The Woman on the Train (9 page)

Annecy, September 1982

‘I think perhaps, after all, I will have that cup of tea.’

‘And why not, Monsieur Bowen, why not.’

I left him sitting in my squashy settee, reading his notes. ‘So, you weren’t tempted to get another dog?’

‘Yes,’ I shouted from the kitchen as I poured water into the kettle. ‘But it’s too soon. Claude only died earlier this year. He was fourteen, poor old thing.’

I made the tea and found a packet of biscuits and arranged a few on a plate.

‘Sugar?’

‘No thanks.’ I handed him his tea and the plate. ‘Thank you. You never re-married then, Maestro?’

‘No. I’m still waiting for Isabelle.’

‘Are you?’

I laughed. ‘No, sadly not. I never heard from her again but I know she’s still doing well.’

‘Still married to that Jesus fellow?’

‘Jacques. No. I heard they’d divorced. Recently. That came as a surprise.’

‘You seem to know a lot about her,’ he said, tackling a biscuit.

‘I look out for her, and she’s often mentioned in that music magazine.’

‘Yes, she’s considered the country’s top cellist.’

‘Indeed. Here’s to Isabelle and her continued success,’ I said, raising my cup of tea.

‘And you, Maestro – you’ve never been tempted to return to music?’

‘No, not now. I’m too old now anyway.’

‘Nonsense, you’re only what – sixty?’

‘Sixty, going on eighty.’

‘But, of course, what I really want to know, is what happened to Hilda Lapointe. We know you didn’t actually poison her!’

‘No! Tempting as it was.’

‘And that she was released in 1971–’

‘Yes, she’d served three years.’

‘But after that, whoosh – she just vanished.’ He took a sip of his tea. ‘I asked the prison whether they knew where she was but they didn’t know, or, more likely, they didn’t want to tell me. Do you know, Maestro?’

‘Me? No. I never did go see her again. She probably changed her name again. She’d be 82 now.’

‘If she’s still alive.’

‘Exactly.’

He glanced at his watch. ’Well, Maestro, I’ve taken enough of your time and I’ve got a long way to go.’ He slipped his pen into his inside pocket and put his notepad into his briefcase. ‘I know you have to pop out soon.’

‘What?’

‘You said you have to go and see a neighbour, or something.’

‘Oh, yes, of course. I ought to go and do my duty.’

‘Very good of you.’ He struggled out of the settee. Pulling the creases out of his jacket, he offered me his hand. ‘It’s been a real pleasure.’

‘The pleasure’s all mine, Monsieur Bowen. Now, have you got everything? Good. I’ll see you out.’

‘Thank you.’

‘I think it might rain soon,’ I said, stepping outside with him. ‘When do you think the article will appear?’

‘After the photographer’s been over. I’ll get her to give you a ring. Then probably a week or so after that.’

‘That’s fine. I look forward to reading about myself,’ I said, aware that I’d let slip a hint of my old vanity.

‘Yes, well. Thank you for the tea.’

‘Have a good trip back.’

‘I will. Thank you. Goodbye, Maestro.’

‘Goodbye, Monsieur Bowen. Goodbye.’ I watched him leave, in his dapper cream-coloured suit, and thought, what a charming fellow.

*

Returning indoors, I ate another biscuit and finished my tea. Yes, I thought, I’d better go – it was almost three. She doesn’t like it if I’m late. Not that she ever goes anywhere, but she likes the routine.

I felt strangely content – as if I’d just purged myself of something unpleasant. I felt lighter somehow. Is this how Catholics feel after confession, I wondered. Donning my overcoat and taking my umbrella, I closed my front door behind me, and made my way down the road. I told Monsieur Bowen I was visiting a neighbour but in fact, they lived right at the far end of the village. I strode across the village square and past the church, and along another street lined with picturesque cottages and well-tended gardens, a spring in my step, waving to various people whom I knew by sight. I was wrong about the rain – indeed, the sun was appearing from the clouds. I stopped by at the village shop and brought a newspaper, a dozen eggs, powdered milk and a small assortment of vegetables. What a fine day it’d been. I thoroughly enjoyed unburdening myself. And what a pleasant young man was Monsieur Bowen, Henri. I was sure he would do the article justice. And here it is. I pushed open the gate and admired the front garden which I had, just a few days previously, spent some time clearing and weeding, dead-heading the plants and flowers. Having my own key, I let myself in.

‘Only me,’ I shouted as I closed the door behind me.

‘I’m in here,’ she shouted back from the living room. Not that she’d be anywhere else.

‘I got you your paper and the groceries you asked for.’ I said, handing her the newspaper. She spent the whole day in her living room, sitting in an old armchair with a blanket over her knees, a small space cluttered with too much furniture and too many paintings on the wall, and a mantelpiece adorned with cheap horse figurines. In the corner, opposite her, the television was on, the volume turned down. Next to her, on a high, small table, a blue-coloured budgerigar in its cage. ‘How’s Pompidou?’ I asked.

‘A bit quiet today, aren’t you, Pompy? Next time you pass the shop, can you get me some more birdseed?’

‘Sure.’

‘And some more headache pills.’

‘Again?’

She glanced at the paper’s headlines. ‘I don’t know why I read the paper,’ she said. ‘It’s nothing but bad news.’

Stepping into her tiny kitchen, I packed away the groceries. Returning, I asked her how she was.

‘I feel very stiff today.’

‘Well, I keep telling you, Hilda, you ought to get up and about. Walk up to the square and back. It’d do you the world of good.’

‘I know, I know,’ she said, readjusting her blanket.

‘Are you warm enough? Can I make you a cup of tea?’

‘Maestro, I’m fine. Will you stop fussing?’

‘Well, you know, I like to make sure you’re OK. None of us are getting any younger.’

She attempted a smile. ‘You’re so kind. I don’t know how I would cope without you.’ The words were appreciative, and she said them occasionally, but I always felt as if she was saying them for the sake of it; because she felt she had to; it never felt as if it came from the heart.

‘Ah, it’s nothing,’ I said, playing my part.

‘It’s been many years now, hasn’t it?’

‘Yes, I suppose it has. But someone had to look after you, eh?’

‘Did you say something about a cup of tea?’

I laughed. ‘Coming right up, Hilda, coming right up.’

A couple days after Monsieur Bowen’s visit, came the photographer. A young woman in a hurry. She declined my offer of a drink and kept her mackintosh on, its belt flapping behind her. She did her business quickly and efficiently, thanked me and left. I was rather disappointed how little time it took.

Each day, I bought Hilda her paper and quickly flicked through its pages to see whether my interview had appeared yet. I did wonder what she’d make of it. I feared she’d be cross but she knew what I was like, and, heck, I thought, the world had given her up for dead; it had no interest in her any more.

I hadn’t been quite honest with Monsieur Bowen. I did visit Hilda in prison again. A week or so after my first visit, I received a short letter from her. It merely thanked me for the cake, saying how delicious it was. I was so pleasantly surprised that, a few weeks later, I made another and set off all the way to Rennes to deliver it to her. And that’s how it started it. Despite the distance and the effort, not to mention the cost, I went once a month for the rest of her sentence. I didn’t like leaving Claude by himself for so long a day, but, as I told him, it wasn’t often.

Once there, we talked about the news, the gossip and even, to my surprise, sport. She read the papers everyday, devouring what was going on in France and around the world. She was fascinated by the on-going war in Vietnam; she adored the cyclist, Eddie Merckx, who had won the Tour de France that year, and liked to pour scorn on Georges Pompidou and the work of his government.

Towards the end of her sentence, I brought up the subject of where she was going to live following her release. Although she still had her apartment in Paris, she was determined never to return to the capital. I knew the feeling. I helped her sell the flat and, with the proceeds, bought a little cottage in the same village as mine near Annecy. In October 1971, after exactly three years in prison, Hilda was released. I met her at the prison gates, and took her to Annecy and her new home, fearful of what she’d think of it. She liked it. Almost immediately, however, she became a recluse, rarely venturing out, content to sit at home all day, or sitting out in the small garden at the back, reading the papers. I suggested she buy a pet and took Claude round to visit. She wasn’t the slightest bit interested in the dog and asked me never to bring ‘that mongrel’ round again. But she did buy a budgerigar – the first of many.

Eleven years later, little had changed but now, aged 82, she suffers from her age.

*

Ten days after the photographer’s visit, it was there! My interview. I was already half way from the shop to Hilda’s cottage, when I saw it.
Whatever happened to the Maestro?
said the headline.
Once, he was renowned and feted throughout France as the future of classical music. Yet, just when his star was at its zenith, just when it seemed he could do no wrong, the Maestro, as he was commonly known, stood by a former guard from the wartime concentration camp at Drancy. It proved a fateful mistake and left him with his career in tatters, forcing him to disappear. Now, 14 years on, we’ve tracked him down and sent our top music reporter, Henri Bowen, to see him. After so many years of silence, the Maestro finally has his say…

I didn’t like the photo, though. I hadn’t realised how old I looked. But here, in this black and white photo, I looked thin and drawn and grey. Nonetheless, excited, I rushed over to Hilda’s, deciding to buy myself a copy on the way back.

I didn’t stay too long at Hilda’s, just long enough to give the paper and make sure she was all right. I didn’t mention the interview – she’d find it soon enough.

I returned to the shop and to my utter disappointment, found they’d sold out of the newspaper. Not to worry, I thought, I’d read Hilda’s copy the following day.

*

First thing the following morning, I rang her to ask if I could come and visit her straightaway. Having delayed it a day, I couldn’t wait to read the interview. To my surprise, she didn’t answer. Perhaps it’s bath day, I thought. I decided not to wait – I’d simply walk over now.

I let myself in. ‘Only me,’ I shouted. ‘Hope you don’t mind, but I’ve come early. I have to pop out later, so I thought I’d come see you now instead.’ No answer. ‘Hello? Hilda?’

It was past nine o’clock – she wouldn’t still be in bed. No, she’d been up – I noticed her post propped up on the mantelpiece. Surely, she hadn’t gone out. Hilda never went out unless necessity forced her into it. It was now that I felt the first real pangs of concern. ‘Hilda?’ I shouted again.

She was nowhere downstairs, nor in the garden. Coming back indoors, I ran up the stairs, knocked on her bedroom door, and, having received no reply, opened it. She wasn’t there. Her bed was made, everything was as it was supposed to be.

From there, I tried the bathroom door. It was locked. I tapped gently on the door and again called out her name. Still no response. I knocked harder, then harder still, shouting her name, to the point I was thumping on the door, rattling the doorknob. I’d become frantic. I had no choice – I had to break down the door. Bracing myself, I barged against the door with my shoulder. It didn’t budge. There was no way I was going to force it open by jumping against it. Having an idea, I ran downstairs and back into her garden and to her shed, where I knew I’d find an axe.

I suffered a moment’s hesitation at the thought of ruining a perfectly good bathroom door. ‘Hilda, are you there? Are you OK?’ Silence. ‘For heaven’s sake, answer me.’ I swung the axe, splintering the wood. Again and again, I hacked at it, getting faster all the time, my breaths coming in panicked bursts. Eventually I’d made enough of a split to be able to see. Peering through the gap, I could see her – in her bath, the head thrown back, an arm dangling over the side. She was wearing her clothes. ‘Hilda, what have you done?’ I slashed further at the door until, finally, I was able to squeeze my arm through and, after a bit of fumbling, managed to unlock the bolt. I almost fell in, slipping on the fragments of wood on the bathroom tiles.

‘Hilda?’ I held my breath. She had had a bath fully dressed. The water, up to her neck, was coloured red.

Aged 82, Hilda Lapointe,
née
Irène d'Urville, had committed suicide. Somehow, the papers had picked up on it and published the story. They reckoned that, finally, after almost forty years, her guilt had caught up with her. They were utterly wrong. She’d never felt guilt.

The post I thought I saw that morning, propped up on her mantelpiece, was in fact one single envelope – addressed to me. A policewoman brought it round to mine later that day. Using a letter opener, I sliced it open and, in front of the policewoman, nervously unfolded the single sheet of paper. The note contained just five words. It read:
Don’t forget to feed Pompidou.
‘You bitch,’ I screamed.

Shocked, the policewoman asked if I was OK.

I apologised and groaned – for I knew she’d tell her colleagues that I’d sworn and what an unfeeling, nasty man I was.

Over the days that followed, I arranged a funeral for her. She had enough money in her account to cover it all. There was to be a delay, however. The local coroner had ordered an autopsy. I think they wanted to ensure that she had really taken her own life and that I hadn’t killed her off. I remembered her lawyer all those years ago telling me she once talked of suicide.

What little money was left over, including the house and its contents, was, according to her will, to be passed to a nephew of the woman she used to know in Saint-Romain after the war. Someone who, as far as I knew, had never visited her, never wrote, not even a Christmas card. I was disappointed but not surprised; I hadn’t expected it to come my way. There wasn’t much of it anyway. I knew full well that she’d been using me these last eleven years. I’d become her cleaner, her shopper, her cook, her gardener, her unpaid skivvy. She’d never once, in all that time, thanked me. The occasional, insincere word of appreciation, perhaps, but never a ‘thank you’.

The autopsy returned a verdict of suicide by the cutting of the wrists and an overdose of headache tablets. So, that was why she kept making me buy them. She’d planned it, slowly hoarding the pills. Why had she done it? I wasn’t sure but it wasn’t guilt. But I do know that my interview in the newspaper had tipped her over the edge. That was my intention, perhaps not to kill herself, but to hurt her, to make her see that still after all these years, people would remember her for what she was – a cruel, sadistic woman who never expressed any remorse for the dreadful things she did. And through the interview, I’d ensured that people would
remember
.

I felt no pity yet, in a strange way, I rather missed her. I missed the routine of going round to see her day after day.

*

Hilda’s funeral took place on a cold and breezy but sunny November morning, the clouds moving briskly across the sky, the late autumnal colours a joy to behold, the graveyard awash with a carpet of orange-brown leaves. Hilda had never shown the slightest interest in the church. Still, we have to do these things. There were just the three of us – me, the priest and, to my surprise, the nephew, Gérard, a tall, slim man in his fifties with a pointed chin, sporting a watch chain across his waistcoat. I think he, at least, had been driven by guilt. Before the service began, he apologised for never having visited. I gave him Hilda’s keys and told him to do to the house as he saw fit. We shook hands and stood next to each other as the priest did his bit.

We therefore commit Hilda’s body to the ground; earth to earth, ashes to ashes, dust to dust…

Afterwards, the three of us stood with our hands clasped in front of us, and looked down at Hilda’s coffin inside its grave. I thought of Madame Kahn, and the poor woman Hilda had beaten to death on the ice; I thought of her sitting impassively in court, her eyes cold while those around her wept; I thought of me as a young man on that train.

The church clock struck twelve. As the last peal faded away, the priest asked to be excused, and Gérard and I watched as he scuttled off, his cassock caught by the breeze, exposing a pair of trainers.

‘Well, that’s it,’ said Gérard.

‘Yes.’ I sighed. ‘That’s truly it.’

‘Have you noticed something?’ he said, his eyes still fixed on the coffin.

I shook my head.

‘Don’t make it obvious, but the whole time we’ve been here, there’s been someone watching us, standing next to the elm tree behind us.’

I hadn’t noticed. Slowly, the two of us turned round. Gérard was right – there was someone, a woman dressed in funereal black, right down to a veil over her face.

‘Is it someone you know?’ he asked.

‘Yes,’ I said, squinting my eyes against the autumn sun. ‘I think it is. You’ll have to excuse me.’

Slowly, I walked towards her, my hands behind my back, my shoes crunching the dried leaves underfoot. I watched her as she stepped away from the long shadow of the tree. Lifting her veil, she said quietly, ‘Hello, Maestro.’

I smiled. ‘Isabelle. I’d hoped you’d come. How lovely to see you again.’

THE END