‘Right,’ I say. ‘So, did you need something earlier?’
Carole frowns at me, so I try French. ‘Vous êtes venue pour quelque chose?’
‘No,’ she says, her eyes flicking again at Distira, who looks back at her blankly.
‘But you came to the house this morning,’ I say, studying her facial expression.
‘I’m sorry,’ she says. ‘I don’t understand you.’
‘Vous êtes venue. À la maison. Chez nous. Ce matin,’ I say, thinking, Oh no, you don’t get away that easily.
‘Non, je ne suis pas venue chez vous.’
‘But I saw you, Carole,’ I tell her.
Carole shakes her head. ‘I don’t know what you mean,’ she says in a voice that would never pass muster in acting school.
‘I don’t mind,’ I tell her. ‘I just wanted to know what you wanted.’
‘I did not,’ she says again.
There doesn’t seem to be anywhere to go from here, so I sigh and turn to leave. But then something possesses me and, disguising it as a joke, I lurch towards Distira’s basket and rip away the tea-towel before she has time to react. The basket contains nothing more than some scary-looking wild mushrooms and some sprigs of bracken.
‘Sorry,’ I say, winking at her and handing the tea-towel back.
The poor dear looks quite outraged, the way she might if I had just pulled her swimming costume off in front of a thousand onlookers.
‘Vous devriez vous occupez de vos oignons,’ she says. You should mind your own onions.
A little unnerved by her anger, I decide to beat a hasty retreat. ‘OK, well, as long as you don’t need anything,’ I say. ‘Au revoir!’
I give the women a little wave as I turn to head back over the hill.
Carole replies with her own, ‘Au revoir,’ but Distira, by now making no pretence to liking me, simply grunts and heads off in the other direction, perhaps to feed her scary mushrooms to her chickens. Or vice versa.
Back at the house, I load some more wood into the range and note that we will have to buy some soon – our stock of scrap wood is fast running out.
I lock the new lock, and turn the key sideways to stop anyone else who might have a key from inserting it. I pull one of the armchairs as close as I can get it to the range, and sit and wait for Victor to call. After an hour, I phone him, but his mobile is off so I leave a message.
At sunset, feeling vaguely freaked out by my morning intruder and the fading light, and particularly alone due to Victor’s absence, I lean outside and pull the big wooden shutters closed for the first time since we have been here.
As I swing the final shutter closed, something flutters to the ground outside, so, after checking left and right for potential assailants, I nip out to pick it up.
What I find is a tarot card with some bracken taped to the back. The bracken has been bent into a rounded loop and tied, and the card, I note, is not one of Carole’s psychedelic cards, but from a more traditional deck.
A shiver goes down my spine but I pick it up gingerly and carry it inside, then quickly lock the front door again.
I sniff the looped bracken on the back – it has no noticeable smell – and carefully place the card upon the table as if it is a bomb that might go off if jolted.
I get my phone out and thinking, Hang the roaming charges, I Google ‘nine of swords tarot meaning’ and click on the first response. As I read, all the hairs on the back of my neck stand up: Suffering, doubt, desolation, illness, injury, death of a loved one, suspicion, cruelty, misery, loss, dishonesty, pitilessness, slander.
And then I see that there are in fact two cards, back to back, one upside down against the other. I peel off the Sellotape holding the bracken in place to reveal The Empress. I do another Google search and the results are even more upsetting: Blocked creativity, frustration, miscarriage, abortion, infertility, loveless sex, prostitute, a barren woman.
I breathe out slowly. Deciding that I will not succumb to random superstition, I grab the card and the bracken, then open the range and throw them inside. I hold my breath until the flames have consumed them.
Superstition aside, the cards reveal something to me that I have long since known in my gut: I am not welcome here. And someone nearby who is superstitious does not wish me well.
THE RIGHT SET OF EARS
Victor finally calls me back just after nine.
‘Babe!’ I exclaim anxiously. ‘I’ve been trying to phone you all day.’
‘I switched the phone off to save the battery. What’s up?’
‘I want you to come back,’ I say. ‘I need you here.’
Victor laughs. ‘I only just got here. And this is going to take a few days. I met the people and they seem nice but—’
‘I don’t feel well,’ I say, still debating how much to tell him. ‘I don’t want to be on my own.’
‘Are you scared?’ Victor asks, almost mockingly. ‘Are you scared all alone in the big empty house?’
‘Yes,’ I say sharply. ‘Actually, I am. Because I caught Carole in the kitchen this morning.’
‘Carole? She’s a bit weird, but she’s not scary,’ Victor says, still apparently amused. ‘What did she want?’
‘She didn’t want anything. She was lurking around and before I could speak to her, she ran away. And now she denies that she was ever here at all.’
Victor sighs heavily. His breath rattles against the microphone of his mobile. ‘What do you mean she denies being there?’
‘Exactly that,’ I say. ‘I heard a noise, someone fiddling around with the food jars, and by the time I got to the kitchen, they had run away. So I ran outside just in time to see Carole.’
‘And what did she say?’
‘She didn’t say anything. She was going into Distira’s by the time I got outside.’
Victor snorts. ‘You’re not making sense,’ he says.
‘She was fiddling around with the coffee jar, I think.’
‘Well, maybe she ran out of coffee,’ Victor says, sounding bored now rather than amused.
‘In which case, she’d say, “Oh! You’re here, CC. Sorry, I ran out of coffee.” Don’t you think?’
‘You’re being ridiculous,’ Victor says. ‘This is that whole poisoning-the-food thing again, isn’t it?’
‘Maybe.’
‘It’s getting out of hand. It’s turning into full-blown paranoia.’
‘Well, you know what they say – just because you’re paranoid doesn’t mean that they aren’t out to get you,’ I say.
‘They?’
‘Distira and Carole.’
‘Oh, for God’s sake.’
‘What’s your explanation, then?’
‘I don’t have one,’ Victor says, sounding irritated. ‘Because I don’t think it happened.’
I pull the phone away from my ear for a moment and glare at it. After a pause, Victor says, ‘Hello? CC?’
‘I can’t believe you just said that,’ I say, returning the phone to my ear. ‘Not to me.’
‘Jesus! Look, I’m sorry. Did you actually see Carole? Did you see her doing something to the coffee?’
‘No, she was back over at Distira’s by the time I—’
‘So you didn’t see her in the house at all?’
‘No, but—’
‘I have spent half the day driving, and half the day boxing up the possessions of my dead parents.’
‘And now I have the neighbours creeping around while I’m asleep and fiddling with the foodstuffs. And it’s creeping me out.’
‘Right,’ Victor says.
‘And a boyfriend who doesn’t even believe me.’
‘I didn’t say that,’ he says. ‘It just sounds, well, a bit unlikely.’
‘You think that sounds unlikely. Try this! I went over to talk to them. To ask what they needed. And I caught the two of them out the back picking weird herbs and these really ugly mushroom things.’
Victor blows out an angry, exaggerated sigh. ‘Oh my Go
d! They were picking mushrooms!’ he says, sarcastically.
‘Yes, but they weren’t normal mushrooms.’
‘Your point being?’
‘Victor, don’t use that tone of voice with me,’ I say.
‘Oh, for fuck’s sake, CC,’ Victor says.
‘And don’t for-fucks-sake me!’ I say, starting to tremble. ‘Ever.’
‘They were picking mushrooms!’ Victor says. ‘What do you want me to say?’
‘OK. And tonight, when I closed the shutters, a tarot card fell down. Explain that.’
‘A tarot card?’
‘A bad one. I looked it up.’
‘Stop,’ Victor says. ‘Just stop now. You’re scaring me.’
‘I’m scaring you?’
‘You sound unhinged.’
‘I sound unhinged? Well, I’m not the one creeping around people’s kitchens and hiding tarot cards behind their shutters.’ I wait for a reply, but when none comes, I say, ‘I said . . .’
‘I heard you,’ Victor says. His voice quivering with anger. ‘But you know what? I can’t deal with this shit right now.’
‘What did you just say to me?’
‘I’m not superman. I’m tired, and I’m upset, and I’ve got lots of stuff going on here that doesn’t seem to interest you much. And I’m sorry about that. But I can’t be doing with any more of this bullshit about my aunt right now.’
I swallow hard and take a deep breath, resisting the urge to cry.
‘CC?’
‘I don’t know what to say to that,’ I answer.
‘To what?’
‘I don’t know what that means. That you can’t “be doing with it”.’
‘You’re a big girl. Bin the bloody tarot card, lock the frigging door. Don’t drink the coffee if you don’t bloody like it. And gimme a fucking break.’
‘Give you a break?’
‘I have actual real stuff to deal with here. So yes. Gimme a break.’
‘OK. I will. And thanks for all the support.’
‘Same to you, darlin’. I’m gonna hang up now,’ Victor says.
‘Not if I hang up first.’ And then I do exactly that.
I sit watching the flames of the range for ten minutes as I contemplate my first ever major row with Victor. And then I steel myself, and dial his number.
‘Yes?’ he says, wearily.
‘I don’t want to row,’ I say, in my softest tone.
‘Nor do I.’
‘I just feel a bit scared,’ I tell him. ‘Because weird things are going on. And I’m alone here.’
‘I know,’ Victor says. ‘But no one is trying to poison you.’
‘. . .’
‘You know that, right?’
‘I’ve been feeling sick for days.’
‘Well maybe you still have a bit of flu. Or maybe it’s something else. Maybe you should see a doctor.’
‘I thought I was dating one,’ I say.
‘Well, if you’re pregnant,’ Victor says, ‘then I might be able to help. In fact, maybe that’s it. Maybe it’s morning—’
‘I’m not pregnant.’
‘Well then.’
My socked feet are getting cold on the flagstones, so I move a chair closer to the fire so that I can toast the soles of my feet. A bit of grass is stuck to my sock, and as I reach to pick it off, it makes me think of something. ‘You know when you found my shoes outside?’ I ask.
‘Yes?’ Victor says, warily.
‘You said they were full of herbs or something.’
‘One was, yeah.’
‘Was it a kind of bracken?’
‘Bracken. I don’t know what that means.’
‘Was it like heather? A bit like lavender? Only not smelly like lavender?’
‘I didn’t sniff it. It came out of your wet shoe . . .’
‘But did it look a bit like lavender?’
‘Maybe. Yes. Maybe, a bit. So what?’
I swallow. ‘Well that’s what was taped to the tarot card,’ I say.
‘What do you mean it was taped to the tarot card?’
‘There were two tarot cards taped together with some bracken. In a loop. And it was wedged behind the window. So maybe it’s some kind of traditional spell or something.’
‘ . . . ’
‘Victor?’
‘Yes, I’m still here . . . but you’re off again.’
‘I’m not off anywhere,’ I say. ‘I’m telling you what happened.’
‘You found a tarot card. Well, it was a tarot card. Now it’s a tarot card mysteriously taped together with a bit of bracken. Which is maybe the same bracken that fell out of your shoe.’
‘Yes.’
‘Well it’s hardly the bloody Twilight Zone, is it, babe?’
‘OK,’ I say.
‘OK?’
‘OK. You’re right. This isn’t working.’
‘What isn’t working?’
‘Let’s just talk tomorrow,’ I say. ‘Goodnight.’
‘Goodnight,’ Victor says. ‘Sleep well.’
I sit fuming for ten minutes, and then mellowing for another ten. A part of me realises that poor Victor has got a lot to deal with, and that I must sound a bit mad. But I’m scared. And it’s hard to control that. Finally thinking that I’m now calmer, and hopefully more able to explain myself, I decide to have another attempt at finding common ground here. Perhaps if I admit that it all sounds utterly unlikely, but point out that it’s quite hurtful to effectively be called a liar . . . maybe we can see where things go from there.
Finding Victor’s mobile is now switched off, effectively precluding any further discussion, I realise that I haven’t calmed down one bit. The inability to continue the discussion leaves me spitting with rage.
I do manage to get to sleep that night, but it’s a restless kind of sleep that allows me to keep one ear tuned for potential intruders. As anyone who has ever been truly spooked, or truly angry, knows, a poor night’s sleep does nothing to temper either, and I awaken feeling wired for a fight.
I wait until ten before I phone Victor, but his mobile just rings lonely before going onto voicemail. He is clearly either busy or still has the hump with me.
When he still hasn’t phoned back two hours later, I try again, and then – a sign of pure desperation – I call my mother in Morocco.
She answers immediately.
‘Mum,’ I say. ‘It’s me.’
‘Well, fancy that!’ she says. ‘You phoning me, for a change!’
‘I’ve got a problem, Mum. I need to run it by you.’
‘I might have guessed that it wouldn’t be to ask how I am!’ she says. ‘But as it happens, it’s perfect timing, darling, because I need to talk to you about dates. I’m thinking April sometime, so I need to know if you’ll be free to come and help. I’d need you around for at least a week, maybe two. I know it’s short notice but, well, you knew it was coming, didn’t you? We—’
‘Mum!’ I interrupt. ‘I’m having problems with Victor. I need to talk to you. It’s important.’
‘Whereas my wedding is hardly worth a mention? Did I really bring you up to be this selfish? Because I’m sure I didn’t.’
‘I’m sorry, Mum. It’s just I’m in a fix. I really am.’
‘So answer my question and then we can get back to talking about you again. How does that sound?’ she says.
I rub my brow and wonder how much this is costing, and wonder if Victor is right now trying to call me back. ‘I thought it was all postponed, anyway,’ I say. ‘Because of his family. Because you’re not Muslim.’
‘Whatever gave you that idea? No, we want to move forward as soon as we can. Everyone here is being beastly to him now, and frankly I’m not enjoying it like I used to. So we want to get on and get married and get long-stay visas sorted out so that he can just live permanently in England. But I will need your help with the wedding, darling. You’re such a good organiser. So, April? Can you?’
‘I don’t know,’ I say. ‘I�
��m not sure where I’ll be in April. Here, presumably. And Victor might need me.’
My mother laughs sourly. ‘Well, thank you, darling,’ she says. ‘It’s so wonderful to be able to count on your only surviving child.’
Realising that she’s probably right, and that the only way we are ever going to be able to talk about my problems is for me to capitulate anyway, that’s exactly what I do. ‘You’re right,’ I say. ‘I’m sorry. I’m just . . . distracted. Of course I’ll be there.’
‘Well, thanks be!’ she says. ‘I was thinking that we could book a little country house somewhere. Nothing grand, but seeing as there’s no church wedding—’
‘MUM!’ I shriek. ‘Please! I know it’s important. But not today. I’m in a fix. And I can’t be doing with this right now.’ I pull a face as I remember Victor saying almost those exact words.
‘Go on then,’ she says, after a sobering pause. ‘What’s happened?’
And so I tell her. I tell her about Distira and Carole and her dodgy stew, and the funny-tasting coffee and being sick, and having swine flu, and guardian angels and missing doctors and tarot cards behind the shutters and Victor’s dismissive attitude . . . And as I tell her, I can hear my own voice through her ears, and even I would have to admit that it does all sound entirely ridiculous.
‘Well?’ I prompt, once I have finished.
Mother is remaining unusually silent and I fear that the line may have gone dead.
‘I don’t know what to say, really,’ she says. A first.
‘Try, Mum,’ I plead.
‘You’ll only get annoyed with me,’ she says.
‘I won’t. I need your advice.’
‘Well, it sounds like you’re quite hysterical, dear.’
‘Hysterical?’
‘Yes. I have never heard so much nonsense in my life. Do you remember when you were convinced that the airing cupboard was haunted because the pipes creaked when the heating was on?’
‘Mum,’ I protest, ‘I was about seven.’
‘Ten, more like. But that’s what this sounds like to me. A load of old codswallop. I’m not surprised poor Victor’s lost patience with it all. And his aunt, sweetheart. You can’t get between a Frenchman and his family. Everyone knows that.’
‘So what should I do? Just apologise? Tell him I’ve been silly?’
The French House Page 22
