Beyond the Arch

by David Evered

  ‘Well, it would have been good but I have to meet a friend at the airport just after six this evening. I shall have to leave in a couple of hours or so, but it would have been interesting,’ he added, thinking that this might have provided another experience which he could translate into words.

  ‘You could bring her too – I’m assuming it’s a her.’

  ‘Yes, it is.’

  ‘Well, bring her along.’

  ‘Oh no, we have to drive back to Sarlat.’

  ‘You could stay the night.’

  ‘Well, I’ll have to see. I should speak to Sally about it.’

  ‘I sense I’m progressively dismantling the barriers which you keep erecting. Some do stay after these parties and the villa has innumerable rooms.’ She looked at him enquiringly. ‘Would it be one room or two?’

  Peter hesitated. Could he make this sort of commitment on Sally’s behalf? Finally he said, ‘I’m not sure.’

  ‘Good, that’s settled then, but one room or two or should we leave that as an open question?’ she asked mischievously.

  ‘I think it should be two.’

  They gathered Peter’s clothes and drove back to the villa in his car. The four of them had a light lunch together on the lawns, accompanied by a very dry and aromatic Sancerre. The time came for Peter to drive to the airport to meet Sally. Marie and Julie insisted on accompanying him to forestall and override any objections that might be raised about the arrangements for the evening. With the inevitable delay in the arrival of the flight, they passed the time on the observation balcony looking to the west as the sun, glowing richly, fell towards the pine forests on the horizon. As the light was starting to fade they saw the plane approaching from the north. Twenty minutes later, Peter was greeting Sally as she came through the barrier. He introduced his companions and described the events of the day and the plans that had been made for the evening. These were accepted with little comment and no surprise and he felt a little hurt that she had not protested that she wanted a quiet evening and, by implication, to be alone with him.

  It was almost dark when they arrived back at the house. The garden was brilliantly illuminated by the lights in the trees and those blazing out of every window. A growing throng ebbed and flowed ceaselessly between house and terrace, terrace and garden, garden and marquee. Overloud voices and stridently insincere laughter betrayed the social uncertainty of some of the guests. Peter observed the variable geometry of groups, endlessly disaggregating and re-aggregating. Some small, secluded groups stood resolutely apart, seemingly defying others to break into their private caucuses and challenge the security they had found with their peers. Others moved ceaselessly around greeting real and imagined acquaintances with a shout, a wave or brief physical contact. He moved away and sat on a small wall beyond the lawns and, from the security of the semi-darkness, looked in on the party watching the guests as they moved erratically and randomly like moths held in a ring of light. Sally had been swept away from his company, with a shrug of her shoulders and a look of amused resignation, by a tall, elegantly dressed man talking volubly in French. Peter swung his legs over the wall and looked out to sea with his back to the party. Separated from Sally and his newly found companions, he began to feel isolated and regretted that he had been persuaded to stay for the party. The memory of the evening with Sally in the pine woods overwhelmed him with a strength which heightened his perceptions, to the extent that he could feel the firm, dry support of the pine needles and the characteristic resinous smell. Suddenly feeling very solitary, he got to his feet and went towards the house to look for Sally but failed to see her amongst the throng. Disconsolately, he walked out to the small landing stage with a large glass of wine and sat on the edge, overlooking the sea. The noise of the revellers behind him and the surf in front concealed the soft steps approaching from behind.

  He looked up as the melodious American voice interrupted his reverie. ‘Not thinking of swimming again, are you?’

  ‘Oh, hello, Julie,’ he said distractedly.

  She sat down beside him laughing. ‘That was not a greeting which could be expected to enhance Anglo-American relations.’

  ‘No, I’m sorry. I was thinking.’

  ‘Your girlfriend – she’s great.’

  ‘She’s not really my girlfriend. She’s no-one’s girlfriend; merely her own person and a friend.’ He could not find adequate or appropriate words to describe his relationship with Sally.

  ‘I guess you know what you mean but I’m damned if I do.’ She grinned. ‘Are you regretting that you stayed?’

  ‘No, of course not,’ he said with unnecessary emphasis, ‘but I don’t know any people here and my French, as I’ve already demonstrated to you, is grossly inadequate for social repartee. Sally speaks the language fluently as her mother was French.’

  ‘Well, I can think of better things to do than discuss our various linguistic shortcomings. Perhaps you can dance, or even just sway, holding onto me better than you can speak French.’ She took his hand, pulling him gently to his feet and they moved back to the centre of the stage.

  The evening slowly, languorously resolved into a series of soft-focus images as Peter succumbed to the gentle seductions of the wine and the warm, sinuous pressure of Julie’s body as they danced into the night. As the party waned they sat down and Peter was suddenly overtaken by a huge tiredness. His head fell gently onto Julie’s shoulder. She shook him gently awake. ‘You’ve had a busy day, water baby. It’s time you went to your allotted bed.’

  18

  Peter awoke uncertainly the next morning and took some time to re-orient himself. The silence of the rambling villa was only broken by the soft chink of cups and saucers and occasional murmured words emanating from the terrace below. He threw back the shutters and looked out to the sea. Glancing at his watch, he was surprised to see that it was almost ten. He quickly showered and dressed and made his way through the empty villa to the scene of the revelry of the night before. Looking round, it was difficult to envisage that there had been a party for fifty or sixty guests the previous evening. The marquee was still in place but the tables and chairs were neatly stacked and the detritus left by the guests had been cleared away. Julie, Marie and her parents were just finishing their breakfasts but drew a chair up for him and called for fresh coffee.

  Peter introduced himself and François Carnot stood and shook his hand. ‘Good morning, we never really met properly yesterday but I am François and this is Madeleine, my wife. I hope that you slept comfortably.’

  ‘I certainly did and I must apologise for my late appearance this morning. I hope I’ve not held you up in any way.’

  ‘Not at all, we are having a quiet day after the revelries of last night.’

  ‘It’s a spectacular and amazing location for a party. The villa and garden are a wonderful setting and, of course, your weather helps.’

  ‘Yes, but if you were here in the autumn and winter you might not think that the weather was so wonderful then, with the wind and rain driving in from the Atlantic. But I’m glad that you enjoyed the party. I hear that you had an adventurous day yesterday.’

  Peter smiled and glanced at Julie and Marie as he spoke. ‘I did but the knights who rescued me were not clad in shining armour!’

  Julie laughed. ‘I have to admit that we were a touch déshabillée.’

  François looked at Madeleine and raised his eyebrows. He turned to Peter. ‘I spent a long time talking to your friend, Sally, yesterday. She speaks immaculate French, much superior to my English. She tells me you’re a lawyer-turned-writer and that you’re staying in her house near Sarlat.’

  ‘The first part is correct – as for the writing, that’s a work in progress, as we would say in England.’

  ‘She said she thought that it was bold of you to leave your work for a year to try something so entirely different.’

  ‘Possibly foo
lhardy.’

  ‘Would it be proper to ask what the book will be about?’ asked Madeleine.

  ‘It’s often said that all first novels are autobiographical. This is not but I felt that I had to base it on my own knowledge and experience. It’s about a custody battle between a French mother and an English father. I learnt something of French family law while dealing with a case a year or so ago. Of course, there is much more to the story than the law. There are major emotional and cultural dimensions. I need to know more about the law in this country to ensure that I get the details right. I know there’s nothing more infuriating to a reader who has expertise if an author fails to get some of the fundamentals right.’

  ‘We may be able to help a little there, if you were to come over to Lyon. We know two lawyers who speak good English, who are “sympa” as we would say, and who, I’m sure, would be happy to talk to you informally. You must give us your address and we’ll give you ours.’

  ‘That’s a very generous offer.’

  ‘Well, we are always happy to receive guests and Lyon is a very interesting city. Have you ever been there?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘You should.’ Peter looked around. ‘Are you looking for your friend Sally? She had breakfast early and went for a walk up the beach. She said that she needed some fresh air after her time in London.’

  ‘You should take up the invitation to visit Lyon,’ added Julie. ‘It is a lovely city and authentically French.’

  Sally returned, kissed Peter on the top of his head and sat down to join them for coffee. ‘That was wonderful, I not only walked, I took off my shoes and ran barefoot on the firm sand along the water’s edge.’ She looked across at Peter. ‘I don’t know what other plans you have for me for today but we should head back to the house sometime.’

  ‘I didn’t really have any plans for you yesterday. I was simply swept along by the flow of events and the persuasiveness of my saviours, Marie and Julie!’

  Julie grinned. ‘It was not too difficult to storm your ramparts.’

  ‘No, it rarely is. It was an interesting evening and thank you for rescuing me, not once but twice.’

  Sally looked across quizzically at Peter and then turned to Julie. ‘Peter has a proclivity for chance encounters!’ She turned back to Peter. ‘If you don’t mind, we should say our farewells to the Carnots and Julie and be off.’

  * * *

  Peter drove silently, closing his mind to all but the mechanical, semi-reflex process of manipulating the car as they ran into a summer storm. The converging limits of the road, the repetitive beat of the rain and the mesmeric effect of the unceasing movement of the wipers fixed his attention.

  ‘How about stopping for a coffee and a sandwich?’ Sally’s mundane question after almost two hours on the road interrupted his reverie.

  They stopped at a small roadside café. A faded advertisement painted on the wall enjoined them to “Buvez Byrrh”. The brightly striped plastic awning dripped rainwater continuously and advertisements for Suze and Dubonnet swung creakingly in the wind. They ran in, crouching to minimise the effect of the rain, and made their way between metal tables and wooden-slatted aluminium chairs into the dark interior. The juke-box was playing persistently and stridently in one corner, controlled by a self-appointed disc jockey in a leather jacket. They sat at one side of the café and, after a further prolonged silence, he leant forward and asked, ‘What happened to you last night?’ He was unable to avoid an edge creeping into his voice. ‘I was looking for you,’ he added, concerned that he was sounding disappointed and betrayed. The concept of being an independent, loving friend appealed to him but adjusting to the reality was proving to be a slow process. Sally laughed. ‘I don’t know what you’re laughing about,’ he said grumpily.

  ‘About you or, more accurately, about last night.’

  ‘I don’t see that that explains anything.’

  ‘Possibly, possibly not.’ She shrugged her shoulders.

  ‘Well, where were you then?’

  ‘I don’t know quite what you are asking me,’ she looked at him enquiringly ‘or perhaps I do. But you’re not really expecting me to answer that question, are you, particularly when it is phrased in that way?’

  ‘Well, I spent some time looking for you without success.’

  ‘So, are you asking me to apologise for dissipating your time so carelessly and thoughtlessly?’

  ‘I missed you,’ he said abjectly. ‘I had hoped and expected that we might have some time together.’

  ‘Well, we have all the time in the world now,’ she said gently.

  ‘Hell, yes, I know,’ he said apologetically. ‘It was just that I missed you and wanted to spend time with you. Then I bumped into that lot and thought it might be amusing and even useful to go to the party.’

  ‘And so it was, but what did you expect? An opportunity to watch the decadent haute bourgeoisie disporting themselves?’

  ‘Something like that, I suppose.’

  ‘It must have been something of a disappointment to you then. No orgiastic behaviour, no public fornication.’

  He laughed. ‘I really don’t quite know what I expected but whatever it was, it didn’t meet my expectations.’

  ‘Perhaps you shouldn’t have gone into it with any expectations – well-defined or otherwise. To do so tends to lead to disappointment more often than not.’

  ‘That seems unduly pessimistic.’

  ‘No, not pessimistic. It’s possible to learn some truths from observation but that’s the first stage and, in my view, it must be approached with an open mind. The processes of analysis and interpretation come later. I know this is not the approach adopted by many in my trade but it’s my lodestar. Those who are determined to identify some pattern in events based on their preconceived views may well do so, at least to their own satisfaction, but they must expect to be challenged by those who operate with a different mindset. Those comments are not intended as advice. They’re simply a personal view shaped by my own journalistic experience.’

  ‘I know, you’ve said this before but I still find it difficult to accept fully.’

  ‘That’s fine. It’s not part of my approach to life to try and influence and advise others. You’re your own man. My observations suggest that all our lives are influenced by random external events and we react to them in ways which are influenced by our backgrounds and culture to a greater or a lesser extent. I’m inclined to see life as encapsulating a series of events which are then interpreted by people who frequently search for underlying explanations, sometimes within the framework of an overall plan. I regard the search for a rational basis for everything as self-defeating.’

  ‘I’m not sure I fully accept that and it seems very dispassionate. It also suggests to me that we have little control over our destinies.’

  ‘No, my earlier comments were not for one moment intended to imply that we don’t also have the opportunity to shape our lives. Of course we do and that’s exactly what you’re doing. The extent to which we fashion our futures depends upon our innate abilities and drive but it is also determined by our capacity to turn random external events to our advantage and prevent them becoming barriers to what we wish to do. But that’s probably enough of my pseudo-philosophy.’ She looked directly into his eyes. ‘Let me just add one thing. Our first meeting on a cliff top was one random event which has led to us sitting in a café by the Dordogne in the pouring rain nearly a year later. The intervening events which have made that happen have included a second chance meeting, the rupture of your marriage (which whilst not random was wholly unexpected from your point of view), the death of a friend, your search for me and your decision to follow your instincts to write. These chance events and conscious decisions and probably many other factors finally led you here,’ she paused, ‘and I’m pleased that they did.’ She squeezed his hand.

  ‘So am I an
d I’m delighted that you are back.’

  ‘Me too, you have the gift of serendipity. You should make the most of it, as you’ve done so far.’

  Peter smiled. ‘Yes, I am sorry to have been such a grouch.’

  ‘Let’s be off. I have several things to tell you when we get back to the house.’

  * * *

  They arrived back in the early evening as the rain was abating. Sally had been to Peter’s flat but not until the day before she flew back to France. She had seen Sue Hepscott who had agreed to keep an eye on the flat, and collected some mail which had been lying there. Peter glanced at it casually. Most was of little importance but it included two bills which needed to be paid and there were two personal letters. He recognized his mother’s handwriting on one but, although the writing seemed vaguely familiar, he could not immediately identify the source of the other. He put them aside to read later. He had planned for Sally’s return and was ready to continue his duties as chef. He prepared a coq au vin and opened a bottle of St Joseph which he had bought for the occasion.

  ‘How have you been while I’ve been away?’ Sally asked as they sat back feeling mellow as they finished the Côtes du Rhone.

  ‘Well, I think. I’ve started to write. I know you said that you didn’t do advice but the suggestion that I should try writing some descriptive pieces based on my observations of events was good and I have written three. I might add the events of yesterday to the list. I have also created an embryo of a novel. Your non-advice was very helpful.’ He grinned. ‘I shall be entirely happy to receive further instalments. I’ve decided to base the novel on a tug of love over custody of a child with the parents being split between England and France and bitterly divided over the care and education of the child.’

  ‘That sounds good and how have you found living in France?’

  ‘I am revelling in the freedom from everyday preoccupations – and, yes, I’m adapting although I wish that I knew more of the language.’