Englishwoman in France (13 page)

‘Of course you've both changed,' he says quietly. ‘Haven't you? That's life.'

Now I have to force a laugh. ‘I suppose you might say I've changed more than she has, really.'

‘But that's not surprising, is it?' he says. ‘London and . . . all that.'

I start to panic. I can hear him thinking hard, trying to find some useful words to say.

‘You have to watch old Mae a bit, Starr,' he says finally. ‘She gets these crushes on people. Starts by trying to be Florence Nightingale, then gets too involved. It can be messy. I always think she needs to prove herself again and again. I can't imagine why.' He coughs. ‘To be perfectly honest just now I think she's getting a crush on old Philip. I can see the signs.'

I look at him, weary now. ‘What do you want me to do, Billy? Today I've seen poor Philip, even while drunk, happier than he's been in years. If that's been achieved by Mae's crush on him, all well and good. I can't feel sorry.'

He turns the bottle of water in his hands. ‘But can't you see, Starr? This is different. Those other times she was just betraying me. Now she's contemplating betraying both of us. That's not good for her. She'll lose sight of herself in all that. I don't want that for her.'

I told you Billy was a very wise man. But perhaps he's just too nice for this world. I heave this great big sigh. Here he is, dragging me in, making me care about this situation, getting me involved. I want to leave them all to it. I have these other things on my mind just now. ‘What do you want me to do, Billy?'

‘Speak to her. Tell her to mind her manners.'

‘Why don't
you
do that?'

‘She'll take no notice of me. Custom and practice. She knows I won't leave her whatever she does. Mae has always lived her life with me and Olga and George on her own terms.' Oddly, Billy doesn't sound as wretched as he should. I suppose he's speaking from experience. I admire him so much more than I pity him.

He's the caring sort. He's certainly making me care, isn't he? When I think of it, he – alongside Madame Patrice and the man called Louis – seem to be pulling me back into this world where I can feel Siri nearby, rather than remember her slumped against a tree in South London, blood running down her face.

I can feel her. Nearby.

N
early two hours later first Philip – hollow-eyed and just a bit shamefaced – comes downstairs, followed by Mae – showered, made-up, hair blown flat and glossy, new sun dress, hiding her eyes behind dark glasses. George is riding piggy back, one hand clutching her dress strap.

Mae peers behind me, as though Billy might be lurking there.

‘Billy's having a shower down here,' I say, nodding towards the inner courtyard. ‘Olga has defeated the three-headed monster and is bathing herself, on her own. Because, she tells me, at seven years old, you're supposed to do that.'

Billy emerges from the inner courtyard with a towel round his waist, rubbing his wet hair with another one. He has very good legs. How have I never noticed that?

Philip glances wearily around the kitchen then back at me.

I rescue him. ‘No need to cook. Billy and I thought we would go down to the café on La Place de la Marine,' I say, although it was my suggestion. ‘They say it sells good pizzas and pasta.' I thought it would be nice to eat with all of them in the place where I sat with Louis earlier in the day.

‘No
pastis
, though!' says Mae from behind her glasses.

‘Mae! For Christ's sake!' Billy explodes. I realize that he has nothing to fear from Philip, whose default position – part of his charm – of mild good humour would never withstand Mae's black wit.

Later we walk along the quayside and end up sitting out on the water on the café's pontoon, the wind furling its canopy like a sail, and lifting my newly washed hair which is reverting to its curly self. George hangs over the rail watching the ducks attracted by our presence and hungry for titbits. Olga hangs on to the back of his tee shirt. I eat the best seafood pasta of my life: creamy hand-made pasta, loaded with just enough
fruits de mer
.

We're served by the young woman who served Louis and me this afternoon. Her brown skin, dishwater-blonde, afro-style hair and elegant grey dungarees look endearingly familiar. She surveys the company and then looks back at me, her eyes unreadable. ‘'
Jour Madame
,' she says. ‘
Encore ici?
'

Billy looks at me quite sharply but Philip, still rather pale about the gills and picking at his food, fails to notice. Mae calls the children over to eat. Eat! She devours her own pasta with relish. There is not much conversation. Everyone is very subdued.

My glance wanders down the river to a platform near the bridge, where boys are diving into the water, scrambling back up the bank and diving again. Billy follows my gaze and then his glance rakes along the other side of the river, where the more present-day elegance of the houses there are reflected in water lit by the slanting evening sun. ‘Bit like Venice when you think of it,' he said. ‘But without those wonderful smells.'

‘Don't be stupid,' says Mae briskly. ‘It's nothing like Venice.' She pulls her pashmina more tightly around her. ‘We should have gone inside. I'm freezing.'

‘The alcohol is still cooling your system, Mae,' said Billy, with more severity than usual. ‘Just eat up and shut up.' She gives him a look that could kill and digs in to her pasta.

It isn't the most successful evening we've ever had together but I'm enjoying it because it's filled with shades of the afternoon – Madame Patrice, the canal and walking and talking with the man called Louis. My relish for this food and my relish for life are returning and sadly it's nothing to do with Philip and his anxious care. I know that Siri is near and I can feel my sense of the future returning.

Later, by the time I get upstairs, Philip is asleep and snoring. So I go up to my eyrie and lie on the daybed where I often spend my nights now. I lie there for a while, but – restless still – I get up and go to my work table and develop some charts for Billy and Mae. I put their charts together. Taurus and Capricorn. They are so very compatible – like a yolk and an egg. Things will tumble together for them again and again.

I get up and poke around among my stuff in the room. But still I can't settle. So I climb up the narrow wooden staircase to the roof and lie down on the lilo that lives up there. I can smell Mae's sun lotion. The night is warm, the sky is dark. I take a very deep breath, pleased to be here alone with the sky.

Then I can hear footsteps coming up the wooden staircase and I feel a prickle of distaste. Philip will spoil this, spoil it, I know he will!

But it's not Philip. It's Olga. Silently she comes and lies alongside me.

I take another very deep breath.

Olga takes her own deep, noisy breath. ‘What are we doing, Auntie Stella?'

‘We're looking for Virgo. See! Those nine stars? One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, and see that one on the end. Nine.'

Her chuckle warms the air between us. ‘I see it! Like a little handbag in the sky. It's really pretty.'

‘So it is.'

‘What does it mean, the little handbag?'

‘It means a lot of things to a lot of people.'

‘What does it mean to you?'

‘It means a person I once knew.'

‘Which person?'

I hesitate. ‘A girl called Siri.'

She lies very still, absorbing that. ‘And is it her handbag, with her special things in it?'

‘I hope so.'

Then her small warm hand raises itself and points at another constellation. ‘And what is that one? That big pointy one?'

‘Ursa Major. But we call it the Great Bear.'

She chuckles. ‘I can see him! I can see his toes and his long tail. Who does he make you think of?'

I wait a moment. In the years since Siri was taken I have avoided thinking of him, avoided thinking that if I had gone after him with news of her, if I had broken his family and made him mine, Siri would still be here. Now I'm thinking about him and that night in the Deer House. ‘I haven't thought of him for a long time,' I say carefully. ‘It's a man called Ludovic.'

‘Is he nice?' she said. ‘Is he as nice as my daddy?'

‘I think he might be. But I don't know him very well.'

Then minutes pass and there's silence beside me. My eye returns to Virgo and I project my mind, my heart, to that small handbag in the sky. Siri is near. It's funny about Siri being Virgo. Our signs are very incompatible but she's part of me and I am part of her. Another thing that puts the whole theory in flight, you might say.

Olga is mumbling something.

‘What's that, Olga?'

‘I learned it at school. It's your poem, Auntie Starr.

‘What do you wish for, Auntie Starr?'

I pull her close. ‘I wish you a happy and long life, Olga.'

Minutes – perhaps as much as an hour – have passed by. Olga is fast asleep. I haul myself to my feet and pick her up. She's lighter than she looks. I make my way down the wooden staircase with her half over my shoulders and half in my arms. Then, in the room she shares with George, I heave her on to the top bunk and cover her with a thin sheet.

That's how Siri was when I last saw her. Under a thin sheet, the top tucked under her chin, her hair combed on the pillow, her skin cold as ice. Now I touch Olga's skin and kiss her on her warm cheek. I feel again the tenderness, the joy I felt for my living, breathing Siri. Then I go up to my eyrie and sleep soundly and dream of the red-haired boy who has all these wild people dancing joyously around him, ribbons swirling.

He looks older.

A
s he and his mate rowed the boat carrying Modeste and Tib up the river away from the city, the older sailor, whose name was Peter, talked rapidly to his passengers about how to make the frail craft work for them. ‘You put your weight
so
, sire,' he said to Modeste, ‘then pull back hard, then pause. Let the water do some of the work. The flow of the river towards the sea will pull you back a little, but you will make progress if you row steadily, steadily.'

He nodded at Tib. ‘And you, young master, you know how I taught you to use the sail when you were young? Test the wind then raise the sail. Not yet. The wind will serve you better upstream.' He paused. ‘In this sweep the offshore breezes could drive you out to sea and there, young master, you will be lost.'

Tib could hear the echo of his mother's voice in Peter's tones. ‘Did my mother tell you to do this, Peter? To help us on our way?'

The sailor shook his head and stopped, resting on his oars. ‘She was there, young sir, but it was your father who gave the instructions to row you upstream to safety. But your mother, young sir, asked me to give you these.' He rooted inside his jerkin and handed over a pouch. Tib rooted around inside and pulled out two chains with carved fish – one in amber and one in silver – dangling from them.

Peter was watching him closely. ‘They're for you and the doctor, her ladyship said.'

Peter signalled the other seaman and started rowing again.

Tib took the amber fish and put it on over his head. Modeste, still flinching with pain as the boat surged forward, simply clutched his amulet in his hand.

So Helée, who had seemed to love the Emperor and worship the old Emperors to the exclusion of his own son, had today risked reprimand for not executing the two of them for heresy. In fact he had risked death himself for helping them. And his mother Serina had given them amulets symbolizing the Nazarene to protect them on their journey.

When they were one hour upriver and away from the offshore breezes Peter steered the boat to a landing place and jumped ashore. He wished the travellers well and watched as they restarted their journey. Tib took his place on the rowing bar alongside Modeste, who was still weak and aching from his beatings. Until Modeste healed, Tib knew he would be of equal strength with his teacher. He rather liked that.

Tib's own injuries – more lightly acquired perhaps – had healed completely during the night. When Serina saw this she had nodded. ‘Your gifts serve you well, my beautiful son.' Her husband was watching, so she could not touch Tib or comfort him in any other way. She'd looked silently across at the scarred and bandaged Modeste who, it seemed, would have to heal in a more natural way.

Now the two seamen watched as the man and boy rowed valiantly against the down-flow of the river, and shouted encouragement and instructions until they were out of sight. Then they turned to walk back to Good Fortune, glad that the onerous task was at an end. Marching on, Peter turned to the younger sailor and said, ‘I knew that lad since he was a stripling. Born and bred in Gaul. There was no harm in him. I hope he thrives. It's a hard path he's chosen.'

In the boat Modeste rowed valiantly for some time but then he gave in, finally dropping his head over his oar. Awkwardly, Tib steered the boat to the shore, tied it up, and helped Modeste ashore into the long grass under the shade of a wild fig tree bent and twisted with age. Modeste slid down with his back to the tree, nodded and closed his eyes. Tib went back to the boat and hauled ashore the bags his mother had given the seamen to put aboard.

When he opened one bag, instead of the food and wine he'd expected, there were some of the things that had been in Modeste's boxes – the scrolls, the maps, the instruments. The boxes themselves were there in the bags. So Serina had made sure they had everything from the eyrie to hand. There was no food.