by Chloe Rayban
As I stood there, I heard a car draw up. I went to the window and saw Monsieur de Lafitte stride into the house carrying his briefcase. Curses. I wanted to make the most of our last evening, now he was going to spoil it all.
Dinner was a miserable meal. Madame de Lafitte kept going on about Matthilde’s sudden announcement that we were going back to Paris. She wanted to know why and I could see Matthilde trying to make up excuses that didn’t quite convince her grandmother.
‘And you will miss the soirée on samedi,’ Madame de Lafitte said, appealing to me for help.
Monsieur de Lafitte seemed equally put out. All through the meal he kept making pointed remarks about our departure, saying to me, ‘Of course if you prefer Paris to ze country …’
Michel was quiet and unresponsive. Old Oncle Charles kept trying to make Matthilde change her mind.
After dinner we had coffee on the terrace. It was a hot sultry night and dark clouds were massing overhead. The air felt damp and heavy and I noticed the swallows were flying low. They swept in over the terrace, filling it with their whistling cries. Old Oncle Charles got to his feet and walked to the edge of the lawn and looked hard at the sky. He said something about ‘un orage’.
‘What’s that?’ I asked.
‘A storm. What a pity. And eez your last night,’ said Madame de Lafitte with a sigh.
Far in the distance I caught the first faint rumble of thunder. Madame de Lafitte started clearing the coffee things and Michel was sent upstairs to close all the windows.
I lingered on the terrace. There were no stars that night and the sky seemed to hang low over the landscape. I was just about to go in when Michel shot through the door and started walking fast and angrily across the lawn.
‘Hi,’ I said.
He didn’t reply.
I went after him. ‘Michel?’
‘What?’ he asked. I could tell from his voice that he was trying not to cry.
‘What is it?’
‘I am coming to Paris with you tomorrow,’ he said briefly.
‘Oh?’ I said, my heart lifting in spite of his mood.
‘My father and grandfather say I must go back, prepare for school. I ’ave to sign for the classics course.’
‘I see,’ I said, biting my lip.
He hesitated as if about to say something and then thought better of it. ‘So … I must go pack.’
I nodded. ‘I’ve packed already.’
I watched as he turned and walked despondently back into the house.
I went and sat on the sunlounger by the moat after that.
I could see the light on in Michel’s room and his shadow was cast long across the lawn as he went back and forth collecting up his things. You wouldn’t have thought that even a shadow could look miserable.
Matthilde came out after a while and sat beside me on the sunlounger.
‘Michel is coming with us,’ I said.
She nodded. ‘I know. ’Ee eez not very ’appy.’
We both looked up at his window. As we did so, lightning flashed across the garden. Somehow the weather seemed to match our mood. It felt tense and edgy. Another flash of lightning lit the clouds up in hard relief. The sound of the thunder grew louder and more threatening.
Then, with a suddenness that took my breath away, the wind got up. It came like a blast from an opened door, tearing through the trees, scattering torn leaves and broken twigs in its path. My hair was blowing in my eyes and my clothes were glued to my body by the force of it.
‘Ça y est,’ said Matthilde and got to her feet.
Within minutes we were grabbing at deckchairs as the wind tried to rip them from our grasp. We ran half stumbling, dragging as much as we could, in the direction of the barn. The rain came pelting down in mammoth drops. We forced our way against it, scattering books and towels. By the time we got into the barn, it was positively deluging. We struggled back through the rain into the house, breathless and half-soaked.
When I tried the kitchen light switch, nothing happened. The storm must have knocked the electricity out. Matthilde started pulling out drawers, looking for candles.
Between the rolls of thunder the house was eerily silent. Everyone else seemed to have gone to bed. After one particularly heavy clap of thunder, I heard a miserable whine and found the dogs cowering under the table. Madame de Lafitte must have allowed them inside because of the storm. Titan was shaking all over and Sultan was crouched on the ground gnawing obsessively at something.
Matthilde knelt down and put her arms around Titan and then said, ‘Dis donc, Sultan a mangé les cartes.’ The wrecked pack of cards was spread around him in chewed fragments.
There were footsteps in the hall and by the light of another lightning flash I saw Michel standing in the doorway. His hair was all ruffed up and he looked wretched.
‘It is too early to sleep,’ he said.
Matthilde pointed at the wrecked pack, indicating that a game of cards was out of the question. I could tell they were discussing what to do when Matthilde suggested a game called cache-cache.
‘What’s that?’ I asked.
Matthilde tried to explain and I said without thinking, ‘Sounds like sardines.’
‘Sardines? What is that?’ asked Michel.
‘Is a fish,’ said Matthilde.
When I told them the rules, Matthilde’s eyes gleamed mischievously. I suddenly realised what she was up to. This was her last chance. I had a fleeting vision of her squeezed into a cupboard with Michel. Or maybe it would be me squeezed in with him. What if he thought I’d suggested the game on purpose? It would be so embarrassing.
‘But it’s a kid’s game,’ I backtracked. ‘Pour enfants. Very childish.’
Another flash of lightning lit the room like strobelight. Through the open doorway I caught a glimpse of the boar’s glass eyes glinting in the hall. I shivered.
‘You are scared?’ asked Matthilde. I could hear the scorn in her voice.
‘No, of course not,’ I lied. ‘But your grandparents, they wouldn’t like it.’
Michel put a finger to his lips. ‘Then we must be ve-ry silencieux.’
‘So – we play?’ said Matthilde.
I nodded reluctantly. I watched as Michel tossed for who was going to hide. First I was eliminated, next Matthilde, so it was him.
‘A bientôt, mes filles,’ he said with a wicked grin and crept out of the room.
I started counting to a hundred with a pounding heart. Matthilde was counting too but in French. She finished first, which was kind of odd when you consider how long it takes to say things like ‘quatre-vingt-dix-sept’.
She made her way out through the kitchen door before I’d even got to eighty-two. She was nowhere to be seen by the time I reached the hall.
As I did so the lightning sent a ragged flash through the hallway and thunder crashed overhead. I hesitated for a moment, considering. There were far more places to hide upstairs. Especially in the rooms they didn’t use. Another shiver ran down my spine as I thought of what might be hidden in them. But I pulled myself together with determination and started to tiptoe up the dark staircase.
Once at the top, I paused again and listened. There was not a sound to indicate anyone was alive. To the left were the bedrooms occupied by Monsieur and Madame de Lafitte and old Oncle Charles – so out of bounds. To the right were the unused bedrooms with the furniture draped spookily in dustsheets. Steeling myself, I selected one of these and slid open the door.
Lightning flashed again and it was as much as I could do to stop myself racing down the stairs to cower under the table with the dogs. But the thought of Matthilde’s scorn gave me courage. I gritted my teeth and started feeling my way from one piece of furniture to another.
I nearly jumped out of my skin as another flash of lightning outlined a coatstand which looked eerily like a person. Darkness engulfed the room once more and I bumped into some piece of furniture and froze. The hair on the back of my neck was rising in panic and little
prickles of goose-pimples were running down my arms. Still silence. I listened intently for the slightest movement in the darkness. Breathing even. And then the thunder boomed overhead so loudly it seemed to shake the house.
My hand touched something that felt like an arm! I pulled back the dustsheet. Only an armchair. Empty. I listened again. Where could Matthilde have got to? And Michel? Maybe she’d found him already. Maybe they were hidden together, right now. This thought made me continue. I’d try another room.
The neighbouring room was even darker. I waited for another flash of lightning. Tense minutes ticked by. And then it came. Lighting up a four-poster bed with the curtains drawn round. I was sure it hadn’t been like that when I last saw it. I forced myself to feel inside. Emptiness, silence, nothing. I was starting to feel desperate. Matthilde might be searching downstairs. Maybe Michel had never come up. It was as if the two of them had totally dematerialised.
I stood stock-still in the inky darkness, every nerve in my body on red alert for the slightest sound. Nothing moved. I fumbled my way back to the doorway meaning to try downstairs. But I’d forgotten a chaise-longue draped in a dustsheet. As I stumbled into it, a hand came out of nowhere and grabbed me by the wrist. I stifled a scream as a voice whispered, ‘H-annah, c’est moi.
‘Vite,’ Michel said, pulling me under with him. He shook the dustsheet back over us. I could feel the warmth of him very close. I curled myself up as small as possible on the far side of the chaise-longue and tried to stop my heart thudding in my chest. Rival emotions had set up a battle inside me. Hope and despair in equal proportions. I told myself firmly, he had a girlfriend – whatever happened, I was going to be totally cool with him. But my skin prickled with anticipation all the same.
I felt his hand, warm and familiar, reaching for mine. He pulled me towards him. I was absolutely positive he was going to kiss me again – properly this time. But I wasn’t going to let him. I had my pride.
I was just pulling away when we heard the door creak open and more footsteps in the room. We both froze. Feet were making their way across the carpet. There was a creak as a cupboard door was opened and closed. Matthilde wasn’t being nearly so careful to be quiet. She was positively lumbering around. It was at that point that I felt a terrible urge to sneeze. I tried to hold it back, but it didn’t really matter since she’d lost the game anyway. As I sneezed, the dustsheet was whipped off us. I looked up and to my horror saw it wasn’t Matthilde at all. It was Monsieur de Lafitte standing there. He was holding a walking stick threateningly in one hand and in the other he had Titan by the collar.
‘Qu’est que vous faites?’ he demanded angrily.
Michel leaped to his feet and I climbed out of the chaise-longue and stood beside him blushing to the roots of my hair.
Michel was trying to explain about the game but Monsieur de Lafitte wasn’t listening. Matthilde appeared in the doorway and tried to calm him down. But Monsieur de Lafitte kept going on about ‘cambrioleurs’. I’d never heard the word ‘cambrioleur’ before. It sounded like someone horribly loose and immoral. He was absolutely livid with both of us.
He turned to me. ‘ ’Annah, you go to bed now,’ he said. ‘Oui, monsieur,’ I said. I crept past and made my way as fast as I could to my room.
It was impossible to sleep that night. It was ironic really. I’d been going on and on about how free and easy the French were with their love lives. And now I was being labelled a loose English girl. Unjustly, as it happened.
As the night progressed the thunder rolled away but the rain continued deluging the house. I lay there listening to it pounding on the roof above. The wind howled through the attic and the house creaked as if it were a massive ship in a storm at sea.
Chapter Fourteen
The next day I got dressed dreading what would happen when I went downstairs. I was packed and ready to go. I couldn’t wait to be on that train to Paris.
But I came down to find my ‘shocking behaviour’ of the night before had sunk into insignificance. The whole place was in chaos.
There were muddy boot prints all over the hallway and the front doors were standing open in spite of a cold wind. I went to look out. The rain was still coming down in sheets and through the deluge I saw what all the fuss was about. The river had burst its banks and the moat had disappeared from sight. It had turned into a kind of lake which was spreading up the lawn towards the house. I strained my eyes down the avenue of trees. The road had totally disappeared under water. It had turned into a river. I could see water rushing through the stunted trees in an angry current, carrying branches and bits of fence along with it. There was no way we could get down it to catch the train.
In the distance, I spotted Monsieur de Lafitte in waders trying to guide a man in a mechanical digger down the bank. Madame de Lafitte came hurrying through the hall wearing an outsized raincoat. ‘Oh, ’Annah. Quel désastre, le jardin, mes roses.’
I followed her gaze. The tips of the rosebushes we had pruned just a week or so ago were fast disappearing under the eddying water. At the high-water mark, I caught sight of the figure of old Oncle Charles. He stood leaning on his stick as if defying the water to rise any further.
Madame de Lafitte went and joined him and I heard him say something in a serious voice to her about ‘le pont’. Matthilde came down the stairs behind me and stood aghast, staring at the flood.
‘We can’t leave,’ I said.
‘Non,’ she agreed and then she exclaimed something that sounded like: ‘Regarde le pont.’
‘What is “le pont”?’ I asked.
‘Le pont. The bridge,’ she said. ‘Oh mon dieu.’
I could barely see the bridge. It was submerged up to its arch in the swirling water. It was in centre stream, taking the full force of the current. Already one of the massive stones had broken loose, leaving an ugly gap like a missing tooth. Surely this bridge, which had stood for centuries, couldn’t be swept away just like that?
Matthilde and I got kitted out in raincoats and gumboots and went to see what we could do to help. Michel was out there already, driving Monsieur de Lafitte’s tractor mower with a trailer attached. He was carting stuff down the bank.
People had come up from the surrounding farms to help. Monsieur de Lafitte had organised them into a sort of chain gang and they were passing sandbags from hand to hand. Matthilde and I were given the job of filling sandbags. A big mound of sand had been dumped in front of the barn and there was a pile of sacks beside it. Matthilde held the bags open while I shovelled the sand in. Narcisse then tied them tight with string and humped them into the trailer. Once full Michel drove the trailer down to the bank and the first man in the chain lugged them out.
It was wet and dirty work and my hands soon felt horribly sore from the rough sand. There was panic in the air, with shouts coming from all directions as more leaks appeared along the bank. Everyone was working flat out to stem the flow. But despite all our efforts, I could see the water inexorably rising.
Damp sand is heavy stuff and after thirty bags or so I was out of breath and slowing down. Matthilde reached out and took the spade from me, indicating that we should change places. She had rain running down her face and great splashes of mud up her arms, but for once she didn’t seem to care, she worked with silent determination, her teeth gritted.
The rain continued to pour down and I could see Madame de Lafitte trying to persuade old Oncle Charles to go inside. But he stood there defiantly, as if made of stone, with the rain dripping off his hat and running down his neck.
Each time Michel came back with the trailer he gave us a wink or a grin. Matthilde looked up and caught his eye and I could see that for once she got an admiring glance. Gradually, the barrage we were building against the flood piled up. But however many sandbags we filled, the river seemed to find a new way round and the torrent rose as fast as ever.
Monsieur de Lafitte came up to us eventually and signalled to us to stop. I stood stretching my aching back, surveying th
e scene of disaster. Matthilde went and joined old Oncle Charles and I saw, under her persuasion, he allowed himself to be led back to the house.
Some of the men had gathered in a little knot upstream from the bridge. They were leaning over what looked like a winch of some sort. Michel and I went to see what the men were trying to do. We watched as one of them lowered a chain with a hook on the end into the water. Each time he did so, the force of the current carried the chain downstream and he had to drag it back and try again.
‘What’s he doing?’ I asked.
‘Eez the water gate,’ said Michel. ‘They want to raise it, but the cable eet is broken.’
I stared down. Sure enough, like everything else at Les Rochers, the cable had been allowed to rust away. The gate itself was submerged way below the water level. Judging by the length of the chain it was several metres down. The men were trying unsuccessfully to latch on to it with the hook.
‘Why doesn’t someone go down with it?’ I asked.
Michel shrugged. ‘The space is too small for a man to pass.’
I looked down. It was true, the floodgate was at the end of a sort of gully. Over the years it had got choked with mud and stones.
‘But I could swim down,’ I said.
Monsieur de Lafitte looked up at that point and said something that sounded like ‘trop dangereux’.
‘But I’m a really strong swimmer,’ I protested.
Michel nodded. ‘Oui. C’est vrai.’
Monsieur de Lafitte looked at me assessingly. The man with the hook paused as he explained in French what I was suggesting. One of the men held out a rope, indicating that he could make a sort of safety harness.
Monsieur de Lafitte turned back to me. ‘ ’Annah, tu es sûre? You want to do this?’
‘Oui,’ I said with determination.
‘Very well,’ he said. ‘We try.’
I went up to my room to change with a beating heart. It wasn’t far to swim down. An absolute cinch in a swimming pool. I’d done the same thing over and over again in the school pool, diving for coins. But the water in the gully was opaque with mud and you couldn’t tell what was down there.
