by Ursula Bloom
For a moment Diana did not know what to say, and she whispered, ‘But you had me.’
‘I know, my darling. And we have come much closer than we have ever been before; we have weathered the storm together. I’m just so thankful to have been here. Now go to France and enjoy the holiday of your life. Take what you can from it and be happy.’ She looked closely at Diana and then she said, ‘Remember that time marches on, and sometimes it is wiser to forget what we have been through, and what we have suffered.’
Quite quietly she went out of the room.
She’s a very wonderful woman, Diana thought, and I’m the luckiest girl in all the world. That is the answer. For the first time she felt that she could look ahead.
Chapter Eight
ADVENTURE
It was post-Christmas winter, with a hard rime frost ‒ ‘Three rimes and a rain’ the gardening man prophesied, which meant that it would rain the day she travelled.
He was wrong there. It was one of those vividly bright days which come in mid-winter and have a rare sparkle of their own. When the day of departure came, and she knew that the car was at the door, she got the jitters. It was Miss Howland who became grimly prosaic over it all, and bundled her into the car and got her off. Miss Howland was going to have a really early spring-clean, so she said, and this would be the answer to all her worries. Miss Howland would be thankful to have the house to herself, and get it completely ‘done’, as she put it.
The car travelled fast to make up time. All the while she knew that she was suffering the naggings of doubt as to whether she had done the right thing, and she felt so much alone in this. The sight of the enormous airport scared her more. She had never been inside the entrance before, and disliked the whole arrangement of it. One never felt oneself to be part of it.
She hated the wait, then walking out to the ’plane, with the cold wind biting her face, and the sudden realisation how hard the English winter could be. She climbed up what must be one of the world’s most uncomfortable stairways, and although the ’plane gave the appearance of being larger inside than she had anticipated, she knew that she was trembling with nervousness.
They went through the formula, it was a shocking business when she heard the door shut on the outside world, and knew that the stairs were being wheeled away. She had committed herself. I should never have done it, she thought. But she never knew when they actually took off, and they served lunch almost immediately. On the whole she would have said that it was a good lunch.
Afterwards she dozed over the coffee, and then found that she was tiring of a dull period, skidding land beneath them and fleecy clouds around, through which they skimmed; she got bored with the eternal engine throb, and every now and then the slight jolt, which at first she had thought was dangerous, then decided it was nothing.
The stout woman next to her told her when the Alpes Maritimes came in sight; she was an old experienced traveller who, like most of them, wished to bestow her wisdom.
The Alpes Maritimes looked exactly like anywhere else from the sky above them, and then they came down. Diana was not aware of the landing, only that the noise changed, and suddenly the ’plane seemed to be more restful. She picked up her handbag and the little valise with which she was travelling, and realised that she had never even glanced at the bundle of magazines which she had bought, nor had she brought out her knitting. How strange! she thought.
La Cloche had sent a car for her, and she walked through the sheds, and out to where it was waiting. The small perky chauffeur had eyes like currants in a cake, and his skin was darkish, his hair sleekly black and plastered down with grease. He ushered her into the car with a tremendous show of urbane good manners, a trifle overdone. Then he bounced into his seat and they swept off at an unbelievable speed, out of the airport into the country beyond.
It was then, and quite suddenly, that her tired attention was arrested for the first time, and she saw the blue mountains, cutting off the harsh winds, and making this a protected sunny world. She saw the pale blue sea on her right, and they sped on into a small town with the gayest shops, and people sitting in the street cafes, quite ignorant that it was winter. The town was fascinating. There was a street market, the stalls loaded with narcissi and daffodils, and the anemones in such distractingly vivid colours. There came the country again, and the fast-moving roads, then they dropped down into St Grave. It was smaller than any village which Diana had seen before. Rose-coloured camellias bloomed on fat bushes of highly glazed dark leaves; she saw a small lemon tree laden with the coming fruit, dangling like the ornaments on some fantastic Christmas tree. It amazed her. She saw a street café where people giggled together. Then two cars which had obviously grazed each other, the men shaking their fists and shrieking profane accusations. It could never have been England to this girl, it was its great merit. Not England any more.
In bad English the man told her that La Cloche was an old château, with a noble courtyard. It had all manner of historical associations, a ghost as well, and his eyes laughed at her. One should not risk too much, he assured her.
‘Ghosts have strange manners, m’lle,’ he said.
Inside the cobbled yard fantail pigeons cooed, and a lean pullet scratched for a living in the abandoned manner of hens. A plumbago curled round the door, and with it a rose tree had pink buds on it. Rosebuds at the end of January! she thought. A forsythia flung down yellow flowers to the ground, making a golden carpet for her, for the weather had been too hot for it.
‘Charmante,’ the man told her.
‘Quite marvellous,’ she agreed, and gladly.
Diana had dreaded walking into the hotel, because in a way this was something of a beginning, an entrance into a new world, and it scared her. A porter rushed out for the baggage, and grabbed it from her with a gurgle of welcome. She followed him through the doorway into an unimpressive corridor which opened up into a gigantic lounge, where Madame sat at the seat of custom. She was somewhat monumental, this woman in the black dress, with an enormous bust. Obviously she had capacious hips which would reveal themselves when she got up and walked. Her hair was jetty, though she had come to the years when she might have been greying (but she was too clever to permit such a sin), it looked as if it had been turned out of a jelly shape, and her beady dark eyes missed nothing.
‘M’lle Richardson?’ she exclaimed, and her exaggerated pronunciation seemed to make a common name seem an enchantment. ‘Welcome to La Cloche. The great friend of ours send you. Mais oui, le docteur,’ and she purred.
Still warming to the occasion, she deliberately unpinned a glowing pink carnation from her bust and held it out to the girl. Patently enough Madame could be generous when desirable, though the narrow little slits of eyes warned one that she could also be cheeseparing with a bill, and that she missed nothing which came her way.
‘Angele?’ she called to the secretary, and told her to take m’lle to her room.
Angele was slender as Madame was stout; you would never have described Madame as fat, she was noticeably stout. Angele spoke English as taught by the text books, a shade too perfectly perhaps, and she led the way along a corridor which had been added to La Cloche, into the pavilion on the other side. The bedroom was ideal. The french windows opened on to the lawns, and there were pictureless walls painted in a shade of light coral, against the softer darker pink curtains. The place had the divine sweetness of early springtime on the Riviera, and its charm made the girl unbelievably happy. For a moment she wished that she had been able to bring her mother with her. What a delicious change after Birmingham! She sat down on the bed. I’m in love with life, she thought, I’m actually in love again, and it’s wonderful.
‘It is comfortable for you, m’lle?’ asked Angele.
‘Divine.’
‘I am delighted that you enjoy ’eem,’ and Angele beamed.
‘You speak very good English,’ and Diana lied glibly, for she found it most difficult to understand, there was something wrong with the accen
t. Apparently Angele, flattered into disclosing the truth, had spent a summer in Glasgow where she had learnt her ‘very good English’. It explained much.
‘Dinner is at eight, m’lle. If you wish refreshment, we do not make ’eem in the hotel, but there is the patisserie at the street corner, where people go. It is most commode,’ and she smiled.
‘But could I go alone?’
‘Certainement, m’lle,’ and then she twinkled, her dark eyes like bilberries. ‘Maybe it is that you will not remain alone, who could tell? Dinner is at eight.’
‘Yes, I have got that.’
Then the door shut and Angele had gone. Diana washed herself and felt refreshed, she changed her frock, for somehow it had become too warm, and she walked out into the street. Here was a conglomeration of small houses, some washed pink and some pale green, with a blue one at the corner. Through the iron lace of gates she saw attractive little gardens, out of which steps rose to front doors. Cinerarias glowed like jewels, amethyst, sapphire and ruby. The plumbago seemed to be everywhere and reminded her of love-in-a-mist at home, the same shade of soft cobalt blue.
The pavement was irregular, on it sandals slurred, or bare feet, for the place was casual, it was not in the height of fashion but had about it the infinite charm of the seaside. She heard the buzz of the little patisserie before she got to it. It stood on the corner of the street, with small tables and all manner of rather uncomfortable chairs stretching out towards the gutter. Waiters rushed to and fro, and there was a crowd settling down to refreshment. There were stout French matrons, always in black, which seemed to be the mode for them, and elegant young girls in flowery frocks, mostly without hats but some with large ones, and she saw the éclairs and cream buns which set her mouth watering.
She saw a free table and made for it. It was something of a triumph to have got the chair, and the triumph awakened a spontaneous feeling of youthfulness within her. Of gaiety. Of competition. She ate three éclairs (she had never tasted such beauties), and she did not care if she put on pounds. Then when the bill came, she was horrified. She had never appreciated how vastly expensive France could be. They were lovely, she told herself, but that is the first and last time, because one can have too much of a good thing.
She walked back home feeling that they had been worth it. It was not just the price that she had paid for three éclairs and some exquisite coffee, it was the price of thrill, of youth tugging at her, and of hope re-born within her.
As she entered the pretty bedroom, she heard the telephone ringing beside the bed and went to it.
‘Hello?’
To her amazement the voice at the far end was that of Christian James. ‘I just rang up to ask if you thought La Cloche quite dreadful, and to warn you not to let that old baggage Madame do you in the eye.’
She had to tell him. ‘I had three éclairs at a pavement cafe and some delicious coffee, and the bill was sixteen-and-six in English money. Is this reasonable?’
‘No, but it’s France,’ and she heard him laughing gaily. ‘Have a good time, you’re only young once, and the thing to do is to make the most of it.’
‘It’s a gay new world!’
‘You’ll find a new personality in that world. Visit the artists’ colony, go and see them, there are nice chaps there and they’d like you. And call on Bernard Dante, he could have something good to give to you.’
‘An artist?’
‘A sculptor.’
She did not know why she gave a little gasp, as though suddenly something of a haze lifted and she saw the clarity of a new day ahead of her. ‘That interests me,’ she said.
‘Then go and see Dante. He’s a fine chap. And whatever else you do, enjoy yourself.’
The voice petered out and somehow she was sad at the thought. He was such a nice man, some woman would be lucky when she married him, for she would have a first-class husband. But, as she was beginning to learn, this was not why people married. Christian James was dedicated to his job, and he would cling to it for ever. She went back to her room and changed.
She put on a flowered chiffon dress with roses on it, which had something of jeunesse about it. Yet at this stage she felt she had outgrown youth. The experiences of these last few months had done this. The beauty of Devonshire, and the horror of the aftermath. The difficulty in deciding what was the right thing to do, then the despair at losing the baby (for she had despaired), but the joy of finding her mother as she really was. She thought as she snapped a slender string of pearls round her throat, I wonder how many more people there are in the world who, even if they thought they knew their own folk, suddenly found them different and changed.
She steadied herself; she must not give way to that faint tremor at going in to dinner with no escort, she must pull herself together, for there was nothing of which to be afraid.
Somehow Madame saw the trouble, as the girl entered the hall. In truth there was nothing that Madame ever missed.
‘It has been the pewtiful day,’ said Madame.
‘Lovely.’
‘Now for the most pewtiful diner.’ She had never suffered from any squeamishness about praising her own goods. ‘I escort you, m’lle.’
They went into the exquisite salon, and Madame selected a corner table on which stood a bowl of vivid pink carnations.
‘How lovely they are!’ Diana said.
‘I observe you like ’eem.’ Naturally Madame had observed nothing of the sort, for her carnations were everyday, but she was always prepared to accept praise for everything in her hotel, and she warmed to it. ‘Now if we have nothing on the menu which m’lle prefaire, you ask, and we make ’eem.’
‘I’m sure it will be beautiful,’ and as a piece of interesting information, ‘Dr James rang me up this evening, and asked to be remembered to you.’
Madame behaved like a flirtatious girl, she simpered. ‘’E is so nice,’ she purred, wagging a coquettish finger. ‘We make ’eem come for the ’appy week, oui?’
‘He is a busy man.’
Again she wagged the finger. ‘Ah yes, beesness is ever beesness, but m’lle is pretty, and the pretty face is good! It does not last for ever, hélas! Once I was pewtiful,’ for a single moment Diana saw the regret of the woman behind all this, the woman who had waved adieu to youth. There was a shimmer of tears in her eyes with the bulbous lids, then courageously she recovered. ‘Be ’appy, chérie, for ’appiness is the best gift of all.’
The dinner was superb, of the kind that you could not get in England, nor would you expect it. Diana did not know when she had enjoyed food so much, and when she had finished she went into the lounge for coffee. The place was still much as it had been when it was the seat of a wealthy aristocratic family. I am happy here, she thought as she sat down by the uncurtained window looking out to sea. The night was brighter than any she had known in England, and about it was a scintillating radiance which was enchanting.
A lighthouse flashed methodically on time, bringing every little while an arm of light to touch the sea with gold and to light the clustering houses beneath the window.
It is very lovely, she thought. Not with the beauty of Devonshire, but with the charm of something dearer.
She saw the young man on the sofa near her, and perhaps she had been aware of his presence for quite a time, English, she supposed. He was not tall, but lithely made, the public-school type, with a thick mass of chestnut-coloured hair, which he kept trying to smooth down with his hand. She realised that he was watching her, and tried not to look at him. He would be about her own age, probably with the sort of temperament that she herself had had a year ago. A year ago, and the words vibrated through her. Then she had been just a young girl at home, the girl who had not gone far in life, nor had she known much.
Life had changed too fast.
She picked up a magazine, and then became uncomfortable because the young man was still watching her, and as she did not know what to do to stop it, she went up to her room to bed. As she crossed the hall Madam
e was still at her desk, and she looked up.
‘So soon?’ she asked, then ‘Per’aps m’lle is fatiguée?’
It was easier to say that she was, and the curious thing was that she was pretty sure Madame did not believe her. She sees more than one would think, she told herself. Is she friend or foe? Maybe she could be either.
She woke late.
The daylight was in the room, and the sunlight was like May in England. She got up and drew the curtains, to see the orange and lemon trees in the garden, and to smell the scent of clove carnations from the border. It’s too lovely, she thought, none of it can be really true, but whilst the dream lasts it is heaven. She put on a light blue woollen dress, which seemed to turn her hair darker. She knew that she looked something like a pastel picture, and could rejoice in it; maybe it was good in life to take time off to be just happy. To let a few days pass before going on with living. This would not be living, but enjoying herself. She heard the jangling bells of the horse which pulled the milk cart, and it was a music which sounded like Brahms to her.
I’m glad I came, she thought.
That was when Suzette, the little maid, brought in her breakfast tray of coffee and croissants. It was beautifully prepared with an embroidered cloth on the tray, with cream in a pretty jug and a pot of honey.
Diana perched on the unmade bed, and drank the coffee, telling herself that she had never tasted anything that was more delicious. When she had done she stepped out of the french windows into the garden. There was no wind. As she stood there looking about her, she knew that already the place had changed her. It had a rapture of its own, something which it could impart to others, something which worked down into the heart and moved her, as though she now stood facing a future which had everything to offer. She almost laughed at the thought. Her future would be the return to Newbury when the holiday was over. Back to Miss Howland, with Mother to stay, with visits to and from Sarah. But the south of France could paint a prettier picture, for there anything might happen. It was part of the flowery background, the sunshine, and the French flag drooping in the windless atmosphere against the masthead.
