Marguerite, page 22
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To celebrate Jérôme being better, she drove into the village. She couldn’t remember when she’d last driven a car; it felt strange and lovely to whizz down the long road to the village.
She bought an array of little treats to tempt him: raspberries, nectarines and plums, tiny iced éclairs, a miniature tarte au citron. The kind of things she would have bought Cassandre when she was little.
She drove past Suki’s house when she left the village, its curtains drawn. She should drop by when Jérôme was fully recovered, she thought; she felt as if she ought to, after his sons had been so foul. As she changed gear, turning off out of the village, she remembered Henri’s hand on the wheel when he’d brought the car to her. He had no reason to come back to the house now, of course.
* * *
• • •
‘What is all this?’ he asked when she brought in a tray with yoghurt, stewed fruit and pastries. ‘You’re trying to fatten me up.’
‘Exactly.’
‘Well, let’s have a go then.’
They both watched in silence as she took his blood pressure; he sighed with relief as the cuff sighed and released.
‘Much better,’ he said.
‘Indeed. Let’s keep it like that.’
‘I don’t want to go back to that place,’ he said. ‘That’s the whole point of having you here. You’re not cheap. But what’s the point in working your whole life, accruing a pretty considerable amount of money, and then getting thrown into a care home to waste away your final days? Much as my dear sons would love that.’
She thought about the old people’s home she’d worked at before this. The stale, lunchbox smell of the corridors. Sloppy grey food and jaunty music playing continually, a sequence of twelve songs playing on an eternal loop in the day room. Worst of all, for Jérôme, would have been what they called ‘Happy Hour’ on Tuesday and Saturday mornings. All the residents were gathered after breakfast into semi-circles in front of that day’s Happy Act: am-dram farce performers with sad eyes, community volunteers playing the recorder. He would have got himself kicked out.
‘No, I refuse to go anywhere. I’ll die right here in my own home, thank you very much.’
‘No need for that kind of talk,’ she said.
‘Die, death, dying,’ he said. ‘I’m not afraid.’ She didn’t respond. She’d seen enough from him not to buy that.
* * *
• • •
The fields were splendid, emblazoned by the sinking sun. And yet he realised he hadn’t really seen anything for the past fifteen minutes, walking on autopilot. He was supposed to be checking that the maize looked healthy and good – these fields were the lifeblood of his cows, and so the lifeblood of the whole farm – but he’d have to do another fieldwalk in a couple of days. He hadn’t been concentrating.
His mind’s eye had been in the grand central staircase at Rossignol. It had always been quite a surprise that the top floor of the house wasn’t bigger. You’d imagine eight or nine rooms up there, perhaps a hidden corridor leading to a spindly staircase and capacious loft. It was a bit of a disappointment.
Downstairs, though, those rooms the family had never used too much: the formal salon leading off from the hallway, the virtually forbidden little maze of other rooms, including the rarely seen study in which Jérôme had spent much of his time. Those rooms were dusky and imposing, entirely undisappointing. He’d loved them as a boy. They had felt gravid with intrigue and secrecy.
How different from the light and noise of the family room, which had now been converted into a one-man ward for Jérôme. And the kitchen, that boisterous refuge presided over by un-boisterous Céline. He supposed that was the kind of house in which he’d always imagined, indistinctly, bringing up a family of his own.
Not, he supposed, that it was absolutely a physical impossibility that they could still have a child. They didn’t talk about that kind of thing, but he knew Brigitte still got her period: he knew the muddy, cereal smell of it. So it wasn’t absolutely unfeasible that they’d be able to conceive. But then, they never had. And he didn’t, really, suppose that they could. He couldn’t remember how long since they’d had sex, though he imagined it might be well over a year. She’d stopped bothering him with the children question a good few years ago: she’d just suddenly stopped asking. As had everyone else, thank God. Though there was Jean-Christophe last week, he thought, and then again he was back in that kitchen, remembering what it was like to be folded up into their noise.
He’d go there now, he thought. He should check that all was all right there after Jérôme’s scare. If he’d been asked to judge, he would have guessed they’d been driving Jérôme to the hospital to die.
Brigitte wasn’t happy when he told her he was off.
‘I won’t be long.’
‘But Henri! Why are you going there? It’s nothing to do with you.’
‘Brigitte, I thought Jérôme was going to have a heart attack. I had to race to the hospital with what looked like a dying man in the back of the truck.’
‘But it’s not appropriate for you to go.’
‘Surley it’s inappropriate for me not to go.’
‘Why?’
‘Just – calm down, Brigitte. I’m going to check how they’re doing. That was an emergency, there, just two days ago. I was part of it.’
‘But—’ And then she stopped, mouth set. ‘Well, I hope you’ll not be long.’
* * *
• • •
She wasn’t surprised when she heard wheels in the drive, and then saw him coming around the corner. He was wearing a deep blue shirt, thick and soft-looking, a fabric she couldn’t place. She was aware of her shabby grey cardigan, the holes at the cuffs where she tugged them.
‘How is everything?’
‘It’s okay. Thank you for coming to check.’
‘Not at all.’
Jérôme looked something like happy when she told him Henri was here. ‘Send him in, send him in, of course! Wonderful.’
She walked behind Henri, watched him duck as he entered the room. He made Jérôme look even smaller.
‘Can I get you something, Henri?’ she asked when he’d taken a seat. ‘A glass of water?’
‘Get the man a beer!’ said Jérôme, eyes alive. ‘Do we have any? Or what drink do you take? I’d join you, but God knows what this one would say if I tried.’
He cocked his head at Marguerite and they all laughed, dutifully.
‘We have beer left over . . .’ She trailed off. She didn’t want to remind Jérôme of his sons’ stay. ‘Or a glass of red wine.’
‘Look at this! It’s the Hôtel George V!’
‘I’d love a beer,’ he said, turning to Marguerite. ‘Thank you.’
‘It’s for us to thank you, actually, Henri,’ Jérôme said then, and his tone shifted a little. He raised his chin, stared down the length of the bed. ‘From what I hear, you did us a good service the other day. I was a bit out of it, you understand. No, I’m not young any more, you can see that.’ He turned back to Henri; his voice pinged back to a tone of levity. ‘But it’s nothing to worry about, nothing to worry about. Look at me now, I’m fit as a fiddle. Go and get the man a beer.’
She brought beer and then she left them, but it wasn’t long before Jérôme knocked and she went back through to his room. She saw that he was exhausted but pretending not to be; he was pale and grey, his lips thin.
‘Now, Henri, do you have to go straight back to the old battleaxe?’ He looked from Henri to Marguerite, back again.
‘I can stay a bit longer if you’d like.’
‘No, not with me,’ he said, ‘not in here. I’m afraid an old codger like me needs his sleep. But why don’t you stay for supper with Marguerite? God knows the girl could do with a bit of company for once. What do you say?’
Henri looked at Marguerite; she saw that he couldn’t say no in front of Jérôme.
‘No need for that,’ she said.
‘I don’t want to impose,’ he said.
‘Nonsense!’ said Jérôme. ‘Stay, stay. She’s a magnificent cook. Or stay at least for a drink. Go on.’ He looked from one to the other again. ‘Hell, why don’t you have a drink yourself, Marguerite? Just one, mind you. I don’t want you wiping out on me.’
When they left the room, they danced around Jérôme’s words.
‘You really don’t have to stay.’
‘I’m free, it’s up to you.’
‘I think Jérôme just likes the idea of company in the house.’ Though that wasn’t true, she thought.
‘I’m happy to leave you be, you must be exhausted.’
‘You must want to get back.’
Then he stopped dancing; she saw him make a decision, saw it in the set of his face.
‘It’d be nice to stay for another drink.’
So she opened a bottle of wine. She poured two glasses and they sat together at the table, in the warmth of the kitchen.
‘I’m glad he’s doing better.’
‘Me too.’
‘What was—’ He stopped himself. ‘No, don’t worry.’
‘It’s okay,’ she said. ‘You were there, so it’s hardly confidential. As far as we can tell, it was the pain alone that was causing the hypertension. I was worried it was hypertensive emergency – your blood pressure can get so high it starts affecting the vital organs. Heart, lungs, brain. But it doesn’t seem to have got that far.
‘Will it happen again?’
‘I hope not. I’m going to request a pump and IV line to have here, for when the pain next gets that bad. We can get some morphine on prescription.’
He nodded. ‘It’s a very interesting job.’
‘Oh,’ she said. She tilted her glass, straightened it. ‘Mostly it’s not. It’s very unglamorous, very repetitive. Banal to most people. But I couldn’t do anything else.’
‘Just not in a hospital.’
She laughed. ‘No. Not in a hospital.’
‘Running a farm is like that. Extremely unglamorous. Banal and repetitive, not just to most people, but to me too. But there’s no way I could do anything else.’
She’d never met a farmer before. She’d never really thought of it as a profession you might choose, more a category of person: a Canadian, a toddler, a farmer. It belonged in her personal experience to farmyard toy sets and nursery rhymes – or the low, sturdy buildings on rural plains seen from the window of a moving car, driving from one city or destination to another.
‘What kind of farm is it?’ she asked, and wondered whether that was a stupid question.
‘Dairy, predominantly. But we’ve expanded it to have sheep too, and Brigitte keeps a few pigs and chickens, though they’re not for commercial use.’ He looked a little embarrassed, she thought. ‘See? Banal.’
‘Not at all.’ She smiled. ‘So – you kill your pigs?’
‘I’m afraid so.’
‘Okay.’
‘Are you a vegetarian?’
‘No. Though my mother is.’
‘Is she a nurse too?’
‘God no.’ He looked surprised by her vehemence. ‘No, she thinks it’s a terrible career.’
‘Really?’
‘Yes. She was miserable when I became a nurse.’
‘Why?’
‘I don’t know.’
She’d said enough; she was surprised to have referred to her mother at all. The word was a novelty on her tongue.
He stayed for another glass after he’d finished his first, and she heated leftovers for them to eat. It became dark all of a sudden, as it did here among all these trees, and the air coming in from the garden was warm, swaying with cicadas and frogs, the hum of the oven adding another layer to their song.
She asked him about growing up in Saint-Sulpice, and he told her about the school he’d gone to, along with everyone else he knew. He’d played tennis and football, particularly enjoyed history, maths and literature. She knew from the way he spoke of school that he’d been a good student, that he’d been a success. She pictured a charmed existence. Tanned, healthy young boys and girls doing wholesome things. Unlike her own school in Paris, how sophisticated they’d all tried to be: girls trying to be anorexic, boys trying to be druggy.
And, not drunk but with the edges of the night softened just a little by the wine, she surprised herself by talking a little about her own childhood. As they ate, she talked about school, mentioned her English au pair, the immaculate apartment. She made him laugh when she told him the whole codex of rules that had governed their home: no second-hand or library books (they were dirty), all newly purchased clothes to be washed before they were worn, no apples (the smell too pervasive).
‘Have you inherited any of these rules yourself?’ he asked.
‘No,’ she said. ‘You can eat apples wherever you like. No, I don’t think I’ve inherited any of them. I mean, look, I have holes in my clothes.’ She pushed the sleeves of her cardigan up to her elbows. ‘My mother would not approve of that.’
‘Well, I’m sure she’d approve of this pie,’ he said. ‘It’s delicious.’
‘She wouldn’t have eaten it.’
‘Ah yes – meat.’
‘Actually, I was always a great disappointment to her.’
He frowned. ‘I can’t believe that.’
‘I was.’
‘On what account?’
‘Everything.’ She smiled, to show it was all right. ‘I was a difficult pregnancy – she was very ill the whole way through, in and out of hospital. I think the disappointment started then. She told me it was like I was a parasite, trying to kill her.’
‘But that’s irrational.’
‘She got pregnant again four years later with my sister, who was apparently much kinder on my mother’s body. Even the birth was easy; my parents claim she came out smiling.’
‘And how is she now?’
Marguerite stopped, caught short. ‘She’s wonderful.’
‘So she survived your mother’s strictness?’
Survived.
‘Yes. She’s very intelligent, very successful. The opposite of a disappointment. Particularly to me.’
‘You must miss her.’
‘Yes,’ she said. ‘Very, very much.’
She reached out, added salt to her food. How had she mentioned Cassandre, how had she talked about her mother? What else would come out if she kept talking?
When the phone rang, she knew it would be Brigitte; of course it would. She didn’t wait for Brigitte to say much more than her name; she called Henri into the hall and he spoke to his wife and she left him, went back to her food. When he returned, she saw the irritation on his face again. There was a deep wrinkle between his eyebrows, like someone had drawn a line there with a pen.
‘Thank you so much for letting me intrude.’
‘You haven’t intruded,’ she said. ‘Really. Jérôme would have been furious if you hadn’t stayed.’
He smiled. ‘I can visit him again,’ he said. ‘If you think it’s good for him. I mean, to have visitors.’
‘He’d definitely like that.’
He nodded and she thought he looked shy. She felt shy then, too. Now the food and wine had been consumed, they were just two strangers.
* * *
• • •
She lay in the bath for a very long time, filling it now and again with more hot water. The mirror was steamed over, the flesh of her body flushed pink. Her fingertips and toes became wrinkled, like walnuts. As she stared down over her body, she waited for the first stirrings of shame to start within her, as they always did when she spoke about things that felt private to her, but they didn’t come. And yet how openly she had spoken to Henri about her mother, with what ease she’d mentioned Cassandre.
She hadn’t, of course, told him the full extent of her mother’s disappointment in her, in who she had become. She had made her decision when she was seventeen, that great epiphany as she walked into Cass’s care home, still high on the remnants of the drug she’d taken the night before: she would become a nurse. But not just any nurse; she’d become Cassandre’s nurse. For Cassandre, she would sacrifice the careers she’d considered pursuing; that was the least she could do. She’d finish school and go straight into nursing college. She’d work, for once she’d really apply herself and work hard, get qualified in the shortest possible amount of time, specialise in acquired brain injury and disability patients. And then she could take Cassandre out of the care home within a few years – take her to an apartment of their own, hire a rota of orderlies to help her with positioning. Apart from the orderlies it would be just her and Cass, living together, forever. She would be her sister’s servant. She’d dedicate the rest of her life to giving Cassandre the best possible care a girl in her position could get.
Never again would a stranger undress and handle her sister’s body, turn her roughly, leave her in soiled nappies for hours. Never again would Marguerite have to worry about the long hours of the night in the care home, when the orderlies and nurse on duty slept instead of heeding Cass’s cries. All of that would end.
‘I know what to do. I’ve got the answer. You don’t need to worry any more.’
She remembered Cassandre’s expression when she’d said that. She hadn’t known what Marguerite had been talking about, but she’d known that finally her big sister was doing what she should have done all along. What she should have done the night she’d come into her bed with a fever, her feet like ice. She was taking care of her.
Her mother had laughed when she first voiced the idea. ‘Don’t be ridiculous. You’re not going to become a nurse.’
