Kingfisher Tide

by Jane Arbor

  forage-caps and berets which owed nothing at all to the eighteenth century.

  There was a drum-and-fife band, the escort of small boys which any procession attracts and a sprinkling of teenage girl camp-followers who, however, were not approved by the crowd. For as everyone near Rose agreed, The little gamins, yes. They were practising for the day when they themselves would march as bravadeurs. But hoyden girls, no. The parade was a man's affair, with a martial image to maintain until it finally broke rank and the mixed fun of the day began.

  There were no set tableaux and no decorated floats, nothing commercially 'laid on.' It was simply Maurinaire putting on a private show for its own benefit, with no rules except those laid down by tradition and public opinion; casual, spontaneous and apparently wholly satisfying to spectators and participants alike.

  The procession snaked away out of the square for its tour of the other streets, and when it reappeared it was, as Marie had warned, considerably less orderly. It was even less so later. Individuals on parade were smoking, chewing gum and pausing for chats with friends; the muskets and blunderbusses spoke more often and with a lot more smoke; a straying poodle had hysterics and everything stopped while it was pursued, caught and soothed, and when isolated shots began to ring out behind and among the spectators it seemed to be agreed that the serious business of the bravade was over. It was also, by coincidence, time for lunch ...

  When she herself had lunched, Rose's solitary day

  stretched before her. How to spend it until Sylvie and Blaise returned? As soon as the siesta hour was over the square would no doubt become riotous again, and for the moment she had had enough of noise and of being alone in a crowd in carnival mood. She decided instead to swim from a cove far enough out from the town to ensure that she would probably have it to herself. Reaching it meant a long, hot walk, but with the promise of the cool sea at the end of it she set out.

  An hour later, kicking arcs of scintillating spray before her, she waded out into deep water, swam for a while, then turned on her back and floated lazily, eyes half shut and the movement of her wrists a mere flutter. This, she thought, had been the right thing to do. The balm of the sea and the utter peace around her were washing away her sense of ill-usage by Sylvie. Before she came out she had been tempted to allow the other two to wonder in their turn where she was, should they get back first. But she was glad now she had left a cheerful note for Sylvie, making nothing of her graceless truancy of the morning.

  At last Rose swam back inshore, using her towel and stretched out to sunbathe on the crescent of sand she had made her own. She had brought fruit and a book, but not her watch. She need not leave until the sun began to dip towards the western horn of her cove, and probably she would swim again before then.

  So much for plans on a hot Mediterranean afternoon ... She ate a peach, read for a while and would have been ready to claim no more than a quarter of an hour had passed when she woke with a start to

  notice how the heat had mellowed and how different was the angle of the sun.

  Moreover she was no longer alone. With his back to her, a man stood at the water's edge, his shadow ten feet tall. As she stirred and sat up, then knelt, he turned and came towards her— Of all unexpected people, Saint-Guy, whom she had pictured lingering on at Flore's villa until they took whatever part he invited Flore to in the evening's carnival !

  Yet here he was, dropping to the sand beside her, nodding up and back at the heights which sheltered the cove from the north.

  "From up there I spotted someone down here and decided to come and join them," he explained. "Why, who did you think it was?"

  He lifted a shoulder. "Since I always carry field-glasses in the car—you," he said

  CHAPTER SIX

  ROSE flushed beneath her deep tan and ran her fingers through her still damp hair. "I didn't hear a thing. I've been asleep," she said unnecessarily.

  "Like a babe," he confirmed. "Had you had enough of the bravade? Or didn't you bother to watch it ?"

  So Flore hadn't mentioned their encounter of the morning. Slightly surprised, Rose said, "Yes, I saw it all until the procession broke up, and after lunch I decided to come out for a swim." Forestalling the question in his glance, she added, "I was alone, you see. Sylvie has gone out with Blaise for the day."

  "They've gone off together? Without you? Where ?"

  "I don't really know. Perhaps over to Hyeres and out to Porquerolles. That's where Sylvie and I had talked of spending her birthday before we knew it was the same day as the bravade—"

  "Then why didn't you ?"

  "Because I wanted to see the bravade and she didn't particularly."

  "Porquerolles will still be there another day."

  Was the subtle criticism of that directed at Blake or at Sylvie or at both? On the defence for Sylvie, Rose pointed out, "I don't even know if that's where they've gone. They're free agents and Sylvie and I

  don't need to ask each other's leave of absence when we want to part company for a while."

  "You agree to differ? Very tolerant of you. But you should have come up to the Chateau. You would have seen the bravade muster, and I'd have brought you down to watch the parade. There was no need for you to spend the day alone."

  "It didn't matter. Besides, I met Madame Michelet this morning and she said you were lunching with her. So—"

  "I ? Lunching with Flore today ?" He shook his head. "You must have mistaken her, though I know she was having some people over for the bravade. Among them, Claude Odet, with whom I don't jell—No, on bravade day we always lunch the local bigwigs and the current capitaines de vine at the Chateau. You could have joined us and perhaps helped my mother to ease them out when it was time for them to go."

  So Flore had lied ! For goodness' sake, why ? Rose wondered as Saint-Guy went on,

  "However, they bowed themselves out at last and now, no doubt, are getting their second wind, ready for the evening. Meanwhile, I snatched a spare hour to visit one of our charcoal-burners who allowed his axe to mistake his shin for a tree-stump and who would like to be stubborn about not going to hospital. But he'll go— I suppose you're expecting Sylvie back to join you for your own evening ?"

  "Yes. It's time I was getting back myself." Rose began to gather her things, but Saint-Guy did not

  move.

  "Running away?" he enquired conversationally.

  From her kneeling position she looked round at him from over her shoulder. "No, of course not."

  "Then you could make it worth my while having come down to join you. I've left my car above, so sit down, and I'll drive you back presently. How did you discover this spot?"

  "I didn't for myself. Blaise brought me the first time." Remembering her pledge to Madame Saint-Guy, Rose used that as an opening to add, "At the time he told me he saw this stretch of the shore and the levels up there—" she nodded cliffwards "—as the ideal site for the chalet scheme he has in mind."

  “yes

  The unhelpful monosyllable left her no choice but to plunge on, "And if it were at all possible or—or desirable, I've an idea he might make a success of it. I don't think it's just a pipe-dream for him. His heart seems really in it, and in my experience, people can achieve surprising things when that's so."

  "In mine too. Unfortunately, my experience of Blaise being wider than yours, I'm reminded of too many things his heart has been 'in,' only to be 'out of at the drop of a hat." A pause. "I suppose he suggested you should sound me on this one?"

  "No." Though it was good to deny that with truth, Rose felt she ought to keep Madame's confidence. "It's just," she went on, "that a sense of grievance, of frustration, doesn't do anyone much good, and while Blaise is convinced he could do it if ... and if ... I think he is determined not to bring any spirit or any co-operation to anything else."

  "The 'ifs' in question being whether—one, I will lease him the land and—two, whether I will advance

  him the cash ? But always supposing I would consider either or
both, mightn't it be in order to ask what he offers in return ?"

  Had she dared, Rose would have liked to say, His respect for a generosity which for once would go against the grain of your better judgment; the mending of the rift between the two of you, if that means anything to you at all. Aloud she said somewhat lamely,

  "Well, his enthusiasm, I suppose. And on the practical side, the experience he must have from running that similar scheme in England."

  "And from which he had to be extricated at considerable trouble and expense—mine."

  "But that wasn't his fault."

  "Nor, you may depend upon it, would it be his fault if, after being given several hundred hectares of good cork land, he suddenly found his ambitions in real-estate were on the wane. In lesser spheres it has happened before and could again. Anyway, as Blaise knows quite well I've no intention of handing over any Saint-Guy property to his speculative building or anyone else's, I'm inclined to believe you aren't his envoy. But if you're not, why should you plead for his prospects with me?"

  Rose scooped a handful of sand, watched it trickle between her fingers. "I suppose—because he has managed to convince Sylvie and me that he is sincere and only lacks the wherewithal. And because I like him too much to want to see him frittering his time and making nothing of his life, as he is doing at the moment."

  "You're thinking probably that he'll be wanting to

  marry and at his present pace will have nothing to do it on?"

  "Well, he won't, will he?"

  "No. But if it bothers you, you should ask yourself whose fault is that. Any day he cares to report to my agent's office, he will be paid the rate for whatever job on the estate he shows he can hold down."

  Rose shook her head. "There are some square pegs that will never fit round holes, and I've an idea Blaise is one of them."

  "You mean he has convinced himself and you that there's matter for pride in being a misfit. Anyway, there's my offer and it stands. With reservations, he can choose his own niche, and when he is serious about marriage, I daresay he'll begin to see reason."

  "I shouldn't be too sure of that. Not where Blaise is concerned. He knows too well where his talents lie."

  "Then I might be forced to ensure that the girl of his choice saw reason for him, mightn't I ?"

  But the cool assurance of that was too much for Rose. "I'm sure you'd be capable of it," she retorted. "That is, if you had allowed Blaise his choice of girl in the first place. You—steer people so much and pull so many wires for them that I'd rather expect you to claim the right to manage that for him too !"

  Saint-Guy's glance held faint amusement. "I don't need to claim it. It's mine."

  "I don't believe it !"

  "Yes. On his mother's side, Blaise is of Saint-Guy descent, and by a charter dating from the Dark Ages the current head of the line has the right of veto on every projected family marriage. Admittedly it hasn't

  been exercised for centuries, but it's there in the archives all the same."

  Rose stared. "You mean—seriously—that you could forbid Blaise to marry without your consent ?"

  "Theoretically, yes, though by long unwritten custom, not without grave cause." As he spoke he stood, offering his hand to draw her to her feet and taking up her beachbag himself.

  She made a business of brushing sand from her shorts and shirt. " 'Grave cause'—such as?" she could not resist prompting.

  He swung the beachbag. "According to circumstances. Say, for instance, that I happened to covet his proposed fiancée for myself ?" he teased.

  But the intended humour escaped Rose's mood. All she could manage in response was a somewhat tart, "I should think that a very unlikely chance. You and Blaise would never fall for the same type of woman."

  " 'Fall for'—no. But how many of us, after all, do marry our pin-ups?" he countered, and turning, led the way up the beach.

  Though the car made short work of the way back, Rose was home later than she had intended. As the square was still closed to traffic, she did not expect Blaise's mo-ped to be parked at the shop, but when she ran up the stairs, she found the flat dark behind its closed shutters and her note to Sylvie still where she had left it.

  She was disappointed. It was already dusk; the strung fairy lanterns under the plane trees were lighted, people were gathering in groups and some-

  where a guitar was playing the plaintive, nostalgic

  strains of 'La Vie en Rose.' The evening was beginning to warm to gaiety. But she felt very much alone.

  By the time she had bathed, changed and laid a cold supper, her sense of injury returned. Too bad of the other two to stay out as late as this ! Even if she had had anyone to go with, she did not care to leave the flat to join the fun outside. Blaise might ring up to explain some unavoidable delay, and as time passed she realised that worry for Sylvie was ousting annoyance from her mind.

  She sat at the window, watching the shifting kaleidoscope of the scene below, envying the French their genius for open-air togetherness and wishing she had a part in this, her first taste of carnival under the Mediterranean stars. Her first—and her last, in Maurinaire ? Next year, on bravade day, she would not be here ...

  She did not see Saint-Guy crossing the square. But she heard his knock on the street door and ran, Sylvie must have forgotten her key !

  "Oh— !"

  Her surprise and dismay must have shown in her face, for Saint-Guy said quickly, "Why, what's the matter? What's wrong?"

  "Nothing. Just that I was expecting Blaise and Sylvie. Please come in."

  "They haven't returned yet and you're being cheated of your evening, waiting for them ?"

  "I didn't like to go out in case they should telephone to say when they will be back," she explained.

  "That's nonsense. You aren't to stay moping here alone. I've been keeping a watch for you and Sylvie

  to join my party. At the moment we're having coffee and drinks with the mayor on the balcony of the Hotel de Ville. But later, if you like, I'll show you Maurinaire en fête, as only Maurinaire knows how."

  Rose hung back. "I ought to stay here, I think."

  "All they deserve is a note to say where you are to be found. The telephone is easily dealt with. Where is yours?"

  A few minutes later he had arranged for any calls for her number to be transferred to the Town Hall and was guiding her there through the jostling crowds. The balcony above the courtroom which overlooked the square had been set out with small tables. Saint-Guy took her to join the mayor and his lady at one of them; Flore, with Claude Odet and another couple, was at another.

  On the square people were beginning to dance. Square dances, congas and twist sessions set up in rivalry to music which swung and beat impartially. The noise was deafening, conversation was reduced to sign language and every now and again, as if it had become a matter of honour that none of the morning's ammunition should be returned to store unused, sporadic shots rang out from guerrilla pockets all over the town.

  Presently the mayor stood, and with as much formality as if he were inviting her to open a Court Ball, asked Rose to dance. Saint-Guy did the same with Madame Mayoress and they went down to shuffle in partnership to the only music within earshot of them—the scrape and stamp of hundreds of feet.

  Partnership did not last. Suddenly, by some com-

  munal consent, everyone was linked into a huge, rollicking chain, then a circle, with a concentric one within it and yet another within that. The outside one ringed the entire square and went at a shouting, laughing gallop one way while its fellow went in the opposite direction. It was mob gaiety at its wildest, its most infectious, and Rose, caught up in it, forgot everything but the bliss of the chance which had put her hand into Saint-Guy's masterful clasp on one side.

  Then, as suddenly as they had merged, the circles broke up. People sobered, became individuals again, and Rose remembered how late it was and that, so far as she knew, Blaise had not yet brought Sylvie home.

  At her side, S
aint-Guy said, "You look like Cinderella, overtaken by midnight. I left someone manning the telephone, but I suppose you want to check whether there has been any call put through for you ?"

  When they found there had been none he pointed out that the other two might well have returned and joined the melée in the square on their own. But Rose, agreeing, said she would like to slip back to the flat to find out.

  He went with her. But Rose's second note to Sylvie lay untouched, and without consulting Rose, he called the exchange, reversing his request for the transfer of calls.

  "And now," he said, "shall we get this straight ? You really have no clue as to where Blaise meant to take Sylvie for the day?"

  "No."

  "Why not ?"

  " Because I wasn't told."

  He shook his head. "That's not good enough. Two sisters—housemates—and they don't do each other the courtesy of outlining their plans for a day spent apart? No, the truth is, you quarrelled with her or with Blaise this morning; they took themselves off by way of retort, and you were covering up for them when you made little of Sylvie's desertion of you on a day you had meant to spend together?"

  "We didn't quarrel !"

  "What, then?" he persisted.

  She told him, and saw him frown over the shabbiness of Sylvie's trick on herself. But his only comment was a practical one. "So they may have gone to any point of the compass they could reach with the transport they had, and all we have to go on is your proposed trip to Hyeres and the Islands? Well, we'd better begin there—" and he went again to the telephone.

  When he replaced the receiver, "So far, so good," he told Rose. "A man and a girl to their description did go over to Porquerolles and Port Cros by the afternoon launch, which had engine trouble on the way back, making it two hours late into harbour,"

  "Two hours? Even so— !"