The House with Blue Shutters (16 page)

She imagined it, hunched like a bean inside her with stubby Thalidomide limbs. It seemed so abstract, the baby. At times she
felt a protective longing that was almost violent; she supposed that this was the fierce mother love she had so often read
of, and then she felt reassured that this was what she ought to feel. Yet there were moments when she sought some sense of
connection with it, the bliss she should anticipate, and it stubbornly refused to be present at all, except as a lever that
would drive her life onward, a curled, horribly potent cog. Claudia felt tears on her face, hot in the lakewater, then wondered
if anyone had ever drowned here. Some farm girl, pregnant and terrified, greening limbs in the swimmy weeds, rising up to
clutch at her. A fish splashed close to her hand and she gasped, swallowing water, and swam as fast as she could towards the
shore.

Delphine telephoned Armand LeSaux. She had to take her phone on to the lawn, there was no mobile reception in the house, that
would have to be seen to. He was at Porto Cervo – could he not persuade Delphine to come down for a few days? There were flights
from Nice. Delphine considered, but thought it would be better, in the long run, not to seem to wish to leave her boys.

‘Of course,’ said Armand, ‘naturally.’

Delphine explained what the English woman had told her and Armand suggested they might meet in Paris as soon as everyone was
back. Perhaps dinner? There were some Americans he knew who might be interested in investing. If Delphine could convince her
father-in-law… Armand thought the Bristol for dinner, not very
sympa
, but the food was excellent, and the Americans would like it because they only ever went to the Tour d’Argent and were surprised
when they had a dreadful time. He would make some calls. Maybe some photos could be organized? Delphine promised to speak
to the Marquis. She found that she was quite excited about discussing the plan with Aisling Harvey, who really did seem nice,
even if she had clearly never heard of the subjunctive.

Madame Lesprats was beating a rug over a line by the little summerhouse. When Delphine finished speaking she continued swinging
the beater, thwack, thwack.

Monsieur Mons had given Oriane twenty francs before he left for the station, explaining it was from the Marquis. This seemed
like a lot of money, three months’ wages, but when Oriane woke next morning she was already worried about what would happen
when it was gone. She wanted to enjoy the strange feeling of lying in bed a little, as though it were a Sunday, but she was
wide awake with anxiety, and William would be wanting his breakfast. He was already banging on her door. When she let him
in, he did not kiss her, but pushed open the shutters, squeaking and pointing excitedly. It was one of those rare, hazeless
days when from the height of Aucordier’s they could see right across the valley, beyond the church tower and away, far away
to where the mountains began, with Spain on the other side. This morning it was so clear Oriane could make out a sharp line
from grey to white where the snow began on the great peaks. There had been only a few times in her life when she had seen
as far as the
mountains, but today her eye was caught by a line of figures on the Landi road. Castroux itself was invisible from here, hidden
except for the bell tower by the wooded hill on the Saintonge side, but the new road was plain before it dipped to the village,
and today it looked like the procession of the Madonna, crowded with walkers, several carts and bicycles and a big truck caught
in the middle of them, its horn booming across the river like a strange angry bird. For a moment she was afraid, but the light
was so fine today that the different colours of the travellers’ clothes were visible, even a red bow in the hair of a little
girl sitting on a loaded wheelbarrow. The group disappeared down towards the square, and after a few minutes they saw the
truck emerge on the Saintonge side, picking up speed and throwing a cloud of blue smoke that hung still in the air behind
it.

William was still humming with pleasure and it took Oriane a moment to remember that his excitement was due only to the simple
joy of seeing the mountains again. How gentle it must be, to think so simply. Those people must be escaping, she thought,
emptying their stables and their barns for whatever could carry them, moving south to safety with their children. They were
lucky, she realized. Despite the atmosphere in the village, they were lucky.

Oriane was keen to go down to Castroux and see what news had come, but perhaps it was best to carry on as usual, so after
they had dunked their bread in the coffee, she put on her overall and went down to the yard. There were plenty of things to
catch up with, jobs she had been meaning to do but had never found the time for lately. She thought she might use the Marquis’s
money to buy a few more goats, maybe even
get Laurent to take her to Landi in the wagon, and move the goat house down the hill, where they would have more space to
graze and the smell wouldn’t blow into the kitchen. There were strawberries to pick, she could finally start the jam, and
the birds had been at the peas again, she had meant to make a scarecrow. She set William to the strawberries, hoping he wouldn’t
eat too many, and went to the barn to find two bits of wood to make a cross for the legs and arms. She would need a hole in
the
potager
to stick it in deep, and the salads were looking parched and mottled, they needed water around the roots. If she fetched
the water for the salads after she’d dug the hole, she could moisten the earth to make the scarecrow stick, though perhaps
it was already too late for watering, if the sun caught any drops on the leaves they would scorch. She was standing in the
pea bed, thinking about the best order to do things in, when a man pushed a bicycle up the road, loaded with panniers on either
side, followed by another man with a wheelbarrow, a woman, and the little girl with the red bow in her hair.

‘
Bonjour
!’ the man called to her. He was a bit fat, red in the face and puffing, and had taken off his cap, which was stupid with
this sun. The others came up behind him and stared at Oriane. The man spoke again.

‘Is this the road to Cahors? We’re trying to get to Cahors.’

Oriane nodded. A pink cardboard suitcase protruded from the barrow, and there was a collection of lumpy bundles with a flowered
cloth dragged over them. William stuck his head from the strawberry leaves and made a grunting noise. The little girl began
to snivel. Oriane had thought at first the people looked quite well-dressed, but up close they were dirty,
the woman’s shoes were filthy and one heel was broken. She stepped forward and spoke gently, as though she thought Oriane
was simple. ‘We’re just passing on, see? We thought you might be able to give us a glass of water, maybe some bread. Look!
We have money.’ She fumbled at a little leather purse.

‘You’ve come from the village,’ said Oriane.

‘Yes, but they said we couldn’t stay there.’

‘Who said?’

‘Our friends have a truck, but it’s full of our things. There wasn’t room. We tried to follow, but when we got to that place,’
she pointed, squinting down the hill, trying to make out the direction.

‘Saintonge?’

‘There. By the little church. They’d blocked the road with a cart and some tables. We asked for some water, but they said
it was a drought and it would be ten centimes for a jug.’

‘Ten centimes?’

‘We’ve come all the way from Orléans,’ the other man said. ‘We’ve been on the road a week. The others turned back, but we
need to get to Cahors, that’s where our things will be.’

Oriane looked about her. She saw the scallop shell on the corner of the house and remembered, suddenly, how she used to count
shames. Beyond the mountains the pilgrim road led to St Jacques, people had been walking here for a thousand years. She felt
the blood gather in her face, hot and furious.

‘You’re going away, from them?’

‘Yes,’ answered the woman, ‘from Orléans. We had a shop.’ She began to cry.

The little girl’s name was Claire. She sat at the table stuffing her mouth with strawberries, her chin and hands stained with
juice as red as her hair ribbon. Oriane had broken all the eggs in the bowl and made an omelette with wild garlic from the
hollow where she planned to put the new goat pen. There wasn’t much bread in the house, but she had wrapped every bit up in
a dampened cloth to keep it fresher and given it to the woman. She poured wine from the jug for the two men, and put cheese
on a plate, with the tiniest leaves ripped from the hearts of the lettuces, which would die now, anyway. William would have
to make do with just the soup later. It was the Chauvignats, Emile and Cécile, who had tried to take money from these poor
people. They had the pig farm at Saintonge where Sophie Aucordier used to go down to work. She had always complained of their
meanness.

‘But what about the people in Castroux?’ asked Oriane. ‘Didn’t anyone help you?’

‘Everything was shut up,’ said the bicycle man, ‘all the windows had their shutters up, there was no one about. We knocked
on a few doors… Then our friend drove up the hill and we followed, but those people had blocked the road. Our friend was so
angry, he drove right at the barrier and they had to pull it out of the way, but we didn’t want little Claire to see anything,
you know.’ He stopped to take a big bite of cheese, as though he was too hungry and confused to go on with the story.

‘So no one helped,’ Oriane repeated.

‘We thought of stopping at that big farm down the hill—’

‘Murblanc?’

‘I suppose, but it looked a rich sort of place and we don’t
want any trouble. Our friend said he would deliver our things and drive back to find us on the Cahors road.’

Oriane asked the woman discreetly if she would like to wash and use the privy. She went off hand in hand with Claire.

‘Ten centimes for a bit of water,’ said the bicycle man, shaking his head. ‘Is that how things are here?’

There was nothing else in the house to give them, but they seemed refreshed as they dragged the loaded barrow back to the
road. Oriane and William waved goodbye, and William played them a little tune, which made Claire laugh.

‘I hope you find your friend,’ Oriane called as they reached the top of the rise. They turned and waved. Oriane looked at
Aucordier’s, feeling sad and angry at the same time. She never spoke of the people from Orléans, although the village was
full of stories then about the dangers of the beggars on the road, how many of them were Jews and Communists. Each time she
heard someone speak of it, even Betty and Amélie and Andrée, she despised them in her heart and made a mark of shame there
against them.

‘Well, that’s them gone,’ said Aisling, as the Froggett car trundled across the bridge. She dropped the arm that had been
waving. ‘Do you think Caroline had a nice time?’

‘S’pose,’ said Olly. They walked up the garden together.

‘Do you think they enjoyed the barbecue?’

‘Prob’ly.’

‘Are you going to the village later?’

‘S’pose.’

Aisling gave up. She had gone to more bother than usual for the Froggetts’ barbecue, marinating some spatchcocked quail and
making four individual pockets of roast vegetable ravioli. The white chocolate and cardamom mousse had really come out well,
very light. Wendy Froggett had left a thankyou card and an unattractive arrangement of dried flowers from the market, which
was more than most did. She would give those to Ginette, and would actually be quite pleased if they booked again, though
Wendy had said they were thinking about Spain next year.

‘I hate the fucking PGs,’ said Oliver.

Briefly, Aisling considered slapping him, then being mature and asking him why. ‘Don’t be boring, Olly,’ she sighed instead.

‘You’re boring. It’s boring here. I hate fucking France too, come to that.’

Aisling wanted terribly to laugh. ‘It’s not particularly clever to say “fuck” all the time, you know.’ She would have to say
something to Jonathan, but she couldn’t bother about it now. Olly looked a bit crushed, and she put her arm over his shoulder,
non-committally, in the way she had learned with her sons in the last few years. ‘It’s not long now, just two more weeks and
they’ll all be gone, Claudia and Alex too. And then you’ve got riding camp.’

Oliver thought about saying that riding camp was boring too, but Mum looked a bit upset. It was pathetic actually, how excited
she got about cooking and PGs and stuff, but then she didn’t have a job like Claudia, in London. She was stuck here the whole
time. There wasn’t anyone looking, so he put his arm around her.

‘Sorry, Mum.’

‘It’s OK. But don’t say fuck any more please. I don’t do PGs for fun, you know. You do understand that?’

‘Yeah.’

Olly tried to think of something he could do to please his mother.

‘It was pathetic, actually,’ he said as they went up the steps to the terrace, ‘Alice Froggett’s French.’