House of Diamonds

by Amber Jakeman

  “He’s not actually French. He’s from Belgium. Started travelling south when his wife died a few years ago. His two daughters weren’t interested in taking him under their wings, so he sold the house, bought his truck - you should see it, James; we’ll show you this evening - just followed the sun.”

  “Sud,” Émile nodded, helping himself to a chunk of bread, dollop of apricot jam and slab of cheese.

  “South,” she said. “And he’s very clever. Émile can do everything. Plumbing, wires, repairs. He’s so handy.”

  Émile began to tell him of the journey, the people he’d met, especially the English. So many of them needed help to convert the stone barns they’d bought into holiday houses and retirement homes.

  “It was good. They needed ... the advice, the ideas, the work. Moi? I needed ... the work. Voilà.”

  He’d liaised with local builders, joined in for the odd jobs that sometimes became longer jobs. Sometimes he became a caretaker, staying until winter when the need to travel south again became so strong he would pack up his truck and continue the journey further and further from the cold winters every year.

  How was it that all their glasses were empty? And all the bread was gone, but for a scattering of crumbs. James broke off another branch of the shrunken grapes, so sweet, with a tiny crunch of bitter seeds inside.

  “Lovely, aren’t they?” his mother said. “This area used to specialize in dried fruit, and of course, there’s all the wine. We’ll take him to the wine service station, won’t we, Émile? It’s a co-op. You bring your own containers and you literally buy the wine out of bowsers, like petrol. There are 20 or so varieties. We haven’t even tasted them all. Let’s go tomorrow for lunch. We’ll book.” She yawned.

  As the sun dropped lower in the sky, so too did the angle of Émile and James’s mother in their chairs, lit up with a golden tinged glow. He wasn’t feeling so lively himself.

  “Time for siesta, darling. See you back here at 7pm and we’ll walk up and find a restaurant. You can choose.”

  James stifled a sudden burst of anger. Was that all this was? One never-ending feast?

  Émile packed up the remnants of their meal, and James helped, carrying the chairs and table back inside the rest of the house. It was as he thought. The ground floor rooms were stuffed full of antique furniture. What could his mother possibly want with it all? Surely she must have exhausted her capacity for collecting every last piece.

  ...

  At 7pm, when they met in the empty room, James was determined to get some answers.

  “A work in progress?” he gestured at the space, while his mother adjusted her warm hat and scarf and fished some gloves out of her pocket.

  She refused to answer.

  “Mais, c’est la vie, n’est-ce pas?” said Émile, with his customary shrug, trying to ease what was becoming awkward. He seemed to have a sixth sense, ready to protect Cynthia from any accusations.

  Hippies in their sixties. Again James felt like the only adult.

  “Relax, darling. When did you last have a holiday?”

  “I didn’t come here for a holiday, mother. We have to talk. We can talk with or without Émile, but we have to talk.”

  “Shhh, darling. Let’s not spoil dinner. We see each other so rarely. Is this about money?”

  “Yes, it is about money.” James stared at Émile, who was clearly going to stand his ground, right next to Cynthia. He had no choice but to plough on. “It’s absolutely about money. It’s about your never-ending quest for French antique furniture. Don’t get me wrong. It’s beautiful furniture. But how much can you possibly need? The Bowral house is full. And this one is too. Except for this room.”

  His mother was silent. Lips pursed. She looked like a child caught doing something wrong, and James worried he was going too far. He deliberately made his voice more gentle.

  “Mother, we need to discuss the future. It’s a lovely lifestyle you’re living, no question. I’m glad to see you so happy. Truly. And Émile here, well. You seem like a great bloke.”

  “He is,” she practically pinched Émile’s cheek, who leaned down and kissed her in the semi darkness. Irritated, James maintained control.

  “Émile, I wonder if I could have an appointment to speak with my mother. Privately. Would you mind?”

  “But not at all. Not at all. Moi? I will cook. We eat ‘ere. Was un restaurant, this room. Tonight. Un restaurant. Moi? Le maître di.”

  “Qu’elle bonne idée!” said his mother, removing her gloves and unwrapping herself slightly, though the room was hardly warm. That was another thing. How did they afford the heating?

  “Merci beaucoup,” James dredged up from his schoolboy French.

  He retrieved the chairs and table they’d used for their “picnic” lunch, and he and his mother sat, facing each other.

  “Well?”

  “Thank you, mother. Émile. Are you serious about each other? Is he living here? Does he pay rent?”

  “Have I ever asked you about your girlfriends, darling?”

  “Yes. Actually. All the time, mother. You know that.”

  “Well, Émile is wonderful. As you see.”

  “Yes, but is he contributing? Financially, I mean.”

  “Why is this your business?” The imperiousness was back.

  “It is exactly my business. It is exactly our business. This is the whole point, mother. Huntleys is going bankrupt. Do you want that? What with you here in France buying up every antique, and Will in Vegas, supposedly finding better suppliers and outlets but actually throwing away our inheritance and working capital on gambling, Huntleys is on its knees.”

  She was shocked. Chastened. She was no fool, his mother, though she did like to play. James was relieved she was listening carefully now.

  “Things need to change, mother. Or your own supply of cash is going to disappear, and fast.”

  His mother remained silent. The sky deepened from pale lavender to a rich purple. Other couples strolled past as mother and son sat in the beautiful room in darkness.

  “So when I ask about your plans, I really need to know. Do you own this place, or are you renting? What is Émile’s contribution? And are you actually creating any value for Huntleys? You’re my mother and I love you. I couldn’t be more pleased to see you happy. But how can I justify keeping you on the payroll and paying all those expenses? It’s not just about me and what I want for you. It’s about the Australian Taxation Office and Huntleys’ bottom line. I need to show cause to the Australian Securities and Investment Commission that Huntleys should continue to trade. And it’s becoming more and more difficult. Much as I’d love to ignore it, for your sake and for mine.”

  He reached out then across the small table and took his mother’s hand. She seemed so small in the darkness. Was that a tear rolling down her cheek? Despite the beautiful clothes and obsession with France, she hadn’t had an easy life. Not for the last couple of decades, with Jimmy’s illness and death. The last thing James wanted to do was to hurt her.

  “And Will?”

  “I’m going to see Will after this. The tabloids haven’t been kind. Maybe you don’t get that news over here. There’s been another bust up. He’s booked himself into some health spa. I was going over to see him anyway. Flying out first thing Tuesday. Have you heard from him?”

  She was silent. Her reply, when it came, was in a monotone.

  “Only when he needs more money.”

  “Is that what you’re doing? Sending him your money?”

  She nodded in the darkness.

  “I’d do the same for you, James. He was my baby.”

  “Mother! He’s 27 years old! Nearly 28. He’s no baby. He’ll never grow up if you don’t let him take responsibility for his own decisions.”

  “He’s promised to give up gambling.”

  “How many times?”

  She was silent again.

  “I know, James.”

  “Yes. Let’s talk about this, mother.”
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  “The health spa. It was my idea. It’s a clinic. There are counsellors, too. Healthy body, healthy mind. Have a look at the website, James. It has an excellent reputation. There’s a gym and healthy food. Takes away from the stigma of the mental health part, you know, dear. So many celebrities go there. It’s almost a badge of honour. A club for the rich and famous when they’re sad.”

  James baulked at the “rich” part, but held his tongue. He almost said “infamous and spoilt” but resisted.

  “Your idea, mother...” he said, measured. “And it’s a good one. But the money’s got to stop. You understand that, don’t you?”

  She nodded, matching his serious tone.

  “But it’s not all bad, James. It hasn’t all gone. I’m not completely stupid. I own this place. I bought it for a song. I was planning to rent out this room, for some sort of shop. That’s why we’re keeping it empty. It isn’t private enough for us to use, not with all these windows. It’s been all sorts of things in the past, a dress shop, even a saddlery... Oh, you should see this place in summer when it’s absolutely crawling with tourists. They love it. They come for the wine, for the lavender, to paint, to speak French, to eat. It’s hugely popular for hipster weddings. Even with Aussies. In summer, I’m no longer the only Australienne. And Émile. Who knows? Maybe he’ll stay with me. I hope he will. But maybe he’ll keep travelling south. Every day is precious when you get to my age, James. I don’t expect you to understand that. But it doesn’t cost much to live here. Even the wine is affordable. And I can also rent out the top floor as well as this shop space if I have to. Or maybe I’ll sell up and keep travelling with Émile. Maybe I’ll come back to Australia. Bring him with me. But you can keep my allowance if you need it, James. Well, most of it. I understand what you’re saying. Of course I don’t want to send us all bankrupt. I had no idea things were so bad. No. I can see you need the business to be strong. We all need it to be strong. I don’t need the allowance. Not all of it. Not really. It’s a long time since I earned my keep at Huntleys. I still have some investments from the sale of the old house. You can see. I have enough. We don’t need much. Maybe just give me half of what I’ve been getting? Or even a third of it? That would do. And I promise I’ll try to stop sending it to Will. But I do worry about him. So, you’re going to see him? Talk to him, James. Maybe you can make him see sense.”

  James squeezed her hand, and she placed her other one over his. She still wore Jimmy’s engagement ring, he noticed, the large emerald flanked by six diamonds. His father has not been entirely forgotten.

  As the relief at having had The Conversation with his mother flooded through him, James became aware of the rich aroma of beef casserole invading the dark room.

  James’s memory catapulted to the meal he’d shared with Stella the night of their lovemaking. How he missed her. He replayed their conversation, all her ideas for Huntleys, of jewels for every price bracket. An idea began to form at the back of his mind.

  “Now, since we’re having frank conversations, James, my darling, how are you?”

  “You mean ‘where are my grandchildren’?” he laughed.

  “Exactly.”

  “I’ve met someone.”

  “Tell me.”

  “I’ve never been more serious, mother. That’s why I had to come here. She’s a jeweler, mother. Immensely talented. She doesn’t even realize, I don’t think. She’s only new to the game, and she’s creating in silver, affordable pieces, but she has so much more potential. There’s so much we can share with her, teach her. She has all the ideas I’ve never had. She has a designing mind, like Jim. He likes her. You’ll like her. I know you will. Her name is Stella.”

  Just saying her name in this room, he wanted her beside him. Her absence was an ache. He closed his eyes, summoning her memory, her wild hair and dark eyes, the feel of her skin, that spark between them...

  “So why didn’t you bring her?”

  “I will. I will now. I’ll be able to. Now that you can help me get things back on track, and as long as things go well enough with Will. It’s only then I’ll have something to offer her. I know now. I want to marry her, mother. I’ve never wanted anything more.”

  She jumped up and threw her arms up around his neck before running to the door, calling out to Émile.

  “Darling! Champagne! Champagne!”

  Émile burst in with a large antique silver tray and three lit candles in an ornate silver candelabra. He returned cradling a matching champagne bucket complete with some Moet; three shallow French antique glasses expertly clutched in his spare hand.

  If he’d been listening at the door, he was forgiven.

  Chapter 31

  James was woken by the sound of hammering and the aroma of warm croissants. Once again, a basket of fresh ones was waiting for him at the top of the stairs as he made his way to the other side of the building and peered out.

  His mother had been right. The square was being transformed into a riot of bright activity. Someone was ramming pegs into the ground to secure a small marquee, sandwiched between dozens of others. Market Day was a swirl of bright flags, canvas tents of every color, dresses and scarves swinging in the breeze and customers in berets, hoodies, puffer jackets and leather coats, some with backpacks and others with shopping trolleys and baskets like the one holding his croissant.

  A truck or two had rolled into town with larger wares. There was the glow of old marble and the shine of brass and polished wood, the strange geeny grey of old linens. He guessed his mother was down there already, and sure enough, there was a note. “Buying more olives and bread. Meet back here at 1 o’clock.”

  James wandered. A crowd had appeared as if from nowhere. There was barely space to move. He was drawn to an intriguing hair ornament, a jewelled twist of wire for holding a bun in place. He reached for it - a gift for Stella - but had to wait for five other customers to be served first, getting jostled from behind.

  Securing his purchase, he wandered on, astounded to discover that the stalls spilled from the square in every direction through the other streets of the town. He couldn’t wait to tell Stella, to bring her here.

  He came across his mother and Émile by chance, making another purchase. As he waited for them to find the perfect silver soup ladle and some fish knives, sorting through an enormous basket of the things, he found himself peering through piles of bric a brac nearby.

  There was costume jewelry and a small case of older stuff, art deco, art nouveau and older, and even some worn out old fob watches, and silver and gold watch chains in various stages of disrepair. They were the sorts of things Jim would love to work with, using his loupe to unravel the mystery of their makers and guess at their provenance before carefully repairing them.

  He asked to look, and weighed them in his hands, querying the stallholder about the prices. He pulled out his wallet and made some purchases, strangely excited. He understood the appeal of this kind of shopping. More importantly, the idea at the back of his mind continued to take shape.

  He picked up some contributions for their lunch as he strode back, setting up the lunch table and chairs before pacing out the room.

  “You’re a builder?” he asked Émile, as they sat down to another picnic lunch.

  “Oui.”

  “He can do anything,” his mother said, beaming up at Émile.

  “And your spare furniture, mother. I’ve had an idea.”

  “Tell us!”

  “There’s no jewelry shop here, is there?”

  “No. You have to go to Avignon, really.”

  “Why not make this the French branch of Huntleys? It would be different to our Bondi Junction branch, maybe pave the way for some of the changes we’d like to make there. You could offer evaluations, repairs, estate jewelry, as well as top of the line contemporary pieces and more affordable ranges. Something for everyone. You say this town is even busier in summer. Everyone wants a memento of their travels. What do you think?”

  His mother�
�s eyes darted around the room. She touched her fingertips together, a mannerism he remembered now from childhood. She was thinking. She turned to him, eyes sparkling.

  “Oh! It’s brilliant, darling!” Now her hands were in the air. “I could pick up suitable estate jewelry at the markets. You’d like that, Émile, darling, wouldn’t you? No more lifting heavy furniture!”

  Émile nodded. He actually seemed relieved.

  “But we’d need to set this up right. We’d need the right sorts of cabinets, built to take advantage of this beautiful space. Or maybe you could source some old jewelers cabinets and repurpose them, or reconfigure some of the furniture. Is this something you might do, Émile?”

  Émile was nodding at the proportions of the room as Cynthia took up the idea, her hands already marking out spaces. Both of them jumped up.

  “It’s perfect, darling! And we could also have a section here selling some smaller items. The silver spoons and candlesticks. Crystal! Nice souvenirs which might appeal to people a bit more widely. And this corner could be dedicated to larger items, a couple of chairs and a small table for example, or a beautiful dresser, the sorts of things Émile does up so nicely. Not everyone can make it on market day. We would make our mark-ups affordable. Gain a reputation. Tourists can’t eat and drink all day. They need to wander and find special souvenirs! Huntleys can become a French destination, too!”

  “Why not? This would be your branch, if you want it, mother. You remember balancing the books, mother. You taught me, after all. Can I rely on you to make this work? It would be a great advantage for Huntleys. With this branch, we could become international. Global. I could bring out fresh stock from Australia several times a year, and vice versa.”

  “And I’d get to see my grandchildren!”

  “You would.” Could he allow himself to dream that far ahead? Why not? He hadn’t felt so optimistic in years.

  “Émile, darling. You’ve got one of those drafting books, haven’t you? What’s it called in French? Blueprints. Plans. Sketch our new shop?”

  Now James and Émile paced the room together, using their hands to test where the counters might be. The chandelier was sparkling above them, and his mother was beaming at them both.