Beyond the Green Hills (14 page)

‘I’m sure there will,’ he said firmly. ‘The inflow of American money has had a very powerful stimulating effect on the banking world. Some observers are saying that the present industrial expansion is the
largest France has ever experienced.’

He sipped his drink and threw out a hand.

‘As you well know, the Treaty of Rome was signed last year. It’s been in force since January. Already we begin to see signs that France will become a kind of clearing house for certain European projects. Strangely, even the English are coming to us for finance. And often, when London does business with Rome, it is done via Paris. It is a surprise to us as well,’ he said, shrugging his shoulders. ‘But it is exceedingly good news for those banking houses who can cope with the new situation quickly. Those who have staff able to operate in a European rather than in a French context will be enormously successful.’

‘So you think I should sign on,’ said Clare, lightly.

‘Chérie, I should be concerned for your sanity if you did not,’ he said, so solemnly that both Clare and Marie-Claude burst out laughing.

Clare signed next morning, shook hands with Robert Lafarge, who was looking remarkably pleased with himself, and was immediately claimed by Madame Japolsky, who seemed somewhat put out that the chairman of the bank had managed to make an appointment so promptly in her unfortunate absence.

‘If you will come with me, Miss ’Amilton, my office is on the ground floor, so that I am in close contact with the staff in my charge,’ she said as they left Robert Lafarge’s room.

Immaculately dressed in the height of discreet
fashion, Madame had one of those angular bodies which undermine any possibility of elegance. What she lacked in poise and charm, she made up for by enhanced self-esteem. Despite her married status, Madame Japolsky reminded Clare of an elderly spinster who had once taught her in Sunday School. She wore exactly the same look of unshakeable distrust of her fellow men that had marked out Phoebe Hanson. She also gave a similar impression that she was about to pounce on you and demand a repetition of the first nineteen items in the Shorter Catechism.

‘It is a little uncommon, Mam’selle ’Amilton, that such an advance has been made upon your salary. Nevertheless, I shall explain to you what exactly is involved,’ she began, peering at Clare severely over gold-rimmed half-glasses which tended to slip down on her very narrow, pointed nose.

‘The bank insists that all members of staff have their personal accounts here. They must never
under
any
circumstances
be allowed to go into debit. That I must stress. However, if there are personal circumstances which would lead to this very serious state of affairs, you must come to me right away. If we consider the circumstances reasonable, we have provision for meeting such difficulties.’

Clare nodded soberly and restrained a smile at the use of the royal ‘we’. She read the document Madame placed in front of her and obediently signed the forms needed for the opening of her account.

‘I will be very direct, Mam’selle ’Amilton. Your
costume is very chic, well chosen, but in this position you will need many such costumes. Sometimes you will require evening dress,’ she said severely. ‘That is why this allowance has been made, no doubt. Not all young women have an adequate wardrobe. You will pay for your own costumes, but it is obligatory you use this designer with whom we have an arrangement.’

She handed over a business card. One glance at the name of a world-famous couturier and Clare could hardly wait to show it to Marie-Claude.

‘You can be sure of excellent service. Do you understand?’

Clare nodded soberly, despite the fact that she was having the greatest difficulty in keeping her face straight.

‘If you have a suitable, mature woman who can supervise your fittings it would be very convenient. But if not, I shall see to it myself. I will make an appointment as soon as you take up your post. I suggest three costumes and two evening gowns, unless you already have several of each.’

Clare reassured her that Madame St Clair, who had assisted with her present costume, would be pleased to help.

‘Eh bien,’ she replied, her lips snapping together to make a tight line.

Clare watched as she made a note on her file. No doubt she would take a great deal of trouble to find out exactly which of the well-known St Clair family she was referring to. The idea delighted her.

Madame clearly had something more to say. Clare
adjusted her face muscles to look yet more attentive. It also helped her not to laugh, for the ironies of the situation were mounting all the time. Could she ever have imagined a job that provided a dress designer, subsidised her purchases and then produced an advance on salary with which to proceed?

‘We also provide accommodation for our young staff. A deduction will be made direct from your salary, but you will certainly not find a small apartment in Paris at such a modest rent. There are, of course, certain necessary rules. Some young women find them irksome,’ she said, as if a slightly unpleasant odour had crept into the room. ‘The apartment provided is designed
solely
for your own use.’

Clare lowered her eyes modestly and saved up the remark for Gerard, who seemed much preoccupied with the question of her lovers and how she was to accommodate them in the busy life he expected
her to have.

‘Finally, Mam’selle ’Amilton, I must tell you that Monsieur Lafarge has requested that you take up your position immediately. We have important American visitors coming to Paris at the beginning of next week. One of our most experienced interpreters will be responsible for the visit, but Monsieur Lafarge wishes you to be present to assist him. I have made arrangements for you to see your apartment today. It will be made ready by Saturday afternoon. I am sure you will be available on Monday.’

‘A week on Monday would have been perfect, Marie-Claude. But I suppose one can’t have everything,’ Clare said sadly, as she sat at the kitchen table telling her about her apartment and having to move in at the weekend. ‘I
was so looking forward to seeing Michelle and Philippe.’

‘Yes, they will be disappointed, but there will be other times,’ she said, as she began to make preparations for their evening meal. ‘The children must learn that Clare is now a special person. Even you and I will have to accept that we meet when we can. You will often be away. Is there a telephone in your apartment?’

‘Yes. It seems to have everything. I looked in the kitchen cupboards and there was a dinner service
and
champagne glasses. There were even fresh flowers on the coffee table when the beautiful young man took me to see it.’

Marie-Claude raised an eyebrow as she patted fillets of veal with seasoned flour and took a heavy iron pan from the cupboard.

‘No, Marie-Claude,’ she said, laughing and shaking her head. ‘I think Monsieur Paul saves his beauty for other young men.’

The older woman raised a floury hand in one of those expressive gestures Clare found truly fascinating, a gesture which combined deep understanding and wry amusement all in one flowing movement.

‘Now, tell me what else happened. Did you spend long with the famous Madame Japolsky? I wish to hear everything.’

Clare finished her tea, reached for her handbag
and was about to produce the couturier’s card when she stopped herself.

‘Marie-Claude, is there something
you
should be telling
me
?’

The older woman laughed and raised her hands in a gesture of despair.

‘You have such sharp eyes, ma petite. I’m sure I could take a lover and deceive Gerard. But with you here, alas I have no hope at all.’

Clare grinned happily. It was one of the joys of these last weeks to see the warmth and affection between Marie-Claude and Gerard. They seemed closer now and happier than she’d ever known them.

‘No, it’s not a lover. I can see that,’ retorted Clare. ‘Come on, stop teasing me. You’ve had some news. Letter or telephone?’

By way of answer, Marie-Claude washed her hands, dried them and fetched a letter from the table on the landing.

‘Read it yourself,’ she said, as she handed it to Clare.

Still in its hastily opened envelope, it was a single sheet with an impressive seal above the address. Clare scanned it
quickly, then read it again to make sure she’d understood it correctly.

‘Oh, Marie-Claude, how marvellous. What a lovely letter. No wonder you look so pleased. Fifteen years since you were his student and he says he remembers you well and would be delighted to have you.’

Clare put down the letter, got up and hugged her friend.

‘Now you’ll have to make up your mind exactly which topic interests you most,’ she said, teasingly, ‘out of the dozens we’ve discussed! You’ve only got till October, because then you’ll have lectures to go to and perhaps even have essays to write,’ she went on, excitedly. ‘How is post-graduate work organised in France? I haven’t a clue about that.’

‘I shall explain, in every detail, but I refuse absolutely till you’ve told me
everything
that happened at the bank.’

She covered the portions of veal with a cloth and came and sat down opposite Clare at the kitchen table.

Clare smiled to herself, retrieved her handbag from the floor and took out the elegant card from the bank’s couturier.

‘I’ve got another new job for you as well,’ she said casually, as she handed it over. ‘Suitable, mature woman, to supervise the transformation of one Clare Hamilton. Three costumes and two evening dresses, as soon as possible. Unless, of course, I happen to have the said items in my wardrobe already!’

Marie-Claude stared at the card and shook her head slowly.

‘Chérie! I am speechless. I cannot believe all that has happened in three short weeks. You have helped me so much.’

‘Me, help you? Oh goodness, I think it’s the other way
round. Would I ever have got the job if you hadn’t dressed me like a Frenchwoman?’

‘Would I ever have been taken on by Professor
Ladurie if you hadn’t wakened up my mind again?’

‘Perhaps we’d better call it a draw on the Blessedness Account or poor Gerard won’t get any supper!’ Clare laughed. ‘Let me go and change and then tell me what I can do to help.’

They worked together as they had done each evening since Gerard’s return. While Marie-Claude prepared meat for frying or grilling and made a sauce to complement what she had chosen, Clare rinsed vegetables, peeled potatoes, cut crudités, prepared a tray for aperitifs.

Clare thought of the tiny kitchen in her new apartment, the clean bright surfaces, the sink overlooking a small courtyard with terracotta pots full of summer flowers. Her first real kitchen.

‘You’ll come, won’t you, both of you, and see my ménage?’ she asked, suddenly so aware she must pack her case and leave for her own place in just a few days time.

‘But, of course, chérie. We shall take you to your apartment on Saturday or Sunday, whichever day Gerard can be free. I shall unpack your clothes myself and poke my nose in all your cupboards. If we couldn’t imagine you in your own apartment, how could we bear to part with you?’

S
taring out of her kitchen window into the cobbled courtyard where summer flowers still bloomed in profusion, Clare yawned and rubbed her eyes, as she waited for the kettle to boil. Not entirely awake, she was just reaching for the coffee jar when a sudden sharp knock startled her.

Hastily, she turned off the kettle, wrapped her dressing-gown more decently around her naked body and went to the door.

‘Ah, mam’selle, you are safely returned. These flowers came early this morning. Your curtains were still drawn, so I did not allow the delivery boy to knock at your door.’

The dark figure waiting on the doorstep was holding a costume from the dry-cleaners, a carrier bag and a cluster of envelopes and cards, as well as the florist’s box in the crook of her arm.

‘Do come in, Madame Dubois,’ Clare said politely, as she tried to smother another huge yawn.

The old woman smiled approvingly as Clare began to relieve her of her burdens. Some of the young mam’selles and messieurs kept her standing at the door with their dry-cleaning and their parcels, because their rooms were so untidy, she suspected,
but not this little English girl from Ireland. Even when a suitcase stood open, being packed or unpacked, her room was always so neat.

‘These are beautiful, mam’selle,’ said Madame encouragingly, as she lowered the box of flowers gently on to the dining table.

The other inhabitants of the bank’s apartments had warned Clare that Madame la concierge, was garrulous and nosey, but she had long since decided Madame was just lonely. She’d been widowed in the war and appeared to have no friends or relatives. Her mam’selles and messieurs had become her family, and her greatest pleasure was helping them. In return, she merely wanted a little share in their comings and goings.

‘Yes, they
are
lovely. I can’t think who they’re from. Shall we look?’ Clare replied. She opened the box, took out a sheaf of roses and freesias and found the card attached to the lid.

‘From London,’ she said, as she translated the rather formal message of thanks ‘for all her hard work’. ‘Unusual for English men to send flowers, isn’t it, Madame?’

Madame glowed.

‘I think perhaps you prefer French men, mam’selle,’ she said, looking pleased.

‘I think perhaps I might, if I ever met any,’ Clare laughed. ‘Apart from my neighbours here and one or two colleagues at the bank, I meet far more Americans than French men.’

Madame nodded agreeably and turned towards the door.

‘You must be very tired, mam’selle. It was so late last night. And you have had no breakfast yet.’

Clare thanked her and shut the door gratefully. The last thing she wanted this morning was to have to talk to anyone, but Madame was always so kind. Whatever the problem, she’d find a solution, and she’d never once forgotten anything she’d asked her to do.

Clare took the flowers through to the kitchen, filled her washing-up basin with water and put the flowers to soak, as Madame Givrey had instructed her. The tiny, bent old woman with a flower stall just outside the Metro was one of the first friends she’d made.

‘You love flowers, mam’selle?’ Madame Givrey said one day, when Clare chose a bouquet of white daisies mixed with bright blue statice. ‘Have you always lived in the city?’

‘No, Madame, you’ve guessed my secret,’ she replied, smiling broadly. ‘I’m a country girl. I used to grow my own flowers in window boxes my uncle made for me. Fuchsias and geraniums and lobelia. And I picked wildflowers too, for our table. Your flowers are lovely, but sometimes I miss the ordinary garden flowers, old-fashioned things like aquilegia and sweet william.’

‘And the wild roses in the hedgerows?’ she asked, her small dark eyes suddenly bright.

‘Oh yes,’ Clare replied, thinking of her favourite bush in the lane below the forge. ‘They only last a day or two, but they’re such a delicate colour, aren’t they?’

After that, she often stopped to talk. She told Madame Givrey she never bought flowers when she was going away because there’d be no one to appreciate them. The old woman had nodded approvingly. Flowers were to be treated with proper respect.

‘It is not just fresh water, mam’selle, that keeps flowers alive. Like ourselves, they need to be loved and cherished.’

The next time she chose a bouquet, Madame Givrey showed her how to cut the stems with a sharp knife.

‘Always let them drink properly before you put them in a vase, mam’selle. That way they will last longer.’

Clare switched the kettle on again, fetched the carrier bag with her bread and croissants from the sitting room and made breakfast.

‘No wonder Madame left so promptly,’ she said, as she glanced at the kitchen clock. It was a quarter to twelve and Madame, who rose at some incredibly early hour, before the earliest of deliveries, always had lunch at noon.

She carried her tray through to her chair by the window, carefully pushed aside the pile of books and maps on her low table and made room for it.

‘Ouff!’ she exclaimed, as she flopped down. Simply talking to Madame and making breakfast felt like a day’s work.

‘A whole week,’ she said to herself, as she finished off her croissant, licked her fingers and sat back in her chair with her coffee. ‘I don’t have to do
anything
.’

This was the first piece of time she’d had to herself since the senior interpreter fell ill, right in the middle of the important five-day visit Robert Lafarge wished her to observe.

‘This is most unfortunate Mam’selle ’Amilton. Most unfortunate,’ he began, striding up and down his room. ‘We cannot ask these Americans to come again another time, so I fear you will have to take Monsieur Crespigny’s place. It is quite unreasonable to ask you, but I have no option. I have postponed this morning’s meeting for one hour to see what help I can give you. Will you do what you can?’

‘Yes, of course,’ she said quickly. ‘I’m afraid I haven’t picked up all the technical terms yet, but the actual negotiations themselves don’t trouble me. The problem is the financial side, particularly the interest rates. Monsieur Crespigny uses a calculator to produce a very fast translation. I’m afraid I’ve never used a calculator, so I’d be much slower.’

The look of relief on his face almost made her smile.

‘That can be remedied very easily,’ he said, pressing a button on his desk. ‘My administrative assistant speaks little English, but he is exceedingly fast with figures of any kind, with or without a calculator.’

The door opened and the beautiful young man appeared.

‘Monsieur Paul, you have met Miss ’Amilton, haven’t you? Bien. Today you will assist her with our American guests. When a statement of a financial nature is made, you will make any conversion
necessary to dollars or sterling, and pass the result to her. Also, you will carry up the technical dictionary and the large Larousse and find for her any French word with which she is not familiar, so that she can read the English translation for herself. Do you understand?’

‘Perfectly, monsieur,’ he said, with a bow to each of them. ‘It will be a
great
pleasure.’

Clare thought she detected a slight raising of Robert Lafarge’s eyebrows as he departed, but he said nothing.

She’d been terribly nervous before the meeting, held in the largest and most elegant of the first-floor reception rooms. She’d been introduced to all the visitors on Monday morning, but she’d not actually spoken to any of them. For two days, she’d just sat beside Jean-Pierre Crespigny, watching how he handled the negotiations, back and forth across the huge polished table.

Once she got started, it went far better than she could ever have imagined. At the end of the day Robert Lafarge had congratulated her, and the other members of the bank’s team gathered round to encourage her for next day.

Only moments after she arrived back in her room, a stack of papers to prepare for the morning, Madame Japolsky appeared.

‘Are you very tired, Mam’selle ’Amilton? It has been a very exhausting day for you.’

‘Yes, I am tired now. I didn’t notice until I stopped.’

‘Tomorrow will be just as long, you must go to bed early tonight,’ she said firmly. ‘On Friday, you
will have a much longer day. There will be a reception here, seats at the Opéra and supper afterwards. This is the usual form when the bank entertains important visitors.’

The moment she mentioned the Opéra, Clare panicked. She’d absolutely nothing to wear, but Madame Japolsky had already thought of that.

‘I have spoken to Mam’selle Pirelli today about the question of an evening dress. We think you are the same dress size. I have arranged for her to bring in one of her own dresses tomorrow morning. You must be here in good time to try it on before you go upstairs. If it doesn’t fit, or if you do not feel at ease with it, I have made arrangements for her to go to our couturier and borrow a dress for you. At the bank’s expense, naturally. I’m sure she will choose something attractive and appropriate.’

‘It was too,’ she murmured to herself, as she looked out across the cobbled river quay and watched a solitary fisherman set up camp.

She’d never forget the visit to the Opéra. The performance itself was memorable, but what would always stay in her mind was the opera house itself, the
rich red and gold decoration of the auditorium, the foyer with its vivid, allegorical paintings and the grand staircase, L’Escalier d’Honneur, she’d seen so often in postcards and illustrations.

Stepping carefully down its broad, shallow steps of multi-coloured marble, wearing Louise Pirelli’s blue silk dress, which was just a fraction too long for her, with Robert Lafarge on one side and the senior American official on the other, she felt thick carpet
under her feet, was aware of the brilliant points of light overhead, the throng of well-dressed men and elegant women all about her, moving towards the open doors and the warm, velvety night beyond. She wondered if this was what it felt like to be Cinderella.

‘Say, Miss Hamilton, what’s that li’l red badge some of these guys are wearin’ in their lapels?’ the tall, slow-speaking Texan asked, as they descended.

As they crossed the foyer to the car, drawn up before the main entrance, with Robert Lafarge’s chauffeur standing beside it holding open the door for her, she explained how the Legion of Honour was awarded and why one saw such a large number of legionnaires at the opera. The door closed behind her, she sank gratefully into the deep leather seat, smiled to herself and wondered exactly where she’d be when midnight struck.

By now the fisherman had got as far as baiting his line. As she watched, a slight breeze caught a handful of fallen leaves. Curled and dry, they moved crabwise along the edge of the quay, until a fresher gust whirled them into the water. They floated away, another golden cargo on the brown waters of the Seine.

She stretched back comfortably in a large, upholstered chair. On the evening of the hot July day when Marie-Claude and Gerard drove her over from the Bois de Boulogne, the first thing she’d done was move the chair over to the window. She’d imagined herself sitting with a cup of coffee in her hand, looking out on the passing scene, watching
the barges pass up river and down.

‘Not quite like that, was it?’ she said aloud, laughing at herself.

She just hadn’t appreciated how much work there would be. The few evening hours she spent in the apartment were almost always taken up with preparations for the next day. Papers to scan, maps to study. And whenever she did have a whole day at home, she had to catch up on her washing and ironing. There was shopping and letters to write.

Doing her housework, she often thought of scrubbing the kitchen floor at the forge house, or mopping up Mrs McGregor’s red tiles after Alan Brady’s shirts had dripped all over them. By comparison it was no effort at all to keep the apartment clean, but it still took time to arrange flowers, polish the windows, and keep it looking tidy. There hadn’t been much left for gazing idly out of the window.

After those exceptional first weeks life had been easier, but it was no less busy. Her colleagues on the financial side were amazed by the continual flow of requests for finance, but Clare was not surprised at all.

She often recalled that happy evening when Gerard declared he’d question her sanity if she didn’t take the job she’d been offered. After their meal he’d stretched out on one of the settees and begun to reflect on the whole economic and political situation in France.

‘You’ve come at the right time, Clare. I think we’re at
the beginning of a period of enormous growth. It’s been brewing for some time,’ he began,
‘but now the Treaty of Rome has been ratified, France is really beginning to think in terms of the new European market. Unlike London. The problems with Algeria might have put the brake on, but since De Gaulle was granted full powers last month, business confidence has returned.’

He put his coffee cup down and waved his hand in the air.

‘Confidence is a term no one can define objectively, but we all know what happens when it goes up. And up.’

He laughed and threw his arms skywards in a great, expansive gesture.

As each new pile of submissions arrived on Robert Lafarge’s desk, she began to see exactly what Gerard meant. Food producers, wine growers, hoteliers, manufacturers of agricultural implements, children’s clothes, bathroom tiles. The list of companies requesting finance went on and on. It included items Clare had never even heard of, like extruded plastics and warp-knitted fabrics. She could understand the words, but could only guess what the processes were. They hadn’t even got into the technical dictionaries yet.

She looked around her room. Her suitcase still sat unopened on the settee. She’d been so tired last night she’d looked in the drawer for a clean nightie to save unpacking. There wasn’t one. Just like a couple of weeks back when she was packing for a three-day visit to Marseilles and discovered all her knickers were in the laundry basket. With no time to wash and dry them before the night train, she’d
had to go straight out and buy some.

‘Perhaps I’d better buy some more nighties as well,’ she said, casting her eyes around the patches of sunlight that poured through the large window of her sitting room.