Kingfisher Tide

by Jane Arbor

For Marie had taken them firmly under her wing, the pay they had agreed upon bearing no relation to the number of hours she put in. Marie did her paper-round, cared for her own family, often joined her daughter in a scrub-clearing session, and could still juggle sufficiently with time to clean and cook and launder for Rose and Sylvie.

  From her they heard Maurinaire's gossip ahead of most people. But her tongue was not evil; it shredded no reputations. Her loyalty to the Chateau was all embracing—she loved Blaise uncritically, Madame Saint-Guy was 'an angel' and her son 'a true man of honour.'

  Only one happy circumstance was lacking there, Marie claimed. The marriage of `M'sieur.' When that happened all Maurinaire would be en fête. It was possible too they would not have to wait long for such news. Madame Michelet would have been a widow for two years by the end of the summer and was still unattached, for all her wealth and charm.

  "Ah yes," Marie's confident nod concluded, "I think one may depend upon it that before the winter she will be going up to the Chateau to become one of us."

  Other gossip in the town was less kindly. As Rose entered the baker's one day Flore was on the point of slamming out with the parting shot that the

  Briands had had the last of her custom. Madame Briand's retort was equally peppery, and her mutinous frown did not lift as she served her next customer with bread rolls and plum tartlets.

  "That one !" spat Madame Briand. "If she were the President himself she could not demand more service ! Her 'custom' indeed ! What is it, if you please? Nothing—but nothing—except when her fine patisserie in St. Tropez lets her down ! Then only she comes to us, asking Briand to drop his honest bread-making to concoct fancifuls of confectionery to her command ! And to think, Madame Dore, that soon we may have her as our chatelaine! For, don't doubt it, she means to have M'sieur. 'What woman wills, God wills'—as we say. And warm-pursed though she may be by her first husband, Saint-Guy is a prouder name than Michelet, as she is well aware. Ah, mademoiselle—?" And Madame Briand's thunderous expression lightened and cleared at the sight of Rose.

  That was the day on which Rose returned to the shop to find Sylvie at gaze before a sizeable packing-case, tagged with maroon labels distinctively printed in silver, 'Bouquet.'

  "A delivery man just brought it," Sylvie explained. "His uniform was that colour and he'd got 'Bouquet' on his van and on his cap. Though I told him I was sure we hadn't ordered it, he didn't seem to understand my French. So I took it in for you to see."

  "Bouquet? Bouquet? That rings a bell somewhere—" Frowning over the labels, suddenly Rose remembered, "I know ! It's the trade-name of the Michelet perfumes ! But we couldn't hope to sell those

  here—I believe they cost the earth. Did the man ask you to sign a delivery note or anything ?"

  "No. He kept on repeating a word like 'homage' and gave me—this."

  " 'Homage'? Oh—hommages! That means "with compliments'; for free. But—" puzzled Rose as she scanned the paper she drew from the envelope Sylvie handed over.

  Its heading was also silver-lettered 'Bouquet' and it was a long invoice of expensive perfumery goods, itemised as flasks, coffrets, gift-packs and concentrated solides. It was clearly made out to La Boutique, Maurinaire, and unless the whole thing was a colossal error it seemed meant for them.

  "Well ?" prompted Sylvie.

  "I don't know— It's obviously stock intended for the shop. I suppose we ought to ring the factory at Grasse and find out about it."

  "What about the 'with compliments' ? Do you suppose Flore Michelet could have had it sent—with the idea of doing something for us ?"

  "Flore Michelet? I should doubt it."

  "So should I. I get the impression we're rather beneath her notice. But if you rang her before ringing Grasse it would be a cheaper call, for one thing," said Sylvie practically.

  "Yes," agreed Rose, not relishing the task, though she was to confess herself disarmed by Flore's cordiality when she put her question about the consignment.

  "So it has arrived? Good." Flore's tone was in pleasant-contrast to that of her vitriolic exchange with Madame Briand. "And you will acept it, I

  hope? You aren't going to make difficulties about it?"

  "Well—"

  "I know ! You are going to say you haven't the class of trade for it. But how can you tell until you've displayed it? And as it's a gift, what have you to lose?"

  "It's good of you to let us have it to show. But we'd really rather pay for it in the ordinary way," said Rose, though secretly dismayed by the effect on their finances.

  "Before you've found whether you can sell it or not? Don't be silly. Make some profit on it first and then, if you must, you can pay for it. Meanwhile get Sylvie to give it a bold window-spread without any clutter round it, and you could be surprised— And now you must excuse me; I've an appointment in St. Tropez." Flore rang off, cutting short Rose's somewhat diffident thanks.

  Of the unexpected gesture Sylvie said, "Isn't it always happening? You tell yourself a person is suchand-such, and before you know it, they're doing something quite off-beat," and took such pleasure in unpacking and displaying the contents of the parcel that Rose felt ashamed of her own grudging reaction to it.

  As she had feared, Maurinaire to a woman paused to stare, to handle, to exclaim, to shake a dubious head over the price-tickets and not to buy. Blaise charmed a German woman tourist into buying a phial of 'Blue Midnight' perfume and Sylvie sold a handbag size of cologne. But that was all, by the day of Flore's

  Flore's villa stood alone on its own bluff above the sea. The road to it, a cul-de-sac ending at the house, was a-jam with parked cars for half a kilometre of its length. The villa itself and its attached marquee were blazing with light and throbbing with noise and non-stop canned music when Blaise found a niche for his borrowed car and took the girls to be greeted by Flore at the entrance to the marquee.

  Flore's own interpretation of 'Don't dress' was a suit of Capri pants and bolero in silver, shot with blue thread. The little jacket had a plunging neckline and skin-tight sleeves to the wrist. The pants were sleek over her narrow hips, and from her hair, piled high over a silver bandeau, to the tapered cut at her heels, she had the appearance of a gleaming silver-scaled fish, lacking only the translucence of a rock pool to complete the illusion.

  She gave half her attention and a hand to Rose and Sylvie. Her other hand thrust Blaise in the direction of a sallow girl standing alone whose face already wore the desperately bright look of a party wallflower. Flore hissed at Blaise,

  "I insist you be nice to Marie-Claire. You don't have to mean anything by it, but take her around for an hour at least. Claude Odet is here, and this is positively your last chance with him. Once he has signed on the dotted line, you can drop his dreary daughter like a hot brick if you choose. Meanwhile, play your cards—"

  Blaise reached for Sylvie's fingertips, swung her hand. "No," he told Flore.

  Her eyes snapped annoyance. "Blaise-- !" "Is that a threat ?" he wanted to know.

  She shrugged. "Just a warning."

  He smiled down at Sylvie and pinched her cheek. "Be seeing you, honey," he said, and then to Flore,

  "All right. I'll hob-nob with Marie-Claire for a spell. But only because she's a decent kid and it's not her fault she's not 'with it.' So keep your warnings, will you? I hope I'm not so last-ditch yet that I've got to buy Pere Odet's favours at that price." With which he edged his way towards the sallow girl, chatted with her briefly, then took her with him to join a group of other young people.

  Rose wondered whether Flore had noticed that his au revoir had been for Sylvie, not for herself. But with his going Flore had evidently dismissed the wasp-sting of his defiance. Once again she was all-welcoming of newcomers; passing one guest on to another with just the right gay word of introduction, playing her role of hostess to perfection, charmingly all things to all men ..

  She touched the arm of a middle-aged man with cold eyes and a sensual mouth. "Claude ! You're not to worry about Marie-
Claire Blaise has carried her off into the mist somewhere— Meanwhile I want you to meet Saint-Guy's latest protégées—his two little anglaises who are playing at shop in Maurinaire —as if either of them need to play at anything other than tantalising your sex ! My dears, Claude Odet, a very dear friend of mine."

  The three shook hands. Rose sympathised with the sallow girl, having this man for a father. He looked too well-fed, his fat hands too well manicured for Rose's taste. But good manners demanded the

  exchange of some small talk, the brunt of which fell on her, as he did not speak English.

  He suggested they adjourn to the bar and managed to make an intimacy of his touch on her elbow as they crossed the marquee. On the way she felt her glance drawn back and, looking round, she saw Saint-Guy at the entrance, his dark patrician head topping the people near him. At the same moment Flore saw him too, arched her lovely throat and flung an arm full length to beckon him to her—an ordinary enough gesture to a friend, but curiously, between these two, so eloquent of their intimacy that it twisted a spear of pain in Rose's heart.

  She drew a sharp intake of breath at the intolerable ache of it, shocked to her core to recognise it for what it was . . . jealousy. She was impotently jealous of Flore Michelet because, either without knowing it or, less honestly, heedless of the straws which should have warned her, she had fallen in love with Saint-Guy ! With Saint-Guy who employed her; who indulged irony at her expense; who dismissed her claim to independence as 'very young'; who, though coolly kind, was entirely indifferent to her, and who would many elegant, desirable Flore—

  Now she knew why he could rouse her hostility, touch her pride on the raw. It was because she wanted his praise too much, craved his gentleness with her faults. She had been attracted before, had kissed, had known all the growing-pains of teenage hero-worship. But never before had she experienced this stab of certainty that love had given her wholly and forever into another person's hands. It could lead nowhere. There was no future in it; only this sudden,

  heady awareness of Saint-Guy's importance to her life, and just for the moment that was all her reeling senses could take.

  Since no one, not even Sylvie, looked curiously at her, she supposed she was moving, smiling, talking quite normally; that none of her inner turmoil showed. Later she remembered Blaise coming to take Sylvie to join another group, dancing once at Claude Odet's invitation, then tactfully disengaging herself from him, going to the buffet with another partner—her whole evening seeming to converge to the point of time and place when Saint-Guy was there, asking her to dance with him.

  He danced with the assured mastery he brought to everything, his possession of his partner complete. Rose thought with a gleam of amusement, I can't imagine his reaction to another man's 'cutting-in' !and then yielded and relaxed to a touch and a nearness which held for her a brief magic at which he couldn't guess.

  Within the tent of noise and laughter around them they talked the usual party nothings. Afterwards he made her some fresh introductions, presently moving off himself to join the knot of men gathered round Flore. Rose's own group broke up. Temporarily isolated, she went to the powder-room, where she lingered while she had it to herself, making a small importance of freshening her make-up, deliberately putting off thought of the inevitable heartache ahead.

  The powder-room was the villa's ground floor cloakroom, reached from the marquee by a long sun—veranda, lighted only dimly by a standard lamp. Coming straight from strip-lighting to this comparative twilight, she walked blindly into a rattan chair and would have tripped over it if its occupant hadn't risen, his hand closing, vice-like, on her wrist.

  It was a fleshy grasp; there was the odour of spirits on its owner's breath, and it was with dismay that she caught the leery gleam in Claude Odet's eye.

  She supposed he had been drowsing, but he was wide awake now and though she turned her wrist adroitly he did not let go.

  "So !" he said thickly. "It's my charming little boutiquiere! No, don't go, mignonne! You've all the rest of the evening for your young men, but now you're going to stay and be nice to me for a time."

  She stiffened in distaste. "Please, Monsieur Odet—"

  One heavy eyelid closed in a wink. "Claude !" "—I—I've got a partner waiting for me," she lied. "Then let him wait. It'll sharpen his appetite—and

  yours. Sit down, darling—"

  One fat hand on her shoulder made to thrust her into the chair he had vacated. But she managed to resist him. "It's yours, and there isn't another—"

  "What of it? Have you never shared a chair that size before? I can manage, if you can. Or, better still, there's my car. Yes, I daresay we could be a good deal cosier there. Come, little one !"

  “No!,

  His face purpled, went ugly. "There or here—take your choice. Meanwhile, if you're determined to be naughty, I'll have a kiss on account !" With which, releasing her wrist, he thwarted her escape by drawing her to him, pinning down her arms as his loose mouth sought hers.

  Otherwise helpless, she scuffled a foot, found one of his and brought down the sharp heel of her evening shoe upon it . . . But not before he had released her and spun 'round at the dictate of a hand which came over his bent shoulder to grip his shirt-front and of an imperious, "What goes, my friend ?" from Saint-Guy.

  Rose straightened, her breath sobbing a little. Saint-Guy threw her a glance, put an arm protectively across her shoulders, then addressed several man-to-man expletives to Odet.

  Swaying tipsily, heel and toe, Claude Odet laughed. "A thousand pardons, mon vieux! You don't care for having your preserves poached, eh? Well, who does? But you should label them, you know --`on option to Saint-Guy.' Otherwise, how is one to tell just where your lordly eye has fallen with favour? Where you are hoping to exercise your timeworn droit de seigneur to take what you want, when you want, of your prettier dependants. Even, in this case, already may have—?"

  That was all. To a muttered, "C'en est assez-- enough. Drunk you may be, but for that you're getting—this," Saint-Guy's fist shot out, cut upward from the other man's chin to his nose. Odet contrived to ride the full force of the blow by lurching backwards. But blood spurted, staining the silk of his shirt, and he snatched blindly at Saint-Guy's proffered handkerchief.

  The latter nodded at the angry stain. "Well, unless you've brought a change with you, I daresay you won't be staying. But just in case you try to get your story in first, I'll make your apologies to our hostess,

  if you don't mind," he said, and turned to Rose as Odet stormed off, dabbing at his swelling nose.

  "Are you all right ?"

  Rose glanced down at her trembling hands, controlled them and pushed back her ruffled hair. "Yes. But it was—rather horrible, and I think I need to make some repairs."

  He handed her the pochette which she had dropped on the chair. "Do that," he agred. "I want a word with Flore, but I'll come back for you. And bring a wrap with you if you've got one. I'll take you out for a breather, which you probably feel you need."

  He was there when she returned, thankful that on his side there was no awareness which could make a tete-a-tete with him dangerous. He took her fingertips to guide her down steps from the verandah to the terraced garden, then fell into step beside her on a zigzag path which fell shorewards.

  Behind them from the marquee dance music throbbed, tuneful at first, then merely an insistent beat, then nothing at all when gradually the sound of the sea took over, sucking and hissing over submerged rocks, sighing gently over the sand. Down there spray from the base of the close-in rocks fountained up and fell in a fine rain. Rose turned her face up to it, then sat in the sandstone niche Saint-Guy found for her, himself leaning back against its surround.

  "Cigarette?"

  She took one and he used his lighter on it and his own. Rose said, "I'm afraid I haven't thanked you yet, but I'm grateful."

  He looked beyond her out to sea. "Lucky I hap-

  pened by. But how did you manage to invite it in th
e first place ?"

  "He took me by surprise. I had no idea he was there until he was holding me and wouldn't let go."

  "But you had met him earlier"

  "Yes, but only as one introduction of several."

  "You spent some time in his company, though ? Danced with him ? Didn't you recognise him then for the type he is?"

  Guarded against open criticism of one of Flore's friends, Rose said, "I suppose I thought of him as just another guest. Blaise knows his grownup daughter, and how could I guess that a man of his age would— ?"

  " 'Of his age ?' " Saint-Guy cut in. He laughed shortly. "Well, thanks. I happen to know there's about four years or less between Claude Odet and myself. And granted that he was a divorce before he became a widower, we're still both greybeards in your eyes?"

  She flushed with embarrassment. "Of course not. You— You're quite different."

  "How? Because I haven't yet run to fat and can hold my drink ? All right, I won't press the point. But someone should have warned you that middle-aged wolves are apt to turn nasty if they are thwarted. Remember that. Or, better still, avoid them like the plague and stick to your own age-group, who must take a lot less managing." He paused, his attention on the glow of his cigarette. "Meanwhile, I'm sorry you heard the crack which earned our friend his uppercut. You know the one I mean ? You under-

  stood the reference to seigneurial rights which went out of fashion a long time ago ?"

  "Yes, but—"

  "I was afraid you might. That's why I had to hit him, though perhaps he could have been equally flattened if I'd told him, Man, you should bring your ideas up to date ! How many dastardly landlords do you know who are currently getting away with seduction by brute force—tell me?' "

  Rose looked up. "You're able to make a joke of it. I'm glad," she said.

  He did not smile. "Odet didn't mean it as a joke, but that seemed the best way to help you to forget the filthy implications of it, I thought."