The French House

by Nick Alexander

  ‘No,’ I say. ‘There’s a wild tabby. She was pregnant. I only saw her once, to be honest, but every time I put food out it vanishes pretty quickly. She’s feeding her kittens, I expect.’

  ‘Guinness will be jealous,’ Mark says.

  ‘Well, just don’t tell him.’

  I offer him lunch which he declines, so I make tea instead, using his bottled water.

  While I do this he crosses to the sink and declares, ‘You’re right. It’s rank.’

  ‘The house?’ I ask.

  ‘No, the water,’ he says. ‘But the house is in a bit of a state too, isn’t it?’

  ‘I know. It actually looked better three weeks ago before the digger guy wrecked the yard and knocked down half the walls.’ I drop two teabags in mugs and pull out the two chairs nearest the range. ‘So what the hell are you doing here, Mark?’

  He slides into a seat. ‘Nice range,’ he says.

  ‘Isn’t it.’

  ‘What am I doing here? Well, I had a barney with Iain. We were going to Wales to his sister’s place, but he left on his own. So I thought, What to do with a long weekend? I’ll go see my friend CC.’

  ‘You are brilliant, you know,’ I say.

  ‘Plus you sounded like you could do with the company.’

  ‘You have no idea.’

  ‘And water.’

  ‘Well quite,’ I say, jumping back up to pour the boiling water into the cups. ‘The flight must have cost a fortune though, didn’t it?’

  ‘It was OK. A hundred and twenty quid. The car rental cost more. But I don’t care at the moment. Since I left Spot On, I’m earning loads. And I don’t even have any housing costs – Iain won’t let me contribute anything, so . . . Anyway, when’s Victor back?’

  I return to the table and plonk down the two steaming mugs of tea. ‘I have no idea. He’s got the hump with me. Big time. He’s not even taking my calls. He thinks I’m turning into a hysterical nightmare.’

  ‘Turning into . . .?’ Mark says. When I frown at this he adds, ‘Joke, sweetie!’

  ‘Sorry. I think I lost my sense of humour lately.’

  ‘Well, swine flu and collapsing houses will do that to you,’ Mark says. ‘So Victor’s still not answering then.’

  I shake my head. ‘I tried again just before you arrived. I hope he’s OK. I’m quite worried, to be honest. God, I still can’t believe that you’re here!’

  ‘Maybe we should go see him. I have a car, after all.’

  ‘To Perpignan? It’s six hours each way.’

  ‘Oh. I didn’t realise. That would probably take me over my one hundred kilometres a day then.’

  ‘Yes. I think it would a bit. How long are you here for?’

  ‘Just two nights. If that’s OK. Otherwise I can find a hotel.’

  ‘God, no! I need the company sooo much. I don’t know how to tell you how grateful I am.’

  ‘Don’t start blubbing again,’ Mark says, placing his hand over mine on the table.

  ‘I’m fine,’ I say. ‘It’s just so . . . so . . .’

  ‘Grim?’

  ‘It is, isn’t it?’

  Mark nods solemnly.

  ‘But isolated is what I meant,’ I say, looking around the house now and seeing through fresh eyes what Mark is seeing – the sordid reality of it all.

  ‘I can’t believe that he has left you here like this,’ Mark says.

  I sigh. ‘I know. But he had to go. And I was ill. Anyway . . .’ I shrug.

  ‘It’s nice and sunny, though,’ Mark says. ‘It’s pissing it down in London.’

  ‘It is actually sunny most days,’ I say. ‘Just incredibly cold at night.’

  ‘D’you want to go for a walk or something? I’ve been sitting down all day. Trains and planes and cars.’

  ‘Sure,’ I say. ‘Let’s drink this and go. It will do me good.’

  It is a stunningly crisp day, and it is in some way proof of how miserable I have been feeling that I hadn’t really noticed that until now.

  Not wanting to approach Distira’s place, we clamber up the hill behind our own farm and discover a similar track to hers winding its way into our land. We follow the track up a hillock, across a barren plateau, and on up another climb beyond that.

  ‘So is this still your land?’ Mark asks.

  ‘I don’t even know,’ I tell him. ‘We never even walked this far before. Victor knows where our land ends from the deeds, but I’m not sure, to be honest.’

  Coming across a little ledge, we pause to look out at the view, which stretches from the distant rocky outcrops on the other side of the valley to the plateau on which the two houses are built.

  ‘Now, that’s a view!’ Mark says.

  ‘It’s beautiful, isn’t it?’

  ‘I couldn’t live here, though.’

  ‘Hmm,’ I murmur.

  Mark laughs. ‘You’re not regretting this, are you?’

  ‘A bit,’ I admit.

  ‘Oh dear.’

  ‘Oh, I don’t know, to be honest. What with being ill and Victor being a dick, it gets hard to separate it all out.’

  ‘You’d think what with him being a doctor and everything, he’d be a bit more sympathetic,’ Mark says.

  ‘I know,’ I agree, taking his hand so that he can help me up a steep section of the track. ‘He didn’t even look after me much when I was ill, really. He was having a terrible time rebuilding the walls and he just thought I had the flu. And he kind of thought Distira was looking after me, I think. He’s just a bit of a low-maintenance kind of a doctor, I guess.’

  ‘Whereas you’re a high-maintenance kind of patient?’

  ‘Maybe. I mean, he’s not even a doctor really, is he? He’s a gynaecologist. But all the same . . .’

  ‘Maybe that’s the problem,’ Mark says. ‘Maybe it’s like garage owners having rubbish cars. Or cobblers having holes in their shoes.’

  ‘Or gynaecologists having badly-maintained girlfriends?’

  ‘Exactly. Anyway, they’re all dickheads at some point.’ He pauses and points up at the ridge above us. ‘Shall we go up there?’

  ‘Sure,’ I say. ‘Slowly, though. I’m a bit out of breath. So what’s going on with Iain, anyway?’

  ‘Oh, it’s complicated,’ Mark says.

  ‘What isn’t?’

  ‘He’s shagging around.’

  ‘God, he’s cheating on you? Already?’

  Mark glances back at me and smiles glumly. ‘Not really. Not cheating per se.’

  ‘What does that mean?’

  ‘Well, we agreed that it was OK. So it’s not really cheating.’

  ‘Oh,’ I say. ‘And is that OK? For you, I mean.’

  ‘No, that’s the problem. I agreed to it, but I hate it. I get so jealous that even when he isn’t out shagging someone else, I still behave like he is. It’s awful.’

  ‘God, that’s terrible, Mark. You can’t put up with that. Have you spoken to him about it?’

  ‘I . . . I’ll tell you later,’ he says. ‘I can’t climb this hill and talk at the same time. Well, not without dying, anyway.’

  Just before the final rocky outcrop we come upon a tiny brook. Though only a foot wide, the gargling water has carved a deep channel into the ground as it winds its way down the hillside, and running alongside is a thick black plastic tube, tied, at various points, to trees.

  ‘D’you reckon this is where your stinky water comes from?’ Mark asks.

  ‘Maybe,’ I say, starting to follow the little stream upwards by walking with one foot either side.

  When we reach the final crop-face, the stream and pipe vanish into a tiny cave that appears to be the source. I peer inside. The water – fresh and sparking – is bubbling from amid the broken rock on the floor of the cave.

  ‘How does that work?’ I ask, pointing.

  Mark laughs. ‘What do you mean, “How does it work?” It’s a natural spring.’

  ‘I know that,’ I say. ‘I’m just not that good on how natural
springs work. I mean, we’re at the top of the hill here. How can water flow out of the top of the hill?’

  I turn to look back at Mark and he pulls a face. ‘Sorry, but I don’t know either,’ he says, sheepishly.

  ‘Anyway, this can’t be our water,’ I say, scooping a handful and sniffing it. ‘This stuff’s lovely and clean.’

  ‘Shall we go back?’ Mark asks, suddenly sounding bored. ‘I’m starving.’

  I stand up. ‘I did offer you lunch,’ I say.

  ‘I know. I wasn’t hungry then. But I am now. Must be all this fresh air.’

  Walking down the track is for some reason much harder than walking up. The shattered rock strewn across the track slithers and slides beneath our feet in a completely unnerving way, so we end up holding hands for much of the descent.

  Halfway down, something to our immediate left rustles the branches. We both freeze and stare in the direction the sound came from. After a few seconds I say, ‘Probably a deer. We see lots of those around here.’

  ‘Wow,’ Mark says. ‘I would love to see a deer. Are they dangerous?’

  ‘No. But the wild boar can be, apparently. Especially when they have their young.’

  ‘You sound like a proper country girl,’ Mark says.

  ‘Do I?’ I laugh, feeling strangely flattered by the comment.

  ‘What’s that grey thing over there?’

  I follow the direction of his gaze and spot a grey rectangle in the undergrowth. ‘I don’t know. An old water tank, maybe?’

  ‘Maybe,’ Mark agrees. ‘I guess that needs investigating then.’

  He clambers up onto the ledge and holds out one hand to pull me up. ‘It’s really overgrown,’ he says. ‘Stay here and I’ll try to see what it is. It might just be something someone dumped.’

  He fights his way through the brush and shouts back, ‘There’s definitely water pipes going into it, so it might be something to do with yours.’

  He lifts the lid and shouts, ‘Phaww!’ and drops it with a metallic clang. ‘God, it stinks.’

  I push through the undergrowth to his side and pull my phone from my pocket and press the torch button on it.

  ‘Can you lift that lid up again?’

  ‘Do I have to?’

  ‘Stop being such a poof, will you?’

  ‘Says big, butch CC,’ he says in an over-the-top camp voice. ‘Ugh! Fuck it’s heavy. Quick.’

  I crouch down and point my phone through the gap. ‘It’s the same smell. Can you lift that lid right off?’

  Mark pulls a face. ‘The smell’s making me retch,’ he says. ‘And it’s really heavy.’

  I drop the phone into my pocket and take the other side of the lid. ‘One, two, three . . .’ I say, and the heavy lid lifts and slides uncontrollably into the undergrowth.

  I recover my phone and point the torch into the water. ‘There’s something in there,’ I say, glancing at Mark who is covering his nose with his jacket sleeve.

  I look around and find a broken branch with which I manage to hook one corner of the object – a hessian sack – from the depths.

  ‘D’you want it out?’ Mark says.

  ‘Yes. If you’re man enough.’

  ‘God, the things I do for you!’ he laughs, pushing up one sleeve and grabbing the other corner of the bag. ‘Stand back,’ he says, lifting the bag from the tank and slopping it onto the grass.

  I crouch down and undo the knotted string fastening the neck.

  ‘You’re not going to open it?’ he says. ‘You don’t know what’s inside.’

  ‘I know. But I want to know what’s inside,’ I say. ‘That’s the exact smell coming out of the tap. I’ve been living with that smell for days. Every shower. Every drink . . .’

  The slippery string comes away, and so I open the neck of the bag and point my torch inside, and what I see makes me jump back so fast that I fall onto Mark’s feet behind me. ‘Jesus!’ I exclaim.

  ‘What is it?’ he asks, touching my shoulder lightly.

  ‘It’s . . .’ But then I decide that I need a witness for this. ‘Have a look, will you? But hold your breath!’

  ‘I’d rather not,’ Mark says. ‘You’re scaring me.’

  I gingerly grab the base of the bag and, standing as far back as possible, I tip the contents onto the grass.

  ‘Oh, fucking hell,’ Mark says, turning away. ‘Oh, God, that’s the worst thing I have ever seen.’

  ‘I know,’ I say. ‘I think I might throw up.’

  ‘They’re . . . aren’t they?’

  ‘Yes,’ I say, raising my phone. ‘They are. Five of them.’

  ‘You’re not going to photograph the poor fuckers.’

  ‘I have a boyfriend who doesn’t believe anything I say,’ I tell him. ‘So yes, I’m photographing them.’

  I point the camera at the tiny rotting animals with their ten swollen eyes, lying next to the bag in which they were drowned, and then retreat.

  ‘God, that’s horrible,’ Mark says, looking green. He jumps back onto the track and offers me a hand. ‘That’s really sick. Who the fuck would do something like that?’

  ‘Well, there are only three people living up here, and it wasn’t me, and it wasn’t Victor.’

  ‘The witch?’ Mark asks.

  But I don’t answer, because I’m thinking about washing this slime off my hands when I get home and realising that I can’t because our water comes from here, and so every shower I have taken, every glass of water that I have drunk, every bowl of pasta that I have eaten, has contained particles of rotten, dead kitten.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ I say. ‘But I . . .’ And then I turn and vomit into the bushes.

  Back inside the house, I open all the taps in the hope of flushing the pipes clean.

  ‘I reckon it’ll take more than that,’ Mark says. ‘I think you need a new tank.’

  ‘I know,’ I agree. ‘But in the meantime, if I can just flush out the gunk that’s in the system, at least I can shower in vaguely clean water.’

  ‘Gunk,’ Mark repeats, and we stare into each other’s eyes for a moment as we think about what that gunk is comprised of.

  ‘I could go back up there and pour some bleach in, I guess,’ I say.

  ‘It’s an idea.’

  Despite the fact that we have lost our appetites again, I make a simple lunch of cheese on toast and, this served, I reach for my phone.

  Then I call Victor. Once again, his mobile rings into the void before switching to voicemail. ‘Damn you!’ I say, putting the phone down and reaching for a slice of toast.

  ‘Still not answering?’ Mark says.

  ‘Nope. His phone’s on but he’s filtering me. Unbelievable.’

  ‘I doubt he’s filtering you,’ Mark says. ‘Maybe he’s busy. Give me the number. Let me try.’

  I jab at my phone until the number comes up on the screen and then slide it across the table to Mark, who types it into his iPhone.

  ‘If he answers to you but not me, I’ll be furious,’ I say.

  Mark lifts the phone to his ear. ‘Victor?’ he says. ‘Yes, it’s Mark. Guess where I am.’

  I cover my mouth with one hand and shake my head slowly.

  ‘No, I’m sitting opposite your lovely girlfriend . . . Yes, I know. But she wants to talk to you . . . Yes, I’m in France. At your place, that’s right. Anyway, I think you two need to talk. I’ll hand you over.’

  Mark hands me the phone and makes meditational circles with his fingers and thumbs to indicate that I should be Zen.

  ‘Hello?’ I say, trying to keep the angry tremble out of my voice.

  ‘Hi.’

  ‘You’ve not been taking my calls. I’ve been worried,’ I say.

  ‘I’m sorry. I’m just so stressed out at this end. It’s horrible having to do all this.’

  ‘I know that,’ I say, ‘but it’s not fair. I haven’t done anything wrong.’

  ‘I guess I thought we needed some time to calm down.’

  ‘I’m perfectly
calm,’ I say – a lie, of course.

  ‘Well, I needed time to calm down then.’

  ‘So how’s it all going?’ I ask – an attempt at normalising the conversation before I bring up the challenging subject of the water supply.

  ‘Oh, it’s slow. You know how these things are. I’m waiting for the advocat, the lawyer or whatever, to draw up a contract. The brocanteurs didn’t want much of the stuff, so I’m organising shifting it into storage for now.’

  ‘So when will you be home?’

  ‘Hopefully the day after tomorrow. If everything goes to plan. But you have Mark staying now, so that’s good.’

  ‘Yes,’ I say. ‘He just got here.’

  ‘Does he like the place?’

  ‘Erm, yes, I think so. We, um, went for a walk. On the hill above our house, this time.’

  ‘That’s our land. Nice, isn’t it? Is the weather good?’

  ‘Yes, it’s sunny but cold. Guess what we found, though?’

  ‘I don’t know. Gold?’

  ‘No, I wish. No, we found the water tank that feeds our place.’

  ‘Right. And?’

  ‘Someone had dumped some kittens in it.’

  ‘I’m sorry?’

  ‘There was a bag floating in the tank. We fished it out. It had five dead kittens in it.’

  ‘Yuck, that’s gross.’

  ‘I know. I think they might have been the babies from that poor cat we saw, the one I’ve been feeding. Do you remember?’

  ‘Sure. Are you sure it’s our tank?’

  ‘Yes. The smell was the same as the tap water.’

  ‘Well, I never smelt anything wrong with the tap water.’

  ‘Well, I did.’

  ‘Right. So did you take them out?’

  ‘No. I left them in. Of course I took them out!’

  ‘Right. There’s no need to be . . . Anyway. Good.’

  ‘But I think we need a new tank.’

  ‘Yep. Well, I’ll look into it when I get back.’

  ‘And some different neighbours.’

  Silence.

  ‘Victor?’

  ‘Yep, still here.’

  ‘Well, you understand what this means?’

  ‘What what means?’

  ‘Finding dead kittens in the tank.’

  ‘No. What does it mean?’ he says.

  ‘Well, someone put them in there.’

  ‘Yes. I would suppose so.’