A Period of Adjustment (14 page)

Giles called anxiously, half asleep, from his room, ‘Something wrong? Dad? All right?'

I said I was all right. Just couldn't sleep. Was he all right?

‘Yup. I like it here. It's nice. I'm all right.'

‘Good. I'm glad.'

‘Do you like it? Here I mean.'

‘It's better than the last few nights. In that Pavilion place.'

‘Better than that! Oh, yes. But it really is pretty good, isn't it? Just in our own place. I like that. I saw your light, that's why I woke up.'

‘I know. Sorry. I should have shut the door but you wanted me to leave it open. Right? You did ask.'

‘I know. Just the first night. It's a bit strange, isn't it? But I am quite used to it now, after the hotel and that place, the Pavilion.'

‘Well, try to go back to sleep. And shut up and let me think. I might just look at a magazine for a bit. Okay? Shall I shut my door? Stop the light?'

‘No. Leave it open.' He fell silent. I reached for an old
Paris Match. ‘
Mum used to do that.' His voice was fading into sleep.

‘Do what? Look at
Paris Match?'

‘No. Shut the door of her room. She said because her light might keep me awake, but she would be there, quite close, just shut her door, so not to be worried.'

‘Where was this? Not at Simla Road? You and Annie were on the top floor.'

‘No. At the seaside. A huge hotel, but she was next door, and she said' – he broke off and yawned – ‘I would be able to see the light under her door, so it was all right. And so go to sleep.'

‘And?'

‘She wasn't really there at all. I heard their car going away. But her light was on under the door. But I saw them driving away out of the car park.'

‘Who was them? You mean Eric Thingummy?'

‘Once it was him. I knew his car. I watched them, and when I knocked at her door there was no one there. So that's why I asked you to keep your door open. You see? It's all right now. It won't keep me awake. I am going to think about my aquarium.'

‘Were you quite alone? Wasn't Annie with you? Surely?'

‘No, it was term time. She was at Granny's. It doesn't have to be a big aquarium, you know? You could afford it easily. All right?'

‘Absolutely all right. Now go to sleep. It's tomorrow already. Off with you. It's Monday. Realize that? French lessons again.'

‘Oh no!' His voice was muffled by sleep. ‘Not today, Will.'

We had reverted to ‘Will'. ‘Dad' was to be used for more intimate moments it would appear.

‘Can't live in France, Giles, and not speak the language. Stands to reason.'

He didn't answer; probably drifted into sleep. Which was more than I could hope for. I'd have a lot of repair work to do on my son. Helen had obviously used her free time, while I was away, very well indeed.

Arthur clipped a small bunch of tiny grapes and dropped them at my feet. ‘This size. When they get to this size - before, if you can – nip ‘em out. Otherwise you'll choke the rest. It's a deadly job, thinning. I do it every year and groan. You'll be in trouble with yours. Unpruned for years, I daresay, so you'll be knee-deep in the things. And they attract the hornets and wasps. Best get rid of them all. You see? About two inches long, three. Have them out or you'll be in trouble.'

I steadied the folding steps and he started down, secateurs in one hand, his unlaced boots scrabbling for a foothold. ‘I was just showing you an example, I have done the rest. Did them early this year. Muscat of Alexandria. Nice grape, wonderful flavour. October about. Know what yours is?'

We sat down at the tiled table. He clattered the secateurs on the tiles, took off his straw hat, reached for the wine carafe and poured us a couple of fairly generous glasses.

‘Get yourself some secateurs, a couple of plastic buckets – they are lighter when you're up the ladder – and, of course, a pair of steps, or a damned ladder. God! How I hate them. Can't stand heights, you see. Dottie usually has to stand at the bottom to reassure me.' He took a good swig.

I looked, I suppose, a little doubtful, because he suddenly said in his schoolmaster voice, ‘What's up? Going to be timid and British suburban? Glass of wine in the afternoon? Delicious.'

‘I'm driving,' I said lamely, and took a sip myself. ‘But I do admit I have never seen a sign of a flic between here and Jericho all the time I've been here.'

He laughed, scratched a bony, bronzed knee. ‘You won't either. Too rural here, they stick to the main roads when they aren't stuck in a bar. Helmets on the counter. No problem.'

‘I need this anyway. It's been a sod of a week. I'm only just getting used to life on the farm, so to speak. I've slept for almost two days. What is it today? Wednesday? I had to hang about because a Monsieur Bourdon from the PTT was due. No one knew just
when.
Sometime. Because “he is on your route”. So one waits. Came this morning, a great deal of “Mon Dieu! La chaleur! Malheur! Oh la! la!” He was as fat as a boar and shaggy as a bison. Dripping, poor man, like a sodden sponge. But after six iced beers and a flurry of francs I had a telephone! A real, honest-to-God telephone! With a number! I am reeling. I am automatic; he demonstrated proudly by misdialling his own office. But I put that down to excitement. I am in touch with the world. I was beginning, after the last three days, to feel rather isolated.'

Arthur laughed, drank again, wiped his lips. ‘You may very likely wish that you still were. I hate that thing. Terrible intrusion into one's life. We had so much of all that in the UK. At everyone's beck and call. Parents worried about their little brutes. Caterers and laundry people. Tax fellows, police too sometimes, if a couple of little treasures had got pissed in the village and felt up some witless girl. Journalists … I really was glad to up stakes and clear off. Giles seems in good form. Chuffed with the house. Are
you
?' His eyes were blue and very bright, his question crisp.

‘Very. I think. It's not something that I was really expecting. It has all come rather suddenly. Didn't expect the boy either, as you know, flown in like cargo. “Unsolicited gift”.
I didn't have much option. Now I have a house, three hectares, a son and a telephone. And I don't know quite what to do. But it is getting clearer. Promise you that. It's suddenly starting to come together at last. I have a feeling it's exactly what I should have done years ago.'

Arthur reached for his tobacco pouch, began to roll himself a cigarette, the flimsy paper fluttering in his strong fingers. ‘Well you've made a commitment now to the boy. You'll have to stick to it. I have a shrewd feeling that he hasn't felt very secure. Be cruel to muck him up. You won't do that? You don't mind me smoking?' He lit his rather ratty little tube with a lighter, blew a thin spiral of smoke into the vine.

‘I won't do that,' I said. ‘I have made a commitment indeed. Not just to him, made it to myself as well. Don't worry. I'll stick by it. I won't “muck him up”. He's had enough of that from the lot of us. Not you and Dottie, I don't mean you! God! His family. We go back to the UK shortly, to sell up there. Then back here. Hence the telephone. I have to be ready to get over as soon as there is an alert. The house is on the market, but it's a difficult time. Always is. The hotel have the number, Madame Mazine clucked like a contented hen. Maurice-with-the-car fixed it all the moment I agreed to employ his daughter Clotilde. Simple but efficient. Drives a mean Mobylette, dead punctual, and does a bloody good line in pasta, and tarte au blet.'

Arthur waved away a curious wasp buzzing round his glass. ‘And Florence Prideaux?'

‘And Florence. But she left this morning … somewhere near Marseilles. A little break with friends of her mother. But they have the number.'

Then Dottie and Giles, chattering in French, halting but fairly intelligible, were on the terrace. Giles had a small glass jar. Held it reverently.

‘Cherries! Look, Dad. All from three trees. These are for me.'

Arthur hooked a chair with his foot. ‘Dot, sit down, my dear. Have a sip of wine. Giles, nip in and get a glass will you? There's some Coke in the fridge.'

Dottie sat down, wiping her hands on her apron. ‘I've done about twenty kilos. Not bad. Ran out of sugar. Never mind. Has anyone ever given that child any sort of responsibility ever? He reacts splendidly, eager, good with his hands. He's also far more relaxed now. Easier altogether. Maybe Jericho? Certainly you.'

‘I'm not sure about me.'

‘I am. He's stopped clock-watching. He takes it on trust that you'll be here when you say you will. And so you are. Up till now, he began to get restless about half an hour before you were due. Like a dog before an earthquake …'

Arthur barked with laughter. ‘Dottie! Really, what an analogy!'

‘Well, I know what
I
mean. Anyway, that's stopped … Your responsibility, Will, but desperately important for him.'

Giles came back through the bead and bamboo curtain, set the wine glass down and swigged at his opened Coke. Arthur poured the wine, topped up my glass in spite of my cautious ‘British suburban' hand which had half moved to cover it.

I said, ‘Giles. Guess what? We are in touch with the world again. Monsieur Bourdon from the PTT arrived this morning just as I got back, swallowed a six-pack of Kronen-bourg and left us with a glorious telephone! Pale beige, with real numbers and a bell that rings. How about that?'

‘Terrific! Brilliant!' Then his smile faded. He pressed the side of the Coke can. It crackled. ‘Now you'll be able to call … Valbonne, won't you?'

I nodded. ‘Sure. But I still don't know the number. I
forgot to ask Mum on Saturday. There were other things to talk about. She'll call the hotel when she has to. They know the number.'

Arthur scratched a knee. ‘When do you have to go back? To the UK.' His cigarette was a brown stump by this time. He stubbed it under his boot, caught Dottie's hopeless look and laughed. ‘I'll sweep the thing up! Look, woman! Place is
covered
with vine thinnings. Been showing William what he's in for. I reckon the summer is a good time to sell in London? Right or wrong? Don't envy you at all, moving. God! As devastating as death or divorce.' He looked at me suddenly, slightly confused and embarrassed. ‘Or so they say. Then back here, eh? To Jericho?'

‘Back here. If I am still in one piece after it all. Back here.'

‘For a summer holiday, you said. Didn't you, Dad? A summer holiday.'

Dottie laughed, began to take off her apron. ‘I know exactly what you really mean, Giles. No more lessons for three months? No more Frog, eh? He speaks very well now, you know? Not perfect but not bad. Good accent. Total immersion in the house, as long as Arthur remembers.'

‘I remember,' said Arthur. ‘But up in the aviary it gets a bit fraught.'

‘They have terrific summer holidays here in France,' Giles said. ‘From now until September! Then it's called
rentrée,
right?' he said to Dottie, who nodded. He was swinging by one arm from one of the pillars of the vine trellis, his face bright with cheerful anticipation of weeks of idleness.

‘What in God's name will you
do
for three months on our own? I'll go potty, to start with,' I said.

Dottie folded her apron, set it on the table. ‘The rest of June!
All
July,
and
August. Rather long. But
we
chug on. Teaching. We Theobalds. You can come here now and
then. Give Arthur a hand with his birds, keep from getting rusty with your Frog. Oh! And we'll have Frederick, or Freddy, de Terrehaute here. Three days a week. A nice young American boy, same age as you about. I think you'd like him. He comes to us to get a “French polish” as his mother calls it. Odd, considering how English we are? Come and meet him?'

‘Why do I know that name? Terrehaute?' I said.

‘You might. His ancestors used to own the chateau next to your house. Ruins now. In the Revolution. They got away to America. Louisiana. His mother comes back here every summer. Takes the Villa des Violettes, just up the hill. Most amusing woman, widow or divorced, not certain. But I've never seen a Duke.'

‘Of course I know it. Great cedar tree? My brother pinched a lot of the stones to build his wall, round Jericho. Of course.'

Arthur started to roll another cigarette. ‘Used to be the pigeonnier of the place, your house. That fat round tower at the corner. Ever been inside? Nothing to see but bat droppings. You getting restless, Giles? We boring you?'

Giles undraped himself from the pillar. ‘No. I was actually thinking about my aquarium. Will said I could have one in the summer holiday. You did, Will, didn't you?'

It was obvious that my name as ‘Will' or ‘Dad' would vary according to the amount of charm which he felt he would need for whatever he wanted. And an aquarium, it seemed, would need an almost sickening amount. He was smiling eagerly, nearly winsomely.

‘We'll see about that when the time comes.' The winsome bit had to be crushed.

‘You said
after
the telephone.
After
we got back from London!'

‘Well we haven't even gone there yet. Come on! Let's get Jericho set up first, okay?'

‘Well, okay. But we'll have a really long holiday here anyway. Won't we?'

‘We'll have a decent holiday, my lad. Let us call it a period of adjustment,' I said, and finished my wine.

Sidonie Prideaux, Florence's mama, was what I suppose one would call an imposing figure. In her early seventies, tall, grey-haired, firm jaw, good legs, a body which had once been fruitful and strong, now running to slack. When I had been ushered into her presence (and it had always seemed like that each time), she was engaged in what she called her ‘monthly cleaning'. Before her on a small, hideous, Moroccan inlaid-shell table lay a clutter of little brass pieces. An inkwell, a fish, some Algerian coffee cups, an ugly coffee pot with a long thin spout, a bell, a box inscribed with Arabic lettering. She was buffing away at an Aladdin's lamp when Annette murmured my name and I moved into the humidity of the familiar conservatory.