With Men For Pieces [A Fab Fifties Fling In Paris]

by Sophie Meredith

  I was pre-occupied and a little irritated that Jane, our cook-cum-housemaid, had not responded to the bell.

  “That’s my father,” I said.

  He picked up the two portraits.

  “Oh, I see,” he muttered. “So—Jacques Lemoine was your—uncle.”

  He sounded relieved. I took the photograph from him.

  “They are alike, aren’t they?” I said.

  I knew my voice sounded flat but I suddenly felt cold and clammy with some unidentified fear. I went over to the door, intending to call out for Jane. As I put my hand to the knob, the door was opened from the other side. Mabiche stood there. She looked ghastly.

  “An accident,” she said. “Young David—he’s come off that horrid bike—Tony phoned—we must tell Beryl.”

  She crumpled into a chair. My legs felt weak.

  “What…how bad?” I asked.

  “Tony said…Tony said…he said…David’s dead.”

  I knelt in front of her and we put our arms around each other, rocking and weeping. Robert Tardy crept out without our noticing.

  Chapter 13

  Tony had not wanted to go back to Cambridge. Between the three of us, we finally persuaded him, and he threw himself into his work with a vengeance. He came to us the weekend of the May Ball and we were all heavily conscious of our joint memories of the year before. I was concerned to see the dark rings under his eyes, the look of despair on his young face.

  The idea began to grow on me of a holiday—just Tony and me—in the summer. We could go to Paris—I still had Jacques’ house.

  “Do you think I’d cramp his style?” I asked Beryl.

  “My dear Gaby—it’s a marvellous idea,” she said. “He wouldn’t go otherwise—you’ll have to drag him there as it is. He’s got this silly idea that he ought to go to India and do some sort of missionary work in the slums.”

  “Oh, no!” I cried. “Not while he’s so low. Later, perhaps, when he’s got back his—health and strength.”

  He, too, had been hurt in the accident and still had a slight limp. But we both knew I wasn’t talking about the healing of his foot. I looked at Beryl. She was pale—and thinner than ever.

  “Look—why don’t we all go?” I suggested. “A change would do you good. Could Charles get away?”

  Charles had settled down in his father’s firm since David’s death. The tragedy had sobered him up in more ways than one and I had been happy to see what a comfort he was to Beryl.

  “Actually, Gaby…“ A blush was spreading over her chalk-white skin. She looked up at me from under her thick, black lashes. “I’ve been meaning to tell you. I’m pregnant.”

  “Ryl!”

  “Charles is really chuffed—and scared, too—motherhood at forty plus—he’s fussing around me like an old hen.”

  “Oh, Ryl, it’s lovely,” I said.

  “I’m so relieved you don’t mind,” she said, pathetically. “I had wondered…”

  “What are you saying, you silly cow,” I joked. “Did you think I’d be jealous? Look here—you know quite well I’m likely to lay claim to this one as well…”

  I stopped, horrified. How could I have said anything so callous? “I’m sorry,” I whispered.

  “No, no, don’t be silly,” she said. “We simply must talk about David. And that was what I was getting at—I didn’t want you to be cross and think I was trying to replace—my lovely boy.”

  She was crying, but not with the violent sobs that had wracked her at the funeral. They were soft, healing tears now and once again in this room, I found myself kneeling and comforting a friend.

  “It didn’t happen like that at all,” she sobbed. “It wasn’t planned. It was just—Charles was so good—such a comfort…”

  “There, there, that’s enough,” I said. “I don’t wish to hear your bedroom secrets. Let’s talk about this holiday. What would be best for Tony. You know, I’ve just thought—Paris is awfully hot in the summer—and Tony loves the sea. Maybe I’ll ask him if he’d like to go to Brittany.”

  Chapter 14

  We arrived at Charles de Gaulle Airport just after seven and took a taxi straight into Paris.

  “Ile Saint-Louis,” I told the driver. The first landmark we passed was the Sacré Coeur and then the Eiffel Tower loomed up way ahead in a distant mist. Tony exclaimed with delight at all the photos in my album coming to life for him. Soon we were sweeping across the front of Notre Dame.

  “We’ll eat at the Sergeant Recruteur,” I said. “It’s a place for young people of all ages—I’d like to make a special Cultural Grant to the universities of every nation to be used to send every student here at least once.”

  Tony nudged me and raised his eyes in mock horror as he saw the sign in the entrance assuring the customers that the prix fixe included wine à volonté—all they could drink. I was certain that the lively atmosphere would start our holiday off on a good footing—jolt Tony out of the brooding misery which I had seen come creeping over him during the journey whenever he relaxed for a moment his touching effort to beam at me. There is a great community spirit in this restaurant: no one can hold onto their aloof dignity long here. It evolves from the peculiar menu, the joie de vivre of the waiters and the décor. The tables are ranged along the walls, a narrow aisle between—and so close one does not feel separate from one’s neighbours—but when it is seen that the first course is served from a huge basket of crudités—from which you hack off what you fancy and then watch the basket passed on—and these are not little heaps of daintily sliced sticks of carrot, cubes of beetroot, wafers of cucumber: there are whole bulbous roots of fennel, great phallic horseradishes, cabbages, thrusting whole cucumbers and celeriac, enormous onions, giant mushrooms and a garnish of hard-boiled eggs in their shells. Good-humoured discussion breaks out at once as to the relative merits of these voluptuously-fresh vegetables.

  Next comes a platter of saucissons (unsliced) and a dish of pâte. Again, you help yourself and the platters are passed on, your new friends waiting anxiously for you to taste and then hopefully make that endearing French gesture of putting forefinger and thumb to the mouth and sort of “blowing a kiss,” a wordless way of expressing Formidable!

  A great bowl of the true specialité de la maison is now put in front of you. Aromatic, tender green lentils with onion rings. Your glass will have been constantly replenished without your noticing and the crew of waiters will have been merrily encouraging, advising, commenting on your disgraceful lack of appetite, the weather, life….

  Steak or fish to follow and the usual choice of desserts, but by now you are too well-nourished by the noise, the camaraderie. Up a rickety, narrow staircase where you expect to meet Quasimodo at every turn, are the toilets. The washbasins, of a dull silver metal reminiscent of pewter, are sunk into great slabs of ancient oak like those sagging from the low ceilings down below. Surely here, ghosts lurk in the shadowy corners amongst the cobwebs. You stumble down again and take your leave of your—by now they’re practically family—fellow-diners, waiters, chefs emerging from the kitchens to beam at your praise and emerge into a queue of anxious-looking people (some actually crying with fear they won’t get in ) desperate to partake of the jollity within.

  Chapter 15

  Tony loved it all and afterwards we strolled round to the Pont de la Tournelle to gaze across at Notre Dame.

  “It all began here,” I said quietly.

  Tony leaned on the parapet and looked down onto the swirling waters of the Seine.

  “Those barges,” I said, “down there by the Left Bank—Mabiche was born on one like that. Her family has left the river now. And Jacques is gone….”

  I wanted to lead him gently towards and out of his own pain through mine.

  “He was—could have been—everything to me,” I said. “I’ll miss him forever.”

  “That’s a great place—that restaurant, I mean,” said Tony. “I wish….”

  My heart thumped as I waited for him to put into wor
ds his despair at not now being able to share every experience with David.

  “I wish I’d been here before, with you—when you were….”

  He shrugged and smiled at his own gaucherie.

  “When I was young and stupid,” I said. “I tremble to think how I survived,” I added lightly. “Come on now—I want to show you Jacques’ house. A touch of luxury, then we’ll rough it together out in the wilds of Armorica.”

  Fifteen Minutes on the Bridge

  by Gabrielle Parker

  The woman leaned on the parapet. Below, the Seine, extraordinarily swollen, swirled by in wintry anger.

  The man sat in the tabac-bar on the corner of the Quai d’Orléans on Ile Saint-Louis and watched her for a few moments. He had seen her arrive, in the Bentley, on the Rive Gauche. He had observed the obsequious manner of the chauffeur as he handed her out onto the Pont de la Tournelle and then drove away in the shining limousine. He had disciplined himself to wait while she walked slowly to the centre of the bridge. After all, he had been waiting for her every day now for a week. A few more minutes and the time would be right.

  The woman leaned on the parapet. Below, the icy waters grasped greedily at the foundations of the cathedral, perched on the edge of its own island. At this time of year, the flying buttresses were stark, dramatic skeletons with little greenery below to soften their impact.

  The man approached—not too close—and studied her profile. She was still beautiful but so thin, so aged.

  “It is you, isn’t it?” the man said.

  The woman shivered and drew the priceless fur collar closer round her neck and ears.

  Louder, from his tentative distance of a few paces, he said, “Sybil?”

  She turned towards him and he realised his blunder. He had heard vague rumours of a serious illness, an operation of some sort. No one had prepared him for the shock of those still-sparklingly-lovely but sightless eyes. The grape-vine was become so straggly it seemed that friends from his past were more and more reluctant to pass on information.

  “I’m so sorry,” he said, in a hoarse whisper. He, too, sought the support of the stonework.

  The man and the woman leaned on the parapet. Below them, the relentless river swept on, choked with the pathetic debris of human living—furniture, planks—a tiny, wooden holiday hut, practically intact.

  The man began to pour out his self-inflicted speech of contrition.

  He was sorry the Wedding had been such a poor affair. He hoped she’d understood. After all, she’d brought no dowry and he’d made no secret of his poverty. But he’d promised her things wouldn’t be like that forever.

  He was sorry there were so many stairs, and the last flight long overdue for repair. Full of holes and dirt. And so narrow he had to go ahead and almost pull her up the last few, twisty steps to the tiny landing, did she remember? How she’d laughed as he pretended to struggle with her weight. More fun on the landing where there was barely enough room to stand while he fumbled for his key. Not that there was anything inside worth locking up. Strong smells of foreign cooking wafted out from under the other door opposite. Welcome odours of spices and garlic after the all-pervading stench of cats and human urine on the way up.

  Not like your Earls Court here, all hygiene and Australians, he’d pointed out. But more atmosphere and colour. Sorry it’s so dark in here, but come over to the window. Here, I’ll help you up onto the bed. Careful, it’s rather rickety.

  But see—what a view—right across to Battersea Power Station. Pimlico’s not such a bad place to live in this year of Our Lord, nineteen hundred and fifty six, when we’re young and fit and ambitious. And all poets must starve in a garret at the beginning….

  Ah, yes, the gas ring. Sorry. It wasn’t very adequate for anything like a real meal, but she’d be bound to manage if she put some effort into it.

  And today he’d got in extra stuff. There, in that box under the records. Don’t kick the record player, one of the few valuables in the room, travel light, take life as it comes, like he’d taken her, miserable, that night in the coffee bar—Bunjie’s wasn’t it?—and not so long ago at that—all tearful behind the candle in the wine bottle.

  Yes, eggs and potatoes—Bryn’s girl seems to do wonders with stuff like that—or there’s some spaghetti somewhere—oh, and make plenty ’cos his friends were sure to come round.

  He hadn’t invited them to the Registry Office. He had to admit he felt a bit of a prawn, making it legal. And they’d have expected a real party laid on afterwards. Or worse, They’d have insisted on treating the couple to a meal—only at Lyons Corner House, probably, but one couldn’t accept charity of any kind—one had to keep one’s pride—live by one’s principles.

  Sorry—but from that distant sound of strummed guitars, and buzzed kazoos. That must be them now. If she’d just hold onto his legs he could lean out and see the street. Yes, coming out of the Greek Delicatessen’s, just as he’d thought. She’d better make a start—see what she could rustle up—they must have their contribution in evidence—no sponging….

  He was sorry, late that night, as he lay on the shabby divan and watched her struggling to wash up with one plastic bowl and a kettle. A leaky kettle at that. He hadn’t realised they’d stay so long—even after all the jokes about wedding nights, they stayed and stayed. Still—it was nice of Bryn’s girl to bring that gift—they’re good plates, too—how many—six? Might be able to sell four of them tomorrow. Or all six—they were too good to use really….

  He was sorry even later, in the small hours—she must give him time—he had problems in that area—she wasn’t sophisticated enough to understand—hell, she must have been naive to give all her money to that landlady and then get thrown out on the barest pretext that the old cow needed the room for a niece—one day, when he’d written it all out of his soul he’d explain—his difficulty—to her. Meanwhile she must be patient. She should count herself lucky to have found a poet. Pinned him down to marriage, too. Couldn’t expect all the world to be like those virile uncouth miners she’d known in the north. And had she known them—in the biblical sense? Just how promiscuous was she—all women were sluts deep down—sorry, but he couldn’t bear her near him just now. Sometimes he felt like that about females—their softness, their odour, repulsed him. Sorry, but he’d pull the sagging mattress off the rock-hard base. She could have her choice.

  He was sorry a few weeks later when she collapsed half-way up the second flight. Still three flights away from their place, she was taken in by a large Nigerian woman who lost no time in sending one of her many children for her own doctor. Witch-doctor more like. Malnutrition indeed! Their diet was no more stringent than many a model-girl followed through choice as a keep-fit régime. True, he did eat more than her—being paid mainly in coffee and strudels for reciting his poems at the Troubadour Coffee House, to the accompaniment of Bryn’s tub base. Quite a good gimmick that. Of course, Bryn’s girl helped run the place and she’d recommended the entertainers to the owner—a Jew, naturally, but quite generous. Too generous with his advice though—always urging them to rehearse. Well, he supposed he’d have to get a daytime job as well—he was, after all, a qualified draughtsman—if Rendell, Palmer and Tritton had taken her on as a clerk, they’d surely throw their arms wide open for him—and it was near enough to walk—no fares involved. If he could raise enough cash to get his suit out of pawn….

  He was sorry he’d had to pack it in. On a Wednesday, too, no pay packet. But imagine—him, a poet—having to take orders from that…Philistine. He just couldn’t take it, he really couldn’t. And anyway, had it been worth it—their combined salaries just melted away. Well, you have to have a solid breakfast inside you when you’re working—and Trudy’s Caff being just opposite Waterloo Station—on the way, so to speak—pity you couldn’t ever work up a proper appetite after that bit of trouble—but it was better for you to go on home and rest if you couldn’t stand the sight of food anymore—and that tea-shop did the most delic
ious scones. Being a regular at both places helped—one got better service, pity there was no reduction in the bill—still, eggs and bacon, toasted tea-cakes—they were the stuff to keep a man going.

  Sorry there hadn’t been anything over to spare for new clothes for her—but, surely it’s banal to be a dedicated follower of fashion—the trendies had only their beehive hairdos and skin-tight skirts—ephemeral joys compared to the thrill she’d have when she saw his name on a hundred book jackets in Foyle’s front window.

  He was sorry about taking the money without asking, tho’ he still couldn’t see why she’d kicked up such a fuss. He was old-fashioned enough to believe that a wife’s property was her husband’s morally. That wasn’t the same as lending one’s own stuff, mind—he didn’t care for people using his pens, his records. But with her windfall—well, even she had been bowled over and full of wild schemes the day she’d heard the old Aunt had died—then it turned out to be a hundred pounds—oh, quite a lot, but what better way to spend it—he’d had the best of motives, getting tickets for the overnight boat train to Paris. He knew she’d said there were so many more practical things they could have done with the money—but how far would it have gone on saucepans and furniture—and they’d never had a proper holiday together—no honeymoon—maybe this would help with his…problem. And she had enjoyed the weekend. Even with Bryn and Deirdre tagging along. And they’d discovered the bridge—stood here, on this very spot, looking at the river, the cathedral, the apartments on Ile Saint-Louis—planning how they’d all four live there one day—himself a famous writer, Bryn with his own successful jazz group.

  That was one thing he could not be sorry about—that fifteen minutes on the bridge.

  He was sorry about the baby, but after all, they both knew it couldn’t be his—and a cuckold has every right to throw his woman out, snow or no snow. And, truly, he thought she’d get straight on a train and go back home to the north, not hang around town, hankering after no-good Bryn who’d let her catch her death almost—certainly it had meant the death of the child. Bryn’s girl—Deirdre—she’d been most upset, after struggling through blizzards to get to the hospital to see her—and then finding out about the affair that had been going on behind her back. Came round and told him she was so disgusted with the Bohemian life she was going back to the family home in Wiltshire. Took him back with her, said if she went alone, the Peasants would despise her for not having been able to catch a man. Quite well-fixed, her family. Lucky, too, they knew someone in publishing. Even a True Poet can do with a booster like that—after all, Wordsworth had his patrons.