Papillon lay still and silent, like a sleeping dog in the sun.
I stopped the car beside the mossy pillar which marked the boundary of the land, and Giles got out. We stood looking up the path through the potager, past the big cherry and the fig, to the long, low, rough-stone house, the two sentinel cypress trees (one for Peace, one for Prosperity), the green curtain of heavy vine falling from the iron trellis shading the terrace. All round the property the wall, which Jason and Florence had built so lovingly to secure themselves from the outside world. Their veritable Hadrian's Wall, breached now by tragedy and death. The little iron gate, sagging on a pair of rusted hinges, still carried the faded-paint name
Papillon.
The Butterfly house.
Almost casually, but determinedly, I pulled at the wire which held it in place and stuck the weather-silvered board under my arm. Giles watched me curiously.
'That’s the name, isn’t it?'
I pushed the gate open with a foot.
'That was the name. Is the name still, but I’m going to take the gate away. Leave it open, just a space. I don’t think that we need protecting now behind a wall. Do you? Locked away? Seems silly somehow. Come on.'
We went up the path between clumps of marigold, purple bobbles of chives gone wild and drifts of mint. Everywhere cushions of scarlet poppies, which had sown themselves in the grasses with abandon. There were the two little tin chairs still on the terrace where we had left them a couple of weeks ago. Rust bleeding down the faded white paint.
At the door, the sign still under my arm, I told Giles to produce his key and let us in. A gesture, which he immediately accepted. We were about to take up residence at last. It would be his house now as much as it would be mine. And he had the key in his pocket.
The Long Room was shadowy. I began to open the shutters. The sun spilled softly and green through the canopy of vine outside, drowning the room in underwater light. Dust had settled everywhere in a thin film, there was a dead butterfly trapped in a window, a crumpled Var Matin lay hastily set down on the battered settee with its cheap Indian bedspread. It was dated the day that Aronovich had arrived to take Jason’s paintings from the studio above, paintings which he had generously commissioned for his new hotel in Cannes. An age ago it seemed. Life had had been crushed into a tangled mess. I’d have to sit down presently and
take stock.
It seemed to me that ever since I had arrived in France, on my voyage of discovery, I had been forced to take stock every few days. I was in a constant state of vague, bumbling bewilderment. I had stumbled into a brand new, worryingly unfamiliar, existence. It was nothing remotely to do with my old, ordered, safe world of writing, alone in my London town attic.
For the moment, however, I had to get this present part of my life firmly based. At least until the next upheaval befell me. We unloaded the Simca, pushing through the lush sprawls of self-sown courgettes and thrusting nettles with what baggage we had. Not much in either case. I had brought very little with me from England in the first place, Giles had arrived with just a large blue holdall. But we seemed to have collected extra stuff and it was a good half hour, more even, before we finally got it all up the stairs and I was able to open the shutters all over the house so that clean air could wipe away the dead, decayed smell of stale breath which always seems to loiter about a deserted house. Giles carted his stuff into his room, apparently making no effort to unpack. I had also brought a couple of plastic bags which
Eugène had given me at the hotel containing a large baguette, butter, ham, cheese, a pot of cornichons and some bottled water. I confess I didn’t know quite what to do at first. Stood in the middle of the newly fitted little kitchen, tapped idly, thoughtlessly, with a knife on the scrubbed table-top. Lost.
Giles said he was going up to the stream, did I mind? I told him to take off his shoes and go barefoot, which stopped him short for a moment.
'No shoes? It’s all stones and things. I could cut my feet.'
'Time to start hardening them. You do with Arthur Theobald. Good for your insteps. Mind where you walk. We’ll go into town soon. Get you some espadrilles. I’m going to sit in the shade under the vine. You clear off and don’t drown.'
He had done some unpacking, it appeared. He was now wearing a pair of particularly ugly floppy swimming shorts, covered in yachts. He unlaced his trainers with ill-grace, sighed heavily a couple of times, and when I made no response, sitting on a tin chair with my eyes closed, he went away whistling. A new life was starting: how to manage it? Simply consider it only as a summer holiday. June, July, August. A few days here to get things arranged, then off to London and get things arranged there. Then back to think in peace. Sleep, proper sleep,
would be very acceptable. The nights spent in the Pavilion were hardly restful, and there was little chance of just lying flat and thinking, which is what I wanted to do.
After yesterday’s collision course at the Negresco, I’d pretty well blundered about for the rest of the day in a witless manner. Just as, I supposed, one might behave having walked away from a plane or car crash. Numbed, only aware that there were minor cuts and bruises but that one’s body still functioned enough to move fairly normally. Then I wondered what the new beds up in the little rooms above which I had bought in Futurama would be like. I’d only ever thumped and sat on them.
I was beginning to drift away pleasantly when there was a shattering sound, the shrill and insistent snarl of a car horn blasting. I opened bleary eyes and saw, to my mild dismay, Maurice from the hotel coming up the path. He stopped for a moment halfway along, prodded something with his foot, put his hands in his pockets, shook his head sadly, then came on.
'Bonjour! Ah! I disturb you?'
I assured him that he did not. Not at all.
'You know? You have a little plum tree growing, by the path?' he said. 'You must move him in October. He will flourish, but not perhaps in the middle of your potager, eh?'
I agreed, wondering why he had come.
He nodded in the direction of the east wall, asked if I approved of the siting of the poteaux which his nephew and the friend had placed for me. I said that I truthfully had not seen them yet. We had only just arrived and I was trying to decide what to do next, which problem to attack first. I was finding it very difficult.
He took off his cap, scratched his head, replaced his cap and said he had a suggestion. Might he make it? Would I permit him to do so? I said that I would indeed. What else? He had fixed the poteaux, probably fixed the telephone, had fixed my Simca, courtesy of his brotherin-law, the ailing Maire, so what else was he offering? He bowed deeply, a wide smile on his bland, red face.
'You can be free of those problems! I have anticipated these problems! A fine gentleman, a writer, like you, cannot be expected to be the femme-de-ménage! So I have brought one for your inspection. Your inspection, Monsieur! Only for that! You are curious?'
I said that I was exceedingly curious. He stuck two fingers in his mouth and blew two sharp whistles as if he was calling a gun-dog. But it was not a gun-dog. It was Clotilde, from the
hotel. The jolly girl who had cleared out the Pavilion and whom I had seen, from time to time, hanging the hotel laundry on the line under my window, and occasionally glimpsed through the click-clacking kitchen door in the restaurant. Clotilde came cautiously up the patch, twirling a poppy in her fingers with studied nonchalance. Maurice waved a brisk arm towards her.
'Viens! Ma belle! Viens, ' he called encouragingly, and turning to me he said that he now had the honour to present his youngest daughter who would be enraptured to work for me at P if I so wished. She could clean and mend, wash and darn, cook and polish, she was agreeable and kind, unmarried and not at all interested in any tra-la-la and was someone that would serve me well and whom I should not lightly reject.
'Un trésor veritable!'
She was also a devout Catholic. So I had no fear of employing a heretic in my house. Papillon, he knew, was a sacred house of love. He had known it all his life, he had known my brother, knew Madame Prideaux well, and was proud to offer Clotilde the opportunity of working for a famous writer, a man of the Arts!
Clotilde just stood there smiling pleasantly before me, the poppy in her hand drooping. I got up, nodded and smiled inanely. She was wearing a neat blue cotton frock, her hair pulled severely upwards on either side of her head by two pink plastic combs, arms folded demurely across her ample bosom which swelled beneath a spotless white apron. A sturdy girl, freckled, thick-legged, stubby-fingered, as strong as a fork-lift truck. Maurice explained in a low voice that she was named after Saint Clotilde who had converted her husband, Clovis, King of the Franks, to the faith. So it was worth my taking note of her. She was a plain, but honest, creature, with, alas, little prospect of marriage, but she could split logs, wring the neck of a hen, and make a loaf as easily as she could make a bed. Surely I would be in need of such a paragon? He gave not the least sign that he was speaking before his daughter and as if she was no more to him than a brood mare or a pregnant sow. And Clotilde seemed not to notice either, merely smiled agreeably every time I looked in her direction, and nodded her head at every accomplishment catalogued by her proud parent on his thick fingers. I said (and I meant it) that I would be delighted if she wished to come and work for me, but that could only be when I had managed to get into town and purchase the things that she’d need to start her labours. Like soap, scrubbing-brushes, dusters and mops. Maurice lifted a stern finger of admonishment.
'Do not forget your Eau de Javel! Malheur! It is the life blood of any good housewife!'
I agreed eagerly, naturally. So, when these items had all been bought, I’d let him know. Maurice raised his finger once again. Alors! And nodding in the affirmative to his stocky daughter (who quickly turned and hurried off down the path), he assured me that they had thought carefully of all that, and that Madame Mazine (whose idea it all had been) was absolutely certain that I would be in need of assistance. A man with a child suddenly alone in a strange house in a strange land! All, all was considered, and she was most happy to release Clotilde from her hotel duties during the daytime in order to accommodate my more pressing needs. The language tended to get more and more flowery as we progressed, and then it was up to me to broach the subject I knew to be uppermost in his mind. What fee, I asked reasonably, would be acceptable to Clotilde? And should I pay her by the day? Or the week? How would she prefer to work? Ah, Monsieur! By the week!. And by the hour. Six days a week, but not, of course, Sunday! Pas le dimanche! Otherwise eight until five, or whenever her duties were finished. She could be my bonne-a-tout-faire, except that he knew I had no room for her to stay at Papillon, so therefore she would be my femme-de-menage-en-plus! A little more than that, because she would willingly cook and market for me as well!
'Her fee per hour, Monsieur Maurice,' I said in a firm voice, for I heard the vigorous slam of the car boot, and light singing as Clotilde made her way up the path, loitering a little by the gate, studying the mint and poppies with quite inordinate interest. (Obviously she was, tactfully, hanging back.) Briskly Monsieur Maurice thrust his right arm towards me, rolled up his sleeve and disclosed a scribble of figures in blue Biro on the inside of his wrist. I said, regretfully, that it was really more than I could presently afford so, as I began to show slight signs of perhaps closing the conversation, he instantly thrust forward his left arm with a more reasonable figure printed on a hairy wrist just above his Tintin watch. This I accepted with a nod. He beamed, rolled down his sleeves just as clever Clotilde, conveniently, reached his side with a neatly packed plastic bucket of packets and cloths, a broom and a mop, and, in her free hand, a string bag containing a terracotta casserole. Madame Mazine’s compliments. A little rien-du-tout for our supper this evening. She was certain I would not have thought to prepare food with all I had to do, and it was Sunday, so it was arranged that Clotilde would now tidy around, make up the beds, and begin serious work tomorrow. She’d familiarize herself with the house. He would call to collect her in two hours. Tomorrow, the week would commence. We would arrange payment from then. Eh? I
agreed, and with a happy smile and a clattering of utensils Clotilde strode into the Long Room and I walked Maurice down to his car. I thanked him for his thoughtfulness, but he brushed my thanks aside and said he was certain that his daughter would be satisfactory. I said I was certain that she would be, and that I would see to it that she was taken good care of. He told me not to concern myself at all. 'She is as stubborn as a mule and kicks like one too! Prenez garde!' And laughing happily, with a roguish wag of his finger, he slammed into his car and drove off down the lane.