The House with Blue Shutters (39 page)

‘Come on, then,’ said Magalie. She pulled Oriane to her feet and got her to the bed, whimpering and reaching for Jacky.

‘It’s more than you deserved, you know.’ Magalie spoke loudly, hopefully even, but there was no response.

On the way home, Magalie stopped on the bridge. She hitched up her skirt awkwardly, twisting against the little parapet, and
turned out her pocket. Oriane Aucordier’s beautiful dark hair mingled noiselessly with the moon-blue water.

When it was done, Laurent walked down the hill with the others in the darkness. Jean-Claude tried to speak to him, put
an arm on his shoulder, but he shrugged it off in disgust and turned into the Murblanc lane without speaking. He did not go
along to the house, just waited until they were gone, then began to drag himself along the road, moving like the cripple he
was, bent and painful, a mauled creature whose only will for life is concentrated in the need to die. Oriane had forgiven
him, he had understood that. She had pretended that he was capable of hurting her like the others. It was too late to stop
then.

He wished that he had done this when he came home, all that time ago, but he knew that it had been his punishment to live,
and he had served it out. They would understand, Jean-Marc and Bernard and Yves, it had been wrong to push them away for so
long. He wanted to whistle to them, one of the old songs to let them know he was coming, but he found it made him cry, and
that would never do.

The barn smelt like cows and like Papie. Laurent worked so swiftly, so purposefully that he did not even register surprise
when he felt his leg return to him, steady, where he had always known it would come. The byre was low, but if he knelt he
could manage it.

He closed his eyes and saw himself walking the road up to the plain with a basket of apricots, her sitting there on a stool
in the yard with her hands all over bean skins and her black hair blowing in the ever present wind.

Aisling had cooked little escalopes of veal in a sauce of cream, sage and white wine, with some wilted lemony sorrel. Alex
rubbed his hands as she set the platter on the table.

‘Luvverly jubberly,’ he said in what he obviously thought was a Cockney accent. ‘Nice bit o’ grub.’

Aisling looked at him in irritation. Why was he talking in that stupid voice?

‘Jamie Oliver,’ he said, ‘you know, bit o’ this, bit o’ that.’

‘No,’ said Aisling, ‘I don’t know.’

‘He’s all the rage in England,’ said Claudia, cringing for Alex, ‘he’s a sort of wide-boy chef. It’s the latest thing in gastroporn.’

‘Gastroporn?’ asked Jonathan hopefully. ‘We must keep up more, darling.’

Now that his joke had fallen flat, Alex didn’t bother to disguise his boredom at dinner.

Aisling served cheeses and salad, then a peach
semifreddo
with tiny almond meringues. She thought Alex very pompous. He knew nothing about food really, for all his talk of the grand
restaurants he went to with City clients. They probably went to strip clubs too, thought Aisling, though you didn’t catch
him showing off about that. His air of patronage towards Jonathan was becoming irritating, and he had made several remarks
questioning the financial viability of the PGs. Aisling liked to think that her business was profitable, though Alex had pointed
out that she didn’t include many of the extras in the books, and did she price the food she served them? If she was honest
with herself, the profit from the PGs wasn’t that big, but it was something, and though the Harveys were by no means badly
off, certainly compared to people like the Glovers, the boys’ school fees were a bit of a struggle. Jonathan was fond of telling
her that he had sold his computer business at just the right time, though it was hard not to be wistful when all that dot
com stuff really exploded a few years later.

Jonathan seemed reluctant to talk business with his brother, at least in front of her, as though he had not once been possessed
of a similar brashness. Perhaps that was her fault, a bit. She had been so passionate about Murblanc, so keen for him to retire,
that maybe she had forced this role on him, of not appearing to care any more about making money. His fiddling in the study
certainly didn’t amount to much, but they had enough. It seemed small of Alex, in Aisling’s opinion, not to help Jonathan
improve their investments, though it did not occur to her that if she wanted his help she would be better off humouring his
conceit.

Everyone was rather silent over coffee. The Sternbachs’ car was gone, they were obviously dining out. Claudia yawned
ostentatiously, she and Aisling began to gather the plates and glasses.

‘Oh Christ!’ said Jonathan. ‘Not again. She’s hovering around this place like a bloody banshee. Can’t you do something, darling?’

Ginette and her bicycle were once again in evidence. She plodded dolefully right up to the table.

‘Excuse me, Madame Harvey, but may I speak to Mademoiselle Claudia for a moment?’

‘Is everything all right, Ginette? No trouble with Mademoiselle Oriane?’

‘Yes, I’m sorry. Everything’s fine. I just need a word.’

‘I’ll finish this then, Claudia.’

‘Do give her a hand, Alex.’

They were left alone on the terrace. Ginette looked a little too wide-eyed, Claudia hoped she wasn’t going to have another
one of her turns. ‘Are those people here?’ she asked, looking about as though there might be spies concealed in the ivy.

‘What people? Ginette, what is the matter, please?’

‘Those Dutch people?

‘No, they’re out. Why?’

‘I need to speak to you.’

‘Yes, Ginette. Would you like to sit down, at least?’ This was all very tiresome.

‘I saw Madame Lesprats in the village.’

Claudia felt cold. Had Ginette come to make some sort of announcement for Alex’s benefit? She had to get her away from the
house. She wanted a cigarette.

‘Come on then. We can go to that bar in Castroux. I’ll just
get my bag and the bike.’ She tried to smile encouragingly, ‘I’ll buy you a drink.’

Ginette ordered a small coffee.

‘I’ve never been in here,’ she said conspiratorially, as though Claudia had dragged her to a den of vice. They sat outside
on the little terrace, away from the group of men clustered around the television inside. Claudia was surprised when she asked
for a cigarette from the packet of Marlboro Lights open on the table. She sipped her red wine while Ginette got it lit.

‘Well?’

‘Look, I need to explain something. Those people, the visitors of Madame Harvey?’

‘Yes, yes. Go on.’

‘Well, Madame Lesprats told me they’re asking questions, that you were asking questions for them.’

‘Have I upset you in some way?’

‘No, please listen.’ Claudia despaired of her ever getting to the point, it seemed better to sit in silence and let her talk.

‘Well, I know who they’re looking for. It’s Mademoiselle Oriane. If I tell you this, you have to keep it secret.’ Ginette
looked suddenly, unpleasantly sly. ‘I think you can keep secrets?’

‘OK.’

‘Mademoiselle Oriane had a son. Jacky. My Jacky. He didn’t know for years and years, but his father was a German soldier.
Mademoiselle Oriane told him at first just that he was killed in the war, but Jacky found out the truth. This man, he was
a good man, although he was a German. He was killed, but they did it, the Germans, I mean. He was killed because he was trying
to help Mademoiselle Oriane’s brother to escape. It
was the end of the war, there were terrible things happening everywhere around here. Mademoiselle Oriane loved him so much,
it was true love, and he had promised that after the war they would go away together, but then he was killed. Mademoiselle
Oriane was very brave in the war, she did things to help the Maquis, that’s the men who fought against the Germans in the
Resistance.’

‘I know. I know that’s what they were called, I mean. Did she really?’

‘But it didn’t matter. They punished her, punished her dreadfully.’

‘I’ve read about that sort of thing.’

‘And then my parents found out about me and Jacky. They used to live at Saintonge, at the farm. There’s English people there
now. They took me to the priest and made me say I’d been going with Jacky. Then Jacky went away.’

Ginette was struggling to control herself. Claudia gently removed the burned out cigarette from her shaking fingers and stubbed
it in the ashtray. She held Ginette’s hand.

‘I was, well, you know that sometimes I’m not very well? It was bad. Mademoiselle Oriane took me in, she said I could live
up there with her. And we stayed there, the two of us. And now these people say that this man was a liar, that he already
had a family, that he didn’t really mean to go away with her. It’s cruel, that’s what it is, coming here with their questions,
poking their noses after all this time.’

‘But I can’t stop them. I mean if everyone in the village knows. Madame Lesprats knows.’

‘People won’t say, not to strangers. You went to the
fête
, didn’t you? Well, the mayor, the one who gave the speech,
Monsieur Chauvignat? That’s my brother. I haven’t spoken to him for thirty years. People mind their business around here.’

‘What do you want me to do, Ginette?’

‘Tell them they’ve made a mistake. They can’t come around, it’s all she’s got, now my Jacky’s gone.’

‘Do you know what happened to Jacky?’

‘We were going to be married. He went to Marseille, we know that, but then – we didn’t hear any more.’

‘So he just never came home?’

‘Yes. He never came home.’

Claudia thought of the compact, and the scratched-in name. She tried to make her voice as gentle as possible. ‘Ginette, thank
you for telling me. I respect your confidence. But I’ve already talked about this with Mademoiselle Oriane. She knows, Ginette,
doesn’t she? She knows all about it.’

Ginette’s jaw began to shake. Claudia felt so cruel, but she had to go on.

‘So it wouldn’t be so bad, would it? The Sternbachs – that’s the Dutch people, could probably find Jacky. They can do all
sorts of things, with the internet, if they know he’s in Marseille. And Mademoiselle Oriane would even have a chance to see
her son? That’s not what you’re afraid of, is it, Ginette?’

Ginette bit down on her lower lip.

‘No,’ she answered, in a little bitter voice. ‘That’s not what I’m afraid of. Look at me. Just look at me.’

It was almost dark when they left the bar. Ginette mounted her bicycle and freewheeled down the hill. Claudia watched her
as she crossed the bridge, then pushed her own bike up towards the village. She had seen the war memorial next to
the church, a squat obelisk surrounded by a little chain fence. Squinting a little in the dusk, she began to count the names.
‘Aucordier, William’ was the first, but as she read down the list, Claudia was appalled by how many there were, so many for
such a tiny place. She felt as though the air around her had become heavy, it was pressing down on her, and she bit her lip
and tensed the muscles in her shoulders to stop herself crying. The image of that terrible barren room up on the hill, of
those two ruined bodies sitting patiently in the strip light waiting for nothing, was unbearable. That pathetic, treasured
little gift, that she had thrown in Oriane’s face like a silly child. She felt contemptible, inhuman. They would have shaved
her head, that’s what was done to those women, they shaved her head, and her little baby grew up to hate her, and Ginette’s
life was spoiled. Each of these names was a spoiled life.

That was trite, she thought, and then hated the goblin that sat on her shoulder, the pretty, well-dressed sneering goblin
that allowed nothing to touch her, nothing ever to be quite real. It was wicked, what she had been planning to do to Alex,
wicked. Crazily, she tried to push open the door of the church, but of course it was locked for the night. Then the tears
that had been hovering inside her eyelids began to roll down her face and she remembered how she had cried for Sébastien,
who had never loved her, and that she would have to go on and on because there was no pity. The goblin chattered like a monkey
and pushed long bony fingers into her hair. She was incapable of love, and she would have to go on and on. Oriane had loved
her German boy, and Claudia was too cold even to imagine what she must have suffered. She pulled the bike around and pushed
off hard so that she felt the breeze
dry her tears into track marks on her face as she pedalled down the slope. Her hair was in her eyes and she had a fistful
of it, pulling it back as the bike sped over the crossroads, when she turned her head just in time to see the lights of a
car coming at her in the blue night.

She had no impression of the impact, she was on the ground before she understood what had happened. It felt obvious that she
wasn’t dead. Though she was breathless, and there was a dull pain at the bottom of her back, her head felt quite clear. The
car had stopped because she had heard the brakes and now there were people running towards her along the road. ‘I’m fine,’
she called in French, ‘I’m fine.’ Her back hurt a lot, and the pain seemed to spread around to her waist and tighten like
a metal belt, then she gasped and vomited as the goblin’s hand reached inside her. The twig-like fingers twined through the
membranes, writhing and searching, then abruptly squeezed a clenched fist at the base of her belly and pulled. She could smell
the lemon from Aisling’s veal. Claudia didn’t need to wait for the first rush of liquid to know what was happening.

Malcolm Glover repeated many times afterwards that she must have been in terrible shock, because even though she had blood
all over her and sick on her face, when he reached her she was sitting up and laughing.

Claudia stayed in bed at Murblanc for a few days, bleeding. Aisling felt truly sorry for her, though perhaps it was better
that the poor girl hadn’t even suspected she was pregnant. She wouldn’t feel the loss so much. It was brave of her to insist
on not telling Alex too, denying herself the comfort he could offer for his own sake.