The man with the rake turned at Terry’s approach. Terry stopped to ask a question about the missing family, one hand sketching a gesture towards the tent and mats. The stranger replied. There was an exchange of some kind, then Terry’s posture went straight as he registered surprise. A moment later, the two men were shaking hands, and the other fellow leaned on his rake handle while Terry assumed his familiar happy-retriever stance.
So: not a hired groundskeeper, but an off-season resident of one of the villas. Most probably the one that Terry had been told to look up, by a mutual friend.
It was a cycle I had witnessed at least a dozen times since meeting the Hon Terry, the easy shift from stranger to chum through shared interests, friends, boarding school, or some distant blood relationship.
I took another swallow of water and turned a page. From time to time, I glanced at my companions. The man with the rake resumed his labours, Terry keeping him entertained with talk. The band of sea-wrack grew shorter, the conversation more animated. When the two men turned to come back up the now-spotless beach, they walked as brothers.
I tucked in my book-mark and stood to meet my inadvertent host. Terry trotted forward in his eagerness.
“Mary, this is the very chap I was ordered to hunt down here! Ain’t that a sign it was meant to be? Gerald, this is Mrs Mary Russell, a friend from Venice. Mary, meet Gerald Murphy, an artist and a gentleman.”
I knew him for an American even before he spoke, from the way he pulled the brief head-cover from his thinning hair and extended his hand.
“Russell? And you’ve been in Venice—say, I think I know your husband. Doesn’t he play the violin?”
“That he does,” I said in surprise. Not many people in the world thought of Sherlock Holmes as a musician.
“Then I met him last month at Cole’s place—Cole Porter?”
“Oh, of course! Very pleased to meet you, Mr Murphy.”
“Please, call me Gerald. Your husband and Cole spent days putting together music for a ‘do’ at Cole’s palazzo. And Terry here says he crashed that party, but what with half the people in masks and drink flowing like the canal outside, I have no clue if we actually met. Sara and I were still pretty high when we left Venice the next morning,” he added with a laugh.
My relief at this close call made my greeting effusive. “Oh yes, that was quite a night! And thank you for sharing this lovely patch of sand with us. Though I’m afraid the next tide will bring your labours to naught.”
“It’s not our beach, we just camp out here. As for the sea-weed, raking’s a kind of meditation. The first clear-up of the season is a job, but after that it’s like shaving, or cleaning your brushes after a session. The world is fresh and clean, water meeting sand, a blank canvas ready for life.”
Murphy was a likeable sort, friendly and confident without feeling in the least pushy. His smile was easy, his accent was Boston modified by an Ivy League education—Yale?—and some years in Paris.
“You’re an artist, then?”
“I paint a little.”
I found myself smiling back at him as I gestured at the empty mats behind me. “It looks as if your colleagues on the canvas of life have abandoned you, at present.”
“The children rest in the afternoon. Some of the grown-ups, too, for that matter. They’ll all be back when the sun is lower. In the meantime, can I offer you two some shade and a drink? Warm, I’m afraid, but better than sea water.”
Terry and I gathered our things and followed our host to his empty encampment, where we sheltered gratefully beneath the striped umbrellas and accepted, with a degree less enthusiasm, beakers of tepid sherry from a half-empty bottle he took from the picnic basket.
The drink was just as disgusting as one might imagine, although Terry manfully slugged his down. Murphy seemed not to notice the temperature, but sipped his as he embarked on the required circuit of small-talk that served to identify one’s place in the world and how—not if—the two of us might be related. And indeed, eventually (though not that day) he and I did discover that we were distant and much-removed cousins, linked by various people who infested America’s tightly knit Society from Boston to Philadelphia.
That afternoon, however, I mostly sat and counted the waves while the two men performed the ritual, exclaiming at a series of links and overlaps in their worlds. They then moved to interests, seeking out common ground. Terry—who compensated for his sickly childhood with an adult passion for adventure and speed—told the dubious American about our adventures in water-skiing, how he and I had introduced the sport to the Lido set, using a pair of standard Alpine skis, and how he was looking forward to trying out the wider blades he’d had made in Venice. Murphy, intrigued, said he had a friend with a speed-boat who might like to learn.
It then being Murphy’s turn, he proceeded to tell his two politely uncomprehending English guests about the growing enthusiasm of artists and writers for the South of France during the summer. We nodded, mopping the sweat from our faces, and drank some water.
At last, the two men settled on their common interest in fast machinery, burbling happily along about speed-boats and the requirements for pulling skis, racing cars and the recently re-introduced Monte Carlo Rally, and sea-planes and the thrill of the Schneider Trophy, scheduled for another run in October.
Thinking that I ought to contribute in some minor way to the exchange, I asked about said trophy—and then had to do nothing but nod and make noises for a good twenty minutes, as the two told me all about this race for sea-planes that had begun up the coast in Monaco before the War, only to be won and taken away to Italy, followed by Britain, and now the United States.
“Hmm,” I said. “Really?” “Imagine that!” An aeroplane flew over, too high to see if it had pontoons. The tide continued to recede, the line of shadow from the hill behind us crept across the sand—and eventually, we heard voices.
Murphy’s face lit up and he scrambled to his feet.
“Here we are,” he declared, as a caravan of people spilled out onto the sand, separating into two directions as they did so. Half a dozen small, noisy individuals with sun-bleached hair raced directly down to the water, trailed by a young girl in daringly short trousers and an older woman wearing a rich blue dress and wide-brimmed hat. The others came towards us—apart from one slim young man wearing clothes ill-suited to an afternoon on the sand. This one called something at the back of the two nannies, lifted his hat in our direction, and turned to leave.
The glimpse offered by that brief salute was of a striking, even beautiful young man. His features were as perfect as a Hellenistic sculpture, with olive skin, curly hair, and startling green eyes that seemed to glow from within. I wanted him to join us—a sentiment that Gerald Murphy clearly shared.
Gerald cupped his hands to call across the intervening sand. “Niko—come and meet some new friends!”
But the figure merely sketched an apologetic gesture to the world at large, as an indication that his presence was required elsewhere, then tipped his hat again with a graceful bow and walked away.
Gerald chuckled. “He never joins us on the beach. I don’t know if he doesn’t like sand, or just doesn’t want to spoil his shoes. ’Course, he might be busy—some people do actually earn a living.”
“Who was that?” I asked.
“Greek guy named Niko Cassavetes. He’s a friend of—well, everyone, I suppose. Really nice, incredibly helpful to newcomers along the coast. He even managed to put together a fireworks display for us Yanks—but of course, the moon was so bright on the Fourth, he talked us into waiting till Bastille Day. Really impressed the locals—I think the whole population of Antibes was lined up at the harbour that night. Except for some of you Brits. Anyway, you’re sure to meet Niko, sooner or later.”
The others had continued down the beach in an attitude of triumphal procession, many of them
carrying some kind of basket or crate. At their lead was a woman of quiet dignity, wearing a long dress of such timeless fabric and design it might almost be called folkloric.
“I thought for a minute Niko might actually join us,” Gerald told her, relieving her of a fabric-draped straw basket.
“He said he had an appointment, but he also has a new pair of shiny shoes, which may have been more to the point. Hello,” she said, aiming a welcome at Terry and me.
“This is my wife, Sara,” Murphy told us. “Sara, this is Mrs Russell and Terry McClintock. Terry’s the fellow Didi was talking about—remember her cousin, the Honourable? Turns out they were at that bash Cole and Linda put on last month in Venice, the ‘Come as your Hero’ one, though we’re pretty sure we didn’t meet. Oh, but Mrs Russell’s husband was Cole’s partner, the guy with the violin!”
“Oh, yes!” Sara exclaimed. “Cole loved that. Great to meet you at last, Mrs Russell.”
“And I should thank you, for allowing us to share in your shade.”
“She was polite over the warm wine I handed her,” Murphy told his wife. “But she’ll be glad for a cold one to replace it.”
Sara then held out her hand to Terry. “A pleasure to meet you, er, Sir Terry?”
“Oh f’reavens sake, I’m no more honourable than the next man. Call me Terry.”
Sara Murphy was a natural beauty with a direct, compelling gaze and a tawny mop of hair, as inviting as the warm sea waters. “And Mrs Russell—welcome to our gipsy camp.”
A man would fall in love with this woman, I thought, and fling himself at her feet. I was not unaware of the impulse, myself. “Call me Mary,” I urged, and was rewarded by a smile like a blessing.
Baskets were opened, drinks poured, fruit and biscuits distributed, gay toasts made to friends old and new. The people around us were, if not as stunning as the elusive Niko, nonetheless an extraordinarily handsome group, golden with the sun and eager to absorb Terry and me into their midst. Most were American, and most were a good ten years younger than Gerald and Sara.
Rapid-fire introductions were made, to Rafe and Zelda and John and Olga and a couple of others whose names flew past me, comprising a novelist, a dancer, two artists, an actress filming in Nice, and her lover collected along the way. Sand was shaken from straw mats and travelling rugs, seats were taken, drinks poured—for a couple of the newcomers, conspicuously not their first of the day, or even their fifth. The actress had her male escort cover her with coconut oil, then pushed down the straps of her bathing costume so as not to have unsightly pale lines, and arranged herself on a mat to bake. Down the beach, the two nannies folded the children’s discarded garments into neat piles and stood chatting, backs to the adults and eyes on what seemed like a large number of small splashing bodies.
Sara was explaining to Terry and me how they came to be here—and yes, the Murphys were indeed those mad Americans who had coaxed the Hôtel du Cap into remaining open during the quiet months, two years earlier.
“Paris is so awful in the summer, don’t you think? But Antibes—this place is just Paradise. All we have to do is talk our friends into coming down to visit, which hasn’t proved too hard—the Train Bleu is such a treat—leave Paris at dinner and have lunch in Antibes. And now that Gerald and I have our own house—we’ve just finished the renovations, praise be!—we can even offer people a place to stay, or work. You’ll come to dinner tonight, both of you.”
“That’s a lovely offer, Mrs Murphy—” Terry started.
“Sara. None of us are formal here.”
“A smashing offer, but I promised my friends that I’d join them for dinner, back at the hotel.”
“Bring them along! We adore new people, and there’s plenty of food. Unless they’re horrible and boring, that is.” Her smile let us know that she refused to believe either of us could have anything to do with such a creature as a boring human being.
“No, all three of them could charm the monocle off Joe Chamberlain. Couldn’t they, Mary?”
I nodded. “Having spent the past weeks living in one another’s pockets, I cannot say I was ever bored.” Shocked, perhaps, and often baffled, but not bored.
That led to a question of how Terry and I came to appear on the beach together, which led to the Stella Maris, then back to Venice and the Porters and another set of mutual friends and distant cousins. As before, I was happy to let Terry take the lead with this recitation, since my own history, unless tightly edited, would inevitably lead to those same Sherlock Holmes discussions I had thus far managed to avoid. The conversation followed the track of water-skiing, then motorcars, and splintered into two or three separate groups.
Three of the gathering—Zelda, Olga, and the lover—were talking about dancing, although the desultory pattern of their talk suggested that the two women were tired of each other. The actress and Terry debated recent films. Two of the men argued about art—a sculptor who was not dressed for the beach and clearly found sand in his shoes irritating, and a young painter who rarely got to finish a sentence. Sara lay paging through a tattered copy of Mrs Beeton and making notes. She and her husband participated in all three discussions, tossing in the odd remark and directing things away from troubled waters.
I allowed Murphy—Gerald—to fill my glass again, and ate a biscuit as I watched the antics of the six happy children.
Sara Murphy noticed the direction of my eyes. “Do you have children, Mary?”
“My husband has a grown son and a granddaughter we see whenever we’re in Paris.” I blinked in surprise. It was not a reply I usually gave, even to friends, since it invariably led to the further question of whether I wanted children, and why I did not have them, neither of which were easy to answer.
Fortunately, either Sara was more sensitive than most, or she had learned that it is better to let a person walk through a conversational door than try and drag them through it. “How sensible of you—a ready-made family without the teething and toilet-training.”
I laughed, and she went back to her Household Management. My gaze wandered down again to the splashing figures, without whom the little cove would have seemed strangely empty.
What would it have been like to have had a childhood of bare limbs and sun-warmed sand, I wondered? My own memories were of scratchy woollen bathing costumes, compulsory parasols, and being dragged off to shelter the moment the sun grew high. Unlike those golden bodies, flailing and chattering and pausing to examine some bit of aquatic wildlife. Paradise, indeed…and I would not think about the fact that the Biblical inhabitants of Eden soon met a snake.
One of the smaller children, young enough to be uncertain on her feet, sat down hard in the water and began to wail. The nannies took this as a signal to gather the three youngest charges, retrieve the piled garments, and make their way to the adult gathering and the snacks that lay at hand. Near the mats, the children split up—a boy of about five with sun-bleached hair to Sara, a girl slightly younger claiming Zelda, while the other child, of uncertain sex, stayed with the young woman in the short trousers.
Small hands were brushed off and filled with biscuits, small hats untied and removed, then all three round little bodies were plunked down inside the striped tent where the slim young nanny took out a picture book. The older woman, tasked with keeping her eye on the remaining children, settled onto a beach chair facing the water. Gerald took her a glass of wine and shifted one of the umbrellas so she was out of the sun. She murmured a thanks, and took a deep swallow from the glass before working its base into the sand.
The groups had shifted: sculptor and actress now discussed a film, Sara was chatting with Olga about a recipe, Zelda was flirting with Terry. Gerald and I talked about sailboats for a minute, then he turned to the stray lover to ask about Cannes, leaving me free to think my thoughts. After a minute, I tried settling down into the travelling rug, wriggling my shoulder blades to creat
e a comfortable hollow in the sand. My legs were in the sun, but the umbrella shaded me from the waist up. I found that if I rested my glass on my stomach, I could take a sip by merely raising my head.
I was, in short, indulging that unexpected taste for lethargy.
The older nanny’s dress, I thought drowsily, was quite a pretty colour—the blue of the deeper waters off the coast. I wondered what its neck-line looked like. (She had her back to me.) Something about her was vaguely familiar. The set of her shoulders. Perhaps I’d seen her earlier, among the chairs at the hotel’s pool?
As if she’d heard the thought, the woman seemed to take a deep breath. Her manicured fingers rose to untie and pull off the sun-hat, revealing the back of an attractive haircut, unabashedly grey but fashionably modern. She took another sip of wine, returned the glass to the sand, and braced her hands on the arms of her chair. I thought she was going to walk down and speak with the older children. Instead, her shoulders turned as she swivelled in her chair. Her face came into view.
And my glass flew into the air.
Mrs Hudson.
ELEVEN WEEKS EARLIER
The lady of the house opened the door herself, and swept onto the sun-washed street to embrace her long-awaited guest. “Clarissa Hudson, oh my darling thing! I never thought this day would arrive—come in, you must be exhausted. Mathilde, dear, have the driver carry her things in, then we’ll take tea in the garden. We’ve put you in your usual room, Clarissa, the one with the harbour view. Oh, it’s so good to see you. When I got your cable last week I danced for joy—positively skipped across the carpet, didn’t I, Mathilde? Though on the telephone you did sound just a touch down. My, what a delightful frock, it does marvellous things for your eyes. Paris, yes?”
“Where else? Ah, bonjour, Mathilde, ça va? You’re looking well.”
Riviera Gold Page 3
