A Period of Adjustment

by Dirk Bogarde

  He nodded, folded his arms across his chest, leant back in his seat. ‘Supposing Mum is still here. At Valbonne? She might remember it’s my birthday. She always did. What then?’

  ‘Yes, indeed. What then. We might, of course, be asked over to Valbonne, to Eric Thingamigig’s house. I gather he’s got a fab pool … so she said.’

  There was a long silence. I did not break it, just let what I had said sink in. His voice was anxious. ‘Do you think they’ll still be here? In a month’s time? Where is Valbonne?’

  ‘I don’t know. Not very far. It’s a sort of smart village. Full of foreigners. He has the place there. “Villa Dafydd”. Very typical. When, if, she telephones, I’ll find out all their plans.’

  ‘But you won’t say about my birthday, will you?’

  ‘No. I won’t say. If you don’t want me to, I won’t.’

  ‘Because if she asked me to go, I wouldn’t. So don’t say. Please?’

  ‘Fine. But any reason? Why wouldn’t you go? A fab swimming-pool?’

  ‘I don’t like Eric Rhys-Evans. I don’t want to go to his house.’

  ‘Reason. You haven’t said why. If I’m to make your excuses, if it should happen, I have to have a reason in my mind. Something. Not just because you don’t like him.’

  I had to slow down, turn right at the sign for Saint-Basile. 3 km.

  ‘At home, when he came to stay, he took the key from the bathroom door so you couldn’t lock it.’

  ‘What on earth for?’

  ‘Well, he said what if I was ill or something, they couldn’t get in to help me. If I had a fit or something.’

  ‘A fit! You?’

  ‘He said. Sometimes he came in. When I was in the bath. He came in …’ He was scratching his arm, looking away from me so that I could hardly hear him.

  ‘Well? So what? Perhaps he wanted something, shampoo or something.’ It was a pretty lame remark.

  Giles knew it too. He barked a kind of laugh and then looked directly ahead, avoiding me. Suddenly he said, ‘He was staring at me. Quite cross. He said, “What are you hiding there?” ’

  ‘Hiding? Were you hiding something? Come on, what?’

  ‘No. My facecloth. I put it over … over me, when he came in. Then he said, “You are being deceitful! Stand up at once!” He was really cross. So I did. And he made me drop the cloth in the water. And made me stand there …’ Suddenly he wiped his mouth with a fist.

  My heart had started racing. Keeping a very level voice I heard myself say, ‘And then what? What then, Giles?’

  ‘He … touched me.’

  ‘Shoulders, head, where?’

  ‘There. He touched me there. You know …’ He was still looking straight ahead.

  A goat suddenly pushed through the hedge, skittered about, I swerved, it pushed back again in a scatter of leaves. I slowed down.

  ‘And? Anything else?’ I was still calm, quiet.

  ‘He said, “What a lucky little boy.” I don’t know why.’

  ‘And did he go?’

  ‘Yes. He went away then. I cried a bit. A little bit. I don’t know why. So I only had a bath after that when he wasn’t staying. Not if he was there, and Mum got furious sometimes. But I never said.’

  ‘I’m glad that you said it to me. Thanks. I don’t know why he did that. Perhaps he was just being … I really don’t know … funny, jokey? What about that?’

  ‘He was cross! His face was red. He squeezed me there hard. I hate him. You are my best friend, you don’t mind I said that?’

  ‘I’m very glad you did. I’m honoured to be your best friend. Thank you.’

  ‘So you won’t tell, will you? I mean you are. My very best friend. Of course you are the oldest best friend I’ve ever had, but you don’t mind, do you?’

  ‘Not in the very least. Thanks.’

  But my blood was raging. Ahead another sign board. Saint-Basile 2 km.

  We turned right with a screech of tyres. I was taking the corner too fast, but I knew that if I ever set eyes on Eric Rhys-Evans I’d end up in the Old Bailey. Guilty.

  Chapter 3

  The next morning I got up well before Giles, as I usually did in the Pavilion, and washed and shaved while he lay as if for dead. There was not enough room for the pair of us to move about with soap and razor or socks and shirts. So I got myself ready first and, knotting my tie, called him to wake up.

  ‘I am awake. I’ve been awake for hours.’

  ‘Why didn’t you get up?’

  ‘Nothing to do. What would I do?’ He clambered slowly out of bed and shook his head. ‘It’s a really mouldy room this, and the lav’s miles away.’

  ‘I’m going down to breakfast. Don’t take all day, I want to get over to Jericho early and I’ve got to dump you at the Theobalds before. Clean your teeth. Remember?’

  In the trellis-and-rose-papered dining-room only Monsieur Forbin, the walker who had moved me out of my room, and I were present. He was pouring coffee, reading Var Matin propped against a pot of white daisies. We nodded across at each other. He set down his coffee pot, poured milk. He was about seventy, in stout walking-boots and flapping khaki shorts. Eugène came swiftly through the swing door from the kitchen with a small foil-wrapped packet and a half-bottle of Evian which he set on Monsieur Forbin’s table, then brought me my coffee and a dish of hot croissants covered with a little cloth.

  ‘The boy will come?’ He hardly awaited my word of agreement, hurried away with a rustle of white apron through the click-clacking door.

  A small dog careered suddenly into the room followed by two thin women with short grey hair and knitted cardigans. They were laughing quietly about something, took their places at a corner table with a scraping of chairs. One of them called the dog away from Monsieur Forbin’s side, where it sat expectantly. He ignored it entirely.

  ‘Dollie! Dollie! Viens!’

  Eugène came in again with a tray of fruit juice in a jug for them. The conversation was animated, the dog sniffed about at Eugène’s feet, with a little hiss he lightly kicked it. Then Giles wandered in, his curly hair now seal-sleek with water, his tie squint and the top button of his shirt undone. He thudded into the chair, slumped opposite me as Eugène swiftly came to the table, said good morning and would the young man like fruit juice or, perhaps, some tinned grapefruit. Iced?

  Breakfast was eventually ordered. I told Giles to do up the button at his neck. The dining-room began to fill with a murmuring of new residents. The season had commenced with vigour. Giles watched everyone with intense interest, dropping crumbs and swinging his legs.

  ‘Don’t swing your legs at table. You’re shaking everything.’

  ‘I only do it when I’m thinking. I’m trying to understand what they all say. They talk so fast. Will you get me some more toothpaste today? If I have to clean my teeth all the time I use it up quickly. And this is my last clean shirt. Remember?’

  Eugène came hurrying through the kitchen door with a tray of metal coffee pots. He called across to me, ‘M’sieur! Telephone! In the cabin.’

  Giles looked up at me quickly. ‘Mum? Maybe Mum?’

  ‘It could be. You wait here.’

  Madame Mazine nodded good morning, indicated the cabin with a bob of her head, switched something on the board in front of her.

  ‘Attendez, Madame. Il arrive!’

  In the quilted cabin, rioting with parrots in faded chintz, Helen sounded near, bright and quite unapologetic.

  ‘Didn’t I give you the number here? At the airport? Oh silly me! We only got in a couple of days ago. Just flaked out. God! It’s a brutal job, but huge fun really. Are you both well?’

  I filled her in with the barest detail. All that she really had to know and nothing more. She was kind, sorry about James (whom she had never met), and glad that eventually he’d been discovered, even though it was what she called a ‘sad discovery’. I agreed.

  ‘Well, anyway, William, now you know. I was beginning to think he’d just evaporated or someth
ing. Really! Pneumonia. People don’t die of pneumonia now. They give them shots and things.’

  I explained (avoiding all the true facts) that James had let things go too far, had been very run down and had become a recluse.

  She sighed. ‘Oh, God. I suppose because of the child? The Down’s Syndrome business? Some people can’t come to terms with that. You haven’t asked about Annie, your own child, if I might remind you? She is very well, thank you. Mummy is buying her a pony! Quite mad. Now then, when can we meet? It’s been absolutely ages. We must have a chin-wag. Lots to talk over. The house for one. Me for another. So when?’

  ‘And where? I’m free, utterly free. Giles is at his tutor, I can be with you when and where you like. Do you want to come over here?’

  I knew she’d rather die.

  ‘Well, William, listen. Eric has to go into Monte Carlo today. Business. What about today? Lunch with me? So that we can talk things over alone. It really has been weeks …’

  ‘Not terribly keen on coming to Valbonne, Helen. Can’t we find somewhere -’

  Her voice was over-willing, too hasty. False apology. ‘Oh I didn’t mean here, William! No. Eric can drop me off somewhere. What about Nice? Can you make Nice? I mean, I don’t know how far away you are. He’ll be back this evening, when we have to have a dinner at the Negresco for the American team. Lunch? Make lunch? Meet me in the Negresco bar half-twelve? All right by you?’

  ‘I’m not far away. You seem pretty busy, so I’ll come to the Negresco.’

  ‘Super! Terrific! Explain to Giles, will you? That this is “grown-up time”. I’ll be in London in a couple of weeks anyway; we can all be together then. You’ll be there too, won’t you? Now that your “mission” is over and you’ve discovered where your little ewe lamb got to, you’ll be coming home?’

  ‘For a time. To pack up the house with you. Then I’ll come back here.’

  There was a slight singing on the line. A silence. When she spoke again her voice seemed to echo slightly. As if she was talking very quietly through a tin funnel.

  ‘Back there? To live? You can’t mean it! Anyway, let’s do all the talking when we meet. Give Giles my love. Is he better?’

  ‘Better?’

  ‘Well, sulking, sullen, rude. He’s been really awful.’

  ‘Much the same. I can’t imagine why, can you?’ Lying was easy, suddenly.

  ‘No. Hell. Never mind. I’ll sort him out eventually. It’s the growing-up stage, and you’ve never been brilliant with the children. Never mind, never mind. So! Half-twelve, the Negresco? I might take you to a super restaurant we know. It’s in walking distance. L’Auralia. It’s seriously expensive and wildly smart. You’ll need a tie.’

  ‘I have one.’

  ‘Lovely, lovely. Twelve-thirty then.’ And she hung up.

  I stood for a second, the receiver in my hand, leant against the quilted parrots, heard the beep beep beep of the disconnected line and replaced my receiver. She was amazingly dated in her vocabulary and priorities. In her life-style too. Presumably she had found the one she wanted with Rhys-Evans? Revived it? It would make my news easier for her to take, I hoped.

  Giles, in the dining-room, was feeding the wretched little dog with bits of croissant.

  ‘Its name’s Dollie. It’s very funny, Will. Look.’

  ‘Don’t feed the thing at the table.’ I sat down to my now cold coffee.

  ‘The ladies over there don’t mind.’

  I turned and the ladies and I smiled at each other. They nodded and sipped.

  ‘Send the bloody thing back, Giles. Get rid of it. That was your mother.’

  ‘Oh. And? Is she all right? She in wherever it is? Valbonne or whatever?’

  ‘Yes. I’m going over to Nice. To lunch with her. There is a lot to talk about.’

  ‘To Nice? Not Valbonne? Am I coming?’

  ‘No. No, you’re not. She said to tell you that it was “grown-up time”. I gather you are supposed to know what that means. It would be pretty boring for you anyway. We’re going to a “seriously expensive” restaurant.’

  ‘Well, I’d quite like that.’

  ‘You’re not coming. You’re going over to the Theobalds’. Come along.’

  ‘But they wouldn’t mind. Dottie and Arthur? They wouldn’t mind a bit. After all, I would be going to see my own mother, wouldn’t I? Unless, he’s going to be there too? Eric’

  ‘No. He’s not. Come along, I’ve got to drop a note off to Florence. I thought I might lunch with her. Be seeing her. She’ll be waiting to know about your uncle’s final – well, where he’s gone.’

  With little grace, he got up and we left the dining-room just a little ahead of Monsieur Forbin, who had collected his sandwiches, the bottle of Evian and his Michelin Green Guide. I held the door for him, and he pushed through without a glance, dropped the packet of sandwiches, and got hit in the back by the swing of the dining-room door. Giles retrieved the packet and handed it to him. He nodded sharply, tucked the Evian under his arm, strode off in his boots and flapping shorts.

  ‘Jolly rude, some people. I could have just kicked his rotten old packet all down the hall. Like a football. Couldn’t I?’

  ‘You could have. And I’d have clubbed you to death.’

  He laughed and clapped his hands and we went into the lobby where I wrote a card to Florence, telling her that I had to go to Nice on family business and that James had been cast to the sea-wind, that I’d contact her that evening - could she dine this evening at the hotel? – and to leave me a message. Madame Mazine said that someone would take it over to No. II rue Émile Zola right away, and would I be in for lunch?

  We drove over to the Theobalds’ through the fresh green Provençal summer in silence: Giles because, I presumed, he was cast down by not being invited to a ‘seriously expensive’ restaurant or, rather more plausibly, frankly, because he had not been invited to see his mother again after almost half a month.

  The sun was already high, sparkling and winking on the bonnet of the car, the fields yellow with sheets of pale narcissus tazetta, the tiny little dwarf ones, which seemed to smother the land at this time of year. There were small flocks of grazing sheep, elderly sheep dogs lying in the shade, aged shepherds sitting with their sticks, a woman in a red dress walking slowly up a track to a house, two small children loitering and pushing each other just behind her. It was a calm, serene, still summer morning. There was time enough here, and no apparent anxiety. Peace, ease, security.

  How then, and when, to tell Giles sitting silent on my right, that his world was shortly to be thrown into turmoil? That his parents were about to divorce? That I would now be returning to England in order to sell up what he had always considered to be his lifetime, and pack it into boxes and storage? That he and his sister Annie were to be ‘shared’ between Helen and me, and that he would have to countenance a new ‘uncle’ who would, this time, not merely intrude into his bathroom but the rest of his life? At least, as far as I knew.

  But it seemed to me wiser, kinder, and altogether essential that I should tell him all this before I went to seal his fate. He ought to know so that, at least, he would not be taken by cruel surprise when the inevitable ‘grown-up time’ had to be shared by him.

  In some odd way, as if he almost knew my slightly anguished dilemma, he suddenly said, ‘Will, would you mind stopping? I want to have a pee.’

  I was so relieved to be given the excuse to halt the car and talk to him that I almost immediately pulled into a small space just along the lane under a tall cypress and a tilted calvary.

  ‘You didn’t say anything rotten! Wow! I was sure you’d say, “Why didn’t you go before we left the hotel?” But you didn’t.’ He got out of the car. I waited for him to return.

  Tell him straight out. That’s what I must do. He was far too intelligent a child for me to evade the facts with euphemisms.

  He pulled the Simca door open, shaking a hand with exaggerated pain. ‘Ouch! Ouch! It’s so hot already. The h
andle is red hot! And do you know? I think I peed right on top of a fat old toad, I think it was a toad, it sort of lumbered slowly into some nettles. It could have been, don’t you think? Or maybe a hedgehog?’

  ‘Giles. Now that we have stopped, and we’re in the shade, I have to have one of those father-and-son talks. And I’m not going to find it easy, so don’t interrupt.’

  ‘About Dottie and Arthur? My French isn’t good enough?’ He shut his door hard.

  ‘I said don’t interrupt. Right? No. It’s not about Dottie and Arthur. It’s about your mother and me. I’ll come right out with it, you have to know soon anyway. Mum and I are separating. We are getting divorced. Okay?’

  He looked out of the car window, away from me, avoiding my, I assume, anxious face. He rubbed a finger along the edge of the wound-down window and said, ‘I know. I knew ages ago.’

  ‘Ages ago? How?’

  ‘Annie. Annie told me. “They’re going to be divorced.” She said that ages ago. Before you came to this place. To France.’

  ‘I see. Well, that saves me a certain amount of trouble. If you know, then, you do. How did she know?’

  ‘She said Mum told her. They talk together, you know. They like each other. Secrets. I know they do. I don’t mind.’

  I sat back, slightly more relaxed, into my seat, stuck my elbow out of the open window, picked at a fingernail. ‘Has it made you very unhappy? You haven’t shown any signs.’

  He suddenly turned and faced me. ‘Well, you didn’t say. So I didn’t know if you knew. You see I didn’t know if you knew about … about Mr McKenna, Mr Price, and Eric. But I did tell you about them. When I arrived. I didn’t know if you would mind.’ He looked helplessly away, stared out of the windscreen. ‘Will it be Eric Rhys-Evans? Do you think it’ll be him and Mum? Do you?’

  ‘I honestly don’t know. I say “honestly” because it’s true. I don’t know. You know more about that than I do. You said his hair spills all over the pillows when he undoes his pig-tail. Right? And that he comes to stay at the house. Takes the key from the bathroom door. You said all that? Correct?’

  He nodded very slowly. Put a hand over his mouth, looked away again.