Englishwoman in France (2 page)

The woman must have felt a bit guilty because she got me this contact on a men's magazine, where I became ‘Joe Black', who could see into the future for a whole band of men who liked luxury and had mundane, if expensive, tastes. Then the column – appropriately modified – was syndicated in a series of magazines here and abroad. So in the end I actually made a better living working from home.

You might think it was an isolated life working alone with Siri in our little flat, but it was fun, creating columns, filing them, then going to the park and the play group, having coffee in cafés and thinking up new takes on Saturn being in the ascendant. The two of us lived on our own, on our own carefree island, in our own world.

Then, late one night when Siri was four, we ran out of milk so we went to our local twenty-four-hour Spar. That was the night we met Philip Crabtree. Those two took to each other and that was that. They were entranced.

To be honest, despite being entranced with Siri myself, I was just a bit lonely, Philip was kind and funny, and Siri was entertained. In no time at all we were a little family in his house south of the river. I still did my astrology columns and kept my independence. Philip went to the office, and Siri eventually started school.

So far, so ordinary.

Then one day my dear mother died very suddenly in Scotland. She'd been picking up sacks of food for the pigs. Brain haemorrhage. Pouf! She was gone and I never saw it coming. Isn't that strange? She left me two distinct legacies. First, that joy, that sunny sense of freedom that shone from her in rays. Second, a rather substantial lump of money from an insurance she'd paid into since I was born. Oh! And her special gift of insight, of course. That's three legacies, isn't it?

I only saw her once after she died. I'd mourned her in a catatonic fashion, feeling wooden and strange at her absence. It was as though my whole world – even Siri – was now rendered in sepia. I only slept two hours at a time. I often woke up, left Philip and climbed into Siri's bed.

Once, I woke up in the middle of the night, clasping my own neck with a strangling grasp. I blinked and there was my mother beside the bed in a bright yellow dress, watching me in that same close, thoughtful way she'd had in life. ‘It's all right, Starr,' she said. ‘You can let go, you know.' Her voice sounded so normal. I have to tell you that was the first time I'd ever heard one of my visions speak.

My hand loosened from my neck and I glared up at her angrily. She nodded and smiled. I could see right through her to Siri's bedroom door. Then she was gone.

‘What is it, Mummy?' Siri, beside me in the bed, opened a sleepy eye. ‘What do you see?'

‘It's nothing,' I said. ‘Nothing at all. Everything is all right now.'

And so it
was.
Then.

Tib

The boy raised his eyes further to where the sun-silvered water splashed up against the bright hulls of the ships on the far shore, then spurted into the air, each drop a sparkling world in itself. And now his eye was drawn to a smaller, neater galley painted in Imperial colours, as it manoeuvred itself onto the Governor's private landing. A smart seaman jumped ashore and secured it with stout ropes which looked fresh and new.

Tib jumped as a hand dropped on his shoulder. A voice murmured in his ear, ‘A fine sight, son, eh? The best in the world d'you think? Finest goods from the East coming through our port to trade in Gaul? How about that?' His father's tone was proud, affectionate but still seemed to the boy to carry a warning note, like a stone in a clod of earth that a friend throws at you in a fun-fight.

Tib wriggled, uneasy as ever in his father's clasp. He released himself by swinging his legs back over the parapet and standing up straight in front of his father, in the soldierly fashion he'd been taught. ‘So it is, sir. The best in the world.'

They turned and watched together as a man disembarked from the Imperial boat and jumped across two boats to reach the governor's landing. ‘There he is,' said the governor. ‘The Corinthian.'

The man, who was now getting directions from the piratish harbourmaster, wore dark flowing robes of a foreign cut, a round hat on his head and carried a heavy pack tied with leather thongs slung over one shoulder.

‘Who is he?' asked Tib. ‘Does he visit us?'

‘Aye, he does, son. Well, he visits you. He's to be your teacher. Some of our distinguished guests have returned to the court with tales of your talents. It seems that the Empress was intrigued by these tales, so she sends you a teacher to test your wits. This Greek is her man. A freedman. Said to be very clever, a doctor of many arts.'

Tib sighed. Talk of his cleverness was always embarrassing. Since he was very small he'd endured the required ritual of performing for his father's guests like a Barbary ape – spouting poetry, playing his flute, showing off his calculations and inventions. In his eight years of life many great men had patted him on the head and many gracious ladies had given him sweetmeats. He thought of one woman, black haired and wild eyed, who'd given him a pomegranate. He had liked her. He wished she'd come again.

‘My education is sufficient, Father,' he said now in desperation. ‘With the documents and instruments you've had brought here, and my mother's help . . .'

‘No, no, son! Your mother has the brain of a pea.' His father was firm. ‘You need further food for that thinking miracle you have inside you. The message from the Empress says that this doctor has unique knowledge of the medical arts. Armed with those arts, and your great wisdom, one day you'll be of service to the Empire.' He examined his son from head to toe then back again. ‘You never were going to make a soldier, Tibery. And because of your pea-brain mother you are too tender in the mind to be a leader. But . . .'

Tib had heard the story many times of how the Empire and the Emperor had served Governor Helée well. Here was an empire where a man like him, the Gaulish son of a mere blacksmith-turned-soldier, could rise from the ranks to the high Imperial position he held now. In this modern world anything was possible. And like many veterans, Helée was relishing the rewards of his life's loyalty to the Empire.

Father and son stood watching the tall man make his winding way through the harbour-side buildings and the clusters of dwellings, then on up the straight road to the gate of the Governor's house.

‘What is he called, the Corinthian?' asked Tib, giving in, as he usually did, to his father. ‘Apart from Corinthian?'

‘His name is Modeste,' said the Governor. ‘And do not be mistaken, Tibery, he'll be your teacher. The Empress has made up her mind and that's that. You remember the Empress? She once brought you a pomegranate.'

N
ow you're asking yourself how, years before, I came to find myself alone with Siri. Well, I can only say it was love at first sight. He was a great bear of a man: tight blond curls and a face that was slightly too long; shadows under the eyes. He had the look of a fallen angel and looks don't lie. My friend Mae pointed him out – well, I thought she did – across the length of the Three Stars, our first stop on our Friday night flight into the town.

Locally known as The Stars, it was a rare pub where drinking was the real business and the business of food was only secondary. The fire at the end of the bar blazed a century's welcome. No cheap beer or half-price cocktails here: just crooners like Nat King Cole – already old-fashioned – undercutting the chatter in the bar and lounge. The only choice of drinks was one of three beers on the pumps, or unnamed red or white wine from boxes.

On this crucial night Mae shouted into my ear, ‘New face!' She nodded towards the crowd by the fire. She gulped her red wine quickly, thirsty for that first hit of the night.

I peered down the bar but failed to see the man she was interested in. My eyes were stopped by those of
another
man at the end of the bar.
He
raised his glass and nodded, as though we were old acquaintances. The sound in the pub receded for a second, then surged up again.

‘You know him?' said Mae, still concentrating on the man by the fire.

‘Never met him,' I said in her ear, meaning the second man. She gulped down her wine. ‘Let's go!' I was only too happy. I wanted to get away from this man. Even then I knew he was too powerful, too right for me. Mae grinned, grabbed her handbag and dragged me out of the pub, ready for action.

Mae and I always went out like this when I came home from London. It was a sentimental journey – reliving our young days when everything was a truanting adventure. Mae still did the ‘Saturday night out' thing but my life, since I deserted the North for college in London, had moved on. I soon learned that in London every night could be Saturday. Every night could be party night.

When we were young, Mae was always the leader of our escapades. But these days I was more sure of myself – living and working in London had seen to that. But tonight the sight of this fallen angel had shaken me. I wondered whether he was real. Mae knew I was fleeing, but she thought I was fleeing the man by the fire. I'd learned to be careful now, kept quiet about seeing people who weren't there. Despite, or because of, making my living by astrology I'd come to know my gift as ordinary, even mundane. So far in my life this skill, these insights, had never managed to knock me sideways like this.

That Friday night our second pub call was at the White Swan – just called The Swan – where the music was post-punk. As usual it was packed with people and humming with the subdued roar of talk – twenty-somethings speaking on broadcast over the music and battling to be heard. We always went there to meet our friend Spelk, whom we'd known from primary school as a tiny mewling spelk of a boy and who was now, as Mae always said, a six-foot-six mewling log of a man. Spelk was meeting us at the Swan before we went on to the Blue Lagoon, known simply as the Lagoon, the best place to dance in Priorton on Friday nights.

Metamorphosed from the ballroom of the Marlborough Hotel, the Lagoon had been turned into a hot disco when the otherwise snobbish owners realized that disco was where the money was to be made. Now they turned a blind eye to the plethora of drugs that were part and parcel of the Lagoon experience. There was money in it, after all.

Spelk had rung Mae to say he'd be late, so we perched on stools at the bar and ordered a drink. Then I felt hot, and my skin burned. Heat was radiating from my left-hand side. I turned to see the tanned face of the fallen angel. ‘All right?' he said. So he
was
real. Not dead. I didn't smile. I just nodded and turned back to Mae.

I felt a tap on my shoulder. ‘Don't you know it's rude to turn your back on people?' His voice in my ear. No anger in it.

Mae's painted brows raised behind her fringe. I blinked, took a breath and turned back again to face him. His eyes were very, very blue.

‘Can I buy you a drink?' he said.

‘We're waiting for someone,' I said, standing back to include Mae in the conversation.

‘Well,' he said, smiling,‘have one with me while you're waiting.' He nodded at the girl behind the bar, who obligingly brought two new glasses.

‘So, who might you be?' asked Mae, scowling slightly.

‘I'm Ludovic,' he said.

‘Ludovic?' she said scornfully. ‘Isn't that a board game?'

‘My father wanted Charles and my mother wanted Ludovic.'

‘And your mother won!' said Mae, laughing now.

‘Not really,' he said. ‘I ended up with both names. People call me by both names.'

I relaxed. How ordinary was that? You couldn't have a fallen angel called Ludovic Charles. Too silly. ‘I'm Stella – Estella really,' I said.

‘But very honoured people call her Starr,' Mae put in.

‘Hey, you two!' Here was Spelk, six-feet-six of arms, legs and spiky hair. ‘Sorry . . . late . . .' he gasped. ‘Spilled paint on the floor.
She
made me clean it up.'
She
was the sister-in-law in whose house he was forced to live. He punched me on the shoulder and kissed my cheek very hard. I could smell beer. ‘Cool, Starr! Home again is it?' he said.

It turned out that Spelk wouldn't stop for a drink.

‘What I want is to get down the Lagoon, to score, and to dance. I want to get
her
outta my head.' Spelk was known for throwing shapes that were out of this world. The long arms and legs helped.

Mae gulped down her drink and jumped down from her stool. ‘I'm in,' she said.

‘Let Starr stay and finish her drink,' said Ludovic. ‘The two of us'll come on to the Lagoon after.'

‘Spelk!' I said. ‘This is Ludovic. He's
not
a board game.'

Mae put her arm through Spelk's. She looked at me, then up at the stranger. ‘Right then!' she said. ‘We'll go. See you there.'

We watched as Mae and Spelk made their way out of the door before turning back to our drinks. ‘You live in the town?' he said. ‘Can't remember seeing you here before. I've seen your friend and her giant at the Lagoon. But not you.'

‘I always used to come here,' I said carefully. ‘But I work in London. Not been home since Easter.' I caught sight of myself in the bar mirror. Hair too dark, ironed flat and shining. Long eyes – at Mae's insistence – over painted. Skin too white, bones too sharp. ‘But you were never here then, as far as I can remember.'

‘Recent arrival,' he said. ‘After Easter.'

I looked at him through the bar mirror. He was thick-set, a full head taller than me, and his curly hair was too long for the present-day fashion. But the bones on his face were finely drawn and his blue eyes were smiling. His skin was weather-beaten without being ruddy. He was older than me – perhaps as much as thirty. Then I could smell salt and hear somewhere the jingle of boats bobbing in a harbour. ‘Are you a sailor?' I said suddenly.