Au Pair

by Fiona McGregor

  He would drive me home over the Harbour Bridge, a John Lee Hooker tape crackling through the speakers that clattered back and forth beneath the rear windscreen. Parked in the dark street, we could hear my mother calling to my father that tea was made. When Matthew leant over and kissed my neck, a hot rush went down through my body.

  Alone, I walked through my parents’ garden, heavy with the perfume of deadly nightshade. By the time I had chatted to them about the exams I was failing, Matthew would have snuck down the side of the house and climbed through my window.

  He would be standing there when I opened the bedroom door, smiling at me. I missed him now. I never thought I would miss him so much physically.

  The tea-tree oil made my room smell like the bush. Pungent eucalyptus, taking me back home. The boiling water had steamed up the window.

  The branches of an old angophora would swing back and forth across the window while we fucked on the single bed. I forgot about that cup of tea; there were better ways to wind down. My hands were smaller and softer than Matthew’s: pleasure coming quicker, leaving quicker.

  Money

  Mme Durebex pushed two fifty-franc notes into my hand.

  – I don’t care if the film’s started; just go in, and if they don’t understand the story explain it to them afterwards DEPECHE-TOI LAURENT!

  Madame Laplanche screamed when she broke one of her long red nails putting the car into gear. Her son Hugues, a thin, whiny, whey-faced boy, sat on one side of the back seat with his face pressed against the window. Laurent stared out the window on the opposite side. At each traffic light Mme Laplanche checked her face in the rear vision mirror. She chatted to the bored silence in the back as we drove to Odéon.

  – And what did you get in maths Laurent? Oh, il est fort, ce Laurent! Oh, c’est bien! And in French? Oh, mais c’est formidable!

  I steered the boys through the Saturday crowd on Boulevard St Germain to the cinema where Astérix chez les Bretons was playing. They insisted on buying a big block of chocolate each, and vats of popcorn and Coke. I watched them consume everything out of the corner of my eye, primly hoping they would be sick, scared I would get the blame if they were.

  An hour later on Boulevard St Michel the effects of the chocolate were showing. They pushed each other along the footpath, they jeered at passers-by, allies without alternative.

  We passed two clochards and Laurent flicked some change at them. Hugues hesitated, then went and gave them some of his money, panting as he caught us up.

  – C’est gentil, ça!

  Laurent ran back and gave them a five-franc piece. The clochards grinned and tried to talk to him. Laurent turned away in surprise, and we walked on.

  – But why? Hugues wrinkled his nose. Why don’t they have any money?

  Laurent spread his palms.

  – They don’t work. They’re drunks.

  He twisted his fist in front of his nose, a French gesture for drunkenness. Hugues giggled. We sat down at the bus-stop. Something was nagging me, things looked wrong.

  – They just live on the streets, I said, they’re not necessarily drunks.

  Laurent groaned in exasperation.

  – Oh écoute! You work, you earn money. C’est simple.

  I realised we were waiting on the wrong side of the road, about to get a bus in the wrong direction. I hurried the boys across to the other stop, hoping they wouldn’t notice my mistake. They skipped along, accepting it as part of the adventure. From the other side of the road I saw one of the clochards was now gently vomiting into the gutter. I kept talking.

  – It’s not that simple, Laurent. Some people work and are still poor. Some don’t work, and they’re rich.

  – But my father, he work very very hard, all the time, sans arrêt, for his money.

  Nadenne had told me that M. Durebex owned clothing factories in four third-world countries.

  – I’ll bet there are people working just as hard as him who aren’t rich. You have to be lucky as well, you know, Laurent, I said.

  Laurent looked nonplussed, and I was glad. I was trotting out that line from my childhood. Just remember how lucky you are. The adage was lost on these children. I was still trying to lose it.

  – My father, Laurent went on righteously, work all the time. He work the weekend, and he come home late, tired. He never play.

  I bet he did. Just like mine. Oh yes, work work work. Our father was gone before we left for school, he was rarely there for dinner. Sometimes he reappeared on weekends. Have you boys mown the lawn? Would one of you girls be so kind as to sew this button on – your poor mother … How did the footy go, boys? Good-oh.

  But mostly Dad was out, working on hearts in the hospital, the hearts of his family beating away at home like so many dinner gongs. What about his own heart? I wondered. Was it there? Maybe I just couldn’t see it through the shirts and ties and copious body hair that blesses us Elliotts. Or maybe he gave a bit of it to each transplant performed, so there was not much left.

  The snowball of work – you must get the best, you have it and you must keep it, and you must be it to deserve it.

  Was it enjoyment? It’s a challenge.

  Was it money lust? It’s for the children.

  I could never take mass seriously – all those sermons about love and poverty.

  It’s the nature of the job, Mum used to say, all doctors work hard.

  But Dad played too. Dad played tennis on Monday evenings, before he got tennis elbow.

  The bus wheezed to a halt.

  – How much money do you have in the bank, Hugues? asked Laurent.

  – A thousand francs. No, six thousand, I think.

  – And you, Shona?

  Taken aback, I said I hadn’t counted. Laurent stared at me, fascinated by my awkwardness. Then he asked how much his mother paid me. I didn’t want to tell him; the amount would seem paltry. On the other hand, I worried he would calculate the sum against the work I did with him, and be dissatisfied with the equation. Talk of money made me feel ashamed.

  I told them my wage. The naked sum impressed them.

  – You could buy three masques with that, Hugues remarked.

  Masques were futuristic vehicles manned by vicious creatures, all black metal and spokes. They were very popular; they were the main attraction in the toy department at Bon Marché. Laurent would soon have the complete set. He looked at me, resentful, admiring.

  – So, that’s a lot!

  – It’s not. It’s for a whole month. It covers rent, and that’s all.

  They probably didn’t even know the meaning of the word.

  Hugues pointed out the window.

  – Look, there’s Opéra.

  – It’s not Opéra, I said, it’s Saint Sulpice.

  – Do you have money in the bank, Shona? Laurent fixed his large eyes on me.

  – Yes, a bit.

  – Where did you get it? Your parents?

  – No. I have an inheritance.

  – Un héritage! they crowed. Elle est riche!

  A family from the provinces took up all the seats in front of us. They had been passing bread and cheese to one another from a plastic bag. Now they turned around and began to examine us. I shrank into my seat.

  – I’m not rich. My inheritance is running out. It’s just enough to get by.

  This had no effect on Laurent and Hugues. They jumped around me.

  – And what did you spend it on? Laurent asked me excitedly.

  – Living here. I shrugged. Travelling.

  Laurent waited a few seconds for me to redeem myself from dullness, then shook my arm.

  – Grrrr!

  – Mais arrête!

  Hugues tapped Laurent on the shoulder.

  – You know, there was a man who was a multi – multi-multi-multi-millionaire, and do you know what he did with his money?

  – What?

  – He bought his grandmother a washing machine.

  – C’est gentil, ça!

 
– Yes, but I don’t like being rich. You know my father, he’s—

  – You know my father, he’s—

  We turned a corner and the grinding of gears drowned them out. The mother of the family broke another piece from the stick of bread in her bag. She dragged a thumb down its length then tucked a sheet of ham into it. The older sister took the sandwich and mouthed a word in our direction: Idiots. The way her mouth moved, she could have been saying Elliotts.

  Hugues languished back in his seat, glancing at me then Laurent.

  – Shona, he said, if we’re not home by the time we count to twenty, we’re going to … One, he began, without telling me what they would do. Laurent joined in.

  – One, one and a half, one and quart … My own language never sounded so obnoxious.

  To their rhythm, an image of Mme Durebex paced into my mind, finger to the corner of her mouth, anxiously peering through the kitchen window.

  – Fiff-teen, nine-teen, nine-teen and quart …

  Mme Durebex was waiting on the street with Monsieur Laplanche when we arrived. Hugues ran up to them.

  – Guess what! She has an inheritance!

  – Ah bon?

  Laurent sauntered up behind us.

  – But it’s running out, he said.

  M. Laplanche winked at me and bundled his son into the car.

  – Oh là là, Laurent beat you in French, eh Hugues?

  – Seeing as you need money, Shona, Mme Durebex said to me rather presumptuously one day, I have a friend who is looking for someone to teach her two girls English. You could go on the afternoon Laurent has chess. She will pay you forty francs for two hours.

  I looked at my feet. I was tempted, and insulted. I looked up.

  – It’s not enough.

  – Indeed, Mme Durebex nodded quickly. How much do you charge?

  I thought of the amount I had quoted in my as yet unanswered ads, and then I knocked it down.

  – Sixty.

  – Oui oui, c’est normal.

  This encouraged me.

  – Forty? For two pupils? That’s exploitation. The going rate for one is twice that much.

  Mme Durebex lowered her voice to a confidential tone.

  – I have a friend who was looking for a jeune fille. She was offering a room and one thousand two hundred francs a month, and the girl would have to do five hours housework a day!

  – That’s terrible, I said. But Paris is full of girls who have no choice.

  – That’s right! Mme Durebex said with vehemence. And I told her, You won’t get anybody for that! But she found someone. Fancy that!

  She watched to see the effect this would have on me.

  We were like actors improvising a text. We had come to the end of a scene and were tentatively confident we worked well together, but each of us was unsure of exactly what the other meant and so unsure of what we meant ourselves. This issue of exploitation shadowed our dealings, and now, I thought with relief, we had both recognised its irrelevance to us.

  – Ah yes. We shook our heads. Isn’t it terrible?

  Teaching

  Chantale told me a cousin of hers might want English lessons. I was getting desperate; I pestered her to persuade them.

  – You’re worried about money? You never used to be.

  – But it’s running out and I have to move into a hotel in a few weeks, Chantale. I want to stay in Paris.

  There was more to it than that. Any day now I would have to ring home to arrange a transfer. The conversation would inevitably lead to a justification for this, and as often as I rehearsed it in my head I couldn’t find one.

  – Don’t lose heart, Sophie.

  We climbed the avenues on the steep side of Père Lachaise, hunched into our coats against the wind. The stark beauty of the cemetery always cleared my head. The spread of tombs below us, grey and continuous, reminded me of a village. Some of the graves we passed had disintegrated to rubble, some were decorated with sculptures of the dead person, or demons from other worlds, or relief carvings highlighted by grime. There was a grave of a French poet I’d never heard of that featured a sculpture of him with an erection. Chantale told me enamoured women visited this grave regularly and attached themselves to the sculpture. There were family tombs the size of small houses with plaques at their entrance listing the names of all who resided within.

  – Does your family have a tomb? I asked Chantale.

  – No. Tombs are expensive in Paris, like real estate. Does yours?

  – My mother’s family does.

  My parents were old enough to be my grandparents; their parents were long dead, as were most of their brothers and sisters. My mother’s sister was a misanthrope who’d spent the last twenty years of her life in a run-down house full of cats. Every stray that passed she took in. When she died she left half her money to the RSPCA and the other half to her nieces and nephews because she hardly knew us.

  – They shouldn’t have put my aunt in it, I said, she hated her parents but they buried her with them anyway.

  – How awful.

  – Yes, and my mother liked her parents, but I don’t think there’s any room left.

  A leaf the colour of rust wafted down in front of me. Soon the plane trees would be bare. The sun emerged briefly and the avenue we walked down glowed with fallen leaves. Then the sun disappeared and again we walked in shadow.

  – All these family tombs. I waved my hand. Imagine all the feuds buried in them, simmering away beneath the earth. I think families are just a disparate bunch of individuals who end up together by chance, and they’re stuck with each other till they die. It’s depressing.

  – I don’t feel stuck with my parents, now they’ve left Paris, said Chantale.

  – No no, I agreed. Me neither, considering mine are on the opposite side of the world.

  Chantale said nothing. She kicked a stone all the way down the hill, singing to herself. I told her if you skewered our planet through Paris, you would come out at Tonga, so Sydney was not quite the opposite side of the world. Chantale had never heard of Tonga.

  The trees near the exit were dark as cooking chocolate, making me long for the warmth of Bar Piaf.

  We sipped our hot chocolate and watched the street.

  – Your accent’s changing, Sophie. Tu parles plus clairement, she enunciated. C’est posh.

  – Posh? I said in surprise.

  – Like just before, when you were talking to the waiter, you say, Oui, merci.

  Pulling her lips back, she pronounced it ‘wee’, as opposed to the more laid-back ‘way’. She did it again and I laughed with embarrassment.

  – Must be that boy’s mother, Chantale said.

  How awful that the Durebex were having such an effect on me; but it was inevitable, as I learnt French only by imitation. I never studied: the sight of a grammar book would bring on a wave of nausea, and although I liked French I retained an arrogant preference for my own language. It was normal that my speech reflected whomever I spent time with. Just the other day, in a moment of frustration as I pulled stockings on my damp legs, I had caught myself making one of Laurent’s favourite sounds – a brusque, guttural sigh. He made that sound constantly when he was doing his homework.

  But my accent, my voice, had always elicited comment, even when the only language I spoke was Australian.

  It was to my mother that I owed my patterns of speech: prissy, clipped, so correct that many mistook me for English. Me, with my genetic antipathy for the English. I have a sibilance that my mother never managed to eradicate, an irritant to her still.

  Teaching Laurent composite numbers, I sidestepped the landmine of ‘sixth’.

  – Fifth.

  – Fiff.

  – … Après?

  – Six.

  – No.

  – Sixss.

  My mother studied to be an actor, but marriage then children overtook her life. She used to give speech and drama lessons at the church hall. My father didn’t think she should tire
herself out, six children to work for as well. But she insisted upon it, she enjoyed it. Sometimes I had to meet her there after school. I would stand against the back wall, paralysed with embarrassment, watching my mother enunciate and gesticulate. Her back was always straight, her feet placed one slightly in front of the other, in a split V. I couldn’t help standing like that as well. I still do.

  I would go and lie on the oval behind the hall and dream of becoming a prima ballerina, or loiter around the shops. There was a Greek milk bar I went to, breaking the school rules by being in my uniform. While the man filled a bag with bulls-eyes and snakes, my left hand would creep up to the counter then back down – wrapped around a Cherry Ripe – and into my pocket.

  My mother studied to be an actor and accepted the role of mother; her daughter never studied anything and was determined to act upon it.

  These hands have become my mother’s – sturdy, veiny, the hands that paid for my hot chocolate in Bar Piaf, the hands that snatched Laurent’s comic from him in that afternoon’s battle.

  – Sit down. We’re doing a dictation.

  – Wut?

  – I’m only repeating the words once.

  – I said WUT?

  – And I’m not speaking in French. At all.

  Laurent leaned across the table, tense, apprehensive, a greyhound in the barricades.

  – On Saturday Mrs Smith went to buy a new dress. It was expensive, but—

  Suddenly Laurent bent forward, as though he had something important to tell me. I looked up, ready to receive it. He screamed a sneeze in my face. A yellow gob landed on his exercise book. I fought to suppress my mirth and disgust, but he had seen. He picked up the gob and took it over to the Persian rug. He placed it carefully in the centre then rubbed it in with his heel, grinning at me.

  I droned on.

  – It was expensive, but this was a special day. Laurent was strutting about the room, singing. He stopped, concentrated, then discharged a rapid fire of burps. They sounded alarmingly watery. A look of genuine contempt crossed my face. I held onto it warily, as onto a loaded gun.