The Widow (8 page)

‘Monsieur Dupont? Arlette Van der Valk.'

‘Who? Oh yes,' as though he'd forgotten. Self-reassurance trick, so commonplace as not to be worth noticing. Chief-executive voice. ‘I don't intend though to discuss my affairs with anyone before
knowing a good deal more about whom I'm talking to, right?'

‘You can come here and see. Ask any question you wish then.' She felt lamentably green but how did one gain experience? Ring up people to practise on? Tell them sorry, but you see, you're the first I've ever had?

‘No, I don't wish that.'

‘Is it your office you're calling from?'

‘No, that won't do either. This is a personal matter. Wait, you live by the Observatoire, right? Meet me on the street in the neighbourhood, all right? Six this evening or a little after, by the statue of Jeanne d'Arc, all right?'

‘Very well, if that's what you want,' wondering whether it was all right but not about to turn down the chance.

‘What charge do you make for that?' still tough.

‘None at all, until I know what I could do.'

‘Fair enough. Uh – navy blue coat, brown hat.'

The third voice on the tape was that of a youngish girl. Self-assured, but obviously under strain.

“This is Marie-Line Siegel. I live in the Meinau – no, I don't think it's any use giving you the address, or not yet. I wish I knew – I'll just have to hope you can suggest something; there's a terrific fuss each time about what I've been doing and where I've been. Listen; I need to come and see you, but I don't know exactly when I can make it. This afternoon – sorry but I can't risk your ringing me at home; this is a public box. My father … – shit, I hope I can make you see. No, it's useless to talk: look, around two if I can make it, and I ask you to excuse me if I'm late or anything.” Rang off abruptly.

Siegel in the Meinau. Arlette reached for the phone book and shrugged; it was a common enough name. The girl had been hurried and flustered, and not particularly coherent. The clear educated voice of the well-brought-up, but some trouble at home, seemingly. One could only hope she would persevere and follow it up: nothing one could do for the moment.

The day was full, in a tiresome manner. This English
woman, any time now, may be. A girl who might or might not appear in the early afternoon. And this Dupont, whatever his name was, at six by the Saint Maurice church. Only two minutes' walk along the road: one wouldn't take the car. All of them vague and awkward: nothing definite.

Was that the pattern things would take? She shrugged. The very first working day. And if she'd wanted it cut and dried like a dentist …

Start in the kitchen, where every woman begins.

The cleaning woman, a bow-legged little soul from Portugal, was having a cup of coffee: she worked well and hard, as long as she could down a strong one at quarter-hour intervals. We all have our little fads, huh. Arlette had one too, and put her overall on.

Arthur would have to cook the supper. If this Dupont wanted to talk, as seemed likely, she might not be home for some time. Get something out of the freezer. Sorry, but food is important. All those years in Holland Arlette had never understood those women who threw away twenty pairs of shoes as good as new, while their idea of a meal was a frozen chicken, improved with bits of tinned pineapple. Arthur, mercifully, took food seriously.

And something fairly rapid for now. Too bad if it was a bit late. Mm, that Dupont. Sounded the kind of man that comes in and turns the television straight on, because of that hard day at the office, and heaven help the wife if there isn't solid grub ready, dead on time. She was about halfway through, when the buzzer went. She took her overall off with one hand and combed her hair with the other. The judas showed a young woman in black, glancing in a surprised way around the ‘waiting room'.

Arlette was pleased with the waiting room. Partition off a lump of corridor, even a wide one, and the result is a box, hard though you pretend it isn't. She had decided to admit the box. It was lined with pine boarding kept pale, hung with simple, pretty flower prints, and given spotlights and ventilation in the false ceiling. Not claustrophobic a bit: cosy as a womb, said
Arthur admiringly. She whipped into the office and opened the door with a desire to say ‘Next'. This was the first – the very first.

A pale face that would have been pretty but was both fattish and haggard, but managed to be better than plain.

‘I say, I hope you talk English. I just can't manage to learn French, sorry.'

‘Take your coat off and be comfortable.' Dear Berlitz School. Rough, cough, bough and dough. And people say Russian is hard.

The woman had had nobody to talk to for ages, and spitting it all out was what she wanted more than anything. A listener. If sympathetic, so much the better. If there were any intelligent suggestions, that would be better still. Not that Arlette could think of many. You're in a mess, my good soul. You got into it out of goodhearted stupidity, and the best way out, indeed the only way out I can see, honest, is to bugger off quickish.

Her name was Norma and she came from Salford. Her husband could be said to have deserted her. Not technically perhaps; not on such-and-such a date. A sailor, seen at intervals that got longer and longer until one realized one day with only a slight sense of shock that Jackie was gone for good. Leaving her with three children: did that much work at home. Divorced?

‘No. Got me pride, you see.'

Made any effort to trace Jackie?

‘Not really. Where's the point in that?'

Well, to recall him to a sense of his responsibilities.

‘Yah, he hasn't any. Oh, he was all right. Quite kind, not a bad father really, on the whole. Just slack like.' She'd managed okay. No real grievances.

One could see the point; nobody was a whole lot worse off for the lack of such as Jackie. Amiable hedonist. Arlette made a conscientious note: Danish, there must be a Danish consulate somewhere in Strasbourg which could catch up with Master Jackie, though he'd been left in peace a long time, too long she suspected for a court to get excited about conjugal
rights. And what good was anyone naturally a bit slack-like, brought back sullenly – by the slack of his trousers? Be off again in five minutes, as Norma said sensibly.

Some women were born victims, but she liked Norma, who had a certain tough gallantry. One called it dignity, and generosity, and other things quite out of fashion.

‘I'II make a cup of tea, shall I?' The symbol of solidarity in England, and it touched Norma.

The trouble with women, Arlette knew well, is that they will insist on making fools of themselves over the same kind of man.

Robert had been around a couple of years, with a job in the Manchester area. Good job. Spoke good English for a Frenchman, near as good as you. Good chap; quiet, domesticated, liked the children, got on well with everyone. Solid chap, what.

She could suppose it. Men were infernally plausible. Anyhow, he'd had no bother gliding into bed with Norma.

Well, the job in Manchester came to an end. Robert, by now accustomed to domestic comforts, proposed bringing her back with him to Strasbourg. Well, what was to hold her? Her sister to be sure had been against it: what, over there, all among the Frogs? But her sister'd always been a wet blanket. What's different in France? Schools there too, aren't there? You go where your man is.

And how had that worked out? Plainly it hadn't, but apart from getting the necessary details Norma had to be given the chance to pour herself empty.

Started fine. Strasbourg was lovely. Robert had a nice little flat, quiet, with green spaces round and trees. Hautepierre is fine. The children liked it too. Didn't speak any French, any more than her, but kids never worry about that. Made friends everywhere; loads of kids in the quarter. They'd gone to school; the woman had been real kind, fixed them with a lot of Vietnamese children that didn't speak French either. Had that worked? Not too terribly; mean to say, the kids learned a lot of Chinese but no French … Still, they rubbed along.
Like her; she managed, shopping and stuff. Hell, she knew how to get along. Not like we were blacks, Paks or something, eating special grub and wearing turbans. Did the children look any different to the French? Did she? Learn the names of a few things, fromahdge, and you're home. Honest, I love it here. No kidding: you should see Salford, love.

Arlette's heart warmed to Norma. She'd had just the same herself in Amsterdam and found it rough going. The Dutch called the fromahdge kahss, put it on their bread with margarine and cut the result with a knife and fork: weird, and you learned to call the vinaigrette slahsowse.

No, the fly in the ointment is this bleeding Robert. Not the same as in England. They never are, thought Arlette gloomily – even dear old Piet …

Robert had gone real funny. Suspicious and jealous, my gawd. Look, the other day he got a rifle, and lined them all up against the wall, and said he'd shoot the lot if ever she looked at another man. Not that she had, but he wasn't kidding, and it frightened her, you know. Another thing; he'd got so goddamned mean. Had always refused to give her a weekly allowance, but a banknote here and there from his pocket.

‘I'm used enough to making do. Always been poor, not ashamed of it or frightened of it. But giving you a ten-franc note, expecting the day's food to come out of that for five persons, that's just daft. I'm not just a prostitute love, honest. Keep his house, and I keep it clean, and put his food on the table. I've got to clothe the children – not right, is it?'

Plainly, the first thing was to get ol' Norma's morale up. She poured a second cup of tea, found a pack of Virginia cigarettes, and talked hearteningly for ten minutes. This is nonsense, girl. Entitled to Social Security like anyone else. Of course you must have money of your own; there are the children's allowances, and the woman-on-the-hearth, and a whole lot more. I'll find out exactly what your entitlement is, help fill in forms, lot of paper. No, you write down ‘concubine' and the hell with it. Makes no difference; nor does being English. And I'll help you sort the school out.

But more important, you have to stand on your own feet; have some independence. This is serfdom, and the sooner Robert gets that into his head … Any trade? Barmaid? Well, you can earn good money at that, and better still in Germany. How old are the children? Seven, eleven, fifteen? Old enough to stand on their own feet. Hard work and awkward hours, but you're not workshy.

Sure thing, said Norma sturdily, but bleeding Robert's that jealous. Barmaid …!

Arlette had seen this snag coming, and could see more, too, but right now …

‘Look, can I come and see you? Maybe tomorrow? I need to give this some thought, see what I can work out.'

‘Sure. I'm always there. But – what about the payment? The kids saw your advert. You aren't the Sally Army, love, are you though?' Looking round at the office, which did look quite expensive, and at Arlette who did too. As Arthur said, they had to.

‘You'll pay me what you can afford, when you can. Like an agent. Ten per cent of a month's money, if I find you a job. Is that fair?'

‘Sure. You've done me good. I'm frightened though, about Robert. Violent…'

‘But I'm not.' No. Because Robert can't do anything to me. He might beat up this defenceless woman though, or worse, a child. She'd have to be cautious. ‘Say nothing to him yet.'

‘No-o. Thanks for the tea. Did me good.'

‘See you then. I'll talk too to my husband if I may. He might have some good advice.' And she could guess what it would be.

‘Sure.'

Janey it's nearly lunchtime. Never mind, you can get out of trouble with the pressure-cooker. Poor old Norma had to bus all the way back to Hautepierre. Three children staving off pangs with bread and jam. But you won't help the woman just by being sorry for her, you know.

Arthur listened with patience.

‘You want no advice, and I'm not giving you any. It's one
for the welfare worker, but she speaks no English and you do. Poor cow's helpless, quite. So what's the obvious? Don't just help them, that's no use; back next day for more. But give them some leverage to help themselves, sure. Your question has to be, are you biting off more than she can chew? Or you'd be laying up a heap of grief for her.'

‘That's what I thought. Want some fromahdge?'

‘You buy this Brie? Hacked out of the limestone is all I can say.'

‘Yes sorry, it's supermarket.'

Arthur grumbled, but he did give a hand with the washing up. Things are wrong somehow, she thought.

For the brave bourgeoisie of the city Hautepierre exists by hearsay: one would never think of setting foot there. If not actually a waste inhabited by dragons it is terra incognita: one is uncertain even of how to get there, assuming one wanted to try. It exists: that's enough. The Meinau is a different matter. People ‘whom we know' live there. A little uneasily, a little apologetically now, but there's no quarter of Strasbourg now as it used to be. There's hardly anywhere one gets one's moneysworth nowadays. Everywhere is under siege.

If you were a student, whether of sociology, or urban psychology, or architecture, or simply the morals of provincial cities, and Arlette was all these things, the Meinau would be worth study: a residential suburb in South Strasbourg, classic in being ramshackle and piecemeal.

Before the war – ah, the good old days – land was cheap and building permits available for a bit of palm grease. There were none of these damned controls; socialism was for the poor and was called the French Section of the Workers International.
Laughable. An enterprising capitalist could do wonders, cut his coat generously. Buy up a farm, cut it into lots, plan a street grid, lay on a bit of electricity, and you were in a snug way of business. Equipment in the paving and sewage line was perfunctory, very, but that had never bothered anyone. In the Meinau, a rural part of the world along the main road to Colmar, there was an excellent precedent. Schulmeister, a Napoleonic adventurer who had flourished exceedingly selling dubious information to governments and cardboard boots to the army, had carved out a huge estate there, palace and park.