* * * *
Le Coisel is a haven for a writer. There is nothing exceptional about the house itself. It is typical of the area—large, sturdy, built of the local stone beneath a steeply pitched slate roof, although it does have a rather ornate central dormer of carved stone which gives it an air of rural grandeur. It was the situation rather than the house that we fell in love with.
One thinks of Normandy as a vast tract of horizontal dullness, and indeed much of it is, but the area of southern Calvados known as the Bocage is more engaging, with gently rolling hills and lush valleys, a rich farming land not unlike the Gloucestershire countryside where I grew up. Le Coisel is situated where Bocage and Bessin meet, not far from...
But forgive me if I do not reveal its exact location. I bought it for peace and seclusion and have no wish to be overrun by people deeming to satisfy a morbid curiosity. Suffice it to say, Le Coisel faces south along a wood-enclosed valley from which no human habitation can be seen, and through which runs the gentle Ruisseau de la Vierge on its way to meet the Drome.
It was summer when we first saw it, one of those glorious hot weeks in July. The sun had turned the car into a furnace, so the tree-shaded track offered a welcome relief. Before even entering the house we walked down to the stream and stood in quiet contemplation amongst a carpet of bog iris, their yellow heads thigh-high, holding out our bare arms to let damsel flies in iridescent blues and greens alight upon our hands, whilst at our feet the water burbled and the hot air pulsated with the songs of birds. Paradise. The pressures of London seemed as remote as Mars and we did not need to speak to know we would buy it.
The house itself, shuttered and unlived in for many years, felt like a tomb when Gabrielle finally turned the great iron key and creaked open the door, but both Stella and I immediately recognised its potential. Massive fireplaces, beams the size of buttresses, exquisite floors of handmade hexagonal pave were enough to make an interior designer swoon. It had suffered from its period of abandonment, but only through damp. In England, it would have been vandalised. The whole came with five hectares of land, which included the valley and the surrounding woodlands.
In truth, I would have preferred something farther south, where the weather is hotter and summer more reliable, but my wife, a keen gardener, preferred more northern climes. That's where she was that morning, at a garden near Bayeux, conducting her research. She had just received the go-ahead from her publisher for a second coffee-table tome with the provisional title The Gardens of Northern France.
She returned in late afternoon, cold and exhausted (there are no damsel flies in March!), and huddled beside the woodburner to thaw, whilst I, still an Englishman at heart, made a pot of tea. Had I remembered to ask Gabrielle about Friday, she wanted to know, and I told of the strange refusal.
"Haunted?" said Stella. "Le Coisel?"
"Has she not said anything to you?"
"Nothing. Not a word.” She thought for a moment. “Did she say what form the haunting takes?"
I shook my head. “I thought you might ask her. You'll have more chance of understanding what she says."
She nodded. “I'll ask on Saturday. Assuming I'm still able."
I raised my eyebrows and she laughed. “If we haven't been scared to death the previous evening."
A cold draught seeped under the door and I moved closer to the stove.
* * * *
There was a frost that night. The valley next morning was powdered with a fine white dust and icicles hung in sabre-toothed clusters along the banks of the stream. I put on my thickest jacket and went out for a walk. Thursday was not one of Gabrielle's mornings and Stella was already in her study typing up the previous day's notes.
I let myself out the back door and walked briskly, feet crunching, my breath wafting in clouds before my face. I went first through the orchard, where cider-apple trees sagged beneath huge balls of mistletoe, and from there up into the woods. I love the woods of Le Coisel. They are old as time, deciduous, suffocated by undergrowth so dense that in summer they are impenetrable to all but the creatures that inhabit them. But they fill me with a strange sense of pride. I can only attribute such feelings to the “lord of all he surveys” syndrome and confess it has taken me by surprise. How well, I wonder, do any of us truly know ourselves?
But I digress. In the winter months, when the undergrowth had died down, I was able to forge my way in and from then on walked there most days, regardless of weather—alone, mostly: Stella was usually too busy—and it was on one of these early forays that I discovered the etang. To be precise, I almost fell into it. As is usually the case on my walks, my mind was elsewhere, and although I was vaguely aware of a clearing ahead of me I had no reason to suspect it contained water. Only by grabbing a young ash branch was I able to prevent what could have been, in such temperatures, a fatal accident.
The pond was twenty meters across, dark and still, its surface broken only by rotting leaves and the occasional drip of water from the rock face rising some thirty feet above it. The slow drip-dripping was the only sound, and echoed around the clearing like a death knell. I stood at the lowest part of the rim, where the water was no more than a foot below me, and leaned forward. My reflection stared up at me, the decomposing body of a shrew hovering at my right ear. I gave a cry and leapt backwards, then turned and hurried away. The clearing smelt of rotting wood, humus, and death, and I had no wish to linger.
Later I told Stella of my find.
"Is it natural or man-made?” she asked.
"I've no idea. It could be an old quarry."
"Deep?"
"Probably."
She resumed her typing.
"Don't you want to see it?"
"Haven't time,” she said, fingers flying over the keys, so I went out and closed the door. I'd hoped she would be excited.
* * * *
The pond had a name, I learned later from Gabrielle. The locals called it l'Etang du Diable. When I asked why, she was unable—or unwilling—to enlighten me, though eventually, with much apologetic gesturing, she admitted that it is by this ominous name that Le Coisel itself is known. It seems I wallow daily in the Devil's Pond.
* * * *
On the morning of the dinner party no water dripped into the l'Etang du Diable. Instead, swords of ice stabbed downwards from the rock face, aiming their points at the frozen skin on its surface. It looked magnificent—the pool of the mountain king; the Snow Queen's bathtub. I walked to the edge, obliterating with my hefty footprints the delicate tracery of birds’ feet feathering the frost, but did not bother to lean forward. Ice gives back no reflection.
Emerging from the woods, I saw Jacques coming towards me on his tractor, spraying gravel over the verglas of the track. He pulled up beside me and reached down to shake hands. When we had exchanged the usual pleasantries and concerns regarding the weather, I told him I had come from the etang.
Jacques frowned. It would be wise not to go there, he told me.
"Why's that?” I asked.
He shrugged. “C'est dangereux."
"Is it deep?"
He shrugged again, and taking a pouch from his pocket began with painful slowness to roll a cigarette.
"Did somebody once drown?” I prompted.
He ran his tongue carefully along the paper and fumbled in several pockets to find his matches. At last the flame hissed and he held it to the tobacco. “Helene,” he said, inhaling deeply. “Helene Bazire."
"Gerard Bazire was the previous owner,” I said.
He nodded. “Helene was his wife."
I stared down towards the house. “How did it happen? Was she alone? Did she fall or...?"
"Who knows how these things happen,” said Jacques. “She drowned. That is all I know.” He spurred the engine.
"Is that how it got its name?” I shouted over the din, but Jacques didn't answer. He let out the clutch and the tractor lurched forward.
* * * *
It was bitterly cold that night and we
had severe doubts as to whether our guests would arrive, but shortly after seven-thirty we heard the crunch of tires on gravel and the slamming of doors. They came in, red-nosed and rheumy-eyed, stamping frost from their feet as they unwound numerous layers of clothing. I poured us all a pastis, including Stella, which was unusual.
Penny said it was nice to be somewhere warm for a change, pounced on one of the many bowls of amuse-gueule Stella had set out, and huddled in front of the stove. She nibbled frantically, as if she'd not eaten for a week, though unless the bulk was caused by further hidden layers, her figure told otherwise. Heaven only knew what lay beneath the colossal mohair jersey, and I, for one, preferred not to speculate. But they seemed a pleasant enough couple. We talked of general things—houses, the best places to shop, the peculiar customs of the French—and were finishing our third glass of pastis when Stella informed us the food was ready. We were already a jovial foursome when we sat down to dine.
The wine, in its turn, flowed freely. Even Stella, normally so abstemious, was swilling it back with the rest of us and I hoped she wouldn't regret it later. She and alcohol have always made uncomfortable bedfellows. By the end of the second course it was clearly having its effect and she was expounding loudly on her forthcoming volume, having discovered, to her apparent delight, a fellow enthusiast in Neil. I let her continue, removed the plates, and brought the cheese, watching with amusement as our guests ignored the creamy richness of Pont l'Eveque and Roquefort of which we were so fond, and devoured instead the much-yearned-for cheddar. Would we be like that, I wondered, in two years’ time?
Stella continued both to drink and to talk gardens. She and Neil were leaning closer now, becoming animated. Her face was flushed and her eyes had a sparkle I had not seen in them for a long time. Penny, on the other hand, appeared bored.
"Shall we talk about something else?” I said at last. “We don't all share your enthusiasm, darling.” At which Stella spun towards me.
"For gardens, or for my new book?"
"For gardens, of course,” I replied patiently.
She continued to stare.
"It must be really exciting,” said Neil, somewhat ingratiatingly, “having a wife who's a successful writer."
Stella laughed. “Oh, I don't write, Neil. Only writers of fiction write, isn't that so, darling? They are the creative ones, whereas I merely record facts."
She spoke in jest, but there was no denying the underlying sarcasm. Neil shifted uncomfortably. It was, of course, the drink talking.
"I once made the mistake of referring to her first book as a coffee-table tome,” I said lightly, trying to put him at ease. “I'm afraid she's never forgiven me."
"Nonsense,” replied Stella. “What is there to forgive? That's exactly what it was, lots of pretty pictures and not much text. A mere piece of frippery.” She reached for the bottle and yet again replenished her glass.
"Are you sure that's wise?” I asked, but she ignored me and offered the bottle to Neil. He did decline, on the grounds that he was driving.
"Stay,” said Stella magnanimously. “We'll put the radiator on in the spare room. Won't we, darling."
I waited for a further polite refusal, and when none came reluctantly climbed to my feet and went upstairs. Our new friends were pleasant enough, but I had no wish to prolong their visit.
When I returned, Stella had served the final course and was struggling to open a bottle of Sauternes. “Let me,” I said, fearing, in her present condition, some frightful accident with the corkscrew. For a moment I thought she would refuse to let it go, but finally she relinquished it and resumed her seat.
"I've been telling Neil and Penny about our reputed haunting,” she said. “Penny thinks we should be concerned."
"I would be,” Penny affirmed, looking around the room as if some ethereal being might at any moment materialise through the wall. “I wonder whose ghost it is?"
"Probably Helene Bazire's,” I said, pouring the wine.
"Who?"
"The wife of the previous owner,” said Stella. “Why do you say that?"
I realised I had not told her of my conversation with Jacques.
"She drowned in the etang," I said. “Jacques told me this morning."
"Good God. When?"
"I've no idea."
"What etang?" asked Neil.
Briefly I described the pond in the woods and its sinister reputation. Penny shivered. “How did it happen?” she asked.
"Jacques doesn't know. At least, he says he doesn't."
Her eyes widened. “Does he think she was murdered?"
"I don't know. I'm merely repeating what he said."
Stella looked thoughtful. “Her husband mistreated her, you know. Gabrielle told me."
"Then perhaps he did it.” Penny sat forward excitedly. “Perhaps he killed her and pushed her in. Ghosts are supposed to be the corp...” she stumbled over the words, “the corporeal manifestations of victims of violent death,” she said at length, and slumped back in her chair. “I've drunk too much,” she giggled.
It was becoming apparent that we all had.
"Sounds like a good basis for a story,” said Neil to me. “Perhaps you can use it in your next book."
I smiled stoically and Stella laughed. “What an excellent idea, Neil. God knows he needs something to stir the creative juices."
My hand firmed around the stem of the glass. “I have plenty to inspire me without resorting to ghost stories,” I said coldly, and Neil and Penny exchanged glances.
"Neil's brother's read your books,” she said. “He phoned during the week and I told him we'd met you. He teaches English in Lincoln.” She shot a sidelong glance at her husband. “He said you haven't published anything for ages. He wondered if you had writer's block."
Beside me Stella gave a snort of laughter. “Writer's block doesn't exist, does it, darling? It's—and I quote—'a fiction in its own right, propounded by those who lack ideas.’”
I winced in embarrassment. She was slurring her words and was by now quite obviously drunk. “Why don't you make coffee?” I said.
"Why don't you!"
She leaned towards Neil and placed her hand on his. “Tell your brother, my husband has been resting—a long rest, I agree, but creativity is exhausting. As for writer's block ... tch!" She dismissed it with a wave of her hand and sent the bottle flying. Wine gushed over the tablecloth and onto my trousers but she seemed not to notice.
"But let me tell you this, Neil,” she continued, leaning still closer, “it's a good job some of us still have ideas or we wouldn't be paying the bills. Even if we aren't real writers."
Neil looked embarrassed and I averted my eyes in disgust. There is nothing more odious than an inebriated woman—especially an older woman. I plucked the wet fabric from my leg and squeezed it in a napkin.
Eventually Stella staggered to her feet and went to the kitchen. Penny excused herself and followed, presumably to find the bathroom, and Neil and I were left alone. “You must forgive my wife,” I said, all too aware that I was probably slurring too. “She rarely has more than a glass or two. It affects her badly."
"We all do it once in a while,” said Neil generously.
"Not Stella,” I said. “Stella never lets go. Stella never allows herself to..."
But I didn't finish the sentence. There was a muffled shriek above our heads, followed by heavy footsteps on the stairs. The door burst open and Penny came hurtling in. She threw herself at Neil and began to babble incoherently.
"Now what?” I cried, jumping to my feet and tipping over the chair, but Neil looked as bemused as I did. He gathered her into his arms and began stroking her hair, all the while murmuring “there, there” as if she were a child. The noise brought Stella from the kitchen.
"What's happened? Is she ill?"
"God knows,” I said. “She's talking gibberish."
"I want to go home!” cried Penny with sudden lucidity. “I won't stay in this house. It's evil, it's..."
"What's she talking about?” asked Stella, swaying against the jamb. “She can't go. She's drunk."
"Oh yes, I can!” screamed Penny, pushing Neil to one side. “Where're our coats? Coats! Coats!"
I felt like slapping her. She was clearly becoming hysterical. She started rushing around the room like one demented, searching for the coats, as if we'd simply thrown them into a corner.
"Do something,” Stella said to me. “They're drunk. They can't...” She collapsed into a chair.
"I'm not their keeper,” I said, and fetched the coats from the hall.
I saw them to the door. Penny scrambled into the car as if the hounds of hell were after her, leaving Neil to mutter a few garbled words of apology and thanks. I stood outside and watched the lights of their Deux-Chevauxmove slowly up the track and vanish into the trees.
And that, I'm ashamed to say, is all I remember. My sudden exposure to the bitingly cold air must have been too much for me because I, too, succumbed to the excesses of the evening. For the first time in more than twenty years I was intoxicated to the point of oblivion.
I awoke in my bed, dehydrated and nauseous. I tried to get up but the pain in my head forced me back down. I reached across for Stella but the sheet was cold.
Some time later I woke again. The thirst was unbearable. I felt like death. It took me some time to realise that the intrusive hammering was not only in my head but also outside. Someone was banging on the door. I forced myself to sit up.
I was naked. Where were my pyjamas? More to the point, where were my clothes? I managed to stand and grabbed my dressing gown. “I'm coming,” I muttered angrily as I made my way downstairs.
I opened the door to find Jacques, his employer Monsieur Chicot, and a younger man whom I didn't recognise standing on the step. They were bareheaded and solemn. It was Jacques who spoke.
It is difficult to be alert or coherent when in the throes of a severe hangover, even more so when one must converse in a foreign tongue. I couldn't at first grasp what he was saying, and wished only that he would go away so that I could get a drink of water and some aspirin and return to my bed. I was aware of how I must look, unshaven and haggard, and of the coldness of the tiles beneath my bare feet. I gathered he was speaking of my wife and eventually I caught the word etang.
EQMM, May 2009 Page 16
