The Bay of Angels (12 page)

I hoped most strenuously that my mother somehow knew that Simon was dead, and that the long sleep would not have wiped her mind clear of memory. I thought it preferable that she should suffer shock than that she should continue to enjoy that ignorance that had sustained her through life. I would have her ravaged by grief rather than comforted by an illusion that at any minute Simon would resume his existence. I knew that, without prompting, she would prefer to luxuriate in the kind care of Marie-Caroline, postponing for ever the questions she would need to ask. I should have to be tactful, but I should want to be brutal, harsh. I now intended to bring matters to some sort of conclusion, however fearful or horrified I might feel. I had heard from Mr Redman how bad things were, or might be, and I recognized that it was up to me to bring order out of present chaos. My mother, in the meantime, would slowly come to terms with my decisiveness, and perhaps recognize this as the protection she had always sought. I was determined that this should not happen.

My home, when I reached it, seemed to me to be infinitely welcoming, and, more important than that, discreet, tactful, asking no questions, respecting my right to be there. I made coffee and ate my bread and cheese. I wrote my letters, stamped them, and even did a little work: this too I should post off in the morning. In the stillness of the night, for it was now very late, I felt it important to show good will, to establish my credentials. Aware of the task that awaited me, I wanted others to think well of me. I even felt a slightly shaky sense of wellbeing, no doubt brought about by the food and the coffee. I had done as much as possible in the time at my disposal. Now it was for others to take up the burden.

Despite my exhaustion I slept fitfully. My dreams were fragmentary but vivid. In one my mother appeared, looking dishevelled, as she had never done in real life. She carried her possessions in two plastic bags, and her face was as I had seen it in the clinic. In another fragment I was in some sort of chemist’s shop, staffed by two men of outstanding beauty. I hesitated to interrupt their conversation, for they were clearly in love with one another, grabbed the first thing that came to hand, laid my money on the counter, and left silently, so as not to disturb them. I could make no sense of this dream, although the other was all too clear. I had two days left in which to come to terms with my situation, though I knew that a whole lifetime might not be sufficient.

9

I had no desire to return to Nice. So great was my reluctance that I did not catch a plane until the early afternoon. I knew what awaited me, the multiplicity of arrangements that it would be my task to oversee. I even lingered at the airport, was tempted to buy a magazine like an ordinary tourist, and to sit on the beach, lazily, not even thinking. If I had to think I wanted to think of myself and of my own inclinations. The stay in the flat had altered my perceptions: within the flat I could lead a peaceable existence until a good outcome presented itself. This was now very imprecise, no longer had the lineaments of unnatural good fortune as I had once believed. I wanted to live a life like that enjoyed by everyone else, with only normal duties and demands to fulfil. I wanted a settled domesticity, or, failing that, a life of quiet study, and the privacy such a life would provide.

Privacy and protection: perhaps the sort of life my mother had once known, until removed from it by the gallant stranger. That this had once seemed a good outcome was now seen to be incorrect. No woman of my time was allowed to think in terms of total withdrawal from the world, although this was now my dearest wish. On a more practical level, when I was capable of constructive thought, I resolved to hand everything over to Mr Redman, who was already in charge of our financial affairs. I would telephone him from Les Mouettes and inform him, no, instruct him, to deal with us as he dealt with his other clients, to make any decisions that had to be made, any letters that had to be written, any negotiations that would invariably present themselves. This decisiveness relieved me somewhat. I was unequal to these complications: I was even unwilling to go to the house, to the clinic. I wanted to be in the sun, with the money in my bag all to myself. Time and inactivity seemed the greatest endowments any woman could enjoy. This heretical thought was also an unconvincing one. Nevertheless I found time to look around me, to gain one more sight of the golden spoilt city. I settled into the taxi as if for a peaceful drive, yet my feeling of unpreparedness was, I believe, prophetic, my desire to idle away the time the last revolt of which I felt capable.

I entered Les Mouettes by way of the kitchen, as I always did, and was alarmed to hear a radio in one of the upstairs bedrooms. I looked around me, bewildered, at the paraphernalia of food on the table, noted several bottles of Simon’s wine brought up from the cellar. I was disturbed by a scowling darkfaced woman who appeared from the scullery that also served as a utility room. ‘Who . . . ?’ I began, but she merely jerked her head and said, ‘In salon.’ This was my reintroduction to the house I had so recently thought of as my second home, and yet I was not surprised. I had expected something like this since leaving London: my idling, my dawdling, took on an interesting significance, as if all were known in advance, before the evidence had been produced.

In the salon I found a man and a woman sitting in chairs whose positions they had altered and nursing large tumblers of whisky filled with clinking ice cubes. The man sprang to his feet as I came in and held out a large damp hand.

‘Hi,’ he said. ‘Tony Spedding. This is my wife, Tina.’

Tony and Tina. Names from a television game show. Like most contestants for large prizes they had the insistent smiles that would assure them victory, and behind the smiles the naked gaze of acquisitiveness.

‘You must be . . . ?’

‘Cunningham. Zoë Cunningham. You’ve taken possession, then?’

‘Well, you can’t leave a house like this empty, can you?’ said Tina. ‘Anyone could get in.’

Tina was already dressed for the Riviera, in white trousers, a white shirt, gold necklaces, two gold bracelets, and a great deal of asphyxiating scent. She also wore full make-up, such as is usually seen on television presenters, blue eye-shadow, and exceptionally long nails. ‘Is there a decent hairdresser around here?’ she asked. I was vaguely frightened of her.

Tony too had dressed the part: officious navy blazer, and tan-coloured trousers. They seemed to be entirely at their ease. Tina had not stood up when I appeared.

‘I shall have to stay here for the time being,’ I said. ‘My mother is ill in hospital . . . ’

‘Not our affair, is it? The house is mine, always has been mine.’

‘I’m afraid I don’t understand how you come to be here.’

‘She doesn’t understand,’ said Tina, rolling her eyes.

‘If the house was always yours, which I doubt . . . ’

‘Oh, there’s no doubt about it. I’ve tried to take possession in the nicest possible way. I felt sorry for the old man, though I never much liked him. So I wrote, suggesting that he leave the premises.’

‘Where did you write to?’

‘Here, of course. He never answered my letters. I had to break into his desk to see if he’d kept them. No dice. And I wrote to his place in Onslow Square. No answer from there, either. I was about to put my people on to it, which could have been nasty, I can tell you, when I saw the notice of his death in
The Times
. Pure chance, I might say. I usually read
The Telegraph
. If I hadn’t had a lot on my plate all this would have been taken care of a long time ago.’

‘We found the place in a terrible state,’ said Tina. ‘Conchita had to clean it from top to bottom.’

They both frowned, their faces darkening. I was filled with shame, not for myself, but for my mother, and above all for Simon.

‘Simon had a fall that killed him,’ I said. ‘You must understand that I have been too anxious about my mother, who is quite ill . . . ’

‘Nothing to do with me,’ said Tony, whose smile was no longer in evidence. ‘Don’t drink any more,’ he told his wife sharply. ‘I want this settled now.’

He was a slightly menacing figure, despite his short stature. Round his expanding waist he wore a lizard-skin belt. The smile, I felt, would not be resumed until he judged it necessary. He had nothing in the way of ordinary politeness, which he probably thought redundant. He was clearly angry, as was Tina, who, despite her husband’s warning, had poured herself another drink. Simon’s bottle of Glenlivet, half empty, was smeared with their fingerprints. They seemed an uneasy couple, who left traces everywhere. The scent that rose from Tina was mingled with a faint smell of sweat. Tony too was slightly damp about the forehead; a large silk handkerchief was applied from time to time throughout this interview. Tina flicked back her hair, peered down into the depths of her shirt. Their anger was habitual. Mine was of the once in a lifetime variety, building up to an explosion which would destroy us all.

‘So, if you’d like to collect your things,’ said Tony.

‘That will not be necessary. I shall have to stay here until I can make other arrangements.’

He took a couple of steps towards me, and smiled pleasantly. ‘You’ve got fifteen minutes,’ he said.

I was tempted to strike him, to kill them both. Instead I turned on my heel and went up to my mother’s bedroom, which they had now made their own. Her clothes had been removed from the wardrobes and dumped in the corridor, together with two large suitcases. In the offending bathroom, in which the aroma of Tina’s scent was strong, there was an array of pungent and expensive cosmetics. My mother’s modest effects had been either hidden or thrown away, probably the latter. Of Simon there was no trace.

I filled the two suitcases as best I could, though I knew I should have to leave behind most of our clothes. I remembered, even in my anger, to pack a couple of nightdresses, a thin silk dressing-gown, two trouser suits, and the dresses we usually wore when dining with the Thibaudets. Two pairs of shoes, which should have gone in the bottom, went on the top. I could not find my mother’s hairbrushes, her nail scissors, or her slippers. These I should have to buy in town. In the bureau which had been hers and was now Tina’s, to judge by the smell, I found tights and some underwear. One suitcase was now full. Into the other I crammed a light coat, a jacket, three sweaters, a tweed skirt, and two silk shirts.

Tina appeared in the doorway. ‘Taking all that, are you?’

I ignored her. ‘You can send on the rest,’ I said. ‘I’ll give you my address in London.’ This I took time to do, sitting at my mother’s desk. ‘And if you’d be good enough to telephone for a taxi . . . ’

‘I dare say Miguel could take you in the car, if you’d like to hang on until he’s off duty.’

‘I would not like to hang on, and I have no intention of doing so. I have to find somewhere to stay.’

‘Yes, well . . . ’

‘So, if you would be kind enough to make sure that your man is available . . . ’

‘No need to take that tone.’

‘I’m afraid there’s every need. I perhaps expected more in the way of tact . . . ’

She laughed harshly. ‘We’re practical people. Tony hasn’t got where he is today by being tactful.’

‘And I dare say you won’t even live here.’

‘We’ll use the house. Don’t think you can come back. Conchita and Miguel will be here all the time.’

‘Have no fear,’ I said. ‘And now if you’ll excuse me? Perhaps you could help me with that other suitcase.’

I knew that if she had been alone she would have opened it to see what I was taking. As it was she clattered down the stairs in front of me, empty-handed.

Tony was standing guard by the front entrance, which we rarely used. In the wide semi-circle of gravel that served as a drive stood a man lazily polishing an unfamiliar car. ‘Miguel,’ said Tony. ‘Take the lady to the railway station. You can find a cheap hotel there,’ he told me. He held out his hand. ‘All the best,’ he said cheerily. ‘No hard feelings, I hope. After all, what’s mine is mine, no doubt about that.’

‘You’ll be hearing from my solicitor,’ I said. ‘You have taken many of our possessions.’

He laughed coarsely. ‘That fool, Redman? I can deal with him, no bother. I think you’ll find, Miss Cunningham, that I know what I’m doing.’ He shot his cuff and consulted a large and expensive watch. ‘I think we’ve spent enough time on this, don’t you? I’ll leave you with Miguel. He’ll know where to take you. You needn’t tip him,’ he added gallantly. ‘This is on the house.’ He waved, as if to go back inside, then thought better of it. He was still there when the car moved off, taking me safely away from his domain.

My simmering rage came to some sort of climax on the journey back into Nice. It was the sort of anger that inspires the rare creative act. Therefore when I saw a sign above a souvenir shop selling postcards and sunglasses in the rue de France stating,
‘Chambre à louer’
, I unhesitatingly dragged my bags from the car and without a backward glance at Miguel, who had done me no harm, entered the shop with as much force as I could command. Behind the counter stood an elderly man wearing a short-sleeved shirt and a beret. I told him I should like to see the room. He took a key from a drawer, and led me up a flight of stairs somewhere at the back of the shop. Opening off a dusky landing was a room containing a bed, a table, and a chair. ‘Cottin,’ said the man. ‘Aristide.’ ‘Cunningham,’ I said. ‘Zoë.’
‘Ah, Zoé.’
He pulled aside a curtain and revealed a wash-basin and a gas-ring, with Gaz de France emblazoned on its side. The room was bathed in darkness, a darkness which seemed symbolic. M. Cottin opened the shutters. This made the room seem darker rather than lighter. Fine, I said. Perfect. My one desire was to put down the suitcases. My hands were so sore that I could hardly get the money out of my bag to pay a month’s rent in advance. You are a student? I was asked. Yes, I was a student. When I felt the tears rising I urged him out of the room. No one, not even M. Cottin, a complete stranger, should witness my collapse.

The rue de France is a commercial artery of no scenic significance. The end occupied by M. Cottin abounds in shops exactly like his own, catering for the kind of tourists who do not frequent the major hotels. From my window I could see crowds of them ambling by, on their way to cafés or restaurants. I rather enjoyed this spectacle, or would have done had I not needed to buy the sort of commodities crowded out of my mother’s bathroom by Tina, for whom I reserved my entire hatred. This hatred was useful; it gave me the impetus to go out and find a chemist. I bought soap, toothpaste, washcloths, talcum powder. I added a bottle of cologne, regretting that I had not thought to do so earlier. It was too late to go to the clinic, but I went anyway, in order to give them my new address. I had not noticed a telephone but reckoned there must be one in the shop. This could be sorted out on the following day, when I should ask to see Dr Balbi. I was now very tired, and not a little confused, in no condition to see my mother, who might be awake. I stole past her room on tiptoe, then, ashamed of my hesitation, knocked and entered. A different nurse, Marie-Ange presumably, sprang to her feet, prepared to usher me out again: this was a day when I was not wanted anywhere. On the bed my mother seemed to have changed her position, or had it changed for her. I explained in a whisper that I would not stop, would return in the morning. Marie-Ange, who was older than Marie-Caroline and had a gold incisor on the right side of her mouth, made hushing noises and gestures. I left my bag of toiletries, went downstairs to the desk, told the receptionist of my new address, and managed to get away before bursting into tears.