English Correspondence (20 page)

‘No, not that, further over.'

‘It would be a change though, wouldn't it?' said Gillian.

‘What?'

‘To go to the Vosges another year. I suppose we could buy the food once we got there. But I don't know the butcher.'

‘You don't know the fellow here, do you?'

‘Neil. Yes. Yes I do. I mean the meat he gives me isn't record breaking. I usually go to Tescos. Anyway, that's only one thing. There are the beds. Alice and Nicholas would be up past midnight.'

‘Would they? Why?'

‘If they're sleeping in the sitting room on camp beds. I'm just thinking aloud. No, it won't work.'

‘Why aren't they in their own beds?'

‘It wouldn't
feel
like Christmas, is what I really think, and we'd all be shut up together with awful weather outside and nowhere to escape to.'

‘Sounds familiar.'

‘Don't be silly Jerry, this is home and it
feels
like Christmas. And your mother and Aunt Lou would miss Church.'

‘They'd be there would they? Yes, I suppose they would. That explains the bed situation. Al gave me that car sticker, do you remember, saying Go to Church now, beat the Christmas rush. Quite funny, really. She can't have been more than five.'

‘You didn't think it was very funny at the time. It was Valentine's day. You were rather offended. She'd drawn hearts all over the envelope. And the other thing is, the oven is actually quite titchy and there's nowhere to warm the plates.'

‘It has its charms. The back of beyond. I slept incredibly well when I was there in November.'

‘I suppose, one thing we
could
do, would be to stay in an hotel on the way down for Christmas itself and then go to the Vosges for the in-between bit and New Year. I mean, it doesn't matter if New Year isn't much to write home about. Or the bit in between.'

‘Where are you thinking of going? Somewhere simple
near Gatwick, or one of those palazzo kind of places outside Calais?'

‘What was the place you stayed at on the way back last time?' she said. ‘You never really told me about it.'

‘In fact, New Year
does
matter. More than Christmas. It's symbolic. You can't intend to start off on the wrong foot. I mean, if it goes wrong, it goes wrong, but you can't intend it. Not even you, Gill.'

‘So, what was it called?'

‘God, I can't remember that. Something beginning with at the.'

‘At the?'

‘Yes, you know. French. Au moulin de la something. Only it wasn't that.'

‘Was the food any good?'

‘Not bad. Not amazing, as in, amazing, but not bad. He'll never be a star. The chef, that is. He was a bit of a time waster. However, it was incredibly well run. Up there with the best. The woman who did it – ran it – was one of those invisible types. You didn't notice her. I mean I couldn't describe her to you now. But she made everything kind of glide. You weren't aware particularly
what
she was doing but she gave you exactly what you needed before you knew you needed it.'

‘She sounds a paragon. One of those super efficient, buttoned-up French women.'

‘She wasn't actually. She was odd. Conventional, but odd. Nice looking.'

‘You said you couldn't describe her.'

‘I can't, really.'

‘So, what was so special about her.'

‘For instance. Some poor sod at the next table died. In the middle of his retirement party. She coped. He was lucky to have her around.'

‘Who?'

‘The fellow who pegged it.'

‘Why?'

‘She could have been anyone. A martinet. A ratbag. She
sort of shielded him. I didn't even know what had happened. We could all do with someone like that around at the end. It's more likely to be like that, isn't it? Random, like that.'

‘Than what?'

‘I don't know. Nearest and dearest round the bed. And would you want them?'

‘He wouldn't have known she was his guardian angel.'

‘He might have done. Unconsciously.'

‘How mystical. Have you seen her since?'

‘Gillian, she lives in some obscure part of France. She'll be there now leaning over the Christmas diners, draining the last drops of lunch-time wine into their glasses. They'll be too pissed to appreciate her.'

‘I thought you'd stopped all that sort of thing, Jerry.'

The house was silent when Jerry and Gillian got back from their walk. Jerry went into the drawing room and sat down in a spare chair that wasn't his usual one because Aunt Lou was sitting in that. This one wasn't as comfortable. Luckily there would soon be tea and fruit cake and this would run into champagne and dinner and the day would speed up and be over. Alice had piled up cushions at the end of the sofa and was pretending to be asleep because she wouldn't play cards with Nicholas. She and everyone else thought she was being unusually selfless in resisting passively. Nicholas stared at her without blinking and hoped his gaze would pierce her eyelids. Jerry's mother started to say that Catholics don't understand hymns and he had no idea why she said that, unless he had said something about spending Christmas in France. He honestly couldn't remember saying it, or whether he said it this year, or last. Aunt Lou said it was a shame the rain had stopped them from going to church, which it hadn't. They had gone to church, all except Alice. Nicholas interrupted his great aunt and said that he had suddenly realised the point of life. No one asked him what it was. He waited for thirty seconds and said that, if you didn't remember what happened a few hours ago, you might as well be dead, so
the point of life must be to remember what happened a few hours ago.

Eventually they all drank tea brewed in a proper teapot because it was a family occasion and the milk tasted slightly acidic, like French tea. There wasn't any fruit cake, they couldn't find it.

‘Dad, where do you think Mum is?' Nicholas said.

‘Don't bother asking, he's not listening,' Alice said.

‘Why is she out in the garden?'

‘She isn't.'

‘She is. You can't see her. You've got your eyes closed.'

‘So has Dad.'

‘How do you know?'

‘I can tell.'

‘What's Mum doing then, if you're so clever?'

‘She wouldn't be out there today.'

‘Why not? What's so special about today? What day is it, Aunt Lou?'

‘I don't know, darling. I'll just find my glasses.'

‘It's the Incarnation, Aunt Lou,' Nicholas said.

‘Where did you get that from? Just tell her it's the day before Boxing Day,' Alice said.

‘It is, isn't it, Dad? What is the Incarnation?'

It was almost dark outside. Jerry opened his eyes and pulled himself up from the armchair to draw the curtains.

‘A once and for all thing, without scope for repetition,' he said.

The light from behind him shone onto the garden. There were pools of water on the lawn that never drained away. The leaves that hadn't been swept up had blown into them. Gillian
was
out there. He could just make her out. She was bending down and fishing for leaves, wringing them out with her rubber gloves and putting them into a black plastic bag.

Jerry came away from the window. He stared at the fire. The ash had formed an escarpment that extended beyond
the grate. It glittered with bits of unconsumed wrapping paper. He went towards the door.

‘Where are you going, Dad? Are you going to open another bottle?'

‘You're not, are you, Jerry?'

Gillian met him in the doorway.

‘No, Gillian. I'm not.'

He came back in and sat down again.

‘Where were you going, Dad?' Nicholas said. ‘Would you like another piece of Turkish Delight, Gran? Shall I find you a rose one?'

‘
YOU LOOK LOVELY,
darling. She does, doesn't she, Gilles?' Yvette said.

‘Thank you,' said Sylvie.

‘We're so proud of you.'

‘For coming back from the brink?'

‘Sorry, darling, I didn't quite catch that.'

‘Where is it, do you think?'

‘Where's what, Sylvie?

‘Never mind. You enjoyed your dinner?'

‘It was wonderful. The most wonderful dinner. As always when we come here. And all over too soon.'

‘You'll be all right driving back?'

‘Of course, darling. Gilles has done the enjoying for me and I'll get him back in one piece. Not that it's quite time to leave yet. We'll squeeze another few minutes out of the evening.'

Yvette looked round the dining room as though she were noticing it for the first time. ‘You seem to have a nice crowd here.'

‘Much the same as usual.'

‘I haven't spotted Maude. She usually puts in an appearance.'

‘No, she's not here this evening.'

‘I don't think I saw her on Saturday either, did I?'

‘No.'

Yvette beamed at her. ‘Well you're managing very well, darling, short handed.'

Sylvie had made the restaurant beautiful; better than ever.
It was a genuine transformation. The evergreens made their own deep holes of shadow; lights multiplied in every surface. Everything seemed brighter, with that brightness that glazed plates acquire when they get too hot in the oven. They brighten and then they crack.

The guests weren't leaving the dining room. They never did over Christmas. Usual reasons for wanting bed didn't apply: boredom, exhaustion, desire, a good book, connectedness with the next day, a fit sense of the end of this one. Paul came across to his parents' table. He had already made his patronal round. This was more informal. Yvette liked being incognito, as if she were a film star in dark glasses and a wig. She knew who she was, the mother of the chef, but pretended no one else did. A fat man wearing a bow tie had said what a nice child Lucien was and she hadn't been able to resist leaning across and saying, ‘That's my grandson.' Lucien had stayed up, sitting with his grandparents, until after the pudding, then Yvette had whisked him into bed. That was the arrangement they had come to. It was the first year he had stayed up.

‘Darling,' Yvette said, ‘we were just saying how good Lucien was. A happy little boy. Not the easiest situation, sharing his family with all and sundry. He really rose to the occasion.'

Paul put his hand on Sylvie's shoulder. Yvette smiled at Gilles as if to say, that's a good sign.

‘We'll set a good example, shall we, dear? If we move it might start a trend. Then Paul and Sylvie will be able to get to bed.'

Yvette bent down and rummaged in her bag for her car keys. She put them on the table by her empty coffee cup and the glass that still had wine in it, but she didn't get up. She won't leave, Sylvie thought, until she's had Paul to herself for a moment; it's a kind of superstition, like touching wood. She reached for Paul's hand and moved it from her shoulder, made her excuses and went over to a couple at the other side of the dining room. She hadn't had time to speak to them
properly earlier. They were the people from Metz who had been there the night Maurice died. She was glad they had wanted to come back again.

After midnight people began to move. They pushed back their chairs and stood up, aware of the weight of their stomachs. But instead of nodding and leaving, as they usually did at the end of an evening, they clung together in groups. They had a belated sense that it was Christmas and they could have been one big party. It hadn't been necessary to keep themselves to themselves quite so strictly. In the remaining minutes there was no risk in being friendly.

They left the dining room, laughing and talking. Someone was whistling. The ones who had bedrooms and only the stairs to climb looked complacent. The others, who were heading for the car park, searched for their coats. Sylvie was helping them when the telephone rang. She finished fitting a woman into her mackintosh and went to answer it.

‘Sylvie?'

‘It's you,' she said. ‘I wasn't expecting to hear from you.'

‘I wasn't expecting to speak to you either,' said Jerry.

‘I might not have answered. Someone else might have picked up the telephone.'

‘That would have been all right. I'd have booked a room for January.'

‘Are you coming, in January?'

‘Not as far as I know. How has Christmas been?'

‘All right so far. How has yours been?'

‘It's a mad house. Nothing new to report.'

‘The couple from Metz have come back again. Do you remember them?'

‘No. Should I? Who are they?'

‘There's no reason why you should. They were here when you were. I don't know why I said that. It just seemed a coincidence. With you calling. It isn't particularly interesting. What are you doing for the rest of the holiday?'

‘Tomorrow I am taking my mother and my aunt back to
their respective dwellings. That's the plan, anyway. I can tell you, it's something I do with a light heart.'

‘Do they know you're talking to me? It's late.'

‘I said I was going to call the house in the Vosges. In fact, I started to. I began with the code for France and then I dialled your number.'

‘Who's staying there?'

‘Where?'

‘In the Vosges.'

‘No one. I like hearing the telephone ring. I pretend I'm there. It calms me down. I need to sell it. You don't want to buy it, do you? It's a nice little hideaway.'

‘No, thank you.'

‘But you got back there all right, I wondered. Back to the Moselle. Are you coming to London again, at some stage?'

‘No. Well, at some stage. Not yet. I have to put in some more time here.'

‘Why's that?'

‘To prove I'm competent.'

‘You are, though. I've never met anyone so competent. Who says you're not?' He stopped and started again in a different voice. ‘I'm talking to myself.'