Renoir's Ghost
Chapter One
The Stranger From The North
La Rosière, near Nantes, France, autumn 1947.
"Mama!"
Edith raised her head.
She had been sitting quietly here beside the Loire, looking again at the clutch of black and white photographs which had arrived here only a few days ago, from Ireland, from her daughter-in-law, Claire; Claire Branson as she was now, who following the tragic death of her young husband Max, Edith's elder boy, had eventually married his cousin, Edith's nephew, Danny, the eldest of darling Tom and Sybil's brood. All of the photographs were pictures of Edith's young grandson, Josef, now aged four. He looked, thought Edith, so like his father had done at the same age.
And now, as she shaded her eyes against the glare of the low autumn sunshine, if only but for an instant, the young man running down the steps towards her could have been darling Max, for in build, in colouring, even in the timbre of his voice now that it had deepened, he looked and sounded so much like his adored elder brother. Only, it was not Max but Kurt, now fifteen years old, who came to a stand before her, beside the water's edge.
Bounding down from the upper terrace alongside Kurt had come Hope, the golden Labrador. Like them saved from the Lancastria when she had been sunk off the French coast in June 1940, and who, with Rosenberg burned and looted by the Red Army in the closing days of the war, the Schönborns had brought with them back here to La Rosière in the summer of 1945 when they decided to return to live, not in Austria, but here in France.
Hope was panting heavily. Edith reached down and fondled the old dog's head.
"Kurt, darling, you know you shouldn't let her run like that! At her time of life, it doesn't do her any good at all".
"Sorry, Mama. I didn't call her to come with me. She just did!"
"Well what is it that brings you down here in such a tearing great hurry?"
Kurt held out to her a letter.
"This came for you. In the afternoon post. It's from England. Postmarked Downton. Papa said I should bring it out to you straightaway".
"Yes, thank you, my darling".
Edith took the proffered letter. Even without her spectacles, which these days she wore for reading, as did Friedrich, like Hope, none of them was getting any younger, she recognised the handwriting immediately; that of her much loved brother-in-law, Matthew Crawley, earl of Grantham.
"Aren't you going to open it, Mama?"
"Don't be so impatient! Yes, of course I am". While Kurt seated himself on the bench next to his mother and began to play with Hope, beside him Edith tore open the envelope and then briefly scanned the contents of the letter within.
... the enclosed arrived here today from Hassle and Hassle. I suspect I know what it contains. Of course, Mary doesn't know. And in the circumstances, it's probably for the best that she doesn't. So, although I know it's a continuing imposition, would you please do what needs to be done? Darling, Edith, I know I can rely on you. And, one thing more, would you ...
Edith glanced at the name written on the second sealed envelope within. Nodded her head in understanding.
"I wonder where they are now?" she mused.
"Mama?"
"No matter". Edith stood up. "My darling, this needs replying to directly". She smiled down at Kurt, who in height now topped her by several inches, just as darling Max had done. Kurt too now rose and Edith linked her arm through that of her son. "You're not too grown to walk your Mama back up to the house, are you?" The words tore at her heart and her eyes glistened, wet with tears.
Downton Abbey, Yorkshire, England, afternoon, 23rd July 1940.
At his mother's approach, Max raised his head and then, on seeing who it was, he smiled. Edith did too. While she would readily have admitted to being prejudiced in the matter, there was no denying the fact that Max, who as a boy had been so very handsome, had grown into a fine looking young man. Were it not for his haemophilia, at sometime in the future he would have made an excellent catch for somebody's daughter. For a moment Edith's eyes misted at what could never be. Recovering herself, she offered her eldest son her arm.
"You're not too grown to go for a walk with your old Mama, are you?" she asked; was relieved, indeed ridiculously so, when she saw Max shake his head.
"Of course not, Mama". Max grinned. Scrambling hastily to his feet, he clasped her right hand, then brought it quickly to his lips in a perfectly executed baisse-main. For a moment, their eyes met. Then, having linked arms, they set off slowly back towards the house.
La Rosière, near Nantes, France, autumn 1947.
Singularly unaware of what it was that had so moved her, Kurt smiled down at his mother. While he knew she used glasses for reading, now, for the very first time, he saw her hair to be flecked with grey.
The bloody, bloody war, thought Kurt, savagely. It had taken its toll on all of them. Not just in the millions, military or civilian, who had died or been wounded, let alone those who had perished in the concentration camps, murdered by the Nazis, like the Dutch and Polish relatives of his Jewish friend from the East End of London, Isaac Solomon.
And in the roll call of the dead, Kurt included his own brother Max, as much a casualty of the conflict as had been their cousin Bobby, Uncle Tom and Aunt Sybil's boy, killed when the Luftwaffe had bombed Dublin by mistake. And Granny Cora too, who died when a blazing Heinkel bomber had crashed onto the Dower House. If he closed his eyes Kurt could still hear the frantic ringing of the bell of the fire engine, the roar of the flames which that night had lit up the night sky in Downton in an inferno of searing, soaring, towering flames.
"No, of course not, Mama. I'd be honoured".
Grand Union Canal, Northamptonshire, England, late summer 1948.
There is of course a right way, and indeed several wrong ways, to navigate a pair of narrow boats through a lock, or in this case a succession of locks. The tail gates must be shut before the paddles of the head gates are drawn; the paddles must be drawn in the right order. And the boats need to be kept up to the sills in order to prevent them bumping their rudders on the tail gates. Not that this presented any difficulty whatsoever to the two young men who had just brought the pair of heavily laden boats down through the ten staircase locks at Foxton and thence through the narrow brick lined bore of Bosworth Tunnel.
But then, they knew their trade.
Although it was late summer, this evening, while he was strapping the two boats just below the eastern portal of Bosworth Tunnel, Alec Foster thought there had been a distinct chill in the air, presaging an early autumn. A short while later, having joined Simon down inside the cosy little cabin, Alec peered over his friend's shoulder at the bacon, eggs, sausages, mushrooms, and bread, sizzling in the frying pan.
"That smells really good".
"Yes, I'm sure it does. But this time, I'll thank you to keep your ruddy fingers out of it!"
"Oh, go on, Si', just one piece of fried bread".
"No. Wait until it's on the plate!"
"You're a hard man Mr. Crawley. Denying a poor working boy a crust of bread".
"Yes, I am. Only just noticed?"
"I expect you beat your servants too".
"Yes. Flogged all of 'em, I did, within an inch of their lives!"
Simon grinned. Totally at ease with each other, this easy banter between the two of them was of daily occurrence.
"I'm parched. Is there any tea?"
"There's fresh in the pot".
Simon nodded towards the table, the top of which, hidden beneath a red and white check cloth was formed from the hinged door of the cupboard beside it, which, when necessary could be lowered to form a table. Here on board, space was very much at a premium. Alec saw the table was already neatly laid for supper. Crockery, cutlery, teapot, breadboard and knife, all present and correct. Saw too, that beyond the dividing curtain, Simon had likewise let down the double mattress where, snug and warm, they would both sleep soundly tonight.
"Make yourself useful will you, Alec? Fetch me in some more water".
Alec nodded; did as he was bidden. Climbed back on deck to fetch the can from down off the roof.
"Hullo, who's this?"
Hearing Alec's question, Simon set the pan aside and poked his head aloft. Saw a young dark haired lad in a cloth cap riding a bicycle along the towpath towards them. A moment later and he drew to a stand beside them.
"Is there a Mr. S. Crawley on board, do you know?" piped the boy.
"And just who might you be?" asked Alec.
"Charlie Turton". The lad sounded genuinely affronted; as though Alec should have known who he was. "My dad's the village postmaster," Charlie added and with obvious pride. He nodded towards where, in the distance, the spire of a church and a huddle of red tiled roofs rose above the line of trees bordering the cut.
"I'm Simon Crawley".
However much he might try to disguise it, which on occasion he did, Simon's voice always betrayed his aristocratic antecedents; something which always made Alec smile. Now for the umpteenth time, it did so again, as Charlie now respectfully touched the brim of his cap.
"I've a letter for you, sir".
Downton Abbey, Yorkshire, late summer, 1949.
Looking out of the window, Mary shook her head in mounting disbelief as with dismay she observed yet another coachload of day trippers winding its way up the long gravelled drive leading from the village before drawing to a stand and disgorging its passengers at the front entrance of the abbey. Here, in times past old Carson, dead these many years, as well as the equally late but unlamented Barrow, and more recently and still, Pickard, were wont to open the door to admit family, friends, and guests to the great house.
Just quite where all of these awful little people, along with their equally revolting, snivelling offspring hailed from, was a matter for conjecture but upon which it did not do to dwell too long. Had Mary herself been a gambler, and so disposed to bet on their likely antecedents and origins, she would have placed odds on the fact that some of the adults had recently been released from prison - Armley Gaol sprang readily to mind - some of the children no doubt from out of one or more of the local reformatories such as Castle Howard on whose Board of Governors, Matthew himself had once sat, or even, God forbid, journeyed here by charabanc, from one of the municipal housing estates over in distant Leeds.
Mary sighed.
Throughout the six long years of war, here in England, standards in everything had declined. However, while hostilities had ended in 1945, four years later, things had still not returned to what they had once been. In fact, in Mary's view, they were a whole lot worse.
Abroad, although the Union Jack still flew over vast swathes of Africa, above islands in the Caribbean and the Pacific, as well as in both Hong Kong and Singapore, India had been lost. As Tom had written to Matthew, shortly after the sub continent became independent, the sun was finally beginning to set on the far flung territories of the British Empire. And when, in April of this year, Ireland had been declared a republic and then left the British Commonwealth, Tom had been delighted.
Here at home, the railways had been nationalised - despite which the service was no better - so too the coal mines, the iron and steel industries, the electricity supply ... The list was endless. Still, with a Labour government in power what could one expect? Except, more of the same.
And what had happened yesterday afternoon was yet another symptom of the inexorable decline towards anarchy, when sitting quietly on her own, in this very room, Mary had become aware that she was being watched. Now, normally, of course, she left this kind of psychic nonsense to the likes of Edith and darling Tom but, this time, her innate sixth sense did not deceive. For, on turning her head, she was horrified to see a child, a young boy, no doubt the half witted offspring of some visitor, with his face pressed firmly against the outside of the window, gazing insolently into the room from that part of the garden which was set aside for the family and to this end, clearly marked "Private".
With an angry waft of her hand, Mary had waved him away, but not before the impudent little rascal, in all likelihood a reincarnation of the Artful Dodger, a member of some modern day Fagin style gang, had the temerity to stick out at her his liquorice stained tongue. Then and there, Mary had made a mental note to have a firm word, not only with the National Trust administrator, but also with Matthew. Surely, it was possible to re-draft the papers ceding Downton to the Trust? Insert a clause, requiring that only the right kind of people were to be admitted to the house and grounds? Matthew ought to be able to come up with something. After all, even if now retired from the legal profession, he had been a solicitor.
Now, this afternoon, with another matter weighing equally heavily on her mind, thoroughly disconsolate, Mary turned away from the very same window of what, during the months when the house was opened by the Trust to the general public - between April and September - served as a temporary Drawing Room; although Matthew, along with the rest of the family, would insist on referring to it as a sitting room.
Mary sighed.
How dreadfully middle class.
A carelessly discarded ice cream wrapper lying on the ground caught her eye and momentarily, Mary returned to the problems caused by admitting the fee paying public to both the house and grounds. Toyed idly with the idea of asking Captain Wilshaw, with whom Matthew and she had become acquainted, and who she knew had been overseeing the clearance of caches of wartime munitions from off the beaches hereabouts, if he had any landmines going spare. Planted at strategic points around the grounds, they would ensure that visitors were kept out of and away from those areas which were marked "Private".
Failing that, there were several perfectly serviceable man-traps, dating back to the early years of the nineteenth century, now on display in the National Trust museum established in part of the old stables, which could easily be pressed back into service and left scattered around in the woods.
Côte d'Azur, France, early spring, 1949.
Here on the beautiful, sun drenched Côte d'Azur, inland from off the sparkling blue waters of the Mediterranean, well away from the ever growing urban sprawl of the city of Nice, studded with holm oaks, umbrella pines, cypresses, larches, flowering laurel, as well as vineyards and olive groves, the limestone hills of the arrière pays are crowned by a scattering of ancient, fortified towns and villages. Among these, the best known are Carros, Gourdon, Eze, Roquebrune-Cap Martin, and St. Paul de Vence, their now crumbling watch towers and curtain walls built in times long past to protect their inhabitants from attack by raiders from off the sea.
In the last of these old world places was to be found the house, recently purchased by Simon Crawley and his chum Alec Foster, the money for which had come principally from the substantial inheritance bequeathed Simon by his late grandmother Cora, Dowager Countess of Grantham, and which he had inherited on his twenty fifth birthday, back in 1947, by which time he and Alec had been living together for some two years.
However, the news that his late grandmother had left him such a large sum of money took time to reach Simon, some eighteen months, and this in the form of a solicitor's letter, forwarded him by his Aunt Edith, who alone knew where Simon and Alec were to be found; Simon having severed all contact with his own family. This had followed hard upon his mother's misguided attempts to put an end to the relationship between Alec and Simon, which had led to Alec serving a prison sentence in Armley Gaol over in Leeds, for a crime of which he was entirely innocent, and for which Simon refused steadfastly to forgive his mother.
After he had left Downton forever in March 1944, when Alec had been released from prison in Leeds in April 1945, craving the anonymity which afforded them the opportunity to live their lives as they wanted, well away from prying eyes and from the censure of both family and society, they had spent the next four years working on narrow boats, up and down the length and breadth of the English canals.
And it was on a summer's evening, in 1948, while they were plying the waters of the Grand Union Canal and had for the coming night, strapped close to the eastern mouth of Bosworth Tunnel in Northamptonshire, that Aunt Edith's letter, enclosing the one from the singularly inappropriately named Messrs. Hassle & Hassle, Solicitors and Commissioners for Oaths, finally caught up with Simon.
Living back in France, at la Rosière, their beautiful château down on the banks of the River Loire near Nantes, with Uncle Friedrich and their younger son Kurt now aged sixteen, it was Aunt Edith who, several years earlier, on the night Alec left Downton, had suggested to Simon that, when Alec was released from prison and the war was over, they should consider moving abroad, to a country where the law tolerated their kind of relationship rather more than was the case in England. And, with the means now available to them to do so now at their disposal, was what had led Alec and Simon to settle here on the Côte d'Azur, early in the spring of 1949.
One of the reasons for coming down here was the hope that the warmer weather might help Simon's leg improve; the injury to it the result of an act of supreme heroism on his part which had taken place in the Sunda Strait, lying between Sumatra and Java, back in February 1942, and for which Simon had been awarded the Conspicuous Gallantry Medal. All these years later, the wound still caused him a great deal of discomfort. Sleeping in a narrow bunk, on board a succession of canal boats, let alone all the heavy, manual labour involved in steering such craft along the inland waterways of England, legging through tunnels and so forth, had not helped. Not at all. No, what Simon needed now was a change of climate and a less arduous job. And Alec was determined to see that both came to be realised.
But there was another reason which had brought the two of them down to the Cote d'Azur, and which again had to do with Aunt Edith. Or, more precisely with her long time White Russian friends, the Zhdanovs, Pyotr and Olga, who, along with their son Dimitri, lived in Biarritz and who had given Edith and young Kurt, then aged seven, shelter on their madcap flight to the Spanish border and safety, following the German invasion of France in June 1940.
Learning from Edith that Simon and his chum were looking for somewhere to buy and restore, the Zhdanovs, who had friends in St. Paul, had suggested the little town as an ideal place to look. Not only were prices hereabouts negligible but there were, thought Olga many properties which might provide the two young men with what it was they were seeking.
And so it proved to be.
St. Paul de Vence, Alpes-Maritimes, France.
Built of local limestone, which constant exposure to countless years of wind, rain, and sun had weathered to a colour somewhere between honey and pale grey, the house stood, as indeed it must have done for centuries, in one of the narrow, winding, cobbled, stepped streets of St. Paul de Vence, but a short distance away from the parish church.
On seeing it for the very first time, both Alec and Simon had been of the same opinion: that beautiful as it must once have been, and indeed could be again, it was something of a miracle that the house itself had remained standing and not collapsed into the street in a pile of rubble. But no doubt only because the presence of the buildings adjoining it on either side had served as masonry crutches and so prevented that catastrophe from happening. This, along with the solidity of the original construction with massive oak timbers supporting the upper floors, while from the vaulted cellar right up to the attic, the walls were some three feet thick, all of which, including the spiral staircase, and two huge fireplaces, had been fashioned out of fine quality stone.
All this apart, the roof of the house needed completely replacing, with many of its timbers being completely rotten, or else heavily infested with woodworm, as indeed were most of the floorboards and so too the doors, window frames, and shutters. There was no electricity while the only supply of water came from a pump in the courtyard at the rear. Quite how, with the house in such a perilous state of disrepair, old Bonnemort, a widower, had managed to live here on his own for so long - upwards of fifty years it was said - remained something of a mystery, but it seemed that he had spent most of his time living, eating, as well as sleeping in the huge kitchen and, certainly in his later years, rarely, if ever ventured upstairs.
So because of all the repairs that it would be necessary to undertake to make the house habitable, the price being asked for the property by the vendor, old Bonnemort's son, had been understandably modest which Alec and Simon, who between them drove a hard bargain, had managed to reduce still further; the deal duly sealed over a convivial meal washed down with several bottles of local wine, at the Bar Nicolas, on the Rue Grande.
Thereafter, once all the necessary legal formalities had been completed, Alec and Simon become the proud owners of the much decayed Maison des Colombes. Not of course that there were any doves, at least not now, with the centuries old, conical roofed, stone colombier, which stood a short distance away from the rear of the house, being in a ruinous condition.
Of course, given how, down the years, Simon's own father had fought tooth and nail to try and keep Downton Abbey in a fit state of repair, let alone Uncle Tom and Aunt Sybil who, in the autumn of 1943, had begun the restoration of the burned out shell of Skerries House, set ablaze by the IRA in January 1921, all three of them could have told Alec and Simon what they were setting in train, what to expect, as well as something of the vagaries of builders.
But, given how things stood between Simon and his immediate family and the fact that he only heard of Uncle Tom and Aunt Sybil and their family when Aunt Edith made mention of them in her breezy, chatty letters, the opportunity to be forewarned did not thus present itself.
Maison des Colombes, St. Paul de Vence, late summer, 1949.
Some five months' hard work had wrought a remarkable transformation, both inside and outside the hitherto neglected Maison des Colombes which, when fully restored, its new owners fully intended would be opened as a select pensione, run by Simon, and from where Alec could work as an artist although, at least for now, Simon had far more confidence in his friend's capabilities as a painter than did Alec himself.
Standing naked over by the shuttered window of their bedroom, his skin beaded with perspiration, Simon peered out through the slats into the blackness of the night. Quite how long he had been standing here, he didn't know but he was exceedingly thankful for the slow passage of time. For sometimes, and this was one of those occasions, that can be more precious than diamonds. Northwards, from somewhere over the mountains, there came a faint rumble of thunder.
"Si'? What on earth's the matter?"
Hearing Alec's voice, Simon half turned; in the grey dimness, saw Alec now fling back the quilt, before clambering out of bed and, likewise naked, cross the room towards him. A moment later, he felt Alec's arm steal gently about his sun browned shoulders.
"Sorry. Can't sleep. Too hot. That's all".
In the half light, Alec smiled. Prided himself on the fact that after all this time, he could read Simon Crawley like a book. No, that was not all. Far from it. Outside, the thunder reverberated again, louder than before while flashes of sheet lightning lit up the night sky heralding a storm from the north which, given the present circumstances, seemed somehow, singularly appropriate.
"Now, we both know that isn't entirely true. That you can't sleep, I'll concede you that. Even vouchsafe that it's very warm tonight. So, that too. Especially after what we did earlier. That can't have helped. Perhaps we should have both had a cold shower, before settling down!" Alec grinned. At the memory thus stirred, Simon blushed; delightfully so.
"Maybe".
"But that isn't all, is it? Not by a long way". Alec placed his hands on Simon's shoulders.
The other slowly shook his head.
"No. Even if I wanted to, which I don't, not for a single moment, can I ever keep anything from you, can I?" Simon gave Alec a rueful smile.
"So, am I to presume that it's the telegram?"
"Of course. What else? Is it that ruddy obvious?"
"Well, since you ask, yes. After all, ever since it arrived here two days ago, and you then sent off your reply post haste, you've been like a cat on hot bricks. What time again?"
"Off the eleven o'clock train from Nice. And then by taxi, all the way up here from Cagnes. Unless ..."
"Unless we drive down there and meet the train. Is that what you mean?"
Simon nodded.
"But not if you don't want to. So you see, this bloody leg of mine does have its uses after all!"
It was now Alec's turn to smile.
The injury to Simon's right leg still pained him;
Although the resulting scar had faded considerably, left presently with a limp, Simon did not feel confident enough to try and drive the second hand, grey, 2CV which they had bought a few weeks ago from off the son of the grocer here in St. Paul. The more so since the road leading to Cagnes was very steep, with several hairpin bends, twisting and turning all the way, down to the coast. So for the foreseeable future, it fell to Alec to do all the driving.
"Are you really that nervous?"
Simon pulled a face.
"Of course I'm bloody nervous! After what happened the last time? Do you blame me?"
"No. And that's a good question".
"What is?"
"What I think. The answer to which is, there's no use fretting over spilled milk. We both knew this day had to come".
Simon nodded.
"All the same, I ..."
"Why don't you come back to bed?"
Simon nodded; did as he had been asked.
A short while later, lying there in the darkness, within the circle of Alec's arms, listening to the gentle rhythm of his friend's breathing, Simon did his best to try and forget what it was that was troubling him. Only, he found that he couldn't. And when, at last, turning his head yet again, it was to see bright sunlight peeping through the louvres of the shutters, whereupon he realised that he hadn't slept at all.
This morning, here beneath the exposed beams, rafters and purlins of the newly restored roof, all of which presently smelt strongly of wood preservative, perched on a high stool in front of his easel, set up in what, until recently, had been nothing more than a dusty, decayed attic, now turned into the beginnings of a studio, lost for inspiration, and, if the truth be told, not a little worried about the forthcoming encounter scheduled for later this afternoon, smoking a Gauloise, Alec Foster gazed pensively out through the open window.
The view before him set under a lowering sky, encompassed part of the patchwork of terracotta tiled roofs of some of the old houses huddled within the ancient wall girding the medieval hilltop town. Alec's gaze slid on, past the narrow stone bell tower of the Romanesque collegiate church, beyond the town wall, skirting a grove of slender, dark green, pencil shaped cypresses, saw too the vivid mauve of a field of lavender, thence across the vine clad valley, as far as the distant mountains, the snow covered crests of the Alps already blearing in the early morning heat haze.
Alec's eyes lighted back upon that undulating swathe of roof tiles. On reflection, he was not at all sure that he believed what M. Maysonet had told them about the making of those same tiles in years gone by. Old Maysonet was the local builder whom, along with his two sons Jules and Pierre, Alec and Simon had engaged,to renovate the house which they had bought here in St. Paul; the two Englishmen soon learning that the garrulous, walrus moustached Maysonet was a teller of exceedingly tall tales and Alec suspected that the narrative he had related to them over several Pastis, down at the Bar Nicolas, concerning the manufacture of the roof tiles, was completely made up.
That had been one fine spring evening, several months ago, not long after they had arrived here in St. Paul, following a long day spent working on the south roof of the old house. While most of the heavy work was contracted to be undertaken by Maysonet and his two sons, neither Alec nor Simon were averse to getting stuck in themselves. This despite Simon's injured leg restricting what he could do.
Nonetheless, like a true Crawley, just as he had when they had been working on the canals over in England, Simon made the best of it, working outside, along with Alec, wearing nothing but shorts, the two of them soon burned brown by the heat of the sun, while piling salvaged stone for repairs, stacking sawn timber and new floorboards, mixing buckets of mortar, as well as clearing the garden at the rear of the house. Apart from the ruins of the colombier, the long abandoned terrain was a wilderness, heavily overgrown, a wasteland of long grass, nettles, briar, and thorn, along with patches of thyme, lavender, and wild mushrooms, the haunt of scorpions, snakes, and brightly coloured lizards that also, beneath the shade of one of several old olive trees hid an old, long forgotten well which nearly proved Alec's undoing, only Simon's quick thinking preventing his friend from falling down the shaft when the ground suddenly shifted and gave way unexpectedly beneath his feet. Old Maysonnet saw to it that the mouth of the old well was swiftly boarded over, until a decision could be made as to what was to be done about it.
It was after the incident of the well, that Simon and Alec decided that, all things considered, it might be better if they spent the rest of the afternoon helping out where they could with work on-going on the house. So, with Pierre having shown them what needed to be done in the matter of re-tiling the south face of the roof, with Simon standing on the rickety wooden scaffolding passing up batches of salvaged tiles to Alec kneeling just above him, balanced somewhat precariously on the bare, new battens, Alec set about replacing the tiles from whence they had come.
That evening, with Maysonet and his sons long since having finished work and gone home to their supper, with the whole sweep of the southern slope of the roof at last re-clad, and said Alec with a self satisfied grin as he surveyed his own handiwork, in a far better state of repair than it had been for many a year, tired but all the same very pleased with the result of their own labours, both he and Simone had clambered down from off the roof.
Thereafter, away from prying eyes, in the privacy afforded them by the courtyard at the back of the house, where they intended to build a loggia, easy in each other's company, embarrassment long since a thing of the past, they had stripped naked, before washing themselves clean with both soap and water. Each took it in turn to work the arm of the old cast iron pump which, until the end of the following week, when the mains supply to the house was finally being brought into use, had served as the only means with which to cook, drink, and wash.
A short while later, Alec and Simon had made their way down to the Bar Nicolas where, seated at a table outside, they had their own well deserved supper, along with a bottle of red wine. It was after they had eaten their fill, and were sitting companionably together in the narrow street, that they found themselves hailed unexpectedly by old Maysonet who had been out walking his dog; a large mastiff, with a black mask, and which went by the improbable name of Alphonse.
Good manners dictated that they ask M. Maysonet to join them for a drink. Then another. And another. After the fourth Pastis, the old builder began to grow loquacious. With his thick accent, Simon's command of French not yet being as proficient as it was to become, and Alec comprehending only a few words, much of what the builder said went over their heads. However, among other things, he proceeded to regale Alec and Simon as to how, in times past, the roof tiles had been made. D'autrefois, before la Grande Guerre, in which Maysonet himself had fought in the Alps against the les autrichiens, the tiles had been shaped by moulding the damp, moist clay over women's thighs. Thereafter, the curved tiles were spread out neatly in large batches in fields, in farmyards, and by the roadside, where they were left to bake and dry hard, beneath the blistering heat of the sun.
But, it seemed this was not all M. Maysonet wished to impart. He would have told them in the morning but, why wait until then, they were friends, were they not? As if to reinforce what he had just said, Maysonet placed his arms around both of their shoulders.
"Il y a un petit, un miniscule problème".
A small difficulty had arisen with the renovation.
Just how minute was the problem, M. Maysonet now proceeded to demonstrate, this by holding up his calloused right hand, then closing together the splayed thumb and forefinger, so that the gap between them all but vanished. At that moment an acquaintance of his passed by them in the street, Maysonet calling out a friendly greeting which was duly returned.
Meanwhile, Alec looked at Simon and Simon looked at Alec. Evidently they were thinking the same thing. If le problème was indeed that small, why bother to mention it at all?"
Maysonet turned back to them.
"Alors, mes petits, le problème ..."
"Quoi, exactement?" asked Simon. Then wished he hadn't. M. Maysonet beamed.
"Un nid de frelons ..."
Simon looked blankly at Alec.
"Search me," he said, giving a Gallic shrug, the expansive nature of which was worthy of Maysonet himself.
The builder did his best to explain how matters stood ... by making a loud buzzing sound.
Aéroport de Nice-le Var, Alpes-Maritimes.
Thankfully, the flight from Le Bourget in Paris had proved uneventful. But only that was until they reached the Alps when, somewhere over the mountains, the noisy Air France SE.161 Languedoc ran into a severe thunderstorm. Then, if only for a short while, things had become decidedly unpleasant. It was to be hoped that when finally they came into land at Nice, the airliner did not overshoot the runway ... as had happened several months earlier.
Maison des Colombes, St. Paul de Vence.
Not bees, as Simon had thought.
Nor wasps, which Alec had then suggested.
Something far worse.
A nest of hornets.
To be precise, two of the blasted things, which Alphonse had found, while sniffing about in the ruins of the colombier.
And the following morning, promptly at seven thirty, Maysonet and his two sons turned up at the house to do battle with the hornets.
Or rather Jules and Pierre did.
Both of them were wearing veiled hats and sporting leather gauntlets and boots such as Tom Branson might once have worn. With their shirts well buttoned, the cuffs of which, along with the bottoms of their trousers were tied tightly with string, each man was armed with a pruning hook and carried a large galvanised bucket. Clearly, in the face of such formidably equipped opposition, Simon observed wryly to Alec, the hornets wouldn't stand a chance!
But of Maysonet himself, there was no sign.
Nor, indeed, of the inquisitive Alphonse.
At least for the present, it seemed that both the builder and his dog had unexpected business elsewhere.
Even before Maysonet and his two sons began work on the restoration of the house, Alec and Simon had adjusted to the daily rhythm of living here in the south of France. Waking to bright sunshine slanting through the shutters of their bedroom and, with the coming of summer, the constant noisy chirping of the cicadas. Then, up, washed, and dressed, followed by an early morning stroll, usually by just one, or else, if the mood so took them, then together, down to the boulangerie for fresh bread for breakfast, to be eaten spread with jam, accompanied by bowls of piping hot, strong, black coffee. Then continuing working on the house and labouring in the overgrown garden, before going down into town again later, or else up to the market in nearby Vence, to buy whatever else they might need for lunch and supper. A simple life, but one which suited both of them entirely; something to which they had long become accustomed.
And here in St. Paul, this morning had been no different, when, a little after seven, leaving Simon dozing fitfully in bed, Alec slipped quietly out of the house and down to the boulangerie. On his return, glancing at the thermometer on the wall beside the kitchen door, he saw that it was already showing 16 degrees; knew that with or without rain, the temperature would climb much further throughout the morning.
Leaving the baguette on the kitchen table, it being Simon's turn to make breakfast, Alec climbed the stairs to the attic, intending to try and make a start on the sketch he had in mind. But now, seated before his easel, inspiration seemed to have deserted him. This business of the telegram ... was getting to him as well. A short while later, there came a clatter of crockery and cutlery as Simon, now up and about, apparently none the worse for his lack of sleep, whistling cheerfully, moved about the kitchen.
"Breakfast!"
"All right, I'll be down in a minute.
However, Alec didn't move. Now saw, through the open window, that outside the sky had turned inky black. And, as the storm finally broke, and it began to pour with rain, from directly overhead, or so it seemed, there came a tremendous clap of thunder, followed almost instantaneously by a loud bang from downstairs. At which point, all the lights went out.
"Bugger it! That's all we need! Today of all days"!" yelled Simon.
Skerries House, County Cork, Ireland, late summer 1949.
Life was good and had he been asked about it, Tom Branson would have said that he hadn't felt this well in ages.
The air was heavy with the scent of new mown hay, mixed with a salty tang from off the sea. Beneath the cedar tree, from the comfort of his deckchair, Tom sat watching his two eldest grandsons, Daniel and Tomás "helping" old Flaherty to stack sheaves of barley in the field below the house. Now saw Sybil crossing the grass towards him, wearing a straw hat, with baby Patrick, Danny and Claire's youngest, in her arms. A minute later and Sybil sank down wearily in the empty deckchair beside his own. Having made the baby and herself comfortable, she turned her head and smiled.
"It's very, very hot".
"It is, for sure".
Sybil nodded towards the jug of lemonade standing on the wicker table between them.
"I think I'm about ready for a glass of that. Honestly, I don't know how Claire does it. A full time job as a doctor and a mother to six! And if I'm not very much mistaken it will be seven in the new year!"
Tom raised an eyebrow.
"For sure?"
Sybil nodded.
"I told you I had my suspicions!"
Tom smiled. He leaned over, picked up the jug, and poured her a glass of lemonade.
"Witch! Mind yous, I can't say I'm surprised. Danny's a very lucky man". Tom looked towards where Thirza, Danny and Claire's daughter, now aged two, sat playing on the grass with a daisy chain.
"Thank you". Sybil took a sip of lemonade and sank back in her chair.
"My pleasure!"
"So, what do you think?" Sybil nodded towards the letter lying in Tom's lap and which he had read to her earlier that same afternoon.
"Ah, a dangerous question, for sure!"
"Asking you what you think?"
Tom nodded. Looked down again at the letter.
"What I t'ink, is that there will be fireworks".
Gare de Cagnes, Cagnes-sure-Mer, Alpes-Maritimes, France, late summer 1949.
Leaving Lefèvre, the local electrician, scratching his head, trying to ascertain just what possibly could have gone wrong with the new wiring, Alec and Simon set off for Cagnes. When, shortly after midday they arrived at the station, in the village where the painter Renoir had spent the last years of his life, it was just in time to see the train from Nice drawing away from the platform, bound for Antibes.
And, it was still raining.
Having parked the car, side stepping the large puddles pooling in the gravel of the forecourt, Alec but a fraction behind him, on reaching the station building Simon pushed open the door of the shabby salle d'attente and limped inside.
A moment later, with Alec now beside him, Simon came to an abrupt halt.
Author's Note:
For the rescue of Hope during the sinking of the Lancastria, Isaac Solomons, the Zhdanovs and their son, Dimitri, see The White Cliffs Of Dover.
The main line of the Grand Union Canal links Birmingham with London. Foxton Locks are a series of ten "staircase" locks, the largest such flight on the English canal system; used where a canal has to climb a hill, each lock opening directly into the next. Opened in 1813, Bosworth Tunnel is 1166 yards in length.
Strapping - to moor.
The cut - canal.
The Republic of Ireland Act 1948 declared the country to be a republic and its President its Head of State, in place of King George VI. These changes came into force in April 1949, on the 33rd anniversary of the Easter Rising.
For Simon's bravery during the war, see The White Cliffs Of Dover.
les autrichiens - Austrians.
The accident at Nice Airport occurred in April 1949, involving the same type of 'plane. Fortunately there were no injuries but the airliner was written off as beyond repair
For the last twelve years of his life, the French Impressionist painter, Pierre-Auguste Renoir (1841-1919) lived just outside Cagnes. The house where he lived and died, recently restored, is now a museum.