Trespass. Part 6

I kiss your breast.

She put the Bible away and closed the chest. She didn't want to think about her father.

My dear Wife, I kiss your breast...

She stood up and looked around. Where else was she going to search?

She made her way up to Aramon's bedroom. The window was wide open, freshening the foetid air. Audrun knelt by the bed and ran her hands under the mattress. She tugged out a clutch of magazines of the kind she was expecting to find and as she looked at them she thought that his death should be the right death, the one he'd deserved, and it should not be quick and it should not be painless.

Audrun shoved the p.o.r.nography back under the heavy mattress. Circling round to examine the other side of the bed, she remembered that there were always bottles and blister-packs of pills on Aramon's night table, and she returned to these. She fumbled for her spectacles and put them on. She stared at the neat pharmaceutical labels, none of which she recognised, but she supposed they were sleeping tablets or anti-depressant tablets or some other oblivion-inducing drugs.

And so she wondered... might it be as easy as that, to get him more drunk than he knew and cram pills into his mouth or mash them up and let him swig them down himself with his wine and whisky, and be taken for a suicide?

Or better still, lie him face down on the bed and get out his enema paraphernalia and pump the poison into him that way. For hadn't she read in some magazine that Marilyn Monroe had died like this, from having a river of barbiturates squirted into her colon? And yet, at the time, everyone had believed she'd died by swallowing pills, that she wanted to die, that her life had become unbearable... and what n.o.body had revealed until years and years later was that there was no residue of an overdose in her stomach. None. But still the verdict of suicide had been returned.

Audrun imagined the two scenes, Marilyn's death, past and gone, and Aramon's death, yet to come. She could envisage the softness and beauty of Marilyn's a.r.s.e, her languid sleeping defenceless body, and the rough panicky gestures of the a.s.sa.s.sins, shoving and pumping. They made a mess of it, so the magazine article said. The sheets had to be washed in the middle of the night. Imagine that. Imagine that. As the pale, famous woman lay dying, as the dawn crept nearer and nearer, the drum of some old American washing machine kept turning... As the pale, famous woman lay dying, as the dawn crept nearer and nearer, the drum of some old American washing machine kept turning...

If she, Audrun, was going to kill Aramon this way, she couldn't afford to mess it up like that. Despite the disgust she'd feel, having to touch and smell his a.r.s.e, to guide the enema tube inside him, she'd have to do it carefully, like a surgeon, wearing protective gloves, and leave no trace of herself behind. No trace.

And she thought that once she'd got the tube inside him, then it might be extraordinary, it might be almost beautiful beautiful to begin squeezing the bag of fluid, to feel the venom's e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.i.o.n from the tube, feel its infusion into his body. to begin squeezing the bag of fluid, to feel the venom's e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.i.o.n from the tube, feel its infusion into his body.

When she'd filled him up with it, when the fluid bag was empty and he lay unconscious there, she'd take the tube out very carefully and replace it with a cork, an ordinary wine cork, dampened and made soft. Then, she'd bind his a.r.s.e with rags, to stop the cork from popping out and letting the poison escape. How hilarious, how wonderfully right, to bind him up like that, to stop anything coming out of him! And then there would be nothing more to do; she'd simply wait. And it would certainly be beautiful that silent waiting, that solitary waiting until he died.

She was back in her bed now. Safe in her bed. Safe in her bed. With the sighing of the wind in her wood to comfort her. She'd found no will. With the sighing of the wind in her wood to comfort her. She'd found no will.

By the yellowish light of an old parchment-shaded lamp, she stared at the photograph of Bernadette. She whispered to Bernadette that she wasn't afraid of the surveyor now now that she'd decided to kill Aramon. They could come and knock her house down and she wouldn't care, because soon Aramon was going to be in the ground and she would install herself at the Mas Lunel, in Bernadette's bed, made clean and sane once more with a new mattress and crisp new cotton sheets...

She turned the photograph over, to see whether there was a date on it.

And she found these words: Renee. Mas Lunel. 1941. Renee. Mas Lunel. 1941.

Renee. They never talked about her. Never. Not even Serge talked about her. Except just one time. One time. When he made her his excuse for everything that was going to happen next... They never talked about her. Never. Not even Serge talked about her. Except just one time. One time. When he made her his excuse for everything that was going to happen next...

Renee.

Audrun put the photograph face down on her night table.

Less than a year after this photograph had been taken, Renee was dead. Killed by German soldiers in reprisals against the first feats of the maquisards maquisards at Pont Perdu. at Pont Perdu.

And so Audrun had dared to ask her father, 'What was Renee doing at Pont Perdu?'

He'd sighed and shifted on his chair. 'She was just there that day, ma fille ma fille.'

'Why? We don't know anybody at Pont Perdu?'

He looked as sad as a mule, with his greying head hanging down, and Audrun had felt sorrowful for him and gone to stand close to him, and then regretted that she had.

He'd rubbed his eyes. 'Women,' he said. 'You have to control them day and night, day and night. Or they get the better of you. But I wasn't there. I was in Alsace. I couldn't control anything. I was trapped by the war.'

Renee was in her grave by the time he got home. She'd been his fiancee, the most beautiful girl in La Callune, but she was slaughtered before he could begin his life with her. Perhaps she'd betrayed him with a lover at Pont Perdu, but n.o.body ever talked about it, one way or another. Serge Lunel let a few months pa.s.s and then he married her identical twin sister, Bernadette.

'Continuity,' Serge had said, with his grey-flecked head in its att.i.tude of sorrow and his hands twisting in his lap. 'That's what a man needs. It's what he aches for in this s.h.i.t-hole of a life. And I ache as badly as the next b.a.s.t.a.r.d.'

Anthony sat alone at the marble-topped table on Veronica's terrace, staring at details of properties for sale in the Cevennes, given to him by the agents in Rua.s.se. Above him, in the Spanish mulberry tree, a gathering of sparrows came and went with twigs and pieces of straw for their nests.

The photographs printed on the agents' details were maddeningly unsharp. They also had a greenish-blue tinge to them, as though they'd already begun to fade from languishing in a filing cabinet or from being shoved into a too-bright display window. In most of the pictures, the sky behind the houses wasn't blue, but grey. It looked almost as if a silent, invisible English rain were falling.

Anthony took off his gla.s.ses, polished them with his handkerchief, put them on again and returned to the pictures. He thought about the care he always lavished on photographs of his beloveds beloveds for advertis.e.m.e.nts in the high-end glossy magazines, making sure that the light was such that patina and texture, detail and colour were all exquisitely, irresistibly captured. In contrast to this, these pictures aimed at buyers willing to part with more than half a million euros had been hastily, clumsily taken. And not one of the properties bore any resemblance to the house Anthony saw in his mind. In fact, they frightened him. Although he reminded himself that the gap between an idea and its realisation was sometimes so large that the only human response could be a low cry of despair, he felt this cry rise up in him so strongly, so almost audibly, that he choked and became short of breath. for advertis.e.m.e.nts in the high-end glossy magazines, making sure that the light was such that patina and texture, detail and colour were all exquisitely, irresistibly captured. In contrast to this, these pictures aimed at buyers willing to part with more than half a million euros had been hastily, clumsily taken. And not one of the properties bore any resemblance to the house Anthony saw in his mind. In fact, they frightened him. Although he reminded himself that the gap between an idea and its realisation was sometimes so large that the only human response could be a low cry of despair, he felt this cry rise up in him so strongly, so almost audibly, that he choked and became short of breath.

He was about to walk into the house and dump all the brochures in Veronica's paper-recycling box when Kitty Meadows came out onto the terrace and sat down, uninvited, opposite him.

She smiled at him. This smile, Anthony thought, made her look more than ever like a Peke. But he suspected that she intended something by it, that it was probably standing in for words she couldn't (or wouldn't) utter. An apology, he decided, or rather hoped for. Because, after her sulky behaviour at Les Mejanels, this was what she surely owed him? An apology for having underestimated the power of the family bonds that tied him to Veronica.

The smile vanished as Kitty reached out and picked up one of the house brochures.

'May I have a look?' she said.

'Help yourself,' said Anthony.

He watched her examine a photograph of what appeared to be some kind of stone factory, possibly once producing perfume from lavender or oil from local olives, with a line of narrow windows under its roof and a tall, industrial chimney a place purpose-built, it seemed to him, for the inevitable suicide of its occupants.

He kept watching as Kitty took in the colossal price of this monstrosity and started reading through measurements and descriptions. Above them, Anthony heard the sparrows suddenly burst into fidgety, ardent chatter and he thought how sublime it had once been, to be part of a garrulous admiring group and how this group had truly carried him on its wings, to all the places where he wanted to be seen and where people said his name with awe.

Again, he looked at Kitty. Pathetic woman, he thought. She would never be able to imagine never get near near to imagining what it had been like to walk into a to imagining what it had been like to walk into a vernissage vernissage at a Mayfair gallery, and hear, as he sauntered among the cl.u.s.ters of guests, little admiring silences falling softly like snow all around him. 'That's Anthony Verey. at a Mayfair gallery, and hear, as he sauntered among the cl.u.s.ters of guests, little admiring silences falling softly like snow all around him. 'That's Anthony Verey. The The Anthony Verey...' Anthony Verey...'

And people turning from the pictures on the walls to make ostentatious greetings. 'Anthony darling!' 'Anthony, what a heavenly surprise!' And, best of all, knowing that his presence there was important to the artist himself, an endors.e.m.e.nt without price, and that he could use his power or withhold it, according to his taste or his mood that night. He could whisper in the ears of the rich, in the ears of dealers, in the ears of friends like Lloyd and Benita Palmer: 'This painter is really really good. Take my word. He's going to be huge a year from now.' Then later, mildly delirious on champagne, see some leggy young woman clacking round on four-inch heels, peeling red stickers from a card and putting them on the pictures. And then at last taking the artist aside and saying, with a curve of his lip: 'I've been telling people to buy. Do a tour of the room. See if it's worked.' good. Take my word. He's going to be huge a year from now.' Then later, mildly delirious on champagne, see some leggy young woman clacking round on four-inch heels, peeling red stickers from a card and putting them on the pictures. And then at last taking the artist aside and saying, with a curve of his lip: 'I've been telling people to buy. Do a tour of the room. See if it's worked.'

And then leaving early always ostentatiously early just to sniff for a second the dark scent of disappointment he left hanging in his wake. Leaving early, because very often he had another party to go to and when he arrived there, it would happen all over again. 'It's Anthony Verey. Gosh.' And his host or hostess would break away from whomever they were talking to and greet him and lead him forward into the throng, on wings of expectation.

Gone, those wings. And his name gone...

Kitty put down the details of the olive oil factory and picked up another clutch of brochures. Irritated that he was going to have to sit and wait while she waded through the whole batch, Anthony took off his gla.s.ses, rubbed his eyes and said: They're no good. None of them.' He wanted to say: They're no good, just as your watercolours are no good. These things I can tell right away. I really don't need to waste time deliberating about them.

But he restrained himself and Kitty turned the picture she was looking at towards him. It showed the tall, oblong house, painted yellow, that he had, in fact, examined with slightly more enthusiasm than the others.

'This one,' she said. 'Veronica said she liked this one.'

'Well,' he said. 'I wondered about it, for a bit. But I think the shape's too blocky and forbidding.'

'The description says the ceilings are high and beautiful,' said Kitty. 'And it's got acres of vine terraces. Think of the garden we could help you make.'

He took the picture from her and looked at it again, then up at Kitty, and he saw that her smile had come back, her Peke smile, and he mistrusted it now. It had an intention he couldn't fathom.

At this moment, Veronica appeared beside them, carrying a jug of home-made lemonade. She, too was smiling. 'I've decided to be bossy, Anthony,' she said brightly, setting down the lemonade. 'I've rung the agents and made us an appointment to see that house on Friday.'

Anthony's hands clutched the two arms of his spectacles. He wished he had hold of something more substantial.

No, he wanted to say. No, V...'

Because he couldn't lie to himself: he was afraid. Afraid of seeing any of these places face to face. Mortally terrified that, standing out under the sky and contemplating someone else's imperfect arrangement of stone and brick and slate, his fragile vision of his future would be broken so badly it would be like the breaking of a Lalique vase: impossible to repair.

'V...' he began, 'I don't honestly think-'

'It probably won't be right at all. It doesn't matter. But you've got to start looking, Anthony. I said I was being bossy and I am. If you're serious about moving to the Cevennes, you've got to get out there and look at places, so that you have something against which to measure.'

He was silent as Veronica poured out the lemonade. His mouth was a thin line of anguish. He felt helpless, as though Lal were standing there very close to them all, in the cool shade of the mulberry tree, and had turned on him. Unexpectedly turned on him and told him he was a cry-baby.

Kitty Meadows saw it, enjoyed it, almost felt thrilled by it: Anthony's terror. If you'd lived thoughtlessly, hedonistically, as he'd done for more than sixty years, then what could you expect but mortal fear, when the last act of your life approached? But it was fascinating how visible his terror was, like an extreme form of stage fright, or like the panic of a condemned man. It was so fascinating, in fact, that Kitty quite wanted to see it prolonged. She thought she might be able to fall asleep at night, consoled by the thought of it, and that when Anthony next turned his demeaning stare on her work, she would be able to say to herself, or even say aloud to him: All right, as a painter I'm mediocre, but as a human being, I'm in possession of a grand pa.s.sion that could last my lifetime and this you've never experienced and never will. And already, before you've looked at a single house, your plans for a life in France are turning to dust...

But Kitty was also doing and redoing the arithmetic of Anthony's stay at Les Glaniques. And this, she saw, could ma.s.s to a vast number of days, unless or until he found a place he wanted to buy. At that point, she supposed, a line would be drawn. Because then, or soon after, he'd have to go back to London, to wind up his business, raise a sum of money and put in hand the sale of his flat. And from that time on, they'd be rid of him for a long while. Perhaps for ever? Because if he suggested staying with them while he organised all the tedious, expensive refurbishments to his new abode, she, Kitty, would put her foot down and Veronica would just have to accept this foot.

It amused Kitty to remember that Veronica had a weakness for her lover's soft feet, that she liked to caress them with her palms perfumed with rose oil, even let them gently chafe her there, there, where she used to feel the chafe of Susan's saddle and the pony's warmth under her thighs and cling pa.s.sionately to the horse's neck as she rubbed herself to her gorgeous teenage climaxes. So yes, this is what Kitty would say: 'I put my foot down, darling.' And Veronica would be seduced into accepting it. That would be the word: seduced. where she used to feel the chafe of Susan's saddle and the pony's warmth under her thighs and cling pa.s.sionately to the horse's neck as she rubbed herself to her gorgeous teenage climaxes. So yes, this is what Kitty would say: 'I put my foot down, darling.' And Veronica would be seduced into accepting it. That would be the word: seduced.

In Kitty's dreams, though, the immediate future didn't go according to her plan. In fact, they weren't dreams; they were nightmares. They could happen when she was wide awake. In these nightmares, Anthony found no house to buy. He just stayed on and on at Les Glaniques, as spring became summer and summer became autumn. He took over the kitchen. The smell of his after-shave corroded the air. And all his conversation on and on and on was about the past he shared with Veronica, about the way they'd suffered from their father's absence, and the way, after Lal died, they'd become 'all in all' to each other, because they'd had no one else. And the evocation of this 'all in all', spiced with its private jokes and innuendoes, tormented Kitty to the point where she had to take herself away somewhere, out under the sky, down the long path to the river or up into Sainte-Agnes, where she sat by the communal fountain and bathed her face in the cool water and let the chatter of the village women about the mayor's new girlfriend, about the list of names for the fete committee, about the loss of the postmistress to a man from Limoges soothe her back to normality and equilibrium.

Another thing gave her pain: she believed that Anthony listened to their love-making through their bedroom wall. Not only in her nightmares, but in reality: he stood there in his room or in the pa.s.sageway, listening in the dark. She couldn't see or hear him, but she felt sure he was there. And she knew the same anxiety was gradually taking hold of Veronica. Because, now, it was as if Veronica had become frightened of being caught out in the act of loving Kitty. In bed, where she'd always been so voluble, even unashamedly loud, she began to talk in a tiny little mouse-like voice, as though she and Kitty were children, condemned to silence after lights-out in a boarding-school dormitory. When Kitty tried to kiss her, she often pushed her gently away.

Upsetting as this was, Kitty decided not to make a fuss. She was determined not to let herself fall into the kind of detestable sulky behaviour Lal had clearly been guilty of. So she lay wide awake while Veronica slept and tried to dream up some clever way of getting Anthony to leave Les Glaniques. But she knew there was no clever way. He'd announce that he was leaving as and when it suited him and not a moment before. All Kitty could pray for was that he abandoned his implausible idea of living in the Cevennes (whose remoteness he had not fully grasped and of whose history and customs he knew nothing whatsoever), or else that soon some house turned up that would fire his precious imagination.

While Veronica snored softly, Kitty tried to soothe her mind with the remembrance of Anthony's agitation over the agents' brochures. She tried to picture the condition of his heart, of the actual organ, and she envisaged it as being brownish in colour and dry and pithy and yet with a small pulse inside it, beating with the frenzied little ticking movements of a stopwatch. And she thought that a heart in such a condition couldn't possibly keep a person alive for very long even somebody as languid and inactive as Anthony Verey. So it was likely that he would die soon. He would die of his petrified heart.

After a while, these imaginings had some consoling effect on Kitty and she began to feel sleepy. She turned over and laid her palm tenderly against Veronica's back. Before she closed her eyes, it occurred to her that it would be enjoyable to go with Veronica and Anthony to see the yellow house on Friday, and to observe up there among the wild gorse and the dying chestnuts, and the ever-present idea of snakes sleeping in the sun how far his terror deepened.

Anthony, Veronica and Kitty were driven from Rua.s.se to La Callune in the agent's car. The agent's name was Madame Besson. She'd left her daughter, Christine, at her desk in the office, closed now at midday, chain-smoking her eight-centimetre cigarettes and talking on her mobile.

Madame Besson knew this corniche of a road very well and she drove it worryingly fast, waltzing into blind bends, nudging up too closely to the traffic in front. Anthony, sitting beside her, bound himself in tightly with his seat belt, but he couldn't stop his right foot from shooting forwards all the time onto an imaginary brake pedal, couldn't put down a silent screaming inside himself.

He felt that dying in a car accident would be a pointless way for his life to end. And the idea that he could perish here and now in an old, badly driven Peugeot, not only made him angry, it made him suddenly, pa.s.sionately impatient to see the yellow house. He now longed yes longed longed to walk in through its front door, to understand how it sat in the landscape, how it coped with the weather. His terror at coming face to face with it with one actual version of his future had miraculously vanished, replaced by his fear of dying on the road before he got to it. to walk in through its front door, to understand how it sat in the landscape, how it coped with the weather. His terror at coming face to face with it with one actual version of his future had miraculously vanished, replaced by his fear of dying on the road before he got to it.

To distract himself, to try to diminish his fear, Anthony asked Madame Besson, in his stumbling, imprecise French, to tell him more about the Mas Lunel. The silence that met this request suggested that it took her a moment or two to remember which house it was they were driving to. Besson Immobilier Besson Immobilier, said this panicky little pause, is the smartest agent in Rua.s.se; you have to understand that we handle hundreds of properties, so we can't always recall...

'This is a beautiful house,' she announced at last, letting the car bound up to a slow-moving cement truck and stay clamped there in its sulphurous slipstream. 'Don't be put off by the state of the rooms. They're full of an old man's clutter. But you have to imagine how it will be once all that has gone. With old houses like these, that have been in the same family for years and years and never updated, you've got to use your imagination.'

Anthony nodded. The woman annoyed him. She smelled of nicotine. She drove dangerously. She talked so fast it was just about impossible to understand her.

'Paysage,' he said. 'How is that?'

'Paysage? What d'you mean?' What d'you mean?'

'Paysage. The land near the house...'

'Ah, I see. Well, it's overgrown. n.o.body has worked the land for years now. Some of the terrace walls have collapsed. But that's nothing. You can repair those. You English have a mania for gardens, I know. And you've got plenty of s.p.a.ce here. So.'

The road unspooled on and on, rising, falling, rising, turning, falling. Anthony began to be tormented by thirst and when he saw a roadside stall advertising Orangina, he asked Madame Besson to stop. They pulled over and Anthony, Veronica and Kitty got out. They stood on the verge, breathing the sweet air. The sun today had a new heat to it. Bees hummed above the yellow gorse. A green meadow below them was shiny with b.u.t.tercups.

'Summer,' said Veronica. 'It comes early here. You suddenly feel it.'

They walked over to the stall, which called itself La Bonne Baguette. La Bonne Baguette. When Veronica saw that there was a chiller full of crusty sandwiches on its counter, she said: 'Let's get a sandwich each. It's almost lunchtime.' When Veronica saw that there was a chiller full of crusty sandwiches on its counter, she said: 'Let's get a sandwich each. It's almost lunchtime.'

Madame Besson got out of the car and lit a cigarette. Anthony offered to buy her something, but she refused, staring pointedly at Veronica's bulky form. 'You English,' said this look. 'You eat junk. And you don't seem to have noticed that it's killing you.'

She paced up and down while the drinks and baguettes were bought.

'Eat them here,' she instructed peremptorily. 'Then I won't get crumbs in the car.'

So they walked down to the b.u.t.tercup meadow and sat on the springy gra.s.s, eating and drinking, with the eyes of Madame Besson on them.

'I guess,' said Anthony, 'she's tired of foreigners. We make money for her, but really she wishes we'd all go home.'

He laughed as he said this and looked over to Kitty, as if he expected some chiming reaction from her, but she just turned her head away.

In fact, what was preoccupying Kitty was the sandwich filling that Anthony had chosen: Camembert and tomato. It thrilled her to remember that a friend of Veronica's, living not far from here, had died from eating unpasteurised cheese.

Now, there it was at last: the Mas Lunel. Golden in the midday sun; the holm oaks behind it just coming into leaf and, above these, the dark shoulders of firs. Daisies gave the unkempt lawn a dusting of white.

What Anthony liked straight away was the feeling the mas had of being completely on its own, on a sheltered plateau, as though the land had sculpted itself around the building. To the south of it were the vine and olive terraces, descending towards the road. Anthony got out of the car and stood very still, trying to catch the mood of the place, to seize this its marvellous isolation, its wild beauty before anything came along to compromise it.

An elderly man came out of the house. He walked with a slight limp. He was skinny, in shabby clothes, and with the hectic, high colour of a drinker. A dark red kerchief was tied around his scrawny neck. He shielded his eyes against the sun.

Madame Besson went to him and shook his hand. Anthony heard her reminding him quickly that these were English buyers she'd brought this time, and he saw the man look over to where he stood, with Veronica and Kitty, and gawp at them, wiping a thread of saliva from his mouth with the back of his hand.

Madame Besson made the introductions. 'Monsieur Lunel. Monsieur Verey. His sister. A friend...' And they all moved to cl.u.s.ter together, to undergo the obligatory handshakes, the good-mannered greetings long ago abandoned in Britain. The dogs, in their wire pound, had begun barking, visibly unsettling Kitty, and Monsieur Lunel hurried to apologise for this. 'Take no notice of the hounds,' he said. 'They're my hunting dogs. We hunt wild boar up in the hills here. But they'll be going away with me. Don't worry. I'm not trying to sell them with the house!'

Lunel laughed at his own little joke and was quickly punished for this as the laughter turned into a loose cough that boiled up from his chest, so that he had to turn away and spit into a rag. Anthony thought: He's selling because he's dying. He wants to cash in before the darkness comes.

When he recovered from the cough, Lunel said he'd go and make coffee. Or tea. Would the Britanniques Britanniques like tea? He had some tea. Lipton's Tea. He said it was probably better if he made the tea and Madame Besson showed them round the house, because he wouldn't know how to describe things. He'd lived here all his life. When you've lived in a place all your life, he said, you don't know how it appears to strangers. You don't know what might worry them or what might please them... like tea? He had some tea. Lipton's Tea. He said it was probably better if he made the tea and Madame Besson showed them round the house, because he wouldn't know how to describe things. He'd lived here all his life. When you've lived in a place all your life, he said, you don't know how it appears to strangers. You don't know what might worry them or what might please them...

They agreed to the tea, then set off, following Madame Besson, and Anthony saw Lunel go down to the dogs and throw them some sc.r.a.ps out of his pocket, to calm them.

'Cevenol houses are dark,' Madame Besson said, as they walked into the large s.p.a.ce that contained the kitchen range and a warped and beaten refectory table, 'because the window s.p.a.ce is kept to a minimum. This way, the houses stay cool in summer and retain the heat from the fires in winter. You notice how thick the walls are?'

The room smelled of the fire and of cooking grease and onions.

The stone floor was worn down in places by the repet.i.tive traffic of feet in heavy shoes. A vast oak dresser, ('French, circa 1835...') Anthony guessed, ('...overscroll pilasters showing wear and chipping'), was crammed with meat platters, plates, jugs, bowls and blackened bra.s.s lamps. In the far corner of the room was a day-bed, covered with a tartan rug and piled up with faded farm machinery catalogues. By this, on the floor, was an old bakelite telephone. A tap dripped in the stone sink. Empty whisky bottles decorated the draining board. On the table were some mouldy apples, a bottle of pastis and a clouded gla.s.s.

'I warned you,' said Madame Besson. 'Everything's a mess. But this room is a very good size. And now look up. You see the fine ceilings?'

Anthony saw wide, smoke-blackened wooden beams holding up a dense cross-hatching of narrower rafters. Between these, the plasterwork was patched and flaking, but Madame Besson was right, the ceiling was exceptional. It reminded Anthony of the roof in the plain little parish church of Netherholt, where Lal was buried. And he thought: This would be the place to start work on this house, this ceiling like a church roof, with its echo of the past. Restore the wood to its original colour. Re-plaster. Then tear the rendering off the walls and return them to stone. Dismantle the present. Get back to how everything had once been, and flood it with bright light.

They were present in every room on the ground floor, these astonishing ceilings, even in the pantry, with its concrete floor and its ancient freezer, looped up to a trailing electric cable. 'Don't they,' Anthony whispered to Veronica, 'remind you of Netherholt Church?'

Veronica smiled and Anthony saw that it was the kind of indulgent smile she might give to a child, but he didn't care, because he was feeling excitement now, real excitement. It was almost catching at his breath as he followed Madame Besson up the steep staircase to the first floor.

Here, the ceilings were lower and the rooms felt cramped and surprisingly small, but, reading Anthony's disappointment with impressive precision, Madame Besson immediately began tapping at one of the walls and quickly said: 'Part.i.tions. You could take them out. And what I would do is, I would also take out these ceilings, get rid of the attics. You've got plenty of rooms without them, including s.p.a.ce for new bathrooms. So I'd let the bedroom walls go right up into the roof. You can insulate, of course. Then you would have exquisite s.p.a.ces with, almost, a Gothic shape.'