Paid and Loving Eyes

Almira’s motor vanished some time during the first night. I’d heard it go, but not been in a condition to look. I mentioned it to Almira but she said it was going for a service, so that was all right. I find preconceptions go wrong on me, especially about countries. That’s what I meant about opposites. Maybe some old snippet from history was making me uneasy about being in France? Like, Richard the Lionheart got shot while besieging some local town here. With gentle nobility, he died lingeringly, forgiving the enemy archer—who was then literally skinned alive for daring to kill a king. See what I mean? France is gentle, noble. Or France is lies and cruelty. Preconceptions. I’m the same about women, always wrong. Men are easier.

My logic started to niggle. I’ve had one or two birds—well, all right, maybe more than that. Experience has got me nowhere but, all the same, women do stick to certain patterns. Like, this holiday was never on Almira’s impulse. It was planned, down to the last detail. And—the vital bit—women are obsessional packers. Go away for two days with a bird, she brings the kitchen sink and eleven suitcases of superfluous tat. Not only that, I thought, watching a bee rummage in some flower, but a woman packs like a maniac. It’s her nature. Agree a weekend away next Easter, she’ll strew luggage all over the bed that very day with seven months still to go. And if you’re slack about your own packing, they’ll furiously start on it for you. I don’t know why. Probably they’ve not got enough to do. You just have to ignore it, like Wimbledon Fortnight. I haven’t got much in the way of clothes, never have. Almira’d brought in a selection of clothes the first day—or had they already been here, waiting? I’d been too knackered to observe. She’d had a thrilling time, kitting me out in new trousers, shirts, a selection of shoes. She said it was a French door-to-door service. I hadn’t found my old crud. Almira had chucked it. “You look smart, Lovejoy,” she said, delighted. Four days… I was now anonymous.

There was a path down the hillside garden. I’d been down it before. It went past one of the pools and finally an old well. That seemed to be it but for a copse further down where the path petered out. I found myself walking down it, for nothing. I was suffering badly from withdrawal symptoms—not an antique shop for a million miles. See what I meant, what’s wrong with Paradise?

Wood smoke drew me among the trees. It was surprisingly near. A smouldering garden fire, a brick cottage, two oddly silent dogs chained to a stake, both looking at me with mistrust, and music trying to suggest Spain concealed beyond the doorway.

“Monsieur?”

I jumped a mile, but it was only a grave-looking, stocky man, clearly some gardener. He held a hoe, was quite pleasant. School French always lets you down, but you’re sometimes forced to give it a go. I tried. His face took on a surly what’s-this-gunge expression. I came to recognize it as a hallmark admix of French scorn and impatience, reserved mainly for me.

“Hello. Je suis Lovejoy,” I said, “Je visite avec Madame, dans le maison.”

We talked similar stuff for a few breaths. He invited me in, gave me some drink that produced an instant headache. He was Monsieur Marc. He was a gardener, I understood. I was not a gardener. What is it that you make like metier, Monsieur Lovejoy? I buy of chairs and of tables, Monsieur Marc, especially plus vieux. French wears you out. I could ask him if he liked apples or poires and how old was his Mum, but replying to counterquestions, ever my bane, was hopeless. I thanked him a million times, because thanks is easy. He saw me off after I’d told him the flowers were much more better comme les fleurs dans England, not is this not? I tottered past his dogs—weird; I thought dogs did nowt else but bark. Maybe stunned at my syntax.

His hoe hadn’t been a hoe at all, I saw as I left. It was a sickle, slotted bayonet-fashion underneath a longarm. But that was all right, wasn’t it? I mean, out here in this rural peace a gardener’d need a weapon, il practically faut, right? Foxes, heaven knows what. Did France still have boars, wildcats, worse? I felt protected, snug even. Good thinking, Monsieur Marc. I returned to the terrace, where Madame Raybaud was setting out tea. She had her own idea of what English afternoon tea was— heavy scones, butter and jam, Earl Grey and a kind of clotted cream in small ramekin pot things. Lovely, but so far we’d not had a single pasty. Almira came down looking a picture in a summery saffron linen and matching shoes, good enough to eat. No problems with her declensions, I noticed. She and Madame Reybaud prattled on about monsieur and talked laughingly of groceries. Clearly old pals. I had the notion that monsieur was not me, but how would I know?

Often I wonder if there’s all that much to do in heaven except look out. Oh, Almira and I were really enjoying ourselves, I thought over mouthfuls of madame’s thick scone. How could it be otherwise? Gorgeous bird, no worries, fine weather—though I’m the rare sort who actually likes rain—pretty garden, passion on demand with a lovely compliant woman, watching her sunbathe and occasionally swimming in the larger of the two ponds. People’d pay fortunes. It was just my festering discontent. Most of it, I decided, smiling across the terrace table at Almira’s lovely face, was simply withdrawal from antiques. I get symptoms worse than any addict. I just can’t help it. Women tend to get narked if you own up, tell them you’re dreaming of some sordid antiques auction. They think you’re criticizing them for making you bored. It’s because women love holidays. I don’t. Holidays, like a number of other things I mentioned a bit ago, aren’t. To me, they’re hard work.

Sorry to go on about holidays being truly boring gaps in life, but I’d noticed a few features of Almira’s behaviour. I knew this place was owned by her schoolfriend—I’d forgotten her name—and guessed that probably Almira had visited before. But a woman walking about her own garden behaves very differently from one who’s merely coming through, so to speak. Even if she’s shacked up with her very own lover with hubby safely slogging elsewhere, she looks totally different. She touches this bougainvillea, that oleander, with possession somehow. Women do it to men as well, so you can tell what’s going on before it hits the newspapers if you keep your eyes skinned. Even if you don’t want to spot unpleasant truths, sometimes you can’t help but see the obvious.

This house was hers.

Certain conclusions are inescapable, once a fact hits home. The Almiras of this world can’t live without a phone. No wires proved nothing nowadays, in the cellular-phone aeon, so there was communication about. Yet I’d been told otherwise. If this was Almira’s secret love-nest, she’d still have electronic wizardry. If it was her husband’s family nook, he’d be even more likely to have wires humming between here and political headquarters.

Once a lie creeps on to a tea table, you’re done for. The scale of the deception scarcely matters. Like contamination defiles a feast, or a stain ruins a dress, it’s spoilage city. Okay, Almira might want to keep me away from contacts, the way a holidaying bird excludes all those clamouring duties she’s left behind. But one fib compounds another. The keys to Almira’s motor had been hanging on the wall of Monsieur Marc’s cottage. She’d only one set. The keyring’s fancy, with one of those dotted inbuilt lights they give you at Sandor Motors. I knew its logo. I’d asked them for one when they mended my Ruby once. They’d told me to sod off. I’d not said anything. So Monsieur Marc was more than a full-time gardener. So what?

“Look, love,” I said brightly as we finished nosh. “How about we have supper out tonight? Maybe see a nearby town?”

She smiled, fond with possession. “As soon as the car’s back, darling, we shall. I want to walk through to the