddenly realising how it would feel to actually be a beggar.

  “I’m sorry about the food tonight, but we didn’t know you were coming until the last minute,” Agnès said as she poured Margo a glass of wine. “You’ll take your meals with Bernard and me while you’re here, Monsieur Jacques said. I hope you like vegetables. Bernard is a strict vegetarian, you see, and I can’t eat anything rich as I have a problem with my digestion, so we eat very simply, not at all the rich food of Les Comtes,” she continued with a toss of her head in the direction of the dining room. “And we never eat anything fried either.”

  “Oh,” Margo said trying to swallow a big piece of bread. “Sounds healthy.” She sipped the wine and watched as Agnès tidied the kitchen.

  “Monsieur Jacques was very concerned that you should be comfortable,” Agnès said as she wiped the top of the Aga. “He’s a very considerate man. Nice to work for, if you see what I mean.”

  “I’ve heard a lot about him,” Margo said, breaking off a piece of bread. “A lot of different things, actually. It’s difficult to form an opinion about him really. But I’m beginning to.”

  “Oh? Why is that?”

  “Never mind.”

  “Good.” Agnès resumed polishing the Aga, then sighed and untied her apron. “Finally, all done. And tomorrow is Sunday. Our day off. I’m looking forward to it, I have to say. The next few weeks won’t be easy.”

  “Oh? Why?”

  “Well, August is always very busy, you see, with all the family here and all the parties. But I’m so glad you’re here.” Agnes sat down opposite Margo and poured herself a glass of wine. “Last year, I had nobody to help, and I nearly collapsed with fatigue. I said to Monsieur Jacques that if I didn’t get some help this year, I would quit. Not that I would, of course,” she continued, “but it doesn’t hurt to threaten to from time to time. Keeps them on their toes, if you know what I mean.”

  “Yes, of course.”

  Agnès finished her wine and got up from her chair. “It’s getting late. If I don’t get going, I’ll miss my television programme. I’ll just take you to your room. Follow me.”

  ***

  “It’
s the old nursery,” Agnès said. “Or part of the nursery suite, I should say. This was the nanny’s room. Monsieur Jacques told me to put you here because it has its own bathroom and toilet, and it’s separate from the rest of the house. And you can get to the kitchen very easily by the back stairs. It’s not very modern – freezing in the wintertime, but quite comfortable in the summer. Nice and cool because it faces east, and you don’t have the evening sun making it too hot to sleep.”

  “It’s fine,” Margo murmured. The room was high up in one of the towers. A big, bright room with white walls and antique pine furniture and, on the floorboards, a large blue rug that matched the bedspread and curtains. She put her bag on the bed and walked to the window to look out. It was dusk but she could still see the whole garden and beyond, the paddocks, stables, and the stream. And a little further away the weir and the hay barn and meadow where she had slept in Gráinne’s truck that night. It seemed so long ago.

  “Close the shutters, and leave the windows open when you want to sleep,” Agnès prattled on. “And the bathroom is through that door there.”

  “All right,” Margo murmured, looking down at the back terrace.

  “I’ll close the shutters for you,” Agnès said, coming forward, “they’re a little tricky. You have to lean out and grab the edge like this and then close them with this hook here, see?” The shutters banged as they came together and the room was plunged into darkness. “I’ll just switch on the light,” Agnès laughed. She turned a switch by the bed, and a small bedside light illuminated the room in a soft pink glow. “There. I made the bed earlier. Bonne nuit, Marguerite.”

  “Bonne nuit, Agnès. And thank you so much.”

  “De rien.” Agnès smiled. “A lundi.” She walked out of the room and softly closed the door.

  After she had found the bathroom and had a quick shower, standing in the old chipped enamel bath trying not to look at a big spider in the high ceiling, Margo crawled in between the cool, lavender-scented sheets. She stared into the darkness, trying to get used to the feel and smell of the room. It was very dark, unlike her room in Paris where the streetlights would cast a faint glow through the window. And no traffic noise, she realised, no noise at all, just the curious impression of the sound of silence. There was a sudden cry from an owl outside, then silence again, and a sliver of moonlight shone through a crack in the shutters. Margo closed her eyes and tried to empty her mind and go to sleep. The floor suddenly creaked, making her sit bolt upright and stare into the darkness, her heart pounding. Mice. Or rats, she thought. Are there rats up here? Stop it, she said to herself. The floorboards are just cooling down. These old places always creak. She lay down again, forcing herself to relax. She took a deep breath and then breathed out very slowly, feeling calmer. At least I have progressed from the attic to the nursery.

  CHAPTER 10

  Margo peered through her window at the terrace below. Where was everybody? It was nearly eleven o’clock, but there wasn’t a sound. She could see a round table under a blue and white striped umbrella with a litter of cups, saucers, and a big coffee pot, and bees buzzing around what must be a pot of jam. She looked across the sunlit garden to the swimming pool, but it was quiet and empty, the turquoise water undisturbed, the deckchairs unoccupied. There was no sound of voices or any kind of life at all, only birdsong, the cawing of crows in the big trees, and the distant, soft whinnying of a horse. The room felt airless and oppressive, and Margo realised it was going to be a very hot day. She dressed quickly, putting on a sundress and sandals, and made her way to the kitchen. There was nobody there except a large black cat that looked at her with suspicion as it cleaned its face and body with a pink tongue.

  “Hello there, pussy cat,” Margo said, “nice to meet you.”

  The cat yawned and jumped onto the windowsill, where it lay down in the sun and closed its eyes.

  Margo went to the pantry to look for something to eat. She found some bread, half a croissant, two peaches, and a pot of apricot jam. The coffee machine on the counter was still switched on, and she poured herself a cup and sat down at the kitchen table. At least I got some breakfast, she thought, but only by accident. As Margo slowly spread jam on a piece of croissant, she realised what was going on and why there was nobody about. It was Sunday, and the Coligny family were all doing what they normally did on a Sunday, whatever that was. Margo, like all servants since the beginning of time, had, to them, simply ceased to exist. As she began to understand how little Milady or anyone else in the family cared about her when she was not doing her job, a feeling of desperate loneliness washed over her as she sat there in the empty kitchen.

  Oh God, she said to herself, what am I doing here in this Godforsaken place with these weird people? And what am I going to do next? Stay here and continue being part of the furniture? Or just get up and leave? Go to Paris, then on to London, have it out with Alan and sort out my life. Get some kind of job, rent a flat. She wrapped her arms around herself and stared into space. I’m a failure, she thought. A thirty-seven-year-old bloody failure. I can’t even decide what to do with my life. And I have nobody to blame but myself. Tears suddenly welled up in Margo’s eyes as she gave in to feelings of utter despair and self-pity. I’m all alone in the world, she thought. Nobody on this planet gives a shit about me.

  She started to cry uncontrollably; the tears ran unchecked down her face and onto the table. Her desperate sobs echoed around the big old kitchen, changing into a kind of keening that came from the very bottom of her soul. The cat jumped down from the window sill and slunk out into the courtyard as Margo’s sobs became louder and louder. She squeezed her arms tighter around herself, wailing, unable to stop. As the tears finally ebbed and the sobs became softer, she sat there, slumped, utterly spent, her mind blank.

  ***

  When Margo finally calmed down, she felt oddly at peace with herself, as if the crying fit had released some kind of tension that had been building up for weeks. She left the kitchen and walked into the garden and down the path to the swimming pool. It was now very hot, and Margo sat down in the shade of an umbrella to escape the burning sun. The turquoise water looked so cool and inviting. Why not? she thought. They can starve me, but they can hardly object to me having a swim. Having quickly glanced back up the path, she pulled off her dress, hesitated a moment and, after another quick look around, took off her bra and knickers. She slipped into the water and swam a couple of laps, then sat in the shallow end, her face to the sun just enjoying the sensation of the cool water on her body. She looked up at the windows of the château and, for an instant, thought she saw a curtain move. I hope they enjoyed the view, she thought, but suddenly feeling exposed, swam to the deep end and clambered out under the shade of an overhanging tree and quickly put her clothes back on.

  She went back into the kitchen and up the stairs to her room for a rest but it was stifling under the eaves, despite what Agnes had said. Feeling restless, she went down the stairs and into the cool of the formal rooms of the château. Idly looking at paintings and furniture, her interest grew as she walked through the big rooms. She peered at family photographs in what appeared to be a kind of study, looked at the titles of the leather-bound books in the library and studied the faces of what she presumed to be ancestors in the paintings.

  The air smelled of rose petals and lavender, and Margo felt as if she was in some kind of time warp, that some crinolined lady would come through a door at any moment and ask what she was doing there. There was so much to see in the château – so many corridors and hidden corners – that Margo lost track of time. She had always loved old buildings and had been brought up to appreciate fine architecture and old houses. This one was a gem. She was looking at the paintings in the dining room when an old clock on the mantelpiece chimed. Margo looked at the spindly roman numerals and realised it was seven o’clock. It’s late, she thought. Have I really spent the entire day here? She walked back into the kitchen to try to find something for supper.

  ***
<
br />   “Bonsoir.”

  Margo looked up from her meal. “Bonsoir,” she replied casually.

  Jacques looked at her with a puzzled expression in his blue eyes. “What are you doing here?” he asked in English.

  “What does it look like?” she replied. It angered her that he seemed to think she had no right to sit on the terrace, as if she was a lowly servant who belonged in the kitchen.

  “It looks like you’re having dinner,” he replied, taking in the plate, the food, and the bottle of wine. “And that’s a very good wine, if I’m not mistaken.”

  “That’s right,” she replied. “It is. Excellent. And just out of curiosity, do you normally let people who work for you go hungry, or is that just reserved for the English help? I’m not surprised you were so short of staff in the stables. What happened? Did they have enough energy to crawl away, or did they simply starve to death?”

  There was no reply. Jacques just stood there looking puzzled. “What are you going on about?” he demanded. “I’m tired and hot, and I really don’t need an argument right now.” He looked at her plate. “Is there any more of that beef?”

  Margo sipped her wine. She looked at the glass thoughtfully, studying the ruby liquid and the streaks of glycerine on the sides of the glass.

  “There was,” she said. “Rather a big piece, actually.”

  “Good, maybe then—”

  “But I gave it to the cat.” She put down her glass and looked at him innocently. “He loved it. Fillet of beef, you see. Very juicy.”

  “Merde,” Jacques said under his breath.

  “Oh, were you hungry?” Margo purred. “How terrible for you. I mean, it would be all right for me, a lowly servant to have nothing to eat all day but not for the master. Not for Monsieur Jacques, oh no, not at all. That would be a scandal.”

  “I still don’t know what you’re going on about,” Jacques said in an aggrieved voice, running his fingers through his thick, black hair. “I have been out breaking my arse all day and had to come back to feed the horses, and—”