Foreign Parts

by Foreign Parts (retail) (epub)

  It took a moment for this to sink in. ‘Dead Germans?’

  The Count nodded again. ‘During the war. The Resistance.’

  I digested this. ‘You mean the local resistance picked off German soldiers and actually buried them up there?’

  ‘Uuuuhh … oui!’ said the Count.

  ‘Good heavens.’ The story had a Clochemerle-ish grand-guignol charm about it, but just the same … I wondered about the villa’s water supply.

  ‘So what were the women doing?’

  ‘Il y a un passage souterrain,’ explained the Count, making a snaking gesture with one hand. ‘Underground corridor. From time to time it sink … collapse …’ He lowered his hand palm downward as if depressing a plunger. ‘The women must fill in the holes.’

  I realised that for the past two weeks I had been completely unaware of the real nature of my surroundings. The information the Count had given me made me feel that all local eyes had been, and were still, upon me. Like one of those sets of Russian dolls, the answer to one question simply disclosed another question waiting to be asked.

  ‘Where does the tunnel lead to?’

  Guy de Pellegale closed his eyes and steepled his pudgy fingers before his face.

  ‘Au Château Forêt Noir!’

  As soon as he’d gone I steamed open the envelope. I felt elated, and slightly crazed. The world had gone mad ( or had evidently been so for some time in this neck of the woods) so I might as well join it. The stench of murder and exotic vices wafted on the air with the scent of lavender and ripening melons.

  ‘My dear Constantine,’ said the note, in an extraordinary hand that left no line, dash or dot unembellished. ‘I should be enchanted to know you better. Can you come for dinner at the château on Wednesday? Just an informal gathering of family and friends’ – I’d heard that somewhere before – ‘but your presence would be such a delight. Yours in anticipation, Guy de P.’

  Carefully I replaced the note in its envelope, sealed it and put it in my bag. Then I knocked on the girls’ door and called: ‘Who fancies a drink up in the square?’

  I intended to go to Pru’s Bar, but as we approached Clara remarked: ‘Oh look, isn’t that Dr Ghikas?’

  ‘Yes,’ I said, ‘so it is. Tell you what, why don’t we try this one for a change?’

  I turned briskly into the other café. We placed our order with the sad-faced proprietor, and the girls swigged Kir Royale as I squinted into the late evening sun at Kostaki. He was, as they say, well in, sitting at a table with Priscilla, talking, laughing and availing himself of one of Mad Max’s stupendous platefuls.

  I felt oddly detached. At that moment I decided I would do nothing to prevent Kostaki from going to the Château Forêt Noir for an informal evening of spaghetti hoops, choc ices and Sir Roger de Coverley.

  On the other hand, when he popped round after supper to check out my power points and electrical equipment, I allowed him to perform thorough and exhaustive testing.

  Afterwards I gave him his letter. He didn’t read it at once but put it in the back pocket of his white jeans which were lying beside the bed. We knew we had an hour because the girls had gone round to the annexe to watch the French equivalent of Top of the Pops on Royston’s TV. Even so, I was annoyed that he hadn’t read the note. I got up and began to get dressed.

  ‘What’s the matter with you?’ he said, lying back with his hands behind his head as I fished a dress out of the wardrobe. ‘Why so jumpy? You don’t honestly suppose that Royston thinks we’re just good friends?’

  I tried to look haughty. ‘I had hoped as much, yes.’

  Kostaki shook his head indulgently. ‘Harriet, Harriet … For one who bangs like a shithouse door you are an innocent, you know that?’

  ‘Look,’ I said, looming over him with the hairbrush. ‘Don’t patronise me.’

  He rolled over. ‘Give me six of the best, teacher, do! Okay, okay.’ He slipped out of bed and stepped into his clothes. ‘I meant no harm.’

  He came up behind me as I brushed my hair and ran his hands over me, turning me this way and that as though admiring himself in a new suit. I could feel my knees turning to butter.

  I said sternly: ‘Have you been discussing us with Royston?’

  ‘Of course not.’

  It was an effort, but I turned to face him and pushed him to arm’s length. ‘Then how would you know what his view of us is?’

  ‘Knowledge of human nature picked up over years in provincial consulting rooms,’ said Kostaki.

  I supposed that would have to do. I made coffee and we went and sat on the verandah. The first stars were coming out in the dove-coloured sky. Moths tapped against the shutters. The faint chitter of Europop drifted from the annexe windows. I mentioned what the Count had told me that afternoon concerning the underground passage.

  ‘It runs between the château and this villa,’ I said.

  ‘That’s right,’ said Kostaki. ‘Royston told me. So that the old milords from the original château could exercise their droits de seigneur several times a night with comely peasant girls without getting their feet wet. This place was just a farmhouse – animals on the ground floor, people upstairs, plenty of nice soft hay. Lovely.’

  It was jolly annoying that he knew about this too. ‘Ah,’ I said, ‘but did you know what’s in the tunnels now?’

  ‘If you’re referring to what’s been in there since the mid-forties, yes. One of the reasons the soil’s so good, I imagine.’

  I sulked. ‘I wonder why Royston didn’t tell me about this.’

  ‘Well, for heaven’s sake, you are the holiday tenant. It’s not the kind of local colour you necessarily want to bruit about when people are paying several hundred smackers a week for the privilege.’

  ‘I suppose not.’

  ‘That’s where the name came from.’

  ‘What name?’

  ‘Villa Almont. It’s actually Villa Allemand.’

  ‘Damn Royston,’ I said. ‘I do think he might have mentioned it.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I feel like a laughing stock.’

  ‘You’re certainly the laughing stock I like to feel,’ said Kostaki in a smoky voice, laying his hand on my thigh.

  ‘Stop it,’ I said, and meant it.

  ‘Okay.’ He withdrew the hand at once and I did not wish for it back. ‘Besides,’ he added, ‘you mustn’t be so hard on Royston. If it wasn’t for him I wouldn’t be here. And he does have a glass eye, you know.’

  About half an hour later the girls came sloping back round the corner.

  ‘Programme’s finished,’ said Clara. ‘And there’s a call for you.’

  ‘Oh, no,’ I said, getting up. ‘Who?’

  ‘Lew Mervin,’ said Naomi crisply. ‘Calling from London.’

  Kostaki and I entered the annexe and found Royston sitting cross-legged on his divan eating peanuts out of a packet and watching a game show.

  ‘Hallo all,’ he said. ‘Help yourself, Harriet.’ He nodded in the direction of the office.

  Kostaki joined him on the divan and I went through to the office.

  ‘Hallo, Lew.’

  ‘Harriet! I’m truly sorry to call you at this hour, and drag you away from the moonlight on that glorious piscine, but I’ve just got back from such an exciting dinner.’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘With Sonny Beidermeyer.’

  ‘Oh, yes?’ It was actually quite hard to keep the note of anticipation out of my voice.

  ‘Yes! And he is so taken with Down Our Street. It was he who invited me to dinner – Gay Hussar, no less – expressly to say that he loves every word and is looking to buy it.’

  ‘Looking?’

  ‘Wants! Wants to buy it. No, really. No ifs or buts, he is totally sold on your book.’

  ‘That’s great,’ I said. ‘How much?’

  ‘We didn’t get into the detail, but from the general tenor of our conversation over dinner you can rest assured we are speaking of a six-figure sum.’ />
  I plucked a six-figure sum out of the air and divided it by two to account for it being US dollars. ‘How much do you think?’

  ‘Now, Harriet!’ Lew gave a teasing, squeaky laugh that hurt my ears. ‘Patience! He has to consult one or two other suits back in New York.’

  ‘I thought he was The Man at Aurora,’ I said pettishly.

  ‘He is The Man, he definitely is, and none other. But they’re obviously planning a complete re-launch of the Blair oeuvre in the States, and that’s not something to be undertaken lightly.’

  ‘No,’ I said, trying to keep the impatience out of my voice. ‘I suppose not.’

  ‘You get back to that mellow wine and those twinkling stars, Harriet,’ advised Lew. ‘And leave everything to me.’

  Chapter Fifteen

  Only George would have sent a postcard of an English provincial town to a luxury villa in the heart of rural France. The card was one of those multi-shot efforts, with four rectangular pictures of Basset Regis (Corn Exchange, Town Hall, Market Street and Parish Church) and a circular one in the middle (Municipal Park). Nothing about it would have made me want to visit Regis had I not known it already, and as a local it inspired no pang of nostalgia for the place.

  ‘Having a tedious time, wish I was there,’ George had written. ‘Based in town for convenience, but went to check on the homestead. No signs of wild debauch, though a small party is mooted. Eloise sends her regards and says you are a heroine. Was hoping to get back to you for at least a few lengths and a good dinner before next weekend, but it’s looking unlikely. All love, George.’

  I wasn’t too happy about the ‘small party’ but I imagined if there was one then George as the parent on the ground, so to speak, would keep an eye on things. I must say I thought it was a bit much him staying in London and not in Magna where he might have supervised the domestic scene at close quarters. Then I remembered that he was supposed to be on holiday, and was actually at work: with the adoring Eloise. Heroine, forsooth! I had not exactly been sitting in the shade with my needlepoint during his absence.

  I showed the postcard to Clara. ‘God, a party!’ she wailed. ‘And we’re missing it!’

  ‘Only a small one,’ I said soothingly. ‘And with a bit of luck it won’t happen at all.’

  ‘You must be joking. Why else does a bloke stay at home when everyone else goes away?’

  ‘I’m sure your father will have advised him against it in the strongest possible terms.’

  I could tell they weren’t convinced. They retreated groaning and grimacing to their sunbeds, convinced they were set to miss a bash on the scale of the Chelsea Arts Ball.

  I met Kostaki in the drive as I returned from hanging up some washing. He was climbing into the MG.

  ‘You’ll never guess what that letter was,’ he said. ‘Only an invitation to dinner at the château.’

  The simple soul was reacting as we had done to our own invitation. I wondered if Royston had filled him in on what to expect. I might as well test the water.

  ‘Gosh,’ I said, ‘you jammy thing.’

  ‘Bit of a social coup, eh?’

  No, he knew nothing. For once, I was grateful to Royston.

  ‘Absolutely,’ I agreed. ‘You’ll have to tell us all about it. When are you going?’

  ‘Well, he left it fairly open, but I thought I’d drop in on my way back today and suggest tomorrow night. It’s quite informal, apparently.’

  ‘Super.’ Not for the first time I noticed a fleeting resemblance between Kostaki and George. Or maybe it was just the Y chromosome at play.

  I decided we needed shaking up a bit. I riffled through the numerous leaflets and brochures left by our landlords and decided on a day out.

  ‘But we’re perfectly happy dossing around here,’ said Clara.

  ‘I dare say, but we could do with a change of scene.’

  ‘I don’t get the reasoning.’

  ‘You’ll enjoy the dossing more if you have a day away from it.’

  ‘It’s our holiday too, so why can’t we do what we like?’

  ‘You do do what you like, all the time. Look at it this way: I’d like a day out and I’d appreciate your company as your father’s not here.’

  ‘Come on Clara,’ said Naomi. ‘It might be all right.’

  It was more than all right, it was absolutely brilliant. With QVQ blaring we drove to a small market town set high above the Tarn. The mediaeval grain market had been lovingly restored, the church was a gem, the views lyrical. The greasy spoon where we ate four courses for the equivalent of £4.50 a head served up roast poussin swimming in a winey gravy with caramelised shallots and the biggest pile of featherlight golden frites we had ever seen. When we finished one bottle of the house red, another was immediately plonked down, cold from the safe-like 1950s fridge in the corner. Madame, all BO, gold teeth and oily black curls, served at table and a fair proportion of her extended family were involved in the cooking. The chef d’équipe was M’sieur, who followed his corporation into the room while we were demolishing the chicken, and stood over us, sweat trickling through the stubble of his lower face to join the mat of black hair on his well-upholstered chest, and encouraged us to eat up. He tweaked the girls’ cheeks and admired their hair, their legs, their eyes and everything about them, adding that it was hardly surprising such exquisite blossoms had grown from such a beautiful tree. By which, I realised, he meant me.

  By the time they were halfway through their glaces variées with hot chocolate sauce and chopped pistachios, and I was well on the way to finishing the second bottle, the girls were positively mellow.

  ‘This is an ace place,’ said Naomi. ‘Thanks for lunch.’

  ‘My pleasure,’ I said.

  ‘Can we look round the shops afterwards?’ asked Clara, striking while the iron was positively molten.

  ‘Sure,’ I said, ‘why not?’

  There was a very good reason why not: the shops were shut. I was not broken-hearted, since the heat outside was enough to make me reel, especially with half a litre of house red swilling inside me. But I was sorry for the girls’ sakes that the unexpected success of the day couldn’t have been rounded off by the purchase of a couple of wicked little tops.

  ‘Can you believe this country?’ Clara said as we idled to the car between higgledy-piggledy white and apricot houses with blazing flowers and peeling shutters. ‘Not a thing open at three thirty in the afternoon.’

  ‘But when they do open they’ll be open till dark,’ I pointed out. ‘They take their eating seriously in France, as you may have noticed.’

  Clara slid me a sly glance. ‘You’re doing a Dad again.’

  On the way back we saw the white MG parked outside the Château.

  ‘What’s he doing at the funny farm?’ asked Clara.

  ‘He’s dropped in to accept a dinner invitation,’ I said. I couldn’t help it. I smiled.

  ‘You’re joking!’

  ‘Honour bright.’

  ‘Good luck to him,’ said Nev. ‘Does the Count fancy him, then?’

  What the hell. ‘As a matter of fact, yes.’

  They shrieked, and clutched each other and fell about in the back seat. I accelerated merrily down the hill, borne on a warm tide of vin de table and sisterly fellow feeling.

  I was on the sixtieth of the projected hundred lengths needed to shift my headache when Kostaki came bounding on to the verandah. ‘Mind if we join you?’ Royston was with him.

  ‘Sure.’

  They leapt in making the surface bob and heave so that I did the nose trick. I escaped to the house to stem the flow of snot, and then made some tea. When I returned with the tray they were sitting by the sous-sol, with the radio playing.

  ‘Tea!’ I called, feeling like old mother slipper-slopper.

  ‘Our friend here is going to dinner at the château,’ said Royston as they joined me.

  ‘I know.’ While the girls collected their tea and retired I tried to work out who knew what about whom
.

  ‘I was just saying, he’ll have a beezer time,’ added Royston.

  ‘Yes, I didn’t realise you people had been up there,’ said Kostaki amiably. ‘You never said.’

  I shrugged. Royston said: ‘The Count’s hospitality is legendary.’

  ‘I can’t wait.’

  There was a short pause. My eyes flicked frantically from one to the other like a rattlesnake on speed. Both men looked blandly affable, but it was unmistakably Kostaki who was being duped, and he who changed the subject.

  ‘Tell you what I’ve been meaning to say. Did you see there’s a play on in the town square on Wednesday? Why don’t we go?’

  ‘Yes, why not?’ agreed Royston. ‘I saw the poster.’

  ‘I have it here,’ said Kostaki. He felt in his back pocket and pulled out a folded sheet of paper. ‘ ‘‘Le Chien du Jardinier’’ de Lopez de Vega, mise en scène Archimède Pollu, place des Cornières, Lalutte … ‘‘The Gardener’s Dog’’?’

  ‘ ‘‘Dog in the Manger’’ would be the idiomatic translation,’ said Royston. ‘Actually Pollu’s band of strolling theatricals come every summer They’re not bad; it’s usually quite a jolly evening.’

  ‘How good does one’s French have to be?’ I asked. ‘I mean, would the girls enjoy it?’

  ‘Oh Lord, yes, it’ll be stuffed with talent,’ Royston assured me, with a keen grasp of the essentials.

  Kostaki was continuing to read. ‘Here we are. ‘‘Le chien du jardinier ne mange pas les choux, mais il ne permet pas non plus que quelqu’un d’autre les mange.’’ I get the drift.’ He folded the paper up again. ‘So it’s settled, then. Wednesday night we’ll have a few jars at Pru’s and then take in the show.’

  Pru’s? I was only sorry I wasn’t going to be there to watch him free fall into panic at the Château Forêt Noir.

  That night he went out. I poured myself a cognac and went up to the atelier. I didn’t work. I just turned on one light and sat on a cushion next to The Building of Stonehenge. Various people had been adding to it in an offhand way and it was more than two-thirds completed. What remained were the difficult bits: sky, hills, unbroken areas of grey rock and so forth. I sifted idly through the pieces. And as I did so I realised, quietly but blindingly, that I no longer cared for Kostaki.