The Wild Land

by Isobel Chace

  Charles grinned at her.

  “All right. See you at lunch.”

  She turned and edged her way down to the ladder, pausing at the top.

  “We really are going out to look at the land,” she said. “I’m not just trying to get out of the work.”

  Charles looked down at her. She could see the long line of his jaw quite clearly and the way his flesh was moulded tightly over his high cheekbones.

  “I didn’t think you were,” he said calmly.

  It was astonishing how far one could see from the top of the ladder. The flat land stretched out for mile upon mile to where it met the sky at the horizon. There was Marie-Françoise again, she noticed, out riding on her chestnut—and coming this way! She went slowly down the ladder and turned away to the house. It was quite obvious to her that the French girl had come over to be with Charles.

  But she was unprepared for the hurtling speed with which the French girl approached. The horse had run away with her, she thought. But Marie-Françoise had the stallion tightly under control and came to a standing stop just beside the unfinished cabin in a flurry of stumbling hooves.

  Charles came rushing down the ladder and with a strong hand caught at the bridle and held firmly on to the quivering horse.

  “What the devil do you think you’re doing?” he demanded. “Are you trying to kill yourself?”

  “Perhaps I am!” she agreed. “Oh, Charles, I am so miserable! It is Papa. He has sold the house and we have nowhere to go. He says I must leave him!” She slid off her horse into his arms and buried her face into his shoulder. His arms went tightly round her, and Emma didn’t wait to see more. She turned abruptly and hurried into the house.

  Madame Yourievska was still in her room, sitting on the edge of her bed and putting the last touches to the dress she was making for Emma.

  “I come,” she said as soon as she saw her granddaughter.

  Emma looked at the dress, beautifully made, with the heavily encrusted embroidery standing out on the cloth in rich-looking patterns.

  “You’ve finished it!” she exclaimed.

  Oh, but her grandmother had been clever! It was stiff with beading and the thread, and yet it was not an evening dress. Of course it could be worn as such, but it was quite suitable for the daytime also.

  “It’s beautiful, Grand’mere!” Emma sighed. “I can’t thank you enough.” She gave her grandmother a quick kiss and went back to looking at the intricacies of the design of the embroidery.

  “It is good that you like it,” Madame said, pleased by her granddaughter’s reaction, and then more anxiously: “Will Charles, do you think?”

  Emma was silent.

  “I made it for him, not for this Sam McGuire,” Madame went on relentlessly.

  Emma laughed breathlessly.

  “And here was I thinking you had made it for me!” she joked.

  Her grandmother was not so easily put off, however.

  “What is all this about his not letting you borrow any tools?” she demanded. “I think you must have misunderstood. I shall go down and ask him myself, while you have some breakfast. Ah yes, I know you had none this morning! Jeanne is making some coffee for you now.”

  Emma gave her a look of amused exasperation.

  “Not now, Grand’mere. I mean not now to ask Charles. Marie-Françoise has just ridden over with some bad news about her father, and he’s sorting it all out.”

  Her grandmother’s eyes sparkled.

  “All the more reason to go now,” she said. “He will be so involved, he will let us take what we like!”

  Emma chuckled.

  “I must say I don’t see why you shouldn’t take your own tools, come to that,” she said.

  “Mmm, yes—well, I think we had better ask,” Madame temporized. “You go and eat your breakfast.”

  A little doubtfully, Emma did as she was bid. She could hear Jeanne singing and wondered what it was that had made her so happy, for happy she was, there was no doubt about that. She looked up when Emma came into the kitchen, her eyes soft and radiant.

  “Jean-Claude has asked me to ride with him in the Whitsun Parade,” she confided shyly, unable to keep it to herself for an instant longer. “I shall wear my mother’s Arlesienne dress and ride up behind him for all to see. It will be wonderful!”

  Emma forced a smile. It seemed that everybody had reason for happiness this morning except herself—and Marie-Françoise; and even the French girl had Charles to sort out her problems.

  “Tell me about the parade,” she said.

  Willingly Jeanne launched into a description. Dreamily she described the various local costumes, the musical instruments, the color and the dancing.

  “It is the biggest day of the year in Arles,” she ended. “Everybody goes! It is well Madame has almost finished your own dress, n’est-ce pas? You will go with Monsieur Charles, of course?”

  She whirled out of the kitchen without waiting for an answer, leaving Emma to finish her breakfast. A moment later she was back, with her eyes as wide as saucers.

  “Mademoiselle! Monsieur Clement has come!”

  “Monsieur Clement?” Emma swallowed bravely. “Where is he, Jeanne?”

  The maid shivered.

  “I left him at the door,” she confessed. “Shall I call Madame?”

  Emma straightened her back.

  “Not yet. I’ll see him first myself,” she said. And she went out into the hallway.

  Monsieur Clement was drunk. It was not immediately apparent, but he was quite definitely drunk. There was that slight difficulty in focusing his eyes on her and the slowness with which he recognized her.

  “Good morning, monsieur,” Emma greeted him coldly.

  He snorted angrily down his nose.

  “Where is my daughter?”

  Emma drew herself up, unconsciously emulating her grandmother at her most dignified.

  “How should I know?” she retorted.

  “Whom else would she come to see here? Your grandmother? I think not! She is afraid of the old lady. The more so now Madame thinks she is trying to make trouble between you!” He pushed past her into the hall and went straight into the salon. “She is not here!” he cried out angrily. “Where have you hidden her?”

  “I have not hidden her,” Emma said clearly. She was shaken by the knowledge that Marie-Françoise had confided in her father. She had not thought they were on those kind of terms. It sickened her to think that the other girl had nobody besides this horrible old man—and Charles, she reminded herself. And Charles!

  “You can see for yourself, monsieur, she is not here.”

  “Not here perhaps, but somewhere!” he insisted. “I demand to see her immediately. She is my daughter! She cannot abandon me in my old age! I, who have done everything for her! It is not right!” He pounded the table with his fist until Emma thought he would break it. “It isn’t right!”

  “What do you want her to do?” Emma asked.

  “She must support me! I have supported her all these years. For what other reason does one have children?”

  “But why do you suppose that she has left you?” Emma asked. “She has probably only gone out for a ride.”

  Monsieur Clement snuffled, looking suddenly sly.

  “So you have seen her!” he pounced. “You knew she had taken the horse. And it is worth money. Money, my girl! My money!”

  Emma felt sick. Marie-Françoise had told Charles that her father had told her she must leave him, and now it seemed he wanted her back for the price of her horse! Poor Marie-Françoise!

  “I think you’d better go,” she said.

  He leered at her.

  “Go? Before you have offered me a drink?”

  “I am not going to offer you a drink,” Emma told him, feeling very English and more than a little puritanical. “I think you’ve already had more than enough.” He laughed loudly, and Jeanne appeared immediately in the doorway.

  “I shall tell Madame you are here, monsieur
.”

  He swung round and looked at the maid.

  “I shall be happy to see Madame!” he said nastily. Jeanne disappeared again and Emma could hear her hurrying up the stairs to her grandmother. They were all frightened, she realized, frightened of this beastly man.

  “And where is Charles?” he asked her. “The handsome Charles, to whom you have lost your heart, no? You should be more careful, mademoiselle, my own daughter is not competition to be despised! Or are you so generous that you will allow her to have him?”

  “I think it’s none of your business,” Emma said weakly.

  He laughed again.

  “But it is just as necessary for you to marry him,” he told her. “Didn’t you know?”

  But Emma was saved from having to answer as her grandmother swept into the room.

  “My granddaughter knows all that it is necessary for her to know!” Madame Yourievska said regally. “Your added information is not required.” Her eyes rose to his tattered blue beret and dropped again. To Emma’s surprise Monsieur Clement removed it and stood creasing it and re-creasing it between his hands.

  “Bonjour, madame,” he bowed. With his eyes cast down he looked nothing more than a rather decrepit, grubby old man. His head was quite bald and little black lines of grime criss-crossed their way across his skin, engrained by long contact with his filthy beret.

  “Is there something we can do for you?” Madame asked him.

  He snuffled down his nose.

  “I came over to see if my daughter is here,” he muttered. “I’ve sold the house and the rest of the land.”

  “Indeed? To the rice co-operatives, I suppose?”

  He shook his head.

  “Not that you’ll be any better pleased.”

  “He wants Marie-Françoise’s horse!” Emma burst out in English. “It’s worth money, you see. I don’t believe he cares what’s happened to Marie-Françoise herself!”

  “Hush.” said her grandmother. “If I see your daughter, monsieur, I shall of course send her home. But she is no longer a child to be ordered here and there. She may not wish to return. Have you thought of this?”

  Monsieur Clement grinned.

  “She will want to when she thinks about it,” he said certainly.

  “Good, then I don’t think we need detain you further,” Madame said quietly. “Jeanne will see you out.”

  He threw her a malevolent look. He hates her, Emma thought, and wondered why. She herself was afraid of him. Afraid of what he could do to them. It seemed to her that he brought nothing but trouble, and she felt strangely vulnerable and unprotected because Charles, of course, would be looking after Marie-Françoise.

  There was a moment’s silence after he had gone and then she turned to her grandmother.

  “Marie-Françoise is with Charles,” she said flatly. “She told him her father had told her she must leave him.”

  Madame nodded matter-of-factly.

  “She would, of course,” she said gently. “Charles has a soft heart. And, just possibly, it may be true. Come, we shall go and find them and see what is to be done.”

  They went out to the cabane where Charles was still painting the roof.

  “Have you come back to do some more?” he grinned down at Emma.

  “Where is Marie-Françoise?” Madame demanded.

  Charles’ eyes twinkled.

  “I’ve told her she can have the temporary use of my cabin,” he said casually.

  “But that is ridiculous!” Madame exclaimed. “She must come up to the house, or go to an hotel in Arles.”

  Charles painted the edge of the roof with finicky care. “I don’t think she can afford an hotel,” he said.

  “But she can’t sleep out!” Emma protested. “Her father could easily break into your cabin. It wouldn’t be safe!”

  He looked at her with appreciation. “She’ll be quite safe,” he assured her.

  “It is too much!” Madame said indignantly.

  A touch of amusement crossed his face.

  “You will not be bothered with her, Tante Marrsha. Why do you both worry so much? Don’t you trust me?”

  “And where—where will you sleep?” Emma asked him.

  His lips twitched.

  “I, ma chère? I shall sleep over at Monsieur Clement’s house. There is a great deal of work to be done. The whole place needs re-painting, for a start.”

  “But why should you do it?”

  He laughed.

  “You can say that it amuses me to,” he said lightly. “Will you come and help me? There are colors to choose and materials for the curtains. All sorts of things.”

  “Do you know the new owner?” Emma asked him suspiciously.

  He looked at her thoughtfully.

  “Why, yes,” he admitted. “Rather well!”

  “As well as you know yourself?”

  Amusement flickered once more across his face.

  “I wouldn’t presume to say as well as that!” he retorted. His eyes met hers squarely and she was no longer certain that he was the new owner. Perhaps he really did have a friend who had bought the place.

  “I should ask Marie-Françoise to help you!” she said loftily. “Grand’mere and I will be busy with my own land.”

  The amusement was wiped off his face, leaving it suddenly stern.

  “Perhaps I shall,” he said briefly.

  It was ridiculous to be hurt by his ready acceptance of her own idea, but she was hurt, hurt to the quick.

  “If you really want me—” she began.

  “Certainly not. As you so rightly say, you will have enough to do on your own land.” He finished off the painting and came down the ladder to join them. “Well, Tante Marrsha? Does it meet with your approval?” Madame inspected the cabin with critical eyes.

  “It will do,” she agreed. “Charles, has Monsieur Clement left the Camargue, that you can move into his house?” She looked tired and rather small, as though the events of the morning had been too much for her.

  Charles looked down at her with affectionate concern.

  “He goes today,” he said. “There is no need to fret, my dear. He has finished with the Camargue.”

  “And Marie-Françoise—?”

  “Marie-Françoise must make her own decisions. All we can do is to make it possible for her to do so without having to worry about her father.”

  Madame sighed.

  “Perhaps you are right,” she said doubtfully. “But it will be a difficult time for us all.”

  “But we shall manage!” he encouraged her.

  “If you say so, mon fils,” she agreed, and they exchanged glances of complete understanding, making Emma feel cold and rather left out.

  They all walked together towards the stables and there Charles left them to go about his own business. Madame watched him go, her affection for him plain to see in her eyes.

  “You were not very clever to refuse to help him,” she said to Emma. “He is not the kind of man to ask you twice.”

  Emma didn’t answer. She picked up a blanket and her saddle and walked purposefully towards the mare. It seemed to her that latterly she hadn’t been very clever about anything at all!

  They walked out part of the way and then mounted and rode cautiously round the edges of an etang and made towards the bright green of the lucerne. As it had done before, it came as a shock to see the sudden change in the land as they left the Mas Camarica. The wild land changed to a dead and dreary waste. Was this what she had bought? Emma looked about her with dismay. Dead trees lay half buried in mud, and the tamarisk bushes appeared to have been scorched in a recent fire. There was nothing properly alive anywhere to be seen.

  “No cattle could possibly survive here, could they?” she asked her grandmother, with a decided break in her voice.

  Madame dismounted and kicked at the ground with the heel of her boot.

  “It is no worse than the Mas Camarica was when I first came here. It wants clearing and some cattle on it, and a
great deal of love.”

  Emma giggled.

  “Love?” she repeated.

  “But of course! Everything requires love. Land is not something inanimate, like a stone. It is a million living things all working together. Naturally it is necessary to give it love!”

  Emma slid down from the saddle and tied her reins to a handy little tree that was still standing. Little clouds of dust came and went in the wind, getting into her eyes and the folds of her clothes.

  “We’ll never move those trees by ourselves!” she said.

  “It isn’t impossible,” her grandmother said thoughtfully. “We could put a chain round them and let the horses drag them out. They’ll make good firewood for next winter.”

  “What? Take them all the way back to the manade?”

  “They’ll not be so heavy when they’ve dried out. Charles can winch them up on to a cart, and then it will be quite simple.”

  Emma looked stubborn.

  “I shouldn’t dream of asking Charles!” she said proudly.

  Madame merely looked amused.

  “I remember saying exactly the same thing once,” she said sardonically. “He bought some land next door to mine and appeared quite content to exist in a cabane, working the land all day. Of course he planted rice wherever he could and had cattle—great, splendid bulls that put my own to shame—where the rice wouldn’t grow. Naturally we began to compete. Then, after a while, he offered to help me out. I couldn’t afford to pay much and so I refused to accept any help at all. In the end it was Charles who saved my face by offering a partnership.”

  “But you had far more land to offer,” Emma pointed out.

  “Indeed I had not! Charles bought land wherever it became available, and he made vast profits with his rice. After the war the prices were very good, with large subsidiaries from the government. I had very little capital after the war. If the bulls are not used in the Courses Libres they do not bring in any money, and I was too stubborn to change. A stubbornness that you have inherited, it would seem!” She nodded defiantly at Emma. “It was my vineyards that kept me going at that time. I had nothing else.”

  “But you won’t grow rice now!” Emma exclaimed.

  “Never! I shall never grow rice!” Her grandmother’s eyes flashed. “And Charles respects my wishes. He has enough land elsewhere on which to grow his grain.”