Au Pair

by Fiona McGregor

  – For example, Mme Durebex went on, Laurent never said con before. It was Hugues who taught him.

  Con? Hugues? I had to turn away to hide my amazement. That word bandied about by M. Durebex. Con – moron, dickhead. It stood to reason he said it so often, M. Durebex had to say it, seeing as he thought ninety per cent of people were cons.

  M. Durebex complained about the cheese.

  – This cheese has perspired, he said.

  – It’s Claudine’s fault, said Mme Durebex. She always leaves the cheese out.

  M. Durebex turned down the corners of his thin, wide mouth.

  – I never eat a cheese which has perspired.

  In fact, Mme Durebex was growing frantic with Claudine and Hugues staying in the chalet. They had a hotel room with M. Laplanche in the village, but every second night or so they were back at the chalet. M. Laplanche mysteriously, thankfully, never spent the night at the chalet.

  – I have no staff! cried Mme Durebex. I’m sick of all the work! They could stay at the hotel, couldn’t they? It’s not as if Claudine has no money, after all.

  And when Mme Durebex left the room, Françoise lowered her voice.

  – I like Claudine. She works. Have you seen the way she cleans this kitchen? She holds things together. As for Mireille …

  A few hours later Mme Durebex and Claudine were sitting at the kitchen table, drinking tea.

  – But of course you can stay, chérie, I wouldn’t hear of you going back to the hotel.

  From the salon, where the men reclined on the couches, came the command, Mireille! Claudine! On vous appelle!

  – Mireille! Claudine! the wives mimicked.

  The men commanded, the women laughed at them.

  But M. Durebex spent the greater part of each day in his room, as I did in mine. When the phone rang I answered it in the entrance, knowing M. Durebex and I were the only ones in the chalet. I went to fetch him. I knocked in vain. I peeped around the door and saw a room in disorder, clothes draped about, the bedcovers in a heap at the foot of the bed. I stepped inside. The door to the bathroom was ajar, and I saw the bottom half of M. Durebex’ body, stretched across the floor on his stomach. He looked dead. I wished he was. I told the caller that M. Durebex was indisposed. And this happened more than once, me coming across M. Durebex prostrate, face down, on his bathroom floor.

  When he surfaced he demanded this and that to eat, at any time of day. He wanted a fish soufflé. The soufflé was made by Mme Durebex. While she cooked she had us do our English lesson in the kitchen, so she could overhear. She demanded the boys read ‘Meester Peunch’. Although there were more important things to be studied, I agreed. And all the way through, over the top of the text that was nothing more to her French ears than one long sound, she blared, Is that correct, Shona? Isn’t he reading too fast, Shona? Did he pronounce that word properly? Are you sure?

  When the soufflé was ready M. Durebex was nowhere to be found. Mme Durebex’ glorious tones boomed through the chalet.

  – VICTOR DEPECHE-TOI COME AND EAT YOUR SOUFFLE I’VE HAD ENOUGH!

  He ate alone, Claudine hovering about him like a nursemaid. She poked her head around the door frame, rolling her eyes at me.

  – He makes me want to throw up!

  And when she got me alone, it was, I like Françoise, but she never lifts a finger around here. Can’t she see we do everything?

  – Indeed, said Mme Durebex. It’s nice company for Laurent, but what does she think this is? A holiday resort?

  Everybody made Françoise want to throw up. Claudine and Mme Durebex, the two men, Hugues (whom she treated with utter contempt). Every body, that is, except for Laurent. Ma puce, mon petit poisson.

  Claudine clicked about the foyer in a slinky black dress and fishnet stockings. She posed in the wide mirror with the cigarette holder, and Françoise sat on the couch, pulling faces at me.

  – They make me sick. They went out with a transvestite last night! Yes! Talking about it in front of the children, too. Revolting! Quelle honte. They should be ashamed of themselves. Vieux sacs!

  An hour later I came across the three of them in the salon. Claudine and Mme Durebex were acting out scenes from the night before. Françoise sat there, pofaced. Claudine waltzed up to me.

  – Shona! Us vieux sacs have been a real hit down in the village! Plein de beaux mecs!

  I stared at Françoise, horrified. She had betrayed me, she had told them our private joke. Françoise clucked at me.

  – Oh, she’s so sensitive, this one.

  I sent her a withering look to prove I didn’t care what she said. I vowed to tell Françoise nothing more about myself, and determined to keep away from everyone in the chalet. But it was only in the outer world that I’d ever been able to adopt indifference. The more I retreated, the closer I got to my inner world, and that was where I seethed.

  Of course, M. Laplanche had a nice word for everybody. M. Laplanche, ubiquitous slime, insinuating himself in and out of rooms and conversations, commiserating, crawling, chastising gently.

  And the children? The children, beneath all of this, fought one another so much they were losing the energy to unite against me, let alone their parents. Laurent asserted himself, though. He was so stubborn, so determined to hold his own at all costs. That was why I hated him and that was why I loved him.

  – Laurent was afraid of you in Paris, wasn’t he, Shona? Mme Durebex said to me. He respected you.

  – I don’t know about afraid, I replied. But he did respect me.

  Was that how respect was earned? By invoking fear? That wasn’t what I wanted. I respected no one here, and I feared no one.

  The children, sensoriums of the breakdown of loyalties in the chalet. Who supported whom? Who trusted whom? Who cared anyway? It was a dog-eat-dog world.

  Especially in France, especially in this family.

  I cleaned my teeth. The mirror over the sink was wide and well lit. I suspected exaggeration. For the first time ever, I noticed lines under my eyes. I wondered how long they’d been there. It seemed amazing to me that something on my own face could have escaped my attention.

  I rinsed my mouth, rolling my eyes up to see white water gush over teeth. Shadows curved under my eyes. I touched them gingerly, for they looked like bruises. They had become grooves in the skin. This insomnia was beginning to show.

  It was driving me crazy.

  I grimaced at myself; my eye-teeth looked pointy, ready to bite. My cheeks were flushed, my eyes burning in their sockets. I wiped my mouth roughly and my lips reddened. The scar from the pimple on my lip was like a beauty spot. Patches of dry skin had flared up, but the face didn’t seem to mind.

  I took the towel off my head. My wet hair hung lankly just below my shoulders. The bruise on my chest was turning nicotine yellow. I pulled the corners of my mouth down to complete the image: dishevelled, downtrodden little servant girl.

  I ran my fingers through my hair and rubbed cream into my skin. Now I looked freshly scrubbed, though a little unkempt. I pulled on a bright smile and widened my eyes: little girl. Little enthusiastic convent girl rushing home and putting her dirty pinafore down the laundry chute. Fighting then making up, just like that.

  I combed my hair into a smooth stiff curtain. I gave myself a centre part. I stared at myself, expressionless: a pair of glasses was all that was needed to complete this sensible personality. Teach, do your duty. Obey us, and make sure the children obey you. Act invisible and be there at all times.

  I shook my head so my hair fell into a crooked, greasy part. A somewhat daggy hairstyle. I pinched my lips anxiously, and wrinkled my brow: dumb foreigner.

  I put my hair behind my ears and relaxed: quite a nice-looking young woman, the sort of open face you would want to tell things to; a bit of spark in those eyes, a bit of intelligence.

  I swept the hair up: cute, sexy, girl-woman. A little puppy, wanting to be patted. She would like her bottom pinched, yes.

  I dressed with my back to the mi
rror. Just before I left the bathroom I glanced at the mirror one more time. One face looked back. I knew no face more familiar, but before I could see it a myriad of images slid over the mirror, and over the face. I turned out the light and left them to their own devices.

  I got into bed and lay there thinking. Sleep, I thought, please sleep. Relax.

  My thoughts chattered on. There was a conversation I’d had with Françoise the other day.

  – One day, she’d said, Laurent will realise. He’ll see it all, his father, he’ll see what’s going on.

  Laurent was sitting in her lap at the time. I listened intently. What will he realise? I wondered. What will he see? Françoise waved a hand. And he’ll inherit it all; his father is old. And he’ll be all right.

  I could see the full moon through the fir tree by my window. I opened the curtains further, letting moonlight come across the bed. Everything in the room was visible: my empty pack collapsed in the corner, my towel hanging on the wardrobe door, my dirty socks on the floor. I thought about M. Durebex, snarling at Laurent while we played chess, whipping the air in front of his wife’s face as he demonstrated ski turns. I thought about my own father and the atmosphere of disapproval in the house of my childhood. Panic went through me now at the thought of talking to him.

  It was not just money Françoise was talking about. Laurent would inherit more than that, he would inherit a lot of things unspoken. I thought about these little scenes over and over, and others; the women laughing in the kitchen, my mother talking about university and achievement, my father saying, Purgatory – you’ll cop it. I imagined walking through the foyer, cigarette in hand, passing M. Durebex – yes, Mme Durebex was right, I was too afraid of him to do such a thing. I imagined going home to a family lunch; the table was the table of my childhood and the members of my family loomed over me, and in the cold night, in that close, overheated room, I began to sweat.

  I threw back the bedcovers, I pulled off my long johns. Fear. It was fear. It pulsed through me. I brought myself back to the contents of the room in which I lay, I told myself I was safe. I lay back and closed my eyes. I dove into my whirlpool of paranoia, my Speedos were ripped. I went out to my wasteland. There were Hills’ Hoists everywhere, spinning, bare – someone had stolen my washing. Images raced through my head. I raced after them, thinking I was running from them; running in circles inside my own head, running around a brain that felt like it was falling apart in its effort to contain everything. I couldn’t cast anything out, I had to sort through it all, and put it in the right place.

  I dragged myself back and lay there weakly.

  In the lull that followed fear was anger. I was shouting back at them all, I was smoking in front of M. Durebex and spending Mme Durebex’ shopping change on bottles of Veuve Clicquot. I was drinking it in front of M. Laplanche and telling him his wife reckoned he was a lousy fuck. I was telling my parents to stuff their institutions and imploring my siblings to support me.

  I saw that I was in my room at the chalet, in my moonlight-drenched bed. I saw the empty pack in the corner and the dirty socks on the floor. I saw my fear and my anger and how natural they were, and nothing of what I saw helped me. So long had I denied them, yet never had I been unaware of their existence. Admitting the fear was admitting a weakness, admitting the anger was admitting the power others held over me. I was always showing myself how strong I was. Look at me, Miss Independent, living alone on the other side of the world, doing what I wanted, no one to tell me how to spend my time and money.

  But spending is paying, and I was brought up to believe that you got what you paid for, and you paid for what you got: there are two sides to every coin.

  Darkness came through my room. Through the window I saw the moon disappear behind cloud. I drew the curtains.

  Wood for the Fire

  In the morning Mme Durebex told me to fetch more logs.

  – And make sure it’s not wet. The wood you fetched yesterday was wet.

  Of course it was. It had been raining on and off for two days, and the wood pile was in a hollow under the verandah where the water collected. I said exactly that to Mme Durebex, then went outside for another bundle.

  I was building the fire with wet wood when Mme Durebex rushed back into the room.

  – Shona! Why did you throw out the coffee I saved for Monsieur?

  – But it’s you who threw it out.

  – You did! You put it in the saucepan. How could you!

  I stacked up the kindling. I balanced a big log on the nest of it, then I sat back on my heels and brushed my hands on the cowhide. She stood over me, rebuking me.

  – Look, I interrupted her. I don’t see why you’re angry with me. You threw the coffee out.

  – Of course I threw it out! she shouted. I threw it out because you put it in the saucepan.

  – To be reheated, Madame Durebex. Did he want his coffee cold?

  – Oh c’est pas possible!

  She stomped around the room. Ridiculous woman. Shouting back relieved me but didn’t seem to have had an effect on her. I put the last log on the fire, then walked out.

  I prepared lunch. M. Laplanche lurked in the doorway, trying to catch my eye. Mme Durebex reappeared with a smile. She brandished it as she darted in and out of the kitchen, calling me her chérie. She was trying to get back on my good side.

  I said nothing. By now I preferred the bad side.

  I stirred the beans with one hand, idly rubbing the ends of my hair with the other. Françoise came in.

  – Ah no! she exclaimed. That’s not on. Not in the kitchen!

  – What?

  – Doing that with your hair near the food. It’s disgusting. And the way you bite the end off the baguette.

  – Oh, come off it, Françoise, everybody bites the end off the baguette. Anyway, you don’t seem to mind my cooking.

  She fumed. The habit with my hair probably was disgusting, but I figured I had a right to a few disgusting habits.

  – You’re a prude, I said to Françoise.

  Her hand went to her belly. It was a dramatic gesture.

  – You make me sick! she said.

  – Doesn’t everybody, Françoise?

  She stormed from the room.

  – J’en ai marre!

  While everybody ate I prepared exercises for the boys. They had to convert the present continuous to the simple past. I wrote:

  1. M. Durebex is saying there isn’t enough room.

  2. Mme Durebex is shouting at Shona.

  3. Shona is making a salad.

  I sucked the pen thoughtfully. It was about time we had some fun.

  Match the following expressions with someone you know:

  old bag – vieux sac M. Laplanche

  sleazebag – miteux sac /sac miteux Laurent

  ratbag – rat sac /sac à rat Mme Durebex

  No, that wasn’t working. Ratbag – rat sac – rat poison. The meanings were twisting too far.

  How about some idiomatic expressions, I thought.

  4. M. Laplanche is sleazing on to Shona.

  I rubbed number four out, superstitious, thinking of the way people had painted and written things over the centuries in order to make them happen. I went to the toilet. Overhead there was the scraping of chairs. That meant they were finishing lunch.

  Speak of the devil. When I came out of the bathroom, there he was, fixing the straps on his bag in the foyer. M. Laplanche straightened up and put his hands on his hips.

  – I’m going, mon petit.

  – Good, I smiled.

  He leant against the door frame, helping himself to the look of me in jeans.

  – Excuse me. I want to go into my room.

  He stood there smiling.

  – Alone, I said.

  – Allez, give me a kiss goodbye.

  – Are you kidding, Rufus? I smiled back.

  M. Laplanche shifted, his expression half hopeful, half hateful.

  – You’ve got spinach stuck in your teet
h, I said. Yuk.

  His smile closed and his tongue went to work on his teeth. Better his than mine. I shut my door. The fury I’d seen in his eyes kept me in my room till I heard him go.

  Claudine was staying for the rest of the week without him. I assumed there’d be gruelling times ahead, but the departure of M. Laplanche was a temporary relief, a weight cast off a sinking ship.

  I waited in the study with the exercises. The boys came running in.

  – My mother say we only work for, euh, vingt minutes, said Laurent. And we only do it oralement.

  – We’re doing these exercises first, I said.

  Laurent turned up his nose.

  – Not dis.

  That’d’ was a telltale loss of confidence.

  – We’ll see, Laurent. Wait here. Don’t move till I get back.

  I found Mme Durebex in the kitchen.

  – I’ve prepared exercises for the boys.

  – I want them to work orally.

  – We work orally every time we speak together. They need to do these exercises.

  She stopped what she was doing and looked at me in surprise. I looked straight back at her. She began to repeat herself.

  – I know what they’re up to, Madame Durebex, I said.

  I went back down. The study was empty. I knocked on the desktop and Hugues emerged, his hair netted with cobwebs. I pulled back the curtain and Laurent slid out the other side, then went over to his books. They wrote:

  1. M. Durebex said there wasn’t enough room.

  2. Mme Durebex shouted at Shona.

  3. Shona made a salad.

  Later, Françoise joined us in the study for the evening cartoons. Donald Duck sounded good in French. Over the last ten days this television had become a necessary luxury to me. I wouldn’t have one back in Paris. But then, I’d have plenty of other things to make up for it. Paris, Paris, each day my longing for it grew. When Mme Durebex shouted for me, there was a unanimous groan.

  I went out to the foyer. Waiting to meet me was a sunburnt man in a puffy ski suit. He looked me up and down, then extended his hand.

  Mme Durebex clinked her bangles.

  – This is Vincent de Klerk.