Englishwoman in France (12 page)

‘Most of them I never meet face to face. I meet most of them on the telephone, like I say. And yes, there are a few crazies, but they're easily soothed. And they don't know where I am. I could be in Timbuktoo or the Isle of Arran, for all they know.'

He frowned a bit then, keeping back more cynical thoughts. ‘Well,' he said finally. ‘I know my mother would be fascinated. Never fails to read the stars in the paper.'

For some reason we all laughed at that and then he walked with me and Siri back to our block of flats. He looked upwards, scanning its height. ‘You live here?'

‘Yes,' I said. ‘I like it here. It's central and there are people around. My neighbours are just wonderful.'

He shook his head. ‘I'll take your word for it.'

There was this awkward pause then. But I stood there and let him make the move. It would save him buying more loo rolls.

He coughed. ‘Look,' he said. ‘I'm taking my mother out to tea this Saturday. To the Wolseley in town. Would you two like to come to tea with us?' He looked from me to Siri then back to me.

I didn't quite know what to say.

‘Look, it might sound a bit weird, but I thought that might reassure you that I'm not after . . .' He was floundering.

I looked upwards at my building. ‘After my wonderful city pad?' I said.

‘Saturday!' said Siri who was watching us both closely.

‘Well,
she
wants to come,' I said.

He relaxed. ‘Shall I pick you up here? Taxi's best, that time of day.'

‘We'll come in our own taxi, thank you.' I paused. ‘So, when's
your
birthday?'

He looked at me keenly. ‘You're not going to try those heebie-jeebies on me, are you?'

‘I told you. It's like a cross between common intuition and remembering the future. Nothing to be scared of. And remember it's you who's going into loo-roll overdrive because you wanted to meet us. Remember? This is just another way for me to check you out.'

He held up his hands in front of his face, in mock self-protection. ‘OK, I give in. It's July the thirteenth, 1988, ten thirty a.m.'

Cancer the crab. Homemaker
. Doing a boring job that gives him time to cook. That makes sense. ‘Right. We'll be there.' I looked down at Siri. ‘Right, Siri. It seems we're going to tea with Philip and his mummy on Saturday.'

‘Best purple jeans?' said Siri.

‘Best purple jeans,' I said.

That night, after I'd tucked Siri into bed and listened to her comments about the ice cream man liking her red hat, I got out my books and looked at Philip's chart. It was staring me in the face. We were not really compatible at all. But that was just the charts, wasn't it? My instinct told me otherwise.

It seemed that I was right. His mother was a great woman, large and cheerful, much more extrovert than he was. And I have to say the years with him and Siri were the happiest in my life. It was only now that the incompatibility was gritting its way into our lives, blown up by a random, savage, meaningless act outside any remembering future or past.

Now in this beautiful courtyard I force myself to think of how savage murder can happen in the middle of predictable lives. I've always been sure of the fundamental common sense in the visions I've had in my life and the advice I've offered people. This advice has helped some people to make fortunes and others to make the right decisions in their lives. Women have followed my advice and their own intuition to take up good careers, taken fruitful chances, have successful dinner parties. There is a common-sensical pattern to universal lives and loves.

In the ordinary way of things, death is in everybody's chart. People are born, people live, people die. That, at its most authentic, is what the charts tell. And in that, they tell the truth. But the devil implicit in any murderous act upsets every applecart known to man. The murderer is the devil's weapon and – caught or uncaught – he will be destroyed by his own deed.

What has underlined my grief is that ever since Siri was born I'd done her charts in every astrological tradition. All the portents showed a life of light, of creativity and mystery, of the ability to show others the way, to be a guiding light.

No –
no
– violent, ugly death.

But murder, by the ludicrously random act of one boy losing his temper, cannot be foretold. Poisoning, cruelty, vengeance – yes, the charts will show that. But not this . . . this
ludicrous
accident! Perhaps that's why I was not as murderously angry with the two boys as many people – including Philip – wanted me to be. There was one very prominent newspaper which would have given me a fortune if I'd just called these two boys the
devil's spawn
. But I wouldn't.

Because that's not how it was. My Siri being plucked from me like that was like a tear in the fabric in the universe. To say it was down to the evil of those two boys is to trivialize it. What happened to her was against all the universal laws that inform my intuition, that guide my vision and inform my dreams. For the first time in my life I could not reach out into that visionary space and touch her; and that's why she cannot reach me.

Truly I tell you it's enough to drive a woman insane.

And now I am reflecting on my day – the best day in my life since Siri was killed. Haven't I talked to Madame Patrice, who has seen the boy? Haven't I seen the boy again by the canal? Haven't I walked the streets of Agde with a man called Louis who knows time beyond time? Haven't I seen my over-controlled sane, dear, measured Philip in a maze, tumbling with drink? Hasn't he made me laugh, like he did when we first met? Haven't I revived the sheer joy of Siri being born?

Even so my tears are falling, glittering on the table like the silver waters of the canal.

The sound of a girl's voice and the scrape of the big key stop the tears and bring me back to the present. Billy walks through the gate with a sleeping George on his back and Olga brings up the rear, hauling a heavy beach bag.

The house is full of voices again.

G
eorge is slumped over Billy's shoulder, fast asleep, a dirty tide of ice cream around his mouth. Olga's face is just generally grubby, her spectacles smudged.

‘Did they get back?' Billy raises his eyebrows in my direction.

I nod, a smile retrieving the last of my tears. ‘They put themselves to bed.'

‘Not together, I hope!' Billy's wry grin tries to tell me he's taking it lightly, but his mild eyes are angry. ‘I'll tuck old George here in with Mae, shall I?' He looks down at the detritus of my impromptu lunch. ‘Perhaps you could rub a flannel over Olga's face? She's the dirtiest eater I know. And I include myself in that.' And he's on his way upstairs before I can object.

Olga is staring at me. ‘I
am
seven, you know,' she says.

‘Right!' I say. ‘Right.' But still I stand up and follow her into the downstairs bathroom off the inner courtyard. I lean on the doorpost and watch as she takes off her glasses and fills the bowl nearly to the brim with warm water. She dips in the pink flannel with
Olga
on it, wrings it out and lays it over her face like a shroud.

My heart dives in on itself. Siri used to do just that.

Then Olga grabs hold of the flannel and scrubs it up and across four times, like the sign of the cross. I wait for Siri's face to emerge. But the face that emerges is Olga's, now red as a tomato. She cleans her teeth with four scrubs of the brush, hangs up her flannel and pulls the plug. Then she puts on her glasses. ‘There!' she says, eyeing me grimly. ‘I told you I could do it myself.'

‘So you can.' I unhook the damp flannel and lean across and wipe some toothpaste from her cheek. ‘So you can.' My heart is melting with feeling for her. For Siri. I really, really want to cry.

She follows me back into the courtyard and sits opposite me at the table. She eyes me severely. ‘Mummy and Uncle Philip were very silly in the restaurant, you know.'

‘Sometimes people are like that, love.'

‘Mummy kissed this man there. And do you know she didn't even know his name?'

‘Oh dear!'

‘And Uncle Philip stole this man's hat and tried it on!' The gloom in her voice deepened. ‘And he
danced.
'

‘Uncle Philip can be funny sometimes.' I'd forgotten that. He used to make Siri laugh till she cried.

‘Daddy said they were
a cut
. What does that mean?'

‘It means they made a show of themselves. They should have behaved better.'

‘Will they have a very,
very
bad headache when they wake up? Mummy always has a headache afterwards, when she's been silly.'

‘So she does.' Billy's voice booms from the doorway. He has a can of beer in one hand, and Olga's Gameboy in the other. ‘Want to play your game, love? I see Auntie Starr's done a good job with your face.'

She jumps from the chair and snatches the Gameboy from him. ‘Me!' she shouted. ‘Me! I did the job myself, if you want to know.' And she marches through the glass doors into the salon, the only place where the Gameboy works properly.

Billy sits down. ‘Can I get you a beer, Starr? A glass of wine?'

I shake my head. ‘And please, Billy, don't comment on the fact that I've made myself bread and jam. I have to tell you Philip couldn't get over it, drunk as he was.'

He pops his beer can and lets out this very big sigh. ‘Surprised he could see as far as the table.'

‘Bit of an effort, I think. Poor lad was out on his feet.'

‘The pair of them,' he says glumly. ‘You should have seen them egging each other on. Never seen Phil like it! Just short of dancing on the tables, he was. He practically got a date with the waiter!'

I can feel my lips twitch. I feel sorry for Philip. ‘He's just letting his hair down, Billy. He's had a sticky time lately, trying so hard . . .'

He stares at me belligerently, then flushes. ‘Sorry, Starr. I'd forgotten. Well, I suppose . . . Sorry, Starr.'

‘Philip has tried so hard, you know. I have to remind myself that he's lost Siri too. I think it's all getting too hard for him. I don't know that we can survive all this, him and me. He's
bored
with my grief, Billy; he doesn't want to know about my head or my heart any more. All he can do is feed me like a Strasbourg goose. I get this. He does it because it's the only thing he can do. But it really makes me mad. I can't help it.'

‘Strasbourg goose?' Billy stifles a smile. ‘Sorry, Starr, but that's a terrible image.' He takes a gulp of his beer. ‘You know, I never did find out how you two got together.'

I told Billy about me and Siri meeting Philip at the all-nighter. ‘Then I met his mother. Libra. It was love at first sight.'

‘You and Phil?'

‘No. Me and his mother. She's a doll. He's Cancer, which is much more problematic.'

He grins at that, then goes and gets another beer, has a word with Olga in the salon, and sits down again. ‘So. Enough of my dramas!' he says. ‘What have you been up to today?'

He's very good, Billy. Never off-duty.

‘Well, let's see. I did some work. Went to the Café Plazza. Met this new friend.'

He looks interested. ‘New friend?'

‘Her name is Madame Patrice. She's English but doesn't sound it. And she has a dog called Misou.'

‘She's from round here?'

‘No, she's from Stoke-on-Trent. But she doesn't sound that either. She's been here for forty years.'

‘Interesting!' He doesn't pursue that, or ask for details. Like I said, he's a wise one, is Billy. ‘What else?'

‘Well, I tried to go down by the canal and listen for nightingales. But I was too late. You have to go early or late in the day. So I missed them.'

‘Pity, that,' he says.

‘But I did see the boy from the boat. You know, the one I was telling you about? Remember Philip said he wasn't there? Well, today I saw a turtle, swimming there in the water. And I saw the man. The man from the boat who was with the boy.'

‘Did you, now!' His voice is just a bit too hearty.

I point a finger at him. ‘Don't you start humouring me, Billy-Boy. I get enough of that from your drunken friend upstairs.'

He smiles sheepishly. ‘Sorry. I believe you! I do. But I also believe you have visions. Could that not be one of those?'

It's a funny thing that Billy, the rugby player, the scientist, has always been more open-minded about my gift than Philip, who – no matter how he might pay respectful lip service to it – has always put it down to what he sees as my craziness, my out-of-kilter approach to life. That has always been a bit dodgy to handle, even in the best of times.

‘No, Billy,' I say firmly. ‘I know the difference.' I pause. ‘Anyway, promise not to say anything to Philip or Mae. They have me down for mad already.'

‘Well,
I
don't. Remember that.' He stands up. ‘Sure you don't want a beer? No?' He drifts away.

There is a rumble of voices as he checks on Olga again and he comes out with a bottle of water. He waves it in the air. ‘I suppose one of us has got to stay sober.'

‘Olga OK?'

‘She's saving the world from a three-headed Greek monster.'

‘That's all right then.'

He's still keen to talk. ‘I hope we haven't come down here and disturbed your peace, Starr. We got a bit of an S.O.S. from old Phil but we might just have made it worse.' He paused. ‘Mae can be a bit strong, I know. But she thinks a lot of you. Always has.'

I nod. ‘Always mutual. Sometimes when I see her I think she's changed too much. But sometimes . . . Oh! We were such friends when we were young, Billy. Even here and now I see glimpses of that old Mae. I get a peep of it and it makes me smile.'