Au Pair

by Fiona McGregor

  – Too lazy, I replied.

  The camembert glued to the plate would only come off with a knife.

  – Too lazy, hey? he laughed. What, by nature? Or because of Christmas?

  – Both.

  – Both? You don’t seem like a lazy girl to me. Work work work! Why don’t you have a little rest?

  I waited till he’d moved away before I turned around. He was standing by the open fridge, pouring himself a glass of white wine. I was wearing jeans and a denim shirt, two buttons done up over a T-shirt. I was always conscious of my clothes with M. Laplanche, conscious of their hypothetical absence, the way he looked right through them. He poured a second glass of wine and offered it to me. I shook my head, and he laughed again, his eyes disappearing beneath their fleshy lids.

  I walked through to the salon, hoping to find more things to wash up. Cleaning, it was all I could do. Clean up the mess, make things look nice. M. Durebex was up near the fireplace demonstrating ski turns to his wife. His body snapped from side to side, feet and knees together. I’d never seen him so active, and my presence seemed to encourage it. Pointing at his wife, he said to me, I taught her to ski, you know.

  – Yes, I nodded. She skis very well.

  – Ah no, he said. No no. She skis badly.

  And smirking at me, he began to whip the air in front of her face. The hair around her temples fluttered and she stood there, allowing him to do it. I stood there too, wondering if his hands would meet her cheeks, knowing I was part of all this, an audience, a voyeur, not knowing what else to do but watch. I could not just walk out before intermission. M. Durebex laughed, patted his wife on the cheek, then hobbled over to the leather couch.

  – What’s this? It’s all sticky! Mireille!

  I went back into the kitchen. I finished the washing-up then left the room. I hesitated at the top of the stairs. M. Laplanche was at the bottom, smiling up at me. It was too late to stop.

  When we passed one another he pressed my arm.

  – I find you speak French very well, he said softly. I hadn’t realised at first, but you speak very well.

  I would have liked to agree, but today I was speechless.

  I went into the study, where Françoise was watching television with Claudine. The quick steps of Mme Durebex approached, followed by the bellow of her husband.

  – Mireille! Mireille! We’re hungry! Mireille!

  She made it to the door, raised her eyebrows at us, then turned to go back upstairs. Françoise said one word.

  – Méchant!

  Claudine waved dismissively.

  – Bof.

  – Sometimes he is mean, I said.

  – Tu souffles, il tombe, she said. Anyway, he’s getting old.

  – He’s always been violent, said Françoise.

  – It’s all in jest, said Claudine.

  And she went upstairs to help Mme Durebex. I turned to Françoise.

  – How can they—

  – Oh je m’en fous! she cried. They’re always like this and I don’t care! I’ve come here to be with Laurent, and I don’t care what they’re like!

  I shrank back into the couch. I was premenstrual. The moon was almost full. I was a nicely brought up Australian girl in a Latin country and everything that was happening was quite normal. It was just that I couldn’t cope with it. M. Laplanche came into the study. He sat on the couch next to me, legs akimbo, smiling.

  – Isn’t Shona’s hair cute like that? he said to Françoise. In a little chignon on top of her head.

  – It’s to avoid brushing it, I said curtly, not taking my eyes off the television. An ad for Libra tampons came on. The beautiful woman said she felt fresh and clean all day long, and could do whatever she wanted, then ran down to frolic in turquoise waves.

  Françoise left the room and I followed her. Laurent was stumbling about the chalet, fixated on the computer game in his hands, which emitted a noise like a vacuum cleaner. Hugues followed him, whining.

  – I want a go! Give me a go!

  The mothers were in the kitchen, shrieking with laughter as they cooked crêpes. Mme Durebex spooned the mixture onto a broad flat pan and swiftly spread it. Claudine sliced a block of emmental. I stood by the table, hands hanging at my sides, while they laughed at a joke I hadn’t heard.

  – Can I help? I said.

  Claudine handed me a plate. The crêpe was folded twice, into an acute triangle. Cheese oozed out the curved edge.

  – Can you take this down to Rufus? she said.

  My mood made an immediate comparison with Laurent’s prodigious yellow secretions, and I wished he were still my ally, and that we could cook cheese crêpes together.

  When I gave it to M. Laplanche he winked at me.

  – Merci, ma petite.

  – It’s not me that made it, I said, and walked back out.

  I stayed in my room till I heard the Laplanches leave, then I went up to the kitchen and ate leftovers. Françoise had gone to bed. Except for last night, she kept her farm hours, going to sleep no later than ten and waking at dawn. I went down to the study where Mme Durebex and Laurent were watching television. M. Durebex tottered past on his way to bed. He stopped in the doorway. Hand on his stomach, he said, It makes me ill, the stuff you feed me, Mireille.

  Laurent let out a whoop and jumped on me for a wrestle. He had eaten too many chocolate crêpes. I submitted my body to be poked and sat upon. He seized his Christmas cap gun. The noise of it drove Mme Durebex from the room. Ping! Ping! The bullets flew about the study. One hit me on the neck. Nervously, I watched bullets bouncing off the ugly, priceless ornaments. Uselessly, I asked Laurent to stop. He screamed with laughter.

  – Je vais te tuer! Je vais te tuer! Pan! Pan! Pan-pan-pan!

  I began to retrieve the bullets and put them in my pockets. Laurent punched me for each bullet confiscated. I said I wouldn’t give them back until he calmed down and said please. He gnashed his teeth and went for me. The fists of a little boy are sharp. The fists of Laurent were full of hatred. I shuffled away. Passive resistance enraged him. He punched and kicked and yelled. I had to hold him down.

  – You are a fool! You are a fool! He thrashed the gun about in front of my face.

  I escaped to the hall. I tried to go up the stairs but Laurent wrapped himself around my leg.

  – GEEV ME MY MUNITION, I WON’ SAY PLEASE! GEEV IT TO ME!

  – Stop fighting, Laurent! Please!

  I sounded pathetic. I managed to drag myself up the stairs, the boy manacled around my ankles. I begged him, Please let go, Laurent.

  – NOOOON!

  He pursued me into the kitchen, face bloated with rage. Desperate for something to do, I poured myself a glass of water. Laurent threw himself at me, spilling the water. This made him laugh and, relieved, I laughed with him. Then he said, I can do karate!

  He set his face and concentrated on anger.

  He hurled himself against me repeatedly.

  – I DON’ SAY PLEASE! NON! GEEV ME MY MUNITION!

  He punched me in the breast. Sensitive, I howled with pain and lost my grip on him. My fear sent him into a frenzy. I called out to Françoise and she called back sleepily she was in bed.

  Laurent got his hands in my pocket but he no longer cared about the bullets in there. He curled himself up and swung like a demented yo-yo from the pocket. I could feel a rent beginning. His face was purple and terrifying. I bent with him to save my pocket, calling, Françoise, help! Françoise!

  She came out onto the landing and called Mme Durebex.

  The fanfare of order rang out through the foyer.

  – ALLEZ! GET DOWN TO BED AT ONCE!

  I was drinking tea, my hands shaking, when Mme Durebex came into the kitchen to make Laurent some supper. I looked at her fearfully.

  – He just lost control. There was nothing I could do.

  – It doesn’t matter, Shona, she said. Laurent is a hard child. He has his father’s character. My husband is very hard, but very generous at the sam
e time. Françoise, you know, she can’t control Laurent at all.

  She was looking me in the eye, she was completely calm. Her son had just gone mental and bashed me up, and she was calmer than I’d seen her in days. I wanted some sort of explanation, I wanted a reason, I wanted to know what was going on here and why I was being submitted to it. But there wasn’t an explanation, let alone a reason. All that was going on here was the Durebex family, with me an appendage.

  Mme Durebex boiled two eggs and asked me to take them down to Laurent.

  – He’s too embarrassed to come up to the kitchen, she said.

  I found him sitting up in his parents’ bed, fiddling with a toy. His face was vacant and exhausted. When he looked at me, fear shot into his eyes and he flinched as though expecting a blow. The only visible part of his father lying beside him was a hand covering the eyes. Laurent took the plate, expressionless, and offered me his cheek. I kissed him goodnight.

  The bruises appeared quickly. I sat up in bed examining them. A big one on my thigh beneath the pocket. Little smudges down my arms. A purple cumulus across my chest.

  I bruise easily. My white skin retains evidence of anything that happens to me. The scar on my knee from the day I fell running for the school bus. The bald spot on my crown from a collision with a surfer at Palm Beach. At any time, anywhere on my leg, there’s bound to be a bruise.

  The earliest marks would be the two pits on my bum from a baby bout of chicken pox. A mirror could never show me these – they’re shallow and the position is awkward. Still, I find my fingers searching them out from time to time, gaining blind reassurance from the irregularity that’s been there as long as I can remember.

  I touched the bruises Laurent had given me, hoping sadistically he’d gotten some in return. But there was something beautiful about the bruises too. Pure white skin is boring.

  La Bouffe

  Mme Durebex was not happy the next day. From the staircase she screamed at Honorée for bringing in wet wood. Honorée stood in the foyer, nodding serenely. I watched, hidden in my doorway. Honorées serenity fascinated and appalled me. I wanted to go upstairs but was incapable of moving through this scene. Mme Durebex came down a few more steps and saw me. Battle weary, I shrivelled from the heat of her glance. Honorée continued vacuuming and Mme Durebex walked up to me, her hand over her mouth, muttering something I didn’t understand. There was laughter in her eyes – she seemed to have a joke to tell me. I asked her to repeat it.

  – Honorée must never wash, she whispered. Don’t you think she smells?

  – What? I said again, this time in surprise.

  Repeating it for the third time, Mme Durebex began to look a little guilty.

  – I’m sorry, I said, going back into my room. I just don’t understand what you’re saying.

  Honorée smelt of maize – a sweet hot smell that made me long for Paris and the African quartier at the bottom of my hill.

  Mme Durebex smelt of camembert, coffee and the usual halitosis – fetid smells that increased my claustrophobia.

  I stayed in my room with my books. An hour or two later Laurent swished by my window, and I went to meet him at the front door. He looked like one of Matthew’s sculptures, innocent and aggressive, standing there with his skis and stocks poking in all directions.

  Mme Durebex could be heard from down in the foyer, and by the time I took Laurent into the kitchen for his lunch she was in full swing. Françoise sat opposite her, expressionless.

  – Look at the lunch we’ve prepared! Mme Durebex exclaimed. And Claudine just announces they’re having lunch on the slopes. If no one was here, I wouldn’t give a shit, I’d eat lunch on the slopes with my son too. But I have no staff, and now there’s Victor sick in bed the last two days!

  Laurent poured salt all over his fish and demanded another serving. Then he demanded another plate for his rice. His mother waited on him, raving to Françoise.

  – I’m sick of Claudine, smoking all through the chalet, and she—

  – Maman! I haven’t got enough! Maman!

  Mme Durebex piled food on his plate.

  – You’ll be the death of me, Laurent, she said. You eat too much, far too much.

  Françoise kissed him all over his face.

  – Il ne pense qu’à la bouffe, ce gosse.

  I got to use Mme Durebex’ ski ticket that afternoon. She was going out to dinner and needed to have her hair done. She stressed the importance of a proper meal for Laurent that night, and I promised I would be back in time to make a vegetable soup. Mme Durebex had taught me how to make a soup from leeks, carrots, celery, potato and parsnip. With just the right amount of each vegetable, it tasted so good you didn’t even need to add salt.

  But Laurent and Françoise didn’t want vegetable soup. I sat with them at the kitchen table, picking at leftovers.

  – Not even a salad? I said.

  – Noooon!

  – Shoosh, my little fish, Shona’s only being kind.

  Mme Durebex swept into the kitchen reeking of Chanel, a tall cocktail glass in one hand. Her black velvet dress had a large teardrop cut out over the cleavage. She looked at the food: a smoked trout poking from its greasy wrapper, cold green beans in a pool of hardened butter, cheese crusts and turkey bones scattered across the table. Mme Durebex put her glass on the table. The ruby flicked like a hazard light as she wagged her finger at me.

  – I’m not happy, Shona. You told me you were making a vegetable soup, and look at what he’s eating. If I’d known what you were eating I’d have made it myself, it would have only taken me five minutes.

  – I was going to make it, but—

  – Que des choses dégueulasses! It’s impossible – you have to force this boy to eat, don’t you see that, Shona?

  Laurent sat up, wide eyed.

  – I want vegetable soup!

  – You do? said his mother.

  – OUI!

  – Mais non! He told me he didn’t want any. No one wanted any vegetable soup, so I didn’t make it.

  – MAIS SI! Laurent bellowed.

  – Tu vois? I hissed at Françoise when Mme Durebex left the room. You see how he lies? I won’t stand for it!

  She ignored me and took Laurent to watch television while I made the soup. As I blended it, I imagined sticking someone’s hand in there. There were too many hands – I couldn’t decide which to stick in. I went to the top of the stairs and called them when it was ready, entertaining myself with fantasies of pouring it down through the foyer when they emerged from the study.

  – Do you want some butter in it, mon petit poisson? Françoise cuddled him. Do you want some milk in it to cool it down?

  – Oh, stop fussing over him, Françoise, I snapped.

  – You’re not the one supposed to give orders! Laurent screeched at me.

  He got up and began to waltz around the room, opening cupboards, singing.

  – I want a strainer, I want a strainer.

  Françoise got up and found him one. The worst one in the kitchen, I noticed. They strained the soup, each as clumsy as the other, and I watched a mess form that I would be cleaning up in an hour. Laurent flicked vegetable matter from his fingers, incanting.

  – I want a strainer, I want a strainer!

  I sat there, my foot on my knee, lip curled.

  – I want a strainer, I mimicked. I want a strainer!

  – Oooh, Françoise rolled her eyes. You’re not going to play kiddies, are you?

  I turned back to the table and ate my unstrained soup in silence.

  Laurent went down to tell his mother the soup was ready. Alone in the kitchen, I complained to Françoise.

  – I’ve had it. He’s getting worse and worse. I wish you wouldn’t indulge him, it just makes it harder for me.

  – Oh arrête! she shouted. I’m not his mother. I’m only here to make him happy. I’m not here to fight him!

  Laurent tripped into the kitchen, saying his mother wanted a bowl of soup. She wanted to check my c
ooking again, and I felt deeply offended. I gave him one to take down. It was not such a great recipe. If I’d had the right ingredients I’d have added croutons fried in arsenic.

  The bowl was empty when we went down to the study, where they had been drinking cocktails. Bitter triumph. We watched television, Françoise jigging Laurent on her lap, me picking the vegetable fibres from my teeth.

  – Ah, the most beautiful little boy in the world, the one I love the most. Do you like skiing? Do you like sport? The snow? Shona’s soup?

  – I adore skiing. I adore the snow. But I detest Shona’s soup.

  Françoise was drooping but Laurent would not let her go.

  – Play with me, Françoise! Play with me!

  – No, I’m going to bed. Ask Shona. He glared at me. I glared back.

  – Go on, ask your jeune fille. Ask Shona.

  Reluctantly, Laurent asked me to play with him. Reluctantly, I said I would. I wanted a reconciliation, but I was so tired I didn’t know if I was up to it.

  – Voilà! Françoise beamed. She’s nice, isn’t she, Laurent? See how nice she is?

  – Yes, he said submissively. She is nice.

  – You see? Françoise beamed at me.

  I looked away, mortified. If there was going to be a reconciliation, it was going to be on my terms.

  – I’m tired, I said. I’m going to bed too.

  Children

  I heard her the next morning outside my door. Every morning I heard people leave the chalet one by one. I would struggle from a sleep which only relieved me after hours of brooding in the dark, and I would try to ascertain who was leaving, who remained, and what in consequence lay in store for me.

  – So it wasn’t like this before? said Françoise.

  – Oh no! came the reply of Mme Durebex. I don’t know why they don’t get on any more.

  – Well, you know, children fight then make up, just like that.

  I rubbed the sleep from my eyes. Laurent and Hugues? They had never got on well anyway. Even now, they could be heard bickering out on the drive. The voice of Mme Durebex floated back as she left.

  – Yes, Shona’s still a bit of a child.

  I sat up, insulted. A child? Well then, why was I also an English teacher, a cook, practically a maid in this chalet? These responsibilities should preclude treatment as a child, I thought. I had none of the benefits of a child – I wasn’t indulged or excused. I didn’t have the benefits of an adult either – I wasn’t listened to with respect, I had no independence.