Jasmine Harvest Page 5

  “Not tonight, little one. Both Caroline and I have had a long day.” French fashion, he shook hands with both of them, took his seat again and waving a hand behind his head, roared away.

  Betsy stood transfixed, then turned to Caroline. “He’s going back!” she said bleakly.

  “Not to his house? Back to Cannes? How do you know?”

  “I can tell by the hum of the engine, and look—”

  Sure enough, from where they stood they could see the headlamps making a channel of light along the level immediately below; at a turn in the road the darkness pounced, blotting them out; they raked once more across the river bridge and then were gone for good. The car was certainly returning by the road by which it had come.

  “ ‘A long day’! He only pretended he was going home himself because he wouldn’t trust us with Henri and André, and now he’s going straight back to Ariane’s,” said Betsy, working it out.

  Caroline said, “Surely not? Most people had left or were leaving by the time we came away.”

  “That makes it worse.” Dispiritedly Betsy led the way into the house, and Caroline, knowing what she meant, wondered why she too should hope that it wasn’t so.

  Marie, a dark girl in her late twenties, had their supper already laid and in an incredibly short time produced a mushroom omelette which melted in the mouth. She was delighted to find that Caroline spoke French, and before she returned to the kitchen she amused them both with a graphic pantomime of how she and Betsy had had to communicate since Tom and Ann Drage had left.

  “Mademoiselle Lane, she smile and say, ‘Marie, do so—and so—and so, s’il vous plait.’ Moi aussi, I say ‘Mademoiselle, you wish so—and so and so—and so?’ Sometimes—that is good English, no?—we understand each other. But when we do not—la, les crises, les crises!” She was still laughing as she went out of the room.

  While the girls ate they talked “party,” with Betsy giving Caroline thumbnail sketches of the people she had met. Then with an air of offering him for Caroline’s critical dissection Betsy said, “And Paul? What did you think of him?”

  There was a beat of silence between question and answer. Then, “I—liked him,” said Caroline, though knowing as soon as she spoke that liking was the least complex of her reactions to Paul Pascal.

  Betsy mocked, “Don’t be too madly enthusiastic, will you? Or I don’t know—could that be a rave notice, considering you had made up your mind you weren’t going to like him at all?”

  “I’d done nothing of the sort. It was simply that I’m always a bit on the defensive against people who are being too obviously sold to me.”

  “Well, anyway, you realize now he’s not that beastly thing you called him—‘a charmer’?”

  Caroline smiled. “I take back ‘charmer.’ He strikes me as being too positive, too sure of himself to need to lay on any conscious charm. But isn’t he ever serious?”

  “Serious? Who wants him serious?”

  “Don’t you, sometimes? I know I should, if I thought I was in any danger of falling in love with him.”

  “Well, you’re not, are you? And though I admit I’d like him to take me seriously, so far as I’m I concerned, one of the really riveting things about him is the way he does clown when he must be eaten with bitterness and frustration over the estate.”

  To that Caroline could not resist murmuring, “Il Pagliacco, in fact?” But despising it at once as both tart and cheap, she added, “All right. I agree—he is fun. But are you sure you aren’t so starry-eyed about him just because he is—well, something of a contrast to Edward?”

  Betsy grimaced. “What a loaded question! You mean, as his best friend couldn’t call Edward gay, it could be that Paul is no more than a sort of rebound on my part? But no—before Paul happened, I thought I could take most of Edward’s heavy weather about beef and costings and market trends for the sake of his being so unmixed up and such a lean-uponable person. Always knowing where I was with him too ... But the difference is that it never occurred to me to wonder what I should have done if I had never met Edward, whereas now I wake up at night in a cold sweat, thinking, ‘Supposing, just supposing I hadn’t come here this year with the Drages, I might never have known Paul!’ Which proves it’s the real thing, doesn’t it? My being so rock-bottom grateful that I did come and have met him, I mean?”

  Hearing an echo of a fear and a gratitude she had once known herself—though how mistakenly!—Caroline did not scoff. She said gently, “I see you’re convinced it’s the real thing. But in the meanwhile, what about Edward? How often do you hear from him?”

  “I suppose he writes two or three times a week. But the letters pile up a bit in batches.”

  “And when did you last write to him?”

  “I—don’t remember, though it was before Tom and Ann left.”

  “A love letter?”

  “Caro, don’t catechize me! Yes, I suppose it was. I didn’t utter about Paul, but ought I to now?”

  Caroline said, “No.” And then with more conviction, “No. Aunt Clio says this mission could mean a lot to his future, and you haven’t the right to throw a spanner in the works by worrying and upsetting him when he’s so far away and can’t do a thing about it. But write. You must do that. Promise me?”

  At Betsy’s diffident nod Caroline went on, “Our other problem is what to tell Aunt Clio and Uncle Ralph. I think you’d better cable them non-committally tomorrow, saying I’ve arrived and everything is all right. And I’ll write myself to Aunt Clio, filling out what you’ve told her already or she has guessed and reassuring her as best I can. Of course the thing she would really like to hear would be that you were cutting your losses and going to join Tom and Ann in Italy. But I suppose you won’t?”

  “Not until I’m convinced I’ve got losses to cut. You never know—I might win out yet.”

  “But you will think seriously about it all, won’t you?” Caroline pressed.

  “I don’t have to think,” said Betsy. “I know.”

  Late as they had talked overnight, Caroline woke early to find the sun on her balcony already as warm as at noon in an English heatwave. Without dressing, she basked there, now looking at the view, now turning the pages of one of the books from the bed fitment, until the aroma of coffee confirmed that Marie was about, and Betsy was calling from her room that café complet would be ready for them when they were.

  Over it Betsy announced she must go down to Cannes to collect the car. Would Caroline care to go too?

  But Caroline said, “I don’t think I will. I’d an idea of exploring round here on foot. That is, if we’re free to go where we like on the estate?”

  “Heavens, yes. There are paths and cart-tracks everywhere.” Betsy looked at her watch. “I shall have to go down by bus, so I’d better scram if I’m to catch the nine o’clock—Or shall I ring Paul and ask him if he’s going in and will give me a lift?”

  It was a decision rather than a question, but she returned from the telephone crestfallen. “He’s not there,” she said dully.

  “Not? So early in the morning?”

  “I know. Odd, isn’t it? But when I asked Simone if she was sure, she went all porcupine on me, almost spelling it out to make, certain I understood. Monsieur was not in; she didn’t know when he would be, so that it would be useless to ask me to call again. But I’m convinced he wasn’t just out. We know he went back to Cannes last night, and it’s my belief he stayed there and Simone wasn’t telling. Which, let’s face it, means—”

  “You can’t assume that!” put in Caroline quickly.

  “Well, do you think I want to? But you didn’t hear Simone on the line, putting up a smokescreen round him like crazy,” said Betsy.

  When she had gone to catch the bus Caroline settled under the sun umbrella on the villa’s tiny lawn to write her difficult letter to Chicago. Then, none too keen that Betsy should see what she had said in it, she decided to post it at once and to edit its contents for Betsy’s hearing later. So she walke
d into the village with it, stopping at the first tabac she came to in order to buy stamps for it and cigarettes, proffering in payment a fifty new franc note which non-plussed the shop woman’s till.

  Fingering the note, “Vous en avez d’autre, Madame? Je n’ai peu de petite monnaie,” she explained.

  But Caroline had no other note, nor enough change, and the woman was again rummaging in the till when a man’s voice behind Caroline asked, “May I help you with that note, Madame Giseau? I happen to have plenty of change.”

  The woman looked up and beyond Caroline’s shoulder. “Ah, je vous remercie! Que vous êtes gentil, Monsieur Pascal!” she exclaimed, at which Caroline turned quickly, ready with a greeting which, however, died lamely on her lips at sight of a stranger.

  He bought pipe tobacco and matches for himself, and while the three-cornered money transaction was settled, her mind registered that he must be Berthin Pascal—a fact which he confirmed as they left the kiosk together.

  He held out his hand. “We’re to be neighbors for a while, I think, Mademoiselle. Because at a guess, you’ve come to stay with my cousin’s tenant at Mimosa, and I’m Berthin Pascal, of whom she’ll have spoken, I daresay?”

  “Yes.” Caroline put her hand in his and smiled. “Betsy has told me about you and your sister. But as I’ve already met your cousin, when I heard your name just now I expected to see him, which explains why I looked as blankly at you as I did.”

  “Blank? On the contrary, you were ready with a charming smile, even if it wasn’t meant for me! But now we’ve met, may I drop you somewhere—” he indicated the estate-car at the curb—“or, better still, would you drive with me to my cottage in order to meet my sister?”

  Caroline said, “I’d like that.” Sooner or later she must meet Ursule Pascal, and her morning’s walk could wait.

  “Then allow me—?” His eyes asked permission to take Aunt Clio’s letter from her and to drop it in a blue slit marked Postes on a near-by wall. On his way there and back she had time for a swift appraisal of him in contrast to Paul—of his height, so much nearer to her own; of his loping purposeful walk; of his general look for all his open shirt, shorts and espadrilles—of an earnest student, rather than of an outdoor man. Then he was opening the car door for her and skirting it himself in order to take the driver’s seat.

  As they set out—“I’m afraid I’m a pipe man, so I have no cigarettes to offer you. But do smoke your own, won’t you? I noticed you bought one of our French brands. Is that from real preference, I wonder, or a case of ‘When in Rome...’?” he asked.

  Caroline glanced at the packet of Gauloises in her hand. “Oh, these? But they’re not for me. They’re for—someone else.” As she thrust them into her bag she wished she had added, “As a matter of fact, they’re for your cousin Paul, to settle a bet,” making it a triviality to laugh over with Berthin instead of keeping it as a rather stale conspiracy with Paul.

  But it was already too late as Berthin asked, “However, you do smoke, I take it?”

  “Yes, though I pride myself on not needing to, so I don’t usually carry any.”

  “Oh, well, Ursule will have some, for I’m afraid she is an addict. Though, with my hundred grammes and more of tobacco a week, who am I to talk?” he laughed.

  Since they met they had been speaking French throughout and now he congratulated Caroline on her easy use of it. Where had she first learned it? How had she kept it up? Had she ever been to the Riviera before? There was nothing prying about his interest. He seemed really to want a background against which to set her, and she was at once more at ease with him than with Paul. Talking to Berthin was an exercise in relaxation, whereas fending off Paul’s swift repartee was about as restful and profitable a pastime as shooting at water-tossed colored balls in a fair booth ... She was explaining to Berthin the precise whereabouts of Sidcup in relation to London’s West End when he set the car to a steep incline off the road and nodding ahead, “Here we are.”

  Not, in fact, that they were, there being a steep flight of uneven stone steps to be negotiated between them and the rough-walled cottage which perched, eyrie-like, sheer above them. It was a square, sturdy but rather unlovely place, with windows so small that they seemed to be on the defensive against the sun, and it lacked even a growth of bougainvillea or vine or a trail of the universal geranium to break up its stark outline.

  They climbed the steps and Berthin led the way in, calling to his sister and going to find her when she did not answer his call. Left alone, Caroline was only just accustoming her eyes to the gloom of the interior when she heard a door bang in the kitchen quarters; another shout from Berthin, her own name this time, and then his footsteps, loud on stone flags, hurrying back to her.

  “Ursule!” he panted. “She’s had an accident. I couldn’t find her anywhere, but then I noticed the door to our cellar was open, and she is down there on the bottom step, unconscious! Will you come, Mademoiselle Neville, and help me with her?”

  “But of course.”

  The cellar steps led down into the cold heart of the rock on which the cottage stood. That the place was used both as a dairy and a wine vault was evidenced by the block of butter and the broken bottle near Ursule Pascal’s inert form. But she was no longer unconscious when the other two reached her. She was whimpering with pain and trying to rise, only to fall back, biting her lip, when she found she could not.

  “There! Easy, easy, my cabbage! But do you think you can stand if I help you—so, and with Mademoiselle to support you as well?” urged Berthin.

  His sister, a plain, spare woman with fading hair drawn back in a tight chignon, looked at Caroline. “Who—?” she began vaguely, but left the question unfinished in her effort to pull herself upright with their help.

  Holding her, they watched her anxiously, Caroline noting the angry contusion on her temple which she believed Berthin had not seen and both realizing that her swollen right ankle was powerless to support her.

  “So! Then I must carry you, and no one could say you are a great burden—h’m?” As Berthin put one arm round her narrow shoulders, the other under her thin knees, he said to Caroline, “I’ll take her straight to her bed if you’ll help me with her there and stay with her while I call the doctor.”

  A quarter of an hour later their first aid had done what it could for Ursule. They had bathed and given her head bruise a cold pack and her ankle was splinted and bandaged. Caroline advised a hot drink and blankets for her and when the doctor arrived he approved what they had done. But he confirmed Caroline’s suspicion that Ursule’s passive acceptance of her own presence in the house and her intermittent drowsiness indicated a certain degree of concussion.

  That meant, said the doctor, her greatest need and a “must” for her was rest for at least several days. Her ankle injury he believed to be only a bad sprain, but as long as it was kept supported and at rest too, whether or not it was a break could afford to wait an X-ray diagnosis for a while. He would call again tomorrow, and meanwhile she could be nursed, no doubt?

  Berthin said she could and showed the doctor out. But then he was worrying to Caroline, “Later I can be on hand most of the time. But this morning I had arranged to interview some prospective employees at the Villon labor office at noon, so I’m wondering now if, Mademoiselle Neville, I could ask you—?”

  “To stay with your sister? Of course I will. But make it ‘Caroline’—please!”

  “ ‘Caroline’? Oh, I see! Why then, yes, if I may. But only in exchange for ‘Berthin’ and ‘Ursule.’ Fair enough?”

  When he had gone Caroline went back to see if there was anything Ursule needed. But the sedative the doctor had given her was gradually taking effect, and after sitting with her for some time Caroline left her to sleep.

  On the kitchen table there was an enamel plate of mixed corn which Caroline fed to the eager hens clustered round the back door. She restored to the cool of the larder a dish of mixed cold meats, washed up some cooking utensils and finished
the preparation of some new potatoes and green beans which Ursule had probably intended for lunch. Then remembering the mess of butter and broken glass on the cellar steps, she found a cloth and a bucket and a dustpan and brush and went down to clean it up.

  The cellar door opened outward off the darkest corner of the hall, and coming up again, she was still behind it when she heard voices loud in argument, recognizing Paul Pascal’s first, then Berthin’s. It sounded as if they had met at the front door and were coming in together to the tune of Paul’s scornful, “Well, if you’re prepared to see the whole darned area a write-off—go ahead!” and to Berthin’s hot retort, “A write-off! To hear you, one would suppose it would give you some satisfaction if it were. And if you’re so concerned about the risk of fire up there, I wonder you don’t—”

  “—Don’t do something constructive about it?”

  Paul put in. “Yes, I’ve heard that one before too! But then I’m only the character with his nose pressed to the glass, looking in ... remember? Whereas you’re the master mind with all the know-how and say-so—or so one understands?”

  Reasonably evenly, Berthin said, “It’s a matter of opinion, that. What’s more, you should know you remain on the wrong side of the glass by your own choice.”

  “Indeed? D’you know, I had an idea I’d been flung there, more or less on my ear?”

  “I said ‘remain there.’ There’s a difference, if you’d allow yourself to see it.”

  By comparison with Paul’s truculent sarcasm Berthin’s tone was quiet, controlled. He went on, “However, about the plantage Fragonard—I suppose you realize the amount of ground it covers?”

  Making a small insolence of it, Paul said, “It used to be my business to know, and I daresay I know still, to the nearest deciare or so. Say—?”

  “All right. Then we both know. And agreed that it’s the biggest planting of mimosa this side of Grasse, perhaps you’d care to advise how it is to be adequately patrolled by the handful of men I can allot to it in high summer, with all the other crops to be attended to?” Berthe invited.