parents are dead now, but they stay young in my mind and I think I now understand their passion. It was about owning. Each wanted to possess the other. Without my father my mother was half a person, bored, flicking through magazines, telling me to sit up straight and not slouch, but when he walked into the room a look came over her face of complete radiance. Suddenly the way she sat and the way she talked was aimed, I can see it now, at dazzling and overwhelming him. In the end there was nothing he could see but her and nothing she could think about but him.
We are due to go to France for nearly all of the holidays. My father is working on a project on the coast. The previous summer they bought the Ferrou and it stays there. One dark pool. One unmodernised hut. They want to build a holiday home, with a swimming pool feature under the great rock. I have seen the plans. I know about building plans because when we return from France we will be moving into the new house my father has designed. He talks about this new house, how it will bring him a great deal of attention. It has a fountain courtyard and a garden, sweeping down a hill. It’s all my parents talk about these days. New houses. My mother’s going to sell the furniture in Bellevue. It’s old-fashioned and that is bad. Everything in my room is also old-fashioned.
It’s Sunday morning and I come down for breakfast. My father’s up and dressed in his cricket clothes. He’s going to play cricket later. They have been discussing the new house. He looks at me thoughtfully, which he rarely does because my mother usually diverts his attention. He says, ‘Why don’t I take her to see the site? It would be good for her education.’
‘Trampling about in mud?’ says my mother with a sneer.
‘I won’t get dirty,’ I say, because spending time alone with my father is a treat.
She looks at me as if there is nothing right about me. ‘Go on, turn her into an architect. She’s such a brain-box.’
We go in the car across Bath. It’s not sunny. It’s humid and overcast. My father tells me about drainage problems, but I’m thinking about the new house, the magic castle. ‘Here we are,’ he says, but I don’t see anything. A drive of mud, as if a finger has scraped into the earth to taste it. We get out of the car and walk across the mud, which is soft like paste and sticks to my shoes. In front of us is a pile of grey concrete bricks. It looks like an air-raid shelter or a public lavatory. This is the house. My father tells me about the cunning design. It’s layered down the hill and this is the first level. It’s flat-topped and squat. We go inside. But it’s just concrete and more concrete. Wires coming out of the walls, holes in the floor as if its innards are being operated on. I feel cheated. I hate it. I would rather live in a little hut like the Ferrou, even though there is only one tap, because it is golden and private. This place is a prison. My father tells me where the kitchen is going to be and the lounge. We go outside through more mud and puddles of water. There’s a view across a smudgy valley. The hill rolls down to a wooden bridge across weed-filled water. I look at the bridge, then I run, right down the hill. My father shouts after me, but I keep running. He catches up with me on the bridge. He is hot and cross in his cricket clothes. ‘You silly girl, what are you doing!’
He’s not often cross with me and I burst into tears. ‘What’s up? What is it, my special girl?’
‘I don’t want to live here. I want to live in France.’
Mireille walked into the square. It was the Easter weekend and the village looked festive. In front of the church bunting had been hung up, and around the square flowers planted in wooden tubs. The church was open, ready for the Easter mass, and from inside came the chattering of the cleaners, their French dipped in the Provençal accent until it twanged and resonated like a wet guitar string. Outside, Jeanette and Auxille were chattering too, their hands, if not flapping near their heads to emphasise a point, smoothing down their best clothes. Auxille was all in black. A neat little black suit with an opal brooch on the lapel. She had tiny lace-up shoes and silk stockings. She still had shapely legs. Jeanette’s hair was now blacker than ever, almost blue-black. Her dress was red and tight and her shoes were red and high-heeled. She was wearing a gold necklace and at least six rings. When they saw Mireille they waved wildly. Macon lumbered out of the café.
Macon’s car was not large and it jolted every time the gears were changed. Jeanette drove, talking to Macon the whole way, who didn’t listen but fiddled with the collar on his shirt and held on to the strap of the seat belt every time Jeanette hurled the vehicle round another corner. Auxille didn’t like cars. She closed her eyes and folded her hands on her lap, but no amount of discomfort could stop her talking.
‘… and I said to Madame Cabasson, your tarte aux pommes is certainly as good as the one I bought in the best bakery in Draguignan and half the price, but there, of course, they put it in a little box with a ribbon, a little present. I suggested this to Madame Cabasson especially in the summer when we have the tourists … and her niece Martine is to be married to a policeman … I offered to do the flowers … in May …’
Mireille looked out of the window. The villages of St Clair and Lieux were already disappearing as the car sped round another bend towards the road to Draguignan.
In Draguignan it was sunny and noticeably warmer than St Clair, where the wind still had a sharp edge. It was also crowded. Draguignan has no grand buildings of renown, remarkable museums or many distinguishing features, but the old centre was quaint and still had a mediaeval feel to it. Serious attempts had been made to modernise the town, including paving over one of the main streets, putting in smart new lighting and restoring the façades of some of the old houses. But it remained provincial, attracting people from the outlying villages.
The market was at the far end of town around some gardens. Pots and pans, leatherwork, African goods, cheap dresses, cheap shoes. Jeanette and Auxille held each other’s arms and inspected every item on every stall, comparing prices and tutting to each other. Macon had already sloped away to a nearby bar. It was going to be a long day. ‘What do you think?’ asked Jeanette, holding up a black and white spotty silky dress to her ample bosom.
‘I’m not sure of the quality,’ said Auxille, examining the hem. The stallholder reassured her it was of the finest quality and drew their attention to other ones, pink and white, red and white, orange and white, green and white.
‘I like the green,’ said Jeanette to Mireille. ‘What do you think?’
‘I’m going to buy a cannise. Shall I meet you in an hour?’
‘Make it two,’ said Auxille. ‘In the bar with Macon.’
Away from the women she explored the lower end of the market, which sold more practical things like hedge-clippers, buckets, nails and, bizarrely, sausages and fresh country salami. Leading up one street was a flower and plant market. She could easily have spent the rest of the day among the oleanders, wistarias, lilacs and rose bushes. Whole bay trees in terracotta pots. Lavender plants. Orange trees, and buckets and buckets of early mimosa. Two gypsy women with faces like pickled walnuts and teeth full of gold were selling bunches of wild asparagus.
Towards lunchtime the market filled up with younger people and became more rowdy. Music was turned up and the stallholders shouted out their bargains. Groups of young girls identically dressed in tight tops and jeans tried on cheap jewellery and looked as bored as they could. Young men watched them from the gardens, smoking and leaning on their motorbikes. Jeanette and Auxille were sitting outside at a table. Macon was inside, up against the bar, where in France the drinks are cheaper.
‘The
