The House with Blue Shutters (19 page)

Much of his time was spent within the eighty acres of the farm. Laurent’s great-grandfather had come north from the Lot some
time in the last century; he had been a miller, and there were still cousins at Montrattier, and two fields that Laurent’s
mother let to them. His great-grandfather was buried in Castroux, the headstone said 1899. His ancient grandfather
still loitered about the farm, tending his beloved donkeys and even brewing in his still with his few remaining cronies when
autumn came.

Laurent went up to Aucordier’s on a June evening wearing a clean shirt and carrying a basket of his mother’s, lined with an
embroidered napkin and holding two dozen apricots. He had picked the fruit himself before supper, with the solid heat still
heavy on his stripped back, and washed them carefully, one by one, at the pump. He considered wearing his leg, but it seemed
better manners to walk up the hill, and the thought of the pitch of the road bearing on the stump was unpleasant. Oriane was
sitting on a stool outside the front door, bent over a bucket of new broad beans. Under her arm, she saw Laurent Nadl swing
and hop into her yard with his mother’s best pink straw basket bobbing absurdly in the crook of his elbow, and knew he had
come to marry her. She gave no sign that she was aware of him, feeling it would be rude to anticipate his tippety progress
by getting up to meet him. His Sunday boot made no sound on the hardened dirt. When he was closer, he called out, and she
turned, wiping her hands on her skirt, tucking a coil of hair behind her ears. When he had greeted her, he held out the basket
and said, ‘I brought these for you.’

Oriane thanked him and offered her stool while she fetched him a glass. She swam through the thick green air of the cool kitchen,
she set the basket on the table. There was wine in the jug in the larder, protected from the flies by a white lace cloth weighed
down with little glass beads, amber coloured, like the warm skin on Laurent’s fruits. She stretched towards the shelf where
the four thick glass tumblers stood, then paused. For a long moment she rested her forehead against the thick
oak, feeling suddenly very tired, and very sad. Then, moving briskly, she went to the
buffet
in the kitchen and turned the key. Swaddled in scraps of grey blanket were her mother’s wedding gifts, the pink and white
china bonbonnière, the set of delicate coffee cups, and six crystal goblets, bluish tinged, contoured rough and chunky like
the stonework on the church. Carefully, she extracted two, inspected them for dust, and set them on the table. One she filled,
into the other she poured a few drops of treacly dark wine, then stepped out into the light.

‘Well then,’ said Laurent. He smoothed his trousers over his leg and the stump and raised the blue glass, took a swallow.
Oriane sipped, and waited until he had drunk, standing awkwardly by the stool.

‘Will you come for a walk with me?’ he asked, and when she nodded, he stood up and took her hand.

At the entrance of the yard, he paused, as if uncertain of the direction, though there were only two ways to go and they had
both walked them since they took their first steps. Up or down. ‘Will we go there along the ridge, then?’ he asked.

‘That’s nice. We’ll look at the view,’ she answered.

It pained her then that even in these first moments, she should be conscious of something unfinished, impoverished in their
appearance as they moved along the hot white stones of the road. She in her dusty skirt, with her hair stranded across her
forehead, and he, so much older, hurting her with his starch-collared shirt, keeping his stride effortfully ahead of her own.
She wished she could see them together differently, separate from herself observing; it seemed cruel that she could
not be unconscious for a little while. But they walked in silence, and that was wrong too, though she could think of nothing
to say herself, she expected something from him. They went along like married people already, not jostling or whispering or
pinching, and though the skin of her cheeks felt warm, she knew it was only from the sun, full on their faces now as they
came up from the shade of the last poplars and emerged into the searing western light of the plain. She knew him too well
for there to be anything curious or exciting in the sensation of his hard brown palm in her own, though she wished that there
were not grey-green strands of bean pod squashed under her nails. They went on for ten minutes or so. A few spreads of elderflower
remained in the hedge, and Oriane said, ‘I should have brought my basket.’

Laurent pointed to a tumble of stones lying a little way across the sheep-cropped grass. ‘Shall we sit down?’ It was the remains
of one of the little huts the shepherds built, there were many of them dotted over the plain. Some were neat, with stoves
even, that the hunters used in winter, but most were crumbling now, one room with a roof left to slide back into the soil.
They sat on a low wall with iron tethering rings let into it, spattered with lichen the colour of egg yolk. Deliberately,
Laurent put his arms around Oriane’s shoulders and kissed her, and just as deliberately, after a little time, pulled away.
He took her hand once more. ‘When shall it be, then?’

‘I haven’t thought. With everything as it is. And then there’s William.’

‘You know I’m fond of William. He’s a good lad, really.’

Laurent had a plan, which he explained to her. Things would change after the war. Aucordier’s was a fine big house, though
it needed a lot of work. He would begin on that this winter when he had more time.

Oriane and William would move down to Murblanc in a year or so, where there was lots of room, especially as Papie couldn’t
last for ever. He didn’t see that Cathérine would marry, but that would be a help to Oriane, having her there, when the children
came. He thought Aucordier’s could be let, without the land of course, but painted up, with a nice bit of garden. People were
going in for what they called weekend houses now, they might get a doctor or a
notaire
from Landi, or even Cahors. The plot where the goats were kept was too steep for anything but vines, but they could have
Chasselas there in a few years, and you never lost money with those, and fruit, he thought, cherries or plums, in the field
above the house. He would get a workshop going in the barn, a real carpentry workshop, that was what he loved, maybe even
take on a few lads, and if it was a success they could have an overseer for the farm. They began to talk about the idea, about
which bedroom they would take at Murblanc, and whether the goats would get along with the cows. Oriane would plant a flower
garden, a real one with a stone seat.

As they spoke, Oriane watched a carousel of kites, nine or ten of them, whirling in some complex pattern along the edge of
the ridge where the rocks were turning now from white to mauve, their wings almost touching as they swooped in tight spirals.
It was too simple, she thought, that must be why she did not feel happy. There was no struggle, nothing difficult. She would
not have to work so hard. She would live at Murblanc with Laurent, and William would have a home, and she would no longer
feel lonely and strange. At the same time,
she could not really imagine anything changing, could not envisage leaving Aucordier’s, so perhaps that was why she did not
feel excited, because it did not as yet seem real. But it would do, she told herself, and held tight to Laurent’s arm as he
talked about his idea for making chairs and dressers in the small barn. She held on all the way down the road, looking up
at his face and saying, ‘This is my husband,’ swallowing down the coil of dismay that twitched within her, a tiny serpent
flexing its tail.

Delphine d’Esceyrac had telephoned again, to ask Aisling if the Harveys were going to the Castroux
fête
on the twenty-second of August. ‘It will probably be awful,’ she had said, ‘but then I feel we ought to go to these things?’

‘Oh yes,’ answered Aisling, ‘we definitely should.’

The power of that ‘we’ annihilated any potential dissent from Aisling’s family. The Harveys would certainly attend, as in
fact they had attended every year since they first moved to Murblanc, along with Alex and Claudia, the Glovers, and, Aisling
thought, the Sternbachs, if they would like to come. The Sternbachs had kept quite to themselves, hardly using the pool, and
driving out on excursions each day. They had eaten at all three of the restaurants in Landi, and had tried the
steak-frites
at the bar in the village. Ella said she didn’t much like to cook on holiday, and besides her own efforts seemed a waste
when one was in France, a remark that struck Aisling as honest and tasteful.

‘I think it’s quite special, really, the
fête
,’ she explained to Ella when she popped down to La Maison Bleue the evening of Delphine’s call. The Sternbachs changed for
dinner, which Aisling also approved of; Ella was ready to go out in a black linen pinafore thing and an olive vest underneath,
with another chunky ethnic necklace.

‘Of course, it’s nothing grand, but the dinner is jolly, and there’s music and fireworks afterwards. We make a point of going
along.’

Claudia had no desire to see the d’Esceyracs again, but the lake trip had been too lucky to be repeated. There would be lots
of people anyway, she could always chat to Charlotte Glover, and a part of her, she admitted to herself, was curious to see
Delphine play lady of the manor. She said as much to Alex as they were changing.

‘Hurry up, darling, the
apéritif
kicks off at seven,’ he chivvied.

‘I can hardly restrain myself. Imagine if we’re too late for a lukewarm kir.’

‘Aisling would explode. This is the most exciting thing that’s happened to her since the ducks had twins.’

‘Don’t be mean, Alex. I think you were a bit impressed by the chateau yourself.’

Alex didn’t reply, as this was perfectly true. He liked the way Claudia saw things clearly, though she could be a bit hard
on people at times. But she didn’t pretend that the world permanently lived up to her expectations, which he vaguely recognized
was his own strategy. He had a feeling that dissatisfaction showed up as a form of failure, an inability to impose himself
sufficiently. He felt enough for Claudia to mistake contempt for honesty.

‘Do me up?’

‘Darling, I think you might have put on a little bit of weight.’

‘Oh, fuck off, Alex, it’s just your sweaty fingers.’

She had surprised herself with the vehemence of her reaction, too abrupt, too defensive. In the bathroom, Claudia squashed
her breasts with one hand and yanked painfully over her head at the zip; it fastened, but the seams of her burned-orange Marni
sundress were strained, and the fabric pulled over her chest in a tight, flat panel. She scooped at her flesh until the dress
sat properly, extracting a vulgar amount of overspill. Still, to change it would be to concede that Alex was right, though
Aisling would certainly think she was vamping, which was infuriating, as though anyone could be flattered enough by Jonathan
peering at their tits to invite it.

Malcolm Glover peered at Claudia’s tits, along with Jean-Marc Lesprats, the mayor, Monsieur Chauvignat, Richard Harvey, Madame
Lesprats (speculatively), Robert Kendrick and his friend Dick Logan. Aisling thought that it was really too bad that the English
had all been lumped together on one table, not that she had exactly expected to be seated with the d’Esceyracs, who were in
the centre at what was clearly the table of honour with the mayor and his wife, but Delphine had phoned to see that they were
coming, after all. And of course the Kendricks had invited the Logans, who made a great clamour of being thrilled to see Jonathan
and Aisling, bustling up on the trestle bench so that there was no choice but to sit next to them. They had all had too much
to drink, it was obvious, both men and women sweating pastily over their tans so their skin looked like wet chamois leather.
Boozing it up in the Glovers’ garden all afternoon, apparently. Dick and Mary Logan were Americans, living in a converted
mill house on the other side of Landi. They were great friends with Lucy and Robert Kendrick, who belonged to what Aisling
called the Landi set, the English colony living on the flat and frankly much less attractive land around the market town twelve
kilometres away. They went in for quiz nights.

‘Isn’t this great, Aisling!’ shouted Mary, waving a glass of rosé. ‘Your cleaning lady said we could join them.’

The rest of the table consisted of Madame Lesprats with her son and daughter-in-law, and some ancient husk of a Lesprats relation,
wrapped despite the heat in layers of pungent wool. Sabine Lesprats wore a shiny blue satin cocktail dress, which pouched
over her bosom and strained over a sad little bulge of belly. Her hair was sliced aggressively short in the back, coloured
a violent purplish-black, and moulded on top into a complex pompadour.

‘She looks like Elvis,’ Olly sniggered.

There was no room for the Sternbachs, and Aisling, wedged into the bench, was unable to do more than contort her shoulders
and shrug apologetically.

‘I’m sure there’s seats over there,’ she called, pointing to the one unoccupied table, which stood fully in the still-glaring
sun. This was dreadful. Otto and Ella would think she was rude and that these loud Anglo-Saxons were the Harveys’ preferred
companions. Delphine would see her sitting down cheerfully with the cleaner as though they had no other French friends. And
the dinner would go on for hours, there was no hope of moving until the cheese at least. The boys hovered politely enough,
though Aisling saw Olly’s wince when Mary Logan kissed him juicily on both cheeks. They sloped off
gratefully to the group of teenagers standing around their motos, too cool to sit down.

The Lesprats family was separated from the Harveys by the Glover party, which was a blessing in the Delphine sense, but then
it meant that Aisling would not be able to distance herself further from ‘
les Anglais
’ by conversing exclusively in French. Neither the Glovers nor the Kendricks spoke any sort of French, though Charlotte at
least could communicate, and Aisling could already hear Mary Logan explaining to Claudia that it was amazing how one could
get by, though of course she and Dick were finally going to get around to doing lessons this winter. Aisling loathed the arrogance
of the English in this respect, and winced every time they went to a restaurant with their friends and the waiter kindly brought
out an English menu. How they rolled their eyes and waved their arms, as though to compensate by gestural gallicisms for their
appalling grammar! And there had been a particularly excruciating incident involving Malcolm Glover’s attempt to pantomime
his request for a breast of chicken. In Aisling’s version of France, there were no English menus, and she always had to hold
back from explaining in French that they weren’t tourists, actually, that they lived here. When she was alone with Jonathan
it was always pleasing to think that they passed as a French couple.