Au Pair

by Fiona McGregor

  – NO! NO! NO!

  They thrashed about in the slush, punching me, then each other. I stood firm, my heart sinking. I knew everyone in the chalet would have heard us by now. Then they had a head-on collision. My laughter made them madder than ever. Hugues blubbered, hand on his temple, and Laurent screamed at me.

  – But it’s the fault of you! For what you go like this? You are a fool! You’re a fool! YOU’RE A FOOL!

  For the first time, I felt completely humiliated by him. If Laurent caught sight of this he would have delivered the final blow, he would have annihilated me. But he was too busy nursing the lump on his head and trying to annihilate Hugues, a much easier victim.

  Small compensation. I kept my woollen hat pulled down low, my goggles across my forehead, and I stood against the doorframe for support.

  Exhausted, unhappy, I sat with Françoise in the study while Laurent and Hugues had baths. I was dreading the English lesson. I was afraid of facing those two boys, and this made me furious, furious with myself for my weakness.

  – Don’t worry, Shona, Françoise comforted. You’ve seen how his parents are. That’s what makes him misbehave, but it’s you that can put him back in his place.

  – I don’t want to put him back in his place, that’s not what I want.

  – Mais il faut! Françoise insisted. You’re a good teacher, you’re good for him.

  – He doesn’t like me any more, I said glumly.

  Françoise made a clucking sound, and I sensed pity, an abhorrent maternal sort of pity, and I left the room with the excuse that there was an English lesson to prepare.

  Even if I’d wanted to put Laurent back in his place, I wouldn’t have been able to. I didn’t know where his place was; I didn’t know where mine was either. One thing I did know was that I no longer believed my silent self-assertions that the Durebex didn’t really matter to me, that it was just a job and I could walk away any time.

  I was caught up in their lives now, that was obvious. I was in deep, squeezed deep inside the knot of this family.

  Each night in my hot little room, I wrote in my journal. From the wall above the table, Sydney and the Elliott children looked down on me. The ghosts of my family haunting me, I wrote about the Durebex family, larger than life, flesh and blood around me. Strangers. I wrote down everything that happened, immersing myself in this French family to escape mine, illuminating their lives to shed some light on my own.

  Christmas

  Mme Durebex paced the salon, her bathrobe flapping open.

  – Nothing to decorate the tree! All I have are these red streamers from last year. Damn Nadenne!

  She went out to the verandah and gave the cowhide one more beating, then wrenched it off the railing. Shadow had moved up the hill. A sunset was going on somewhere but all we knew of it in this hollow was an almost imperceptible shrinking of the light. Struggling back in with the cowhide, Mme Durebex said to me for about the tenth time, Do you know, Shona, he had the bag of Christmas decorations? I spent a fortune on them at Galeries Lafayette. Damn Nadenne!

  She let her load drop to the hearth. The skin clapped the slate and lay there uncomfortably wrinkled. Mme Durebex pondered it, index finger at the corner of her mouth.

  – Did you bathe Laurent, Shona? Did you dress him in the navy trousers?

  – Yes, Madame Durebex.

  Why a boy who was almost nine years old could not dress himself was beyond me. Laurent stood there like a dummy while I rubbed him dry with a towel whose width almost equalled his height. He raised his arms so I could pull on his singlet. He held onto me, lifting his legs one by one, to be inserted into the trousers. His eyes widened in reverie as I buttoned down the collar of his polo shirt. He reached back into the leather jacket, soft as satin with a fur collar.

  Mme Durebex stretched out a foot and prodded the cowhide till it lay flat. The fireplace was a quarter of the length of the room. Facing it, pushed against the glass that fronted the long verandah, were two black leather couches. Mme Durebex edged behind them and drew the heavy curtains. Along the wall past the fireplace, brass lamps hung from velvet cords. Where they ended the dining area began.

  I was setting the table. The room was vast, the entire length of the chalet, and looked out onto the snow. I had never been in here for more than a few minutes at a time, but it was Christmas Eve and we would be eating in here tonight. A turkey was put into the oven and rapidly began to burn. News of this was shouted to us from Françoise and Laurent in the kitchen.

  – Well, do something about it, Françoise! Mme Durebex shouted back.

  I collected eight butter knives from the drawer and began to lay them blade inwards. They were of a silver so soft I felt I could have folded one up in my hand. I went to the cupboard under the cutlery drawer for napkins. There was an Advent wreath in there that looked as though it had never been used. We used to have an Advent wreath, a gift from a German friend of my mother’s. I wondered if it were still in my parents’ cellar. I shut the cupboard.

  Claudine arrived with Hugues and her husband, whom I had met briefly after taking the boys to the cinema. I was standing in the recess formed by the liquor cabinet and the sideboard. I was wearing jeans and an old Boycott the Bicentenary T-shirt Matthew had given me. As usual, I wasn’t wearing a bra. M. Laplanche’s small wet eyes examined the politics across my chest a few times before settling on my face.

  – Ah, he said, c’est la jeune fille.

  He was a big fleshy man. He stood with his legs apart, pelvis thrust forward, claiming the space. Hugues could be seen in the jutting ears, the Celtic complexion that had become florid on his father.

  I moved around M. Laplanche and continued laying the table. Mme Durebex took Claudine into the kitchen to discuss the food. I put out glasses for wine and vodka, feeling the eyes of M. Laplanche all over me. The room had suddenly shrunk, now I was alone in it with him.

  – Tenez. He beckoned me over to the liquor cabinet. He opened a bottle of champagne and asked me to hold the glasses while he poured.

  – You can call me Rufus, he winked.

  Mme Durebex called me and I put the glass down. M. Laplanche caught my arm.

  – She’s busy! he called back to the kitchen.

  I returned his smile of complicity.

  – It’s the telephone, Shona. Mme Durebex fluttered into the salon. It’s a man. Long distance!

  I took the phone in the kitchen alcove, encouraging everybody’s curiosity.

  – Siobhan! Matthew shouted above party noise. Jus’ rang to say happy Christmas ’n all that.

  He was drinking gin and tonic. It must have been his tenth. Through the window I watched the moon rising. It was balanced on top of the same fir tree I could see from my room. Shaped like a mango, a rich pale yellow like twenty-four or more carat gold, it would be full in a night or two. I listened to Matthew talk about London and his art. It all sounded so foreign but I felt I knew it by heart. Hugues opened the door and I saw the others in the salon, standing there, staring at me.

  – Buncha wankers here, I said into the phone. Good party?

  – Probably, but I can’t really enjoy it. My parents and my brother are coming to visit in a couple of days.

  – Ha ha, I said, I thought you didn’t care about them.

  – Oh, he groaned, I’m dreading it. They’re going to ask me what I’m doing with my life. Cheer me up, Siobhan.

  Boldly, I told him about these people well within earshot. Oh, the smugness of a foreign language. I spoke fast and slangy so the boys wouldn’t understand me. The words felt good around me, like a favourite shirt rediscovered at the back of a cupboard. I rattled off anecdotes, enjoying the telling, yet feeling every mile that lay between Matthew and me, every rock the wire passed to get from London to the French Alps.

  Really, it could have been anyone on the other end. When he told me he missed me I said I missed him too, but the words were just words. I felt remorse but it was beside me, not inside me. He said again he was pl
anning to come to Paris and it didn’t matter if he meant it or not. These were just the things we said.

  I saw Mme Durebex draw Laurent to her.

  – What’s she saying? Laurent shook her off.

  – Keep in touch, Siobhan.

  – Yep. See ya.

  – See ya.

  When I went back into the salon they clustered to me.

  – Is that your fiancé, Shona? How kind to ring you like that!

  – Where’s he from, Shona?

  – Oh, you’re so lucky. Claudine pouted. I’m well past the age when fiancés ring. I’m old, too old.

  – He’s not my fiancé, I said, laying out the smoked salmon.

  – Oh, how sad. Is it over? said Claudine.

  – He never was my fiancé. We never were going to get married.

  – He must be very fond of you, your fiancé, to ring you long distance. Mme Durebex smiled, handing around the canapés of caviar.

  M. Laplanche sipped his champagne in the doorway, eyeing me over the rim of his glass. The boys, seeing me elevated in their mothers’ eyes, jumped around, wanting me to play with them. Fiancé. I hated the word. I turned to Mme Durebex, all puffed up with my own identity, wanting to explain, but she was shooing everyone to the table.

  After two glasses of vodka, a red streak appeared on each of her cheekbones.

  – Where’s the butter, Shona? she asked.

  – There.

  – Where? she said irritably.

  – Just near your hand, next to the bottle of wine.

  She buttered her grilled bread and leant towards Claudine. Each told the other how beautiful she looked tonight; each rebutted the other’s compliments and told her how ugly she, herself, really was. Up the other end of the table, the men talked business. M. Laplanche, in a room of women and children, was in control. But now M. Durebex headed the table, M. Laplanche was hesitant. He stammered. He fiddled with his cutlery.

  The butter travelled from person to person. It was next to Claudine when M. Durebex wanted it. Mme Durebex asked me where it was. Claudine had already passed it to M. Durebex when Mme Durebex asked me a second time to pass it.

  I was sent to the kitchen to fetch a carafe of water. When I returned Mme Durebex was holding up a piece of grilled bread. Her other hand was shifting everything within reach.

  – Where’s the butter? Zut! Where’s the butter?

  The streaks on her cheekbones were now a vivid, defiant red. She yelled to me as I placed the carafe in the centre of the table.

  – Shona! Where’s the butter?

  The table erupted with laughter.

  – Why are you always asking me where the butter is? I said, trying to smile.

  – Listen Shona, it’s become a habit. As soon as I lose something I call, Nadenne! Nadenne!

  I waited impatiently for everyone to finish so I could clear. I brought the turkey in, then returned to the kitchen for the mandatory frozen beans. I heard Mme Durebex shriek as the carving knife entered the turkey.

  – It’s not cooked inside! Who turned the oven off? It must have been Shona. Shona!

  I stirred the beans, pretending I hadn’t heard. But she called my name again and I went to the doorway.

  – I didn’t turn the turkey off, I said.

  – Well then, it was Françoise.

  Laurent puffed out his chest.

  – Françoise, he said, is not the maid. She is my guest.

  Back at the stove, I heard M. Laplanche wonder aloud where the bottle opener was. Two bottles of wine had been opened already, both by him. I knew that if I went to the doorway I would see the opener by his plate. He came into the kitchen with a glass of wine for me.

  – They say, he said quietly, that you ski like a goddess! I tipped the beans into a bowl and took them out to the table. M. Laplanche followed me. I went back into the kitchen and drained my glass. Back in the dining-room I refilled it immediately. Listening to the men, I learnt that M. Laplanche was the director of a company that made medical instruments. He was telling M. Durebex about a new cardiometer he wanted to bring on the market. I knew what a cardiometer was – an instrument that measures the force of the hearts action. Cardio-anything was intensely familiar to me because of my fathers job, but I understood nothing of how these instruments for the heart worked.

  The two couples huddled in conversation about the cardiometer. The name Rothschild was mentioned and M. Durebex looked angry. M. Laplanche was saying obsequiously, You’re right, Victor, you’re absolutely right. Listen, you have an international name …

  – Is he French, your fiancé? Françoise asked me.

  – No, he’s Australian, I said. And he was just my … copain – my boyfriend.

  – Same thing, Shona. Fiancé, c’est pas forcément fiancé. Do you see?

  – I suppose I was thinking in English, where it means you’re getting married.

  I tried one of the green beans. To my surprise it was good. I put more on my plate, watching Mme Durebex and Claudine. Every day I listened with contempt to their discussions about the pros and cons of each brand. Now here I was, eating the beans and enjoying them. I hoped they didn’t notice.

  But our end of the table was ignored. The Durebex and the Laplanches were too drunk to notice a dish of beans and whose mouth they went into. The main meal was hardly touched.

  – La bûche! La bûche de Noël! the boys were shouting.

  The mothers turned.

  – Eat your beans, Hugues.

  – Finish your turkey, Laurent, or you won’t get any dessert.

  – It’s way past our bedtime! said Laurent. Besides, the turkey’s not cooked!

  This was said with a glance in my direction. The parents refilled their glasses and returned to their gossiping. Laurent stabbed at the things on his plate. With a pained expression, one hand cupped beneath the piece of turkey on his fork, he rose and walked around the table to his mother. He flicked the turkey onto her plate.

  – Voi-là!

  She sat back and pinched her lips.

  – Very well, Shona, she said. You can bring in the bûche.

  The log was soggy. Didn’t you put it at the back of the freezer, Shona? The ice-cream melted more quickly than I could serve it onto the dessert plates, silver shining discs. Françoise generously took the worst piece, I the second worst. M. Laplanche thanked me profusely.

  – C’est bien que ta jeune fille sait servir, he said to Mme Durebex. C’est toi qui lui as appris?

  Mme Durebex looked flattered, she looked as though she were about to say, Yes, it was she who had taught me to wait on tables. I caught her eye.

  – Oof! she exclaimed. I’m sore all over from skiing. I’m so unfit!

  – Vieux sac, I whispered to Françoise when I regained my place.

  – What?

  – In English we say old bag. I described it with my hands. Donc, vieux sac.

  – I’ll drink to that, said Françoise, clinking her glass against mine. A new expression in French.

  We moved up to the salon to open our presents. Mine felt like a box of chocolates. I unpeeled the wrapping, anticipating praline, nougat, caramel. It was a hardcover Wilbur Smith, in French. Françoise got socks. She made a face at me. I needed socks. I thought about arranging a swap with Françoise, then remembered her disdain for books.

  I wouldn’t want those socks anyway. Grey, banded with sickly yellow diamonds, they looked like a repetitive job, day after day, followed by dinners alone.

  I could sell the book when I got back to Paris, and buy some socks at Galeries Lafayette. Some red ones, to put me in a good mood.

  A pool of melted ice-cream gleamed around the leftover bûche in the middle of the table. It was moonlight making everything gleam on the table, each lip and fingerprint visible on the glasses. The moon was high in the sky, small and distant at the top of the window. It was no longer gold but silver-white, like the butter knives I’d wanted to fold and melt in my palm.

  The boys were absorbed
in their computer games and toy guns. The men were drinking cognac on one couch, and the women giggling on the other. Françoise watched the couples from her hearth bench, hands folded in her lap, the top button of her Lacoste shirt done up.

  When I came back from the kitchen Mme Durebex was crouched on the cowhide, opening boxes of old photos. She handed them around, her face pink with sentiment. Parties at St Tropez. Cacti and cocktails around the swimming-pool. People in white bell-bottoms and dark glasses.

  – Oh, c’est pas vrai, Mireille! Claudine exclaimed, fitting another Dunhill into the tortoiseshell holder. Oh! You’re so skinny!

  – Yes, came the wistful response. Yes, I was thin.

  Young Mireille in a bikini, cocking her hip, a doe-eyed Twiggy. Now anxiety darted between the eyebrows, her mouth had shrunk to a mean line. Victor leaning on a Porsche behind her, tanned face, broad smile. He looked so relaxed and debonair.

  Tonight he was cranky. He waved the photos away, mumbling on to M. Laplanche. Mme Durebex tottered from the room.

  – I’m drunk, drunk, drunk!

  She came back in with another photo and sat on the couch next to her husband. She drooped herself all over him, crooning.

  – Look, Victor, remember this?

  – Arrête! he bellowed. You’re giving me the SHITS!

  She stood up, not batting an eyelid.

  It was me who fled the room.

  I slept fitfully, food and alcohol churning in my stomach. I had the impression, very late, when all was quiet, when the darkness felt deep with hours of darkness gone and hours to come, that a telephone was ringing. It rang and rang, close enough to have been the phone that was in the entrance, far away and insistent, like an alarm bell going off in my dreams.

  Trapped

  The next day the chalet was quiet with hangovers. I woke late and lay in my room, reading, writing, thinking. I took a long bath. It wasn’t until the afternoon, prompted by hunger, that I went upstairs. The kitchen was scattered with the debris of snacks. I had just started to wash up when someone came in.

  – Et vous, M. Laplanche said close behind me. Why didn’t you go out today?