Trespass. Part 10

It was a big stone building that looked dark and lightless in the landscape. On one side of it was a small plantation of umbrella pines, but elsewhere there appeared to be only scrub and stones. The heavy slate roof was lumpy and bowed between the gable ends.

'It looks almost derelict...' Anthony said.

'Ah, non!' snapped Madame Besson. 'The owners are Swiss.'

'So why are they selling?'

Madame Besson shrugged impatiently as her phone began ringing and she reached to answer it. 'They told my daughter they don't use it any more,' she said. 'That's all I know.'

Anthony went out to his car, which had become burning hot in the s.p.a.ce of ten or fifteen minutes. He sat with the door open, studying the map, and worked out that he had at least twenty miles to drive on a perilous corniche of a road. And he thought that this might be why the owners were giving up the house because no one came to visit them any more; they didn't want to risk their lives getting there.

Perhaps the Swiss couple had loved the place at first precisely for for its mountainous isolation, and then... a few summers pa.s.sed and they sat under the umbrella pines and looked out at the valley below and realised that they'd put themselves out of reach of all their friends. And, Anthony asked himself, was this what he really wanted to do? Because here, according to his reading of the road map, even the distance between him and Veronica at Les Glaniques would seem significant. And what would the night feel like in such a place? Or the winter? its mountainous isolation, and then... a few summers pa.s.sed and they sat under the umbrella pines and looked out at the valley below and realised that they'd put themselves out of reach of all their friends. And, Anthony asked himself, was this what he really wanted to do? Because here, according to his reading of the road map, even the distance between him and Veronica at Les Glaniques would seem significant. And what would the night feel like in such a place? Or the winter?

He started the car and drove. He felt he had to see the house just in case the feeling returned, that beautiful feeling of wanting to possess something. But now, suddenly, the route that lay ahead up the mountain made him feel afraid. What if he got lost up there, or the car broke down, or he misjudged a corner and crashed over the edge into the void?

Veronica had packed water for him in a cold-bag. She'd told him the barometer was rising and rising and the heat might suddenly be pitiless up where he was going and if he set off on a walk which he'd told her he planned to do he couldn't be sure of finding a river or a spring.

Anthony now felt grateful for the water, for V's unwavering motherliness. But it seemed to him that water wasn't enough: he needed food too, to sustain him in case of an emergency, and he remembered the stall called La Bonne Baguette La Bonne Baguette where they had stopped on their way to the Mas Lunel and bought sandwiches. He knew that he'd pa.s.s this before he crossed the river, near the village of La Callune, and decided he'd buy at least two sandwiches. With sandwiches and water, he'd be all right. These would be a kind of insurance against the unforeseen. where they had stopped on their way to the Mas Lunel and bought sandwiches. He knew that he'd pa.s.s this before he crossed the river, near the village of La Callune, and decided he'd buy at least two sandwiches. With sandwiches and water, he'd be all right. These would be a kind of insurance against the unforeseen.

Here it came now, La Bonne Baguette La Bonne Baguette, but Anthony quickly saw that the lay-by where Madame Besson had parked her car on the previous trip was entirely occupied by a tanker-truck. He swore. He was being tailgated by an impatient BMW driver and there was nowhere else to stop. In the ordinary way, he knew he would have resigned himself to being hungry later in the day and driven on, but, suddenly, he saw this getting of a sandwich as a vitally important thing. And there would be no other stall or small cafe on the road. These hills, as far as he could tell, were empty of every petty amenity. So he had had to get back to to get back to La Bonne Baguette La Bonne Baguette.

He slowed down. The BMW kept pulling out, trying to pa.s.s. Then Anthony came to a point where the road widened into a bend and provided a narrow hard shoulder of gravel for about a hundred yards, and he d.i.n.ked the black Renault onto this and came to a noisy stop.

The BMW driver screamed at him as he sped away. Anthony returned the hand insult and climbed out of the car. He inched round it and began the trek back to the sandwich stall.

The sun glinted on rock and road. The narrow s.p.a.ce in which he had to walk, between the granite face of the cutting and the oncoming cars, felt so perilously small that he could imagine his feet being run over. His heart was fluttering with panic, and sweat began to slide down the back of his neck, but the idea of going on without his sandwich had now become unthinkable. The sandwich had become the thing that would get him through this day, through whatever lay in wait for him. So he pressed himself close to the rock wall and trudged on. Motorists stared at him an ageing tourist on foot in a place where n.o.body was intended to walk. But he didn't care what people thought; he just wanted to get his hands on the sandwich.

And he was here at last. He recognised the stall-holder, a corpulent, tough-seeming man with a stubbled chin. He was chatting to the driver of the tanker-truck. The two men were old friends, it seemed. A joke made them suddenly crease up with laughter and the stall-holder wiped his mouth with a scarlet handkerchief as he turned to give his reluctant attention to Anthony.

'Alors, Monsieur?'

Camembert and tomato, he'd chosen last time. He hadn't wanted to risk ham or saucisson, in case these made him ill. (He knew he was fastidious to the point of neurosis, but who cared? He knew a woman who'd died from eating sushi, so why not from salami, improperly chilled?) He surveyed the selection of sandwiches, then pointed again at the Camembert.

'Deux comme ca, s'il vous plait, Monsieur.'

He saw the wide brown hand reach for the sandwiches, each in its cellophane wrapper inscribed La Bonne Baguette: que c'est bonne! La Bonne Baguette: que c'est bonne! And he saw his own hands shaking as he fumbled to pay for them. And he saw his own hands shaking as he fumbled to pay for them.

Back in the car, Anthony turned the air-conditioning down to 16 and waited there for a moment or two, letting the Renault cool, letting his heart rate slow.

Then he set off again and quickly came across the sign to the narrow road that crossed one arm of the River Gardon and branched away to the west, heading for high ground. The road soon enough began the zigzag indicated on the map and Anthony forced himself to stay calm as he steered the Renault into a slow waltz round the impossible turns. On either side of the road were dense firs, now, planted so closely together that nothing grew in the darkness underneath them and Anthony distracted himself from the perils of the road with a memory of these trees from his childhood.

Raymond and Lal and Anthony and Veronica had been driving in Raymond's Rover to a lunch party near Newbury when Lal had caught sight of a Forestry Commission fir plantation and burst out: 'Look at that! Raymond. Children. Just look what they're doing: they're farming trees now. Frightful! Frightful! I think it's absolutely frightful.' I think it's absolutely frightful.'

'It's for building materials, darling,' said Raymond. 'For planks and stuff.'

'I don't care what it's for. They shouldn't farm trees like that. They never did in South Africa and we had plenty of planks.'

So then, there had been yet another thing for Anthony to worry about: Lal's eyes alighting on farmed trees farmed trees and her mood suddenly changing to crossness and snappiness and dislike for her adopted country, his only home. and her mood suddenly changing to crossness and snappiness and dislike for her adopted country, his only home.

He'd wanted to say something amusing, something that would diffuse her irritation, but he hadn't been able to think up anything amusing and they'd driven on in silence until Veronica unwisely as it turned out ventured: 'Ma, you can't really use the word "farming" in relation to trees. They're Douglas firs, Pseudotsuga menziesii Pseudotsuga menziesii, and they're grown in plantations all over Europe.' And Lal had lit a Peter Stuyvesant cigarette with the car lighter and, without turning round, had said quietly: 'Veronica, why are you such an annoying, fat little know-all?'

A dreadful shriek of laughter had broken free from Anthony. He hadn't meant to laugh, because it was terrible, what Lal had just said. Terrible. Terrible. He'd put a hand to his mouth, as though trying to press the inappropriate laugh back into his throat. He hated himself for making such an awful sound and knew that V would be justified in hating him, too. He looked at Veronica, expecting to see her in tears. But she wasn't in tears. She was just looking calmly out of her window at the pa.s.sing countryside. He'd put a hand to his mouth, as though trying to press the inappropriate laugh back into his throat. He hated himself for making such an awful sound and knew that V would be justified in hating him, too. He looked at Veronica, expecting to see her in tears. But she wasn't in tears. She was just looking calmly out of her window at the pa.s.sing countryside.

Now, as the road unravelled in the high Cevennes, narrowing, twisting, changing direction, its verges here and there littered with evidence of rock falls, Anthony found himself wishing despite the cruel way his mother had crushed V, despite his inappropriate shriek of laughter that he was thirteen years old again, driving along a softly undulating B-road in Berkshire, with all his life to come.

Veronica was enjoying her solitary day.

She'd bought calves' liver and lardons lardons at the at the boucherie boucherie and fresh bread from the and fresh bread from the boulangerie boulangerie and potatoes, vegetables and fruit from her favourite roadside stall, and now all this was safely stowed in the kitchen and she was working on a section of and potatoes, vegetables and fruit from her favourite roadside stall, and now all this was safely stowed in the kitchen and she was working on a section of Gardening without Rain Gardening without Rain ent.i.tled 'Decorative Gravels'. ent.i.tled 'Decorative Gravels'.

It was cool in her study, with the shutters half-closed against the morning sun, but Veronica could just hear and appreciate the sounds of the garden: the sparrows on the wall near the stone bird-bath, the cicadas in the Spanish mulberry outside her window, a tiny breeze rattling the palm fronds.

...the type of gravel most favoured for drives and walkways in southern France [she wrote] [she wrote] is is a composite of sand and very small, rounded stones. Its colour is pleasing: it can appear almost white in very dry weather and darkens to a straw shade after rainfall. It is not much used in England, but in France it can be found in the Tuilerie Gardens in Paris and on boules pitches up and down the land. a composite of sand and very small, rounded stones. Its colour is pleasing: it can appear almost white in very dry weather and darkens to a straw shade after rainfall. It is not much used in England, but in France it can be found in the Tuilerie Gardens in Paris and on boules pitches up and down the land.

She looked glumly at this last sentence and knew she had to get rid of 'up and down the land' 'up and down the land', a phrase so embarra.s.singly weak, it made her blush. Veronica was well aware that she wasn't a very good writer, but she also knew that the kind of people who'd buy Gardening without Rain Gardening without Rain probably wouldn't notice this. All they wanted was knowledge and tips and hard information. Yet she always struggled to make her prose as readable as possible, partly to please the publisher's editor, a beauty called Melissa, with whom she was very mildly infatuated. Perhaps, also, she heard Lal's voice somewhere in her head, telling her that her school essays were 'miserably illiterate' and that she'd never get on in the world if she couldn't string proper sentences together. probably wouldn't notice this. All they wanted was knowledge and tips and hard information. Yet she always struggled to make her prose as readable as possible, partly to please the publisher's editor, a beauty called Melissa, with whom she was very mildly infatuated. Perhaps, also, she heard Lal's voice somewhere in her head, telling her that her school essays were 'miserably illiterate' and that she'd never get on in the world if she couldn't string proper sentences together.

But she had had got on in the world. got on in the world. See me now, Mother. I am happy and I am quite successful... See me now, Mother. I am happy and I am quite successful... The stringing together of words any incompetence she might have had in this area of endeavour had turned out not to matter very much at all. Horticulture and colour and form her understanding of these had been what mattered. The stringing together of words any incompetence she might have had in this area of endeavour had turned out not to matter very much at all. Horticulture and colour and form her understanding of these had been what mattered.

She decided to ignore 'up and down the land' for the time being and wrote on: Gravels, in general, play an important part in the creation of the drought-resistant garden. Where you might be tempted to sow a lawn that thirsty ent.i.ty! think again, and create a gravel s.p.a.ce. Consider, even, exotic gravels, such as the black volcanic gravel brought back from Tahiti by Bougainville in 1767. This is an expensive variety, but highly suited to the 'modern' look currently in favour in garden design, where surprising colours (blacks, greys and startling royal blues) can create the unforgettable.

Veronica paused. She felt, suddenly, that her work was going less than brilliantly this morning. 'The unforgettable', for instance, was pathetically wrong; it was just an abstraction hanging there on the end of the paragraph, like an over-ripe fig about to drop off onto Bougainville's wretched Tahitian gravel! She knew that Melissa wouldn't let ' for instance, was pathetically wrong; it was just an abstraction hanging there on the end of the paragraph, like an over-ripe fig about to drop off onto Bougainville's wretched Tahitian gravel! She knew that Melissa wouldn't let 'the unforgettable' pa.s.s, but again, Veronica couldn't immediately see how she could replace it with something more elegantly formed and firmly attached to the rest of the sentence.

She mused that it would have been very useful to have had Melissa there with her, lying on the cushion-strewn day-bed perhaps, so that she could read everything out to her, sentence by sentence and get from her immediately what she often referred to as 'a t.i.tchy bit of editorial input, Veronica'. That way, the chapter on 'Decorative Gravels' would certainly have progressed quite far by the time Kitty returned the following day.

Veronica now looked up. Her gaze fell on the bra.s.s carriage clock (an expensive gift from Anthony) on her mantelpiece, and she saw that time had moved on in what felt like a sudden scamper and that it was just before one o'clock. Kitty had promised to call around eleven, to announce her safe arrival in Beziers, but no call had come.

Veronica picked up the phone and dialled Kitty's mobile. The phone clicked straight to Kitty's abrupt and slightly cross-sounding voicemail: 'Kitty Meadows here. Leave a message please. Thank you. Veuillez laisser un message, s'il vous plait. Merci.'

'Kitty,' said Veronica. 'It's me. Hope you're all right, darling. Thinking of you and have my fingers crossed about the gallery. I've absolutely got a feeling that they're going to say yes. Almost bought some champagne in the village, but thought this might be tempting fate. Anyway, all's fine here. It's very peaceful on my own and I'm working away on the "Gravels" chapter. Call me when you have a moment. Lots of love.'

She tried to get back to her writing. She began a sentence about the inadvisability of laying polythene membranes under gravelled s.p.a.ces to control weeds. Before making a decision about this, Before making a decision about this, she wrote, she wrote, consider closely the attendant risk of water-logging or flooding during the consider closely the attendant risk of water-logging or flooding during the crue crue season and the season and the- Then she broke off, suddenly anguished by her failure to reach Kitty.

Kitty's car was old and small. Yet even in this little car she had to drive almost crushed against the steering wheel so that her short legs could reach the pedals. She was a courageous driver, but this image of tiny Kitty buzzing and b.u.mping along the autoroutes, in the jet stream of disdainful Audis and Mercedes, in the annihilating shadows of container trucks, always made Veronica's heart lurch with terror.

She got up from her desk and went out onto the stone terrace. The sun was burning hot on her face and as she began a slow walk round the garden, still green from the wet winter and early spring, she knew that now it was coming back again, the time when much of what was growing here would be at risk once more from drought, that risk only lessened by her vigilance, hers and Kitty's. She walked to the old stone well and peered down into it, holding tightly to the rim. She could see that the water level had already fallen.

Veronica ate a slice of tarte aux oignons tarte aux oignons and a salad for her lunch and attempted to return to her writing. She left two more messages for Kitty during the afternoon, but no call came in. She kept telling herself that if Kitty's mobile was still putting out her voicemail, then it and therefore Kitty couldn't have been mangled in a car crash. and a salad for her lunch and attempted to return to her writing. She left two more messages for Kitty during the afternoon, but no call came in. She kept telling herself that if Kitty's mobile was still putting out her voicemail, then it and therefore Kitty couldn't have been mangled in a car crash.

She wanted the afternoon to pa.s.s so that Anthony would come back and then at least her anxiety about Kitty could be shared with someone but she also wanted it not to pa.s.s not to pa.s.s, wanted it not to get late not to get late, because then her reasons to be anxious would only multiply, hour upon hour.

She began to feel so paralysed by this conflict with time that she eventually found herself standing completely still in the middle of her kitchen, with no seeming inclination to move in any direction or a.s.sign herself any task. Without thinking about it, she started to cry. She knew this was a stupid thing to begin doing and yet, once indulged in, it felt oddly appropriate to the moment. She tore off a strip of kitchen paper and buried her face in this and noted that her tears were warm, almost hot, like blood is hot.

Now the telephone rang.

Veronica blew her nose and ran to it. She felt certain that it was going to be Kitty and already she saw how ridiculous she was, standing there with scalding tears blotching her cheeks for no real reason, and when she said 'h.e.l.lo', she tried very hard to disguise the choke that was in her voice. But it wasn't Kitty. It was Madame Besson.

'Excuse me for disturbing you,' said Madame Besson in English. 'May I talk with Monsieur Verey?'

'Monsieur Verey isn't here,' said Veronica.

Speaking seemed to release in her a new surge of panic. Kitty is dead, then. This voice is not hers. Kitty is dead in her crumpled little car... Kitty is dead, then. This voice is not hers. Kitty is dead in her crumpled little car...

'Ah,' said Madame Besson. 'OK. I'm sorry to disturb you.'

Veronica understood that Madame Besson was about to hang up and said quickly: 'Is anything wrong, Madame Besson? Did my brother go to see the house?'

Madame Besson cleared her throat. 'He had the keys at eleven o'clock,' she said. 'He told me he would return them by two. But he has not returned them and now I have another couple wishing to see this house.'

'Oh,' said Veronica. 'Well, I'm sorry. I think he planned to go for a walk somewhere up there...'

'Yes? But he said he would be back here by two o'clock and it is now almost five.'

Veronica blinked. 'I'll call Anthony,' she said. 'He's got his mobile with him.'

'Thank you,' said Madame Besson. 'I'm leaving the office in half an hour. Please ask your brother to get the keys to me tomorrow morning. I have only the one set and the owners are in Switzerland.'

When Veronica dialled Anthony's phone, there was no sound from it.

She tried a second time and it was the same: no beep or tone or buzz or anything. Only silence.

Veronica made mint tea and sat at the kitchen table, sipping it. She had no urge to cry now. She felt sick and hoped the tea would alleviate this. The thought of cooking the calves' liver and the lardons lardons made her gag. made her gag.

When the nausea diminished a little, it was replaced by a feeling of exhaustion and Veronica made her way with slow steps up to her bedroom. She kicked off her shoes and lay down. She stared at the pillow next to hers, the place where Kitty's head always lay. She reached out and clasped the pillow to her and closed her eyes.

When she woke up, she was aware that darkness was beginning to shadow the room, not night yet, but a blue and lonely dusk. Then, she became conscious of a sudden intrusive sound. It was the telephone. Veronica reached out, still groggy from her sleep, and just held the phone to her ear, waiting for whatever news was going to come from it.

'Veronica,' said Kitty's voice. 'It's me.'

Relief surged in, almost as sweet as s.e.xual pleasure. But then anger followed and Veronica began yelling at Kitty: why hadn't she called or sent a text or picked up her phone? Why had she let her go mad with worry? How could she be so selfish and unimaginative?

'I'm sorry,' said Kitty. 'I'm sorry...'

'But WHY WHY?' shouted Veronica. 'You said you'd call. I left tons of messages. I thought you were dead dead!'

'I'm sorry,' said Kitty again. 'I couldn't call. Or text. I just couldn't.'

'What d'you mean, you just couldn't? And you sound drunk or something. What happened?'

'Nothing happened,' said Kitty. 'That's exactly it. Nothing. So yes, I am a bit drunk. I'm at a hotel.'

'A hotel? What are you talking about? I thought you were going to stay with Andre and Gilles.'

'Yes. Couldn't face that either... I called them...'

'Kitty, what in the world-'

'Don't make me say it, Veronica. Don't make me say it.'

'Say what?'

'Don't make me say it!'

Veronica was silent. She felt all her crossness subside, cursed herself for not understanding sooner what had happened. Then she said quietly: 'All right. I'll say it. The gallery turned you down.'

Veronica swung her feet off the bed. At the window, now, the sky was darkening all the while. She could hear Kitty crying.

'Kitty,' she said, 'there are other galleries. Are you listening to me? There are hundreds of other galleries we can approach.'

After Kitty had hung up, contrite, consoled a little, promising to get some supper and go to bed, Veronica made her way downstairs and found the house dark and silent. It was near to eight o'clock. She took the calves' liver out of the fridge and unwrapped it and began slicing it. She kept looking up, thinking she heard Anthony's hired Renault coming down the gravel driveway, but no car appeared.

Audrun knew she had to do everything calmly and carefully now, and in the right order.

First, she put all her clothes into her washing machine and set it on a long, hot programme. She tried to stop herself from thinking about that other washing machine, that old American one, turning in the night, long ago on Fifth Helena Drive, but she couldn't prevent this image from coming into her mind.

Next, she ran a bath and washed every part of herself, including her hair, then scrubbed the bath with abrasive cleaner and ran the shower hose round and round the tub until it shone.

When her hair was dry, she tugged on a cardigan and went walking in her wood. She picked some bluebells and took them home and put them into a jar and admired them and breathed their scent. Then, she got into her little rusty car and drove down to the village. She knocked on Marianne's door.

She noticed Jeanne Viala's Renault parked outside the house and she went in calmly and greeted Marianne and her daughter. She recognised on Marianne's face that smile of contentment it wore whenever Jeanne came to visit, and she thought how fine it might have been to have had a daughter the daughter of somebody she loved. Raoul Molezon had two grown-up daughters by his wife, Francoise, and Audrun had n.o.body.

'Don't let me disturb you,' she said. 'I just wanted to come and say a pet.i.t bonjour pet.i.t bonjour.'

'You're not disturbing us,' said Jeanne. 'Come and sit down.'

They embraced each other; this cheek, that cheek, then this cheek again the threefold greeting the people of the midi midi had always favoured. Then they sat around the kitchen table. Marianne was boiling snails the delicacy Jeanne asked for whenever she came back to La Callune. Jeanne was thirty now, and dedicated to her job as a teacher in Rua.s.se. She looked like a younger version of her mother, slim and dark, with a slow, sweet smile. had always favoured. Then they sat around the kitchen table. Marianne was boiling snails the delicacy Jeanne asked for whenever she came back to La Callune. Jeanne was thirty now, and dedicated to her job as a teacher in Rua.s.se. She looked like a younger version of her mother, slim and dark, with a slow, sweet smile.

'How are the schoolchildren behaving themselves?' asked Audrun. 'I don't know any children any more. Tell me what they're like.'

Jeanne Viala unclipped the tortoisesh.e.l.l comb holding back her hair, then gathered the hair up and fastened it again. In time, Audrun thought, especially if no husband comes along no man kind enough Jeanne's face will begin to look severe.

'They're restless,' said Jeanne. 'It's really difficult to get them to concentrate on any kind of lesson for long.'

'I'd heard that said before,' said Audrun. 'I expect it's the city that makes them like that, is it?'

'I don't know. I suppose computer games and television and all those indoor things play a part. And they don't know any history, so they often don't understand what they're looking at. It's shocking, for instance, how little some of them know about this region. They were born here, but they haven't really learned about its past.'

'And yet,' said Audrun, 'its past is so long...'

'Exactly,' said Jeanne. 'They haven't, for instance, any true idea how productive the Cevennes used to be. I'm arranging visits to an olive oil factory and to the Museum of Cevenol Silk Production, to learn how the worms were reared, and about the filatures filatures, and we're going to visit some working farms.'

'Ah,' said Audrun. 'We could tell them a lot about the farms, Marianne, couldn't we?'

'Yes we could,' said Marianne. Then she got up to stir her snail pot. On the table were the garlic and oil and fresh parsley she'd soon use to make the sauce. Jeanne lit a cigarette and offered the packet to Audrun, who waved it away.

'I bet Aramon still smokes, doesn't he?' said Jeanne with a smile.