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

by Sophie Meredith

  I hurried out into the sunny garden dedicated to the Vision of the Mother of Our Lady, muttering something about wanting to see the statue of St. Anne and the Pilgrims’ Chapel.

  I felt giddy and sick. I explained to Robert what had happened.

  “It must have been a shock for you,” he soothed me. “But—do rememeber—your father looked like Jacques—and Jacques came from Brittany.”

  I accepted this explanation.

  “Some have their visions,” I said airily. “Others just see look-alikes. Chacun à son goût.”

  “C’est la vie,” he responded, smiling.

  But the thought that nagged at me was that I had at last been able to define the strangeness of Lilian’s eyes as I turned to look at her in the cold light of the church. They gave her face an expression—or rather a non-expression—of complete vacancy. Behind them—there was no-one.

  There was a marvellous bas-relief in the cathedral at Quimper and I was terribly disappointed that there was no reproduction of it in the guide book. There were plenty of drawings and photographs showing the unique twist of the nave, caused by the architects being unbable to reconcile the geometry of the new building with the old. We scoured the gift shops in the square but were unable to find a postcard of the wooden panel I was so much taken with. They were of course crammed with the somewhat gaudy Breton pottery. I was certain of one thing—no memories, conscious or subconscious of this rather crude style of decoration had influenced Jacques’ designs.

  Lilian loved the stuff. She bought a basketful of escargot dishes, wall-plaques and jugs of particularly un-useful sizes. She seemed drawn also to the colourful street market and clapped her hands in joy at what I thought a rather horrid dress fluttering at the front of a stall. She insisted on going inside the portable cabine d’essayage—a flimsy sort of tent—to try it on. Tony and Robert seemed greatly amused. I tried not to let my distaste show. I hated the thought that I could have become a snob but surely they would both understand that being connected with the world of haute-couture….

  “Chacun à son goût,” Robert whispered to me.

  “C’est la vie,” I returned, struggling hard against my annoyance with his sister.

  To my irritation, Lilian looked marvellous in the silly little cheap dress. Its psychedelic patterns were evocative of the raw splodges on the regional pottery but her cool beauty set it off in an extraordinary way.

  In revenge, I marched back to the small stalls outside the cathedral doors, manned by nuns and peasants, and spent a thousand francs on a beautiful fragile lace scarf. Tony and Robert exchanged looks of amusement again. Lilian stared blankly about her.

  We were shopping in Auray when my eye was caught by a window full of delicious colours and bold textures.

  “Mabiche is always saying how she misses knitting with French wool and ‘explications,’” I said. “Let’s go inside.”

  I bought several kilos of mohair in cloudy shades of mauve, peach and grey for my faithful friend. At one time, Jacques had made a feature of her hand-knitted coats but she had declined his offer to launch her into a sideline business of her own. Apart from her fierce determination to stick close to me—only the famous Fred had provided a stronger pull and after that bittersweet experience she had returned to me more devoted than ever—but she found her hobby soothing and had amazingly persuaded me to sit opposite her in times of stress, the combined clicking of our four needles helping to wind me down.

  “I think I’ll have a go at a cotton top for myself,” I said, fingering the sharply-etched rope-like pattern on a knitted-up sample of this newly fashionable yarn. “It will be good to take to the beach,” I ruminated. “Less tiring to the eyes than reading. Would you like to make something for yourself?” I asked Lilian. “This cornflower blue would really suit you.”

  “Lilian doesn’t knit,” said Robert before she could answer.

  Outside in the cobbled street we spied a baby-clothes shop.

  “You should get something for Beryl,” I said to Tony. “Just look at these adorable tiny smocks.”

  Laughing at the thought of his mother, a “lady-in-waiting,” he strode across the road.

  “I’d better go with him; he’s no idea of the cost…” I said, glancing back at the other two. To my horror I saw that Lilian looked ghastly. She had turned very pale under her tan and was shivering. Robert had an arm round her. I took a step towards them, but he waved me away.

  Tony and I had a gorgeous time choosing a layette.

  “We’re crazy,” he grinned. “Charles’ family have probably kitted out the unborn infant like a Royal prince already.”

  “To say nothing of Mabiche’s needle stitching away.” I laughed.

  “Let’s get Charles and Mother something silly…” he suggested and we dived into a jeweller’s.

  When we came out, laden with beautifully gift-wrapped packages, Robert and Lilian were just emerging from a Parfumerie. She looked better, but he still appeared anxious. He looked up at the sky which was that intense turqoise that often presages a storm.

  “Lilian gets rather agitated in thundery weather,” he said. He handed me a pink plastic carrier bag. “For you.”

  I peeped inside. Beauty products—a really classy make, though not my usual one.

  “Thank you,” I said and kissed him lightly on the cheek. “Is this a hint that I should do something about my face?”

  He laughed.

  “Chacun à son goût,” he said.

  “C’est la vie,” I rejoined.

  “Lilian chose the colours,” he said. “In fact it was her idea….”

  * * * *

  Later when I examined the foundation, powder and lipstick, I found that they couldn’t have been in worse shades for my colouring—even if Hammer Films had been planning to make me up for a Horror Movie. The lipstick was a sickly purple and the other products far too dark and heavy. I wanted to flush the lot down the lavatory but I couldn’t offend Robert. Besides, a rough calculation proved that he must have spent at least five hundred francs. I began to fret about his financial standing. I wasn’t worried about his being poor—I had more than enough for both of us and a bevy of Lilians. I was more concerned about my ignorance of the exact state of his finances. He seemed to know all about me and my past. I knew so little about him. In the end I spent a tedious hour mixing the powders and creams with some of my own to diminish the impact. I applied the adulterated results gingerly while Tony and Robert drove to Bono to enquire about boat trips for the morrow.

  I went in search of Lilian. She was sitting in an armchair in the cool, tiled living room of what had unbelievably been the byre. The shutters had all been closed and she sat staring into the empty fireplace.

  “What do you think?” I asked, switching on the lamp on the table at her side to illuminate my newly-painted face.

  She looked up at me vaguely. If I’d wanted to retaliate against what I’d taken for a malicious move on her part by turning it to my advantage, I failed. She seemed to have forgotten all about the make-up.

  “I’ve brought you something,” I said, confused and embarassed by her apathy. “Some stories I’ve been writing. This one’s called “Beach Bags.” It’s about the kerfuffle at Baden the other afternoon—you know, the Sea-Rescue patrol—the police….”

  I handed her the manuscript. It was partially typed. I never travelled without my portable machine. But I prided myself that my handwriting was rather exceptionally legible and attractive, too.

  She leafed through the pages in a desultory way. She shook her head lethargically. A cold fear was creeping over me but I did not want to accept the idea that had been forming from the first day she had come into our lives.

  “I write for children mostly, you know,” I said. “I thought up an idea just now while I was casting on—knitting really concentrates the thought processes,” I rambled on. She still sat inert.

  “I’ve done a few forest stories for youngsters,” I murmured. “Perhaps….”r />
  I held out the juvenile manuscripts.

  She took them from me and laid them on the table.

  “I—I—think the one about the fairy wedding would appeal to you,” I stammered, leaning over her and extracting it. “Here.”

  I thrust it in front of her eyes, hating myself for what I was doing but unable to stop myself.

  “Would you mind reading it out loud for me?” I asked as casually as I could manage. “It helps me to hear someone else reading my words.”

  I glanced at her and then quickly looked away. She was looking right through me and yet her face was twisted with fury.

  “I—I—I’ll leave them for Robert,” I whispered and I crept out of the little building whose coolness had turned to an unearthly chill.

  Forest Stories

  by Gabrielle Parker

  Trial in the Forest

  In the dark forest, all was quiet and still. Not a whisper of wind. Not a rustle of leaf.

  In the nooks and crannies of twisted tree roots, the wood-gnomes waited. Tonight, Queen Columbine would pass through her realm to sit in judgement.

  By the silvery stream all was hustle and bustle.

  The sparkling water trickled and splashed from pebble to pebble. The moonlight shone white and full upon the night creatures gathering to watch the trial.

  In the cave beneath the waterfall, the prisoners paced uneasily back and forth.

  Tawny Owl, Chief Forest Magistrate, sat hunched in readiness on a gnarled branch of oak. Below him hung tier upon tier of leathery black bats—the jury— a hundred strong. A moonbeam hovered over the great granite boulder glittering with pale grey flecks—the Royal Throne.

  There was a stirring amongst the fern fronds and the Queen’s Procession entered the Magic Glade. Her attendant fées and goblins were a magnificent sight in their finest robes of green and gold. But Queen Columbine herself, in a purple gown fashioned from a piece of night sky, sent a shivering amongst her admiring subjects. Tall and slender, with a severe and noble face that seemed carved of stone, she quelled the excited chattering of the myriad insect audience with a single look.

  “Call the first prisoner!” said Tawny Owl. “Call Crow, Thief of the Sky.”

  Birds of every shape and size craned their necks to see the black-winged fellow who had disgraced them.

  “You are accused,” said the Owl, in solemn tones, “of swooping upon the Mountain of Or and stealing the gold dust from an honest miner.

  Call the witness!

  Call Old Lenoir!”

  A wrinkled old troll stood up as straight as his time-bent back would allow. He pointed a worn finger at Crow.

  But before he could speak, the young Prince Yanick sprang to his feet.

  “Please show mercy on this bird!” he cried. “He is the one who guided me down from the Serpent’s Pass when I was lost in the High Mountains.”

  Queen Columbine nodded towards the Chief Magistrate. Her expression was unchanged. She was as sombre as the first day of Winter.

  “Very well,” said the Owl. “Charge dismissed. But remember, Crow…all that glitters is not gold. You must return to Lenoir his gold-dust. And you must pledge yourself to guide down all lost souls from the Mountain Peaks.”

  There was a rustle of agreement from the pendulous bats.

  “Call the second prisoner,” said Tawny Owl. “Call Pike, Thief of the Water.”

  Fish of every size and shape leaped from the stream to see the black-scaled fellow who had disgraced them.

  “You are accused,” said the Owl, in solemn tones, “of darting into the Cavern of Or and stealing the gilded necklace of the water-nymph. Call the witness. Call Crystelle.”

  A graceful young naïad arose from the stream. She pointed a slender finger at Pike.

  But before she could speak, old King Cobweb struggled to his feet. “Spare the creature, I beg of you,” he croaked. “He has given me much sport in my younger days when I fished the River Sal. Now I carry a stick rather than a rod and no longer feel the need to keep out of your way, daughter, for you have ruled the kingdom well in my place.”

  Queen Columbine nodded towards the chief magistrate. Not a feature of her marble face relaxed. She was melancholy as the first day of Autumn.

  “Very well,” said the Owl. “Charge dismissed. But remember, Pike…all that glitters is not gold. You must return to Crystelle her gilded necklace.

  “And you must pledge yourself to carry on your broad back all struggling swimmers in the Deep Lagoon.”

  There was a flutter of agreement from the pendulous bats.

  “Call the third prisoner!” said Tawny Owl. “Call Wolf, Thief of the Earth.”

  Four-footed creatures of every size and shape reared up on hind legs to see the black-muzzled fellow who had disgraced them.

  “You are accused,” said the Owl, in solemn tones, “of bounding into the Grove of Or and stealing the yellow-haired babe of the tree-sprite. Call the witness. Call Lechêne.”

  A russet-robed tree spirit floated from the topmost tangle of branches, pointing a twiggy finger at Wolf.

  But before it could speak, the little Princess Buttercup sprang to her feet.

  “Please show mercy on this creature,” she cried. “He is the one who carried me to the Palace steps as a gift for the royal Mother with two lovely sons but no daughter to delight her days.”

  Queen Columbine bowed towards the Chief Magistrate. Her face had softened. She was jubilant as the first day of Spring.

  “Very well,” said the Owl. “Charge dismissed. But remember, Wolf…all that glitters is not gold. You must return….”

  There was an awesome silence, heavy as the skies before a thunderstorm.

  The bats drooped, motionless, from the boughs, enfolded in their black capes. Out of the forest’s depths the wood gnomes crept, to get a closer look at the Chief Magistrate whose reputed Wisdom was to be put sorely to the test this night.

  Tawny Owl blinked. He looked from side to side without turning his round old head.

  All eyes were upon him.

  “You must return to the Palace of Or and give yourself up to the Royal Judgement,” pronounced the Owl.

  There was a sigh of relief from the pendulous bats.

  Queen Columbine rose slowly to her feet.

  “A shrewd verdict, Chief Magistrate,” she said. “Come, Wolf, follow us back to the Palace of Or. You shall pledge yourself to guard our gates from prowlers and thus repay your misdeed.

  Come, Tree-Sprite, you shall dwell amongst the noble oaks in the Royal Park and see the Princess Buttercup as often as you wish. She has gladdened Our Heart for many a year.”

  As the great procession returned along the woodland paths, dawn broke. The night creatures scuttled away to burrows and holes. The sun’s rays lit up the ivory features of the Queen of the Forest. Her face melted with love as she watched her two golden-haired princes and her darling Buttercup skipping ahead.

  Her smile was as bright as Midsummer Day.

  The Cone-Gnome

  Under the tall pine sat the Cone-Gnome.

  He whittled away busily at his last piece of work for he must soon be on his way to the market.

  In his big wicker basket lay a score of creatures, all carved from pine cones. There were frogs made by splaying out two of the cone scales for feet and tucking in two berries for eyes. There were rabbits made by curling up two of the cone scales for ears and tucking in a dandelion fluff for a tail. There were crocodiles and snakes made by stringing several cones together.

  The Brownie children of Hazel Wood loved the toys made by the Cone-Gnome. Curly and Twurly, rushing by, late for school as usual, upset the wicker basket. The Cone-Gnome’s work lay scattered on the forest floor.

  “Sorry!” called Curly.

  “We’ll pick them up for you!” called Twurly.

  Together they scooped up all the small figurines—and a lot of leaves and moss as well. The Cone-Gnome shook his head and muttered to himself. But he sm
iled as the two little Brownies ran off up the bracken-edged path. He had been young once, a hundred years ago.

  The Market Square was very crowded. There were stalls piled high with nuts and fruit. There were barrows heaped with turnips and potatoes. There were boxes spilling over with rolls of scarlet and blue cloth. There were trays a-jumble with jewellery. There were ancient Brownie ladies wearing black dresses and tall stiff white caps come to sell their exquisite hand-made lace.

  The Cone-Gnome squeezed himself between a plump farmer’s wife, her cloth spread with eggs and butter, milk and cheese, and a jolly baker selling loaves and buns, pancakes and tartlets.

  Trade was brisk and soon the dairy stall was empty, the last crumb swept from the pastry stall.

  “Oh dear, oh dear, have you nothing left?”

  Old Brownie Tardy stood peering into the Cone-Gnome’s basket. “I need a gift for my little grandson,” she said, poking amongst the dry brown leaves at the bottom of the basket with her umbrella.

  “Ah, yes!” she cried. “How much for this hedgehog? Baby will love that.”

  The Cone-Gnome looked up at her in astonishment. He did not remember making a model hedgehog.

  Suddenly Old Brownie Tardy squealed with surprise.

  “It’s moving!” she cried. “The Cone-Gnome’s model is rolling up into a ball.”

  The farmer’s wife and the baker doubled up with laughter. Even the ancient Brownie ladies in their tall stiff caps smiled a little. The Cone-Gnome shook his head and chuckled to himself. Curly and Twurly, on their way home to lunch, ran over to see what the commotion was about.

  “Why, it’s a real live baby hedgehog!” cried Curly. “We must have scooped it up with the leaves.”

  “We’ll take it back to the forest,” said Twurly. “We’ll put it back under the tall pine tree.”

  “But what about my present?” said Old Brownie Tardy.

  The Cone-Gnome grinned. Out of his pocket he took a plump brown pine-cone.

  He began to shape it into a spiky little hedgehog.

  Forest Wedding