Agnes Owens

by Agnes Owens

  ‘Yes, you’d better,’ I said, ‘since you’ve just stolen his spade.’

  ‘I’m not stealing it. He’ll get it back when I see him.’

  I thought that could be never, but I merely answered, ‘We might even have managed to buy one of our own by then.’

  The Castle

  It had been a long journey. Twenty-four hours it had taken because we had come the cheapest way possible: first by train and boat, then train again and finally a tedious two hours by bus. The hotel room, booked for us by the Continental Travel Agency, was small and cramped but otherwise clean. Somewhat dazed I stared over the balcony outside the window. My sister Mary Jane squeezed into the rail beside me.

  ‘This isn’t bad at all,’ she said. ‘What do you think?’

  ‘Where’s the sea?’ I asked. The holiday brochure had said that the village was close to the Mediterranean but we appeared to be in a valley – white cliffs on one side, rolling hills on the other and, facing us in the distance, a range of shadowy mountains.

  ‘It can’t be far,’ said Mary Jane, swivelling her head. ‘Isn’t that a castle on top of the cliff ?’

  ‘Where?’ I asked, but now she was pointing to the courtyard.

  ‘Look at that fountain, all gushing with water! And those apartments over by the river with their balconies and shutters. It’s just how I imagined a French village would be – and all this lovely heat too. That’s what I miss most about India – the heat.’

  ‘It is warm,’ I said, wiping my clammy forehead, ‘but you’d have thought there would be more people about.’ Down below, the square was deserted apart from one old woman in dark clothes shuffling along the pavement with a bundle of sticks under her arm. ‘Isn’t this place supposed to a popular tourist attraction?’

  ‘The tourist season will be over by now. And I think it’s perfect the way it is, slow-moving and tranquil and all this sun. What more could one ask for?’

  When I looked back at the small bedroom, barely big enough for one, I wished we’d asked for separate rooms, but the booking had been done at the last minute, and it was probably too late now. I supposed it was all very nice but I was too hot and tired to appreciate it. Mary Jane suggested that after lunch we take a stroll by the river.

  ‘Actually I was thinking of having a rest afterwards,’ I said.

  ‘A rest?’ she said incredulously. ‘On the first day of our holiday?’

  ‘But I’m tired. It would only be an hour at the most.’

  ‘Honest to God, Dorothy – didn’t you have enough sleep on the bus?’ She went on to say that she hoped I wasn’t going to spoil everything by being tired all the time for in that case I should have stayed at home. I thought that was a good one. She knew I hadn’t wanted to come – but she’d harped on so much about it that I’d finally given in. ‘We might never get another chance at our age,’ she’d said at the time, mentioning Father as a example of how easily one could go into a decline.

  It never seemed to occur to Mary Jane to worry about money. Ever since she came home from abroad after Father died – only for a visit, she said, but that was two years ago – she’d been spending it like water. Nor did it occur to her that half-shares might be a bit unfair when I was the one who stayed at home to care for him while she went gallivanting all over the world ‘having a wonderful time’, as she said on her postcards. It was hard not to be bitter at times, but I tried to put the past out of my mind. There was the future to consider. She was saying, ‘After all, you’re only fifty-six, just two years older than me, and look at you – fat as a pudding. It’s exercise you need, not a rest.’

  ‘I’ll see how I feel later,’ I said, thinking I’d rather be fat as a pudding than thin as a rake like her.

  Lunch was served in the restaurant downstairs by the pro -prietor – a Monsieur Savlon whom we’d met briefly when we arrived. Though weary I had been struck by his singular appearance. He was almost as short as he was broad and without a single hair on his head. As if to make up for this his beard grew very thick and black. The meal he laid before us was heavy with sauce and the predominant flavour was garlic, which I cannot stand. I left half of it on my plate and drank almost a jugful of water to get rid of the taste. When Monsieur Savlon came back to clear the table he asked me in perfectly good English, ‘You do not like snails?’ I shook my head and hurried off to the toilet where I was violently sick. Fifteen minutes later Mary Jane came up to the room and found me lying on top of the bed.

  ‘You really are the limit,’ she said. ‘Don’t you know snails are a delicacy?’

  ‘I don’t want to know anything,’ I said, turning on my side and closing my eyes.

  The next thing I knew she was towering above me in a long white cotton night-dress. ‘What time is it?’ I asked, for one horrible moment thinking it was Father. For the last few years before he died he had worn a night-shirt that looked much the same.

  ‘You may well ask,’ she said, the freckles on her face standing out like halfpence pieces. ‘You’ve been asleep for almost a day. I don’t know how often I tried to wake you but you simply refused. I was really fed up. And on top of that Monsieur Savlon kept asking about you. I didn’t know what to say.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ I said, forcing myself off the bed. I went out onto the balcony where the air was pleasantly cool. A mist hung over the river. The streets and the apartments looked fresh and sparkling. There was that air of quiet expectancy about the place you get first thing on a fine morning. I began to feel remarkably well.

  ‘Let’s go out as soon as we’ve had breakfast,’ I suggested, ‘and see as much as we can before it gets too hot. We could even take a picnic to save us coming back for lunch. I’m sure Monsieur Savlon wouldn’t mind.’

  Mary Jane frowned. ‘I hope you don’t expect me to run around like a mad thing just because you’ve had a good rest. I haven’t unpacked my things yet and I’ll have to think about what to wear. I hate being rushed.’

  I stifled a sigh. ‘All right, we won’t rush.’

  In the restaurant Monsieur Savlon came over with a pot of coffee and a plate piled high with toast. ‘You like?’ he asked, his hands wavering over jars of honey, marmalade and jam. I nodded my head earnestly to wipe out any bad impressions I had given him previously.

  ‘You want more?’

  ‘No thanks,’ said Mary Jane.

  ‘This looks very appetising,’ I said, and flushed, for no good reason I could think of.

  ‘What a fussy little man he is,’ said Mary Jane.

  ‘He’s only doing his best to please us,’ I said, biting into a slice of toast and honey. When my plate was clean I asked her if she would mind telling him when she got the chance that I couldn’t stand snails or garlic, but that this was no reflection on his excellent cooking.

  ‘Tell him yourself,’ she said.

  ‘It doesn’t matter,’ I said, for I didn’t want to admit that I sometimes feel shy with foreigners. I knew she would only jeer.

  Mary Jane took a long time unpacking. Then she couldn’t decide what to wear. ‘So you think I should put this on?’ she said, holding up a dark-blue dress which she had brought back from India, of a material so fine that it was almost transparent.

  ‘Why not?’ I said. ‘It looks cool.’

  She studied it, frowning. Then she shoved it back into the wardrobe. ‘It’s not casual enough for walking,’ she complained. ‘Anyone can see that.’ Finally she settled for a pair of shorts and a T-shirt, saying that she might as well be comfortable. I thought that her thin white legs would have been better covered up but there was no point in saying so, for she’d always go against anything I suggested. All the same, I began to feel overdressed in my skirt and blouse, so as a gesture of freedom I took off my tights. We were a few yards away from the hotel when I remembered that I’d forgotten to ask Monsieur Savlon for a picnic basket. I didn’t mention this, however, for Mary Jane would have insisted on turning back and with the sun out in full force I was already too hot to b
e bothered. As we were passing the fountain Mary Jane brought a camera out of her bag and took a snapshot of water gushing from a lion’s mouth into a basin floating with dead leaves.

  ‘What’s so special about that?’ I asked.

  ‘It will look splendid when it’s enlarged and framed,’ she said, looking at me pityingly. ‘I do know what I’m talking about when it comes to photography.’

  When we were walking over the bridge Mary Jane stopped to take a shot of a woman on the other side of the road who was dragging a child along by the hand. When the woman began to shout angrily I hurried ahead. ‘You shouldn’t do that to people,’ I said, when Mary Jane caught up with me. ‘If you want to take photos of people we can take each other’s.’ I turned down some steps which led onto the river-bank.

  ‘It’s characterisation I want, not stodgy snaps of each other. Anyway, where are we going? I never said I wanted to go this way.’

  ‘I thought you wanted to walk by the river.’

  ‘I wanted to go to the castle,’ she said huffily, shoving the camera back into her bag as if she had no further use for it, ‘but it seems I’ve no choice.’

  When we reached a spot shaded by trees I said that I would have to sit down since my new sandals were rubbing.

  ‘Oh no!’ she groaned.

  ‘But look,’ I said, undoing the straps and showing her my heels which were blistered and bleeding.

  ‘You should have kept on your tights,’ she said. ‘What do we do now – go back?’ She gave a hollow laugh and lay down on the grass with her hands behind her head. I could have wept with vexation at this point but I knew it would be a mistake. Mary Jane has a cruel streak that thrives on my tears.

  ‘What’s wrong with staying here?’ I said. ‘It’s cool and pleasant. At least we’re outside.’

  ‘I’m bored,’ said Mary Jane. ‘That’s what’s wrong. And anyway, you forgot to bring the picnic basket, didn’t you?’

  The lunch was good – cold salmon and salad. ‘No garlic,’ said Monsieur Savlon with a twinkle in his eye.

  I wondered how he knew about the garlic. Perhaps Mary Jane had told him after all. She was in a good mood now, smiling broadly as she clutched her glass of wine. She had ordered a bottle which I thought was far too much for so early in the day. By the time we had finished the meal more diners had arrived. I was glad for Monsieur Savlon’s sake because until now trade had been poor. After lunch Mary Jane offered to go into the village to buy some Elastoplast for my heels. I told her I’d be very grateful; at the same time I wondered how she was going to manage this, for she must have put away four or five glasses of wine by now.

  As I watched her leave I noticed that she was walking very straight. Too straight, I thought. An hour later she came back and told me that she’d been wandering round the village and had seen some wonderful sights. There was one street in particu lar, she said enthusiastically, that had the most amazing houses – all different shapes and sizes with cute little courtyards filled with the most amazing flowers and plants. What a pity I hadn’t been with her. Then she gave a large yawn and slumped into the chair.

  ‘Did you remember the Elastoplast?’ I asked.

  ‘Goodness,’ she said, ‘I completely forgot.’

  Dinner that evening was an excellent steak followed by a soufflé so light that it melted on the tongue. Mary Jane, however, sat drowsily throughout the meal and eventually said she’d have to have an early night since the heat had completely worn her out. Much later I sat out on the balcony in the dark. There was nothing to see except the reflections of the bridge and the apartments cast upon the river by the street lamps. Behind me Mary Jane lay snoring.

  I looked at my watch. It was only half-past nine.

  The next morning when we were up and dressed Mary Jane said, ‘Let’s do something exciting. This is our third day and we’ve done nothing at all.’

  ‘What do you suggest?’

  ‘I was thinking about the castle.’

  I pulled open the shutters. There was no cool morning mist – only the sun blinding my eyes. ‘It’s too hot for climbing,’ I said.

  ‘It won’t get any cooler. This is the South of France, you know.’

  ‘I’d never get up that cliff,’ I protested.

  ‘Don’t be stupid. You don’t go straight up the cliff. There’s a path at the side. Monsieur Savlon told me.’

  ‘Can’t we leave it for another day? We’ve got plenty of time. We don’t have to do everything all at once, surely?’

  This threw her into a rage. ‘We’ve done hardly anything,’ she shouted. ‘Honest to God, I wish I’d never come on this holiday. I can see it’s going to be a right disaster.’

  Suddenly I was infuriated by everything: the heat, this sombre village and most of all by Mary Jane. Things always had to go her way and that’s what it had been like ever since she’d moved in. ‘And I wish you’d never come to live with me in the first place,’ I shouted back. Mary Jane’s eyes narrowed and her mouth tightened ominously. I began to regret my words. I was afraid that she might start throwing things around the room and I didn’t want Monsieur Savlon at the door.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ I said quickly. ‘I didn’t mean it. The words just slipped out.’

  ‘You meant it, all right,’ she said, storming out of the bedroom and banging the door behind her.

  I followed her into the toilet and said that I was sorry, I’d spoken in a temper because I’d had a bad headache all morning, but if she was really set on going to the castle I would go with her. The main thing was for us not to fall out over trifles.

  ‘Trifles?’ she repeated, staring at me oddly in the mirror above the wash basin. ‘So Father was right about you after all.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ I demanded.

  ‘As a matter of fact, Father wrote to me not long before he died, saying that you had terrible bouts of temper. He complained that you weren’t the loving, patient Dorothy he used to know. In fact, the poor thing even suspected that you were trying to poison him. He said he caught you putting something in his tea one night.’

  ‘But he always drank cocoa,’ I said, bemused.

  ‘Anyway, by the time I arrived home he was already dead. So I decided it was best to let sleeping dogs lie, if you’ll pardon the expression.’

  I stared at her, outraged. Mary Jane would say anything to spite me, but to more or less accuse me of trying to poison Father was going a bit far even for her.

  ‘I gave him a tranquilliser every night to make him sleep. He died of a heart attack. It was on the certificate.’

  ‘I don’t doubt it was, but doctors can be careless.’ She paused for a minute then added defensively, ‘I’m only saying what he wrote.’

  Mary Jane was an atrocious liar, I knew that. I wondered if there had ever been a letter at all. Before Father died he had still been able to totter around, but I could hardly imagine him going out to buy a stamp.

  ‘So if he thought I was poisoning him why didn’t he cut me out of his will?’

  Mary Jane gave a shrug. ‘I’d never have mentioned it in the first place if you hadn’t been so hurtful,’ she said sulkily.

  We were about to leave the hotel and head for the castle when Monsieur Savlon came running after us to tell us it was going to rain. Overhead the sky was monotonously blue as ever.

  ‘It can’t,’ said Mary Jane.

  ‘It says on forecast it will rain.’

  ‘Forecasts aren’t always right,’ Mary Jane snapped, and left him on the doorstep shaking his head.

  We crossed the bridge and had just turned right into a narrow street which Mary Jane said should take us to the bottom of the cliff, when the sky darkened. A minute later it began to pour. In two seconds we were soaked through as we ran back to the café on the corner.

  Men were playing cards around a table in the centre of the room, and behind the counter a very fat woman stood regarding us with a mixture of hostility and surprise.

  ‘This doesn’t look much
like a café,’ I said.

  ‘I’ll see what they’ve got,’ said Mary Jane, going to the bar, while I dumped our bags on a table beside a window which was covered with wire mesh.

  Mary Jane came back to the table with two glasses of milky-looking stuff which according to her was all they sold, unless I preferred beer, of course.

  ‘What is it?’ I asked. ‘Are you sure they don’t have coffee?’

  ‘Pernod,’ she said. ‘I was told they haven’t.’ She took a sip from the glass. ‘It’s not bad. Why don’t you try it? It might take the miserable look off your face.’

  ‘I’m not drinking that,’ I said, feeling very agitated, because the card players were staring across at us intently. When one of them winked and jerked his head over his shoulder as if to suggest that we join them I said to Mary Jane that we had better leave.

  ‘Can’t you take a joke?’ Mary Jane began, but I was already on my feet and heading for the door with my bag in hand. Outside it was still raining but not so heavily. I made my way as fast as I could back to the hotel, and although I turned round once or twice to see if Mary Jane was following me, there was no sign of her.

  Up in the room I took off my wet clothes and lay down under the bedcovers in my underslip, wondering whether to pack my bags straightaway or wait until tomorrow. The holiday was turning out much worse than I had anticipated. If the past three days were anything to go by there was no likelihood of it getting any better. In the end I gave up trying to work out what to do and fell asleep through sheer inertia.

  ‘Madame, are you there?’ Monsieur Savlon was shouting through the keyhole.

  I sat up, startled. ‘Yes. What is it?’

  ‘Your sister is in the bar. I think she has too much to drink. She is lying on the floor.’

  ‘I’ll be down in a minute,’ I called, but as soon as I heard his footsteps receding down the stairs I jumped out of bed and locked the door. As far as I was concerned Mary Jane could stay where she was. Right at this moment it was quite beyond me to cope with her.