She's Leaving Home (42 page)

He gestured at the arrays of aspirin and cough drops, of toilet tissue and deodorants. ‘You could go on working here. As permanent staff you’d get more money. Two weeks’ paid holiday a year and a pension scheme.’

As amiably as possible Helen shook her head. ‘I’m doing my A levels next year.’

‘Ah. Then had you thought of qualifying as a pharmacist? You’ll always be employable; you can travel with it if you like.’

Helen was nonplussed. ‘A chemist? I suspect that’s what my mother assumes I’m going to be. My A levels include chemistry. So Mum makes the connection that I’ll be a chemist in a shop. Like her brother, years ago, though I don’t know if he is still in practice.’ Helen laughed. ‘She’d be quite proud if I did. But no.’

The pharmacist turned, disappointed. ‘It may not be the most challenging occupation, but it’s worthwhile,’ he said gruffly, and went back behind his counter. Helen gazed after him a little penitently: there was no kindness in kidding Mr Clay along, though she had not intended to hurt his feelings. She returned to tidy up the office.

Elizabeth Plumb was given to understand by
le patron
that her bill would be paid for ten days. Madame
Plon
– the closest the innkeeper could get to her name – was to be treated with the utmost respect. He hoped she would enjoy her stay in this town of Rabelais, Descartes, Joan of Arc and the Plantagenet kings. A table had been reserved for her for dinner each night.

Madame
Plon
had taken a couple of days to recover from the shock. She could well understand that Charles could not warn her in time. Had he tried to contact her in Liverpool he would have failed: since it was too far to travel in one day she had broken her journey both in London and Paris. Or perhaps he had not known himself till the last minute. Madame la Comtesse could be a
peremptory creature, he had frequently implied. And quite unreasonable. He was not permitted to come to England for fear he would catch a chill – the French were a nation of hypochondriacs. It suited her too, however: had he ever appeared in Liverpool it might have been embarrassing, to say the least. Their romance had been confined to the holidays, and to his home, in the lady’s absence.

The Hostellerie Gargantua was not unfamiliar. It was the real thing, an authentic
fifteenth-century
magnificence in the midst of the town’s cobbled streets. Rabelais’ lawyer father had practised in its rooms while the author himself had supped often in the painted caves at the back. She had dined here with Charles in the tiny room in the tower, a rather self-conscious dinner
à deux
by candlelight. The view over the river below was at its finest as the sun set after a hot day, when pink and silver light would steal into the chamber to stroke her bare arms. The French knew how to seduce a woman, that was for sure. She had adored every minute.

Miss Plumb pondered how to use her unexpected solitude. The
patron
suggested excursions to the abbey at Fontevraud, to Saumur with its horses, to the dolmens at Bagneux, to Bourgueil’s wine festival on the Feast of the Assumption, August 15. Charles had preferred to stay on his estate with her and regarded such
touristique
activities as rather beneath him. Miss Plumb squared her shoulders. Though her heart was heavy there’d be a next time – half term, or after Christmas when Madame might go to Monaco. For the moment she would occupy herself as best she could.

First there was the chateau in Chinon itself to explore, its tall ramparts a short walk from her hotel. Equipped with a book on its history she pottered around. The great moat was grassed over now, but it was easy to visualise marauding invaders being beaten off and bloody corpses piled in triumph. With care she passed through the archway where Charles VIII banged his head, fatally – or was it poison? It was creepy to stand on the spot where Joan the Maid was imprisoned after her betrayal to the English. Two floors beneath and a century earlier Jacques de Molay and his Knights Templars had also been incarcerated. On the wall her fingers traced the strange cabbalistic symbols carved by the captives. Perhaps the Church was wise to regard them as dabblers in the black arts. They ended up roasted alive on the Pont Neuf in Paris.

As the afternoon wore on she rested on a bench in the shade. She had expected to feel lonely and a little sorry for herself, but the combined exercise of mind and body had brought an element of release which was itself pleasant. The affair with Charles was a source of hedonistic enjoyment, but it was not love and both knew it. More a fusion of like minds which had acquired the quality of ritual, year by year, as if to refresh and strengthen the two of them to withstand more conventional lives during the winter. In her case that meant Liverpool. Miss Plumb shuddered. After such delight, such exquisite beauty, the journey back would seem like a return to Bedlam and the treadmill.

The site attracted a great many foreign visitors. One family sat down on the grass near her: young parents with three children, two leggy boys aged about fourteen and ten and a chubby little girl of perhaps seven. The entire group wore shorts, T-shirts and open sandals. How sensible, Miss Plumb thought as she twitched her corduroy skirt. They chattered in English and passed a bottle of water. Miss Plumb, apparently engrossed in her guide book, began to eavesdrop. She recognised the accent with a blink of pleasure. This family came from her home county of Kent.

‘England was governed from Chinon for hundreds of years,’ explained the father. The children formed a semi-circle at his feet, alert and engrossed. ‘King John was married here in the year 1200. He stole his wife, Isabel of Angoulême, from her betrothed the Comte de Lusignan.’ His voice took on a sing-song quality as if he often spun such tales. ‘That gave Philippe, the French king, the excuses he’d sought to seize John’s French territory. So he became known as John Lackland. He also lost the crown jewels – not here, though, but in England.’

‘Careless sod.’ Miss Plumb smiled to herself.

The father pointed at the tower. ‘The saddest story is about his father, King Henry. This was his palace. He came here when he was old and sick, still determined to hang on to both kingdoms if he
could. Philippe swore he would destroy everything unless poor old Henry gave in. He promised to produce a list of Henry’s former vassals who had switched sides. When he did so, John’s name headed the list.’

‘Gosh,’ said the older boy. ‘Betrayal of the first order. What did Henry do?’

‘He turned his face to the wall.’ The father pointed again as if to indicate the exact square of limestone. Miss Plumb involuntarily craned her neck. ‘And he died of a broken heart.’ The little girl sighed. ‘But,’ said her father mysteriously, ‘his wicked son did not inherit his crown. Not then, anyway. Do you know who did?’

‘The eldest, of course,’ said the eldest. ‘King Richard. The Lionheart.’

‘Correct, Rupert, top marks.’

‘Go on, Daddy, don’t stop,’ pleaded the little girl, but her father reached mischievously for the bottle and took a long gulp. He wiped the neck with his palm and handed it around.

‘No: enough for today. Tomorrow we will pay homage at the tombs of our Kings and Queens at Fontevraud, and I will tell you about King Richard and his exploits. D’you know he didn’t speak a word of English? Only French.’

‘Golly.’ The younger boy rolled his eyes. Miss Plumb deduced he had recently commenced the struggle with gallic declensions. The family rose to their feet and sauntered towards the exit.

She lingered as shadows lengthened, her book upside down in her lap. How she would love to teach children ike that. Bright and attentive, but more: they took for granted that knowledge was not merely useful and necessary but
fun
, that their nation’s chronicles and legends were a living, exciting study, neither dry nor irrelevant, they had hung on every word. Men and women long dead had become for them live creatures with blood in their veins and ambition in their souls.

How often had she tried to stir such enthusiasm among the girls of Blackburne House, but with a few exceptions it was a thankless task. Too many were determined to ridicule all scholarship in their restless search for the modern. The prevailing culture valued instant gratification over perception or wisdom. Anyone who threatened to break out, like Helen Majinsky and her coterie, was subjected to not-so-subtle mockery. Under these pressures, unless the city council offered a great deal more encouragement, the school might not survive.

Up till now, Elizabeth Plumb had convinced herself that this danger to education existed throughout the country: she would stumble over the same obstacles wherever she went. That family’s behaviour gave the lie to such a generalisation. Wherever they hailed from, in that area were schools which taught well, pupils who listened and relished their studies, adults with much the same views as her own. Parents’ evenings would be a joy. They’d attend and ask intelligent questions. They’d applaud the staff and demand their utmost from each. Teachers and parents would share with a sense of solemn responsibility the nurture of the next generation.

One thing was certain, she told herself as she rose stiffly from the bench and brushed down her skirt. Nobody would arrive at her office to bribe her with stolen bottles of whisky.

Pensively she strolled down the steep cobbled hill towards the old town, taking a different route from her entry. At a bend in the path she paused and leaned over the parapet. The cars below on the embankment near the Rabelais statue were tiny, like toys.

One, an elongated silver outline, caught her eye. It was quite like Charles’s. In fact, unless he had changed his model, it was identical. Yet he had boasted that they were rare and difficult to obtain. As she watched idly the car slowed in front of a big modern hotel on the edge of town. Not Charles’s sort of
auberge
. Or rather not hers – she preferred the biggest contrast possible with home and had often said so.

The car parked and the driver’s door opened. A man’s figure climbed unhurriedly out and entered the hotel. A few minutes later two shapes emerged, the man with his hand on the elbow of a slim female in a summer dress. They climbed in the car which purred off in the direction of Azay.

Miss Plumb clutched the ancient stone to steady herself. Of course it might have been an hallucination. Or she could accept the evidence of her own eyes. She would recognise that sleek grey hair, that slight bow anywhere. There was no doubt whatsoever.

Charles was in town, not on the coast. In the company of another woman. And he did not care much if anyone saw.

Michael knew at once that he would remember it for ever. By mid-morning it was obvious that the march, billed as ‘a great moral protest against racial bias’ was turning into a day when the peaceful might of the American Negro was to be on display as never before, when a good-natured mass of ordinary people might decisively alter the course of history.

He stood quietly and gazed around in wonder. Most of the people, to his surprise, wore suits – black suits for the men, as if on their way to church or a wedding, despite the sweltering heat. The coloured women wore gay cotton dresses and hats. Their children were miniatures of the adults, their hair brushed into orderliness, small boys in white shirts, blue suits and bow-ties, tiny girls with tight coils and plaits tamed with fluttering ribbons in every hue of the rainbow, and ready smiles on every face.

A battered bus drew up near him with Mississippi plates, one of hundreds from every state of the Union. It disgorged a score of workmen in well-pressed dungarees with new straw hats. They grinned lop-sidedly and shook hands with everyone they saw. One seized Michael and slapped him heartily if inarticulately on the back. Above their heads planes homed in towards the airport. One, they heard later, contained the singer Josephine Baker who had entertained the passengers in the hours since Paris. The airport, rail stations, the bus depots, car parks were jammed. Every taxi had been commandeered, every piece of municipal transport, but they were not enough. And so people walked, in their thousands. One man announced to all and sundry that he had roller-skated all the way from Chicago. And still they kept coming.

Clergymen abounded: thick-necked men in clerical collars who moved easily among the crowd, Bible in hand, praising the Lord, sweat on brows, eyes alert for trouble. The numbers swelled. For the first few hours Michael and the new arrivals strolled happily from the Lincoln memorial past the reflecting pool to the Washington Monument and back down the other side, but gradually movement became sluggish. Every inch of possible space was filled. The marchers sat down where they were and swapped food and drink with those around them, and described their adventures on the journey, both physical and spiritual.

Michael found he was one of a substantial sprinkle of whites, mostly young people like himself. The blacks called him ‘brother’ without affectation and he murmured ‘A grand day’, over and over again. He did not trust himself to say more. Oh, how Helen would love this. He resolved to remember every detail to recount to her. To tell his children and grandchildren some day: ‘I was there.’

On the steps of the Lincoln Memorial, as the solemn golden statue peeped out from behind the huge pillars, microphones had been set up. It seemed wisest to wedge himself near the steps from where he could observe most easily. He noticed uncomfortably how old habits of deference die hard: whenever with thanks and apologies he headed in any particular direction, the way parted and children were pulled from his path.

He shaded his eyes and saw the stocky figure of Marlon Brando, up there mumbling an incomprehensible speech. With mounting excitement Michael recognised other stars who waited their turn – Judy Garland, Burt Lancaster. He was not surprised to see Sidney Poitier and Lena Horne. Small and dapper in his mohair suit, Sammy Davis Jr scuttled forward and began to sing snatches of show favourites. His voice soared over the crowd as his spectacles reflected the sun. The haunting notes of ‘Summertime’ floated over the water and many joined in –