Paid and Loving Eyes

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

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The lake was quite a size, as jumped-up ponds go. We walked along a little shore among trees that tried to get their feet wet but couldn’t make it. Pretty. There are quite a lot of flowers in the woods in France. That’s all I wish to say on the subject of their countryside. Rural lovers can keep it. They can have ours too, as far as I’m concerned.

“It hasn’t rained for days, Lovejoy!” Almira was like a young girl, running ahead, pointing. “The ground’s lovely!”

Ground? Lovely too? Jesus. Mind you, a woman’s alluring shape makes you think of possible ways to counter yawnsome nature rambles, so I smiled, but she skipped away, enticing.

“Not here, Lovejoy. Wait till the summerhouse…” She caught herself quickly. ”Madame Raybaud said there’s one along here.”

Well, deception is as does. I cooled, looked across the lake. Nobody was about. We weren’t being seen and it all seemed private, so why suddenly the reserve?

“Lovejoy!” she exclaimed, flushed. “I said no! Wait. It’s just along here…”

We managed to get her breast off my hand and make it round a small promontory to where a logwood cabin stood. It seemed mostly windows. A boathouse, a rough track leading into the trees. Nice—sorry, lovely— if you like being remote. It was locked, but—surprise!—Almira guessed exactly where the key would be on the lintel. More clues to ownership: she didn’t have to look for doorhandles. I felt that same sense of a woman in situ.

It was getting on for four o’clock when we came to and donned enough clothes to show respectability if a passing racoon or whatever happened by. She decided to brew up when I moaned neglect, and laughingly went to clatter in the kitchen. Big kitchens in France, but no ovens to speak of. Stoves by the score, though. I stood on the verandah to look over the lake.

Sunshine’s not all that bad, when it’s the golden ambery kind you get in late autumn. It’s the straight up-down stuff of broiling summer I hate. I stand in shade wherever it lurks. So, to one side of the sheltered projection over the boathouse slipway, I watched the lake and the weather and what a load of crap countryside is. Then I heard Almira lal-lalling to a tune, and smiled as the light came on. I had an Auntie Alice once who lal-lalled to any tune on earth. She could turn Vaughan William’s Sea Sympathy into lallal. I edged nearer the corner to listen, smiling. Which was how I came to see him.

It was Marc, leaning on a tree. That sickle thing hung in his belt. He carried a shotgun the way countryfolk do, broken over the crook of an arm, barrel down, stock under his elbow. Hands in pockets. Plus-fours, thick jacket, small hat with feathers around the band. Slowly I drew back. It’s movement gives spies away. That and, I thought sardonically, being too sloppy when you think the opponent’s a duckegg. Like Marc did me.

Quickly I made the kitchen, demonstrating affection to see what happened. She pouted, glanced at the window, shoved me aside, did that playtime mockery women engage in to promise passion when they’ve got a minute. Which meant she knew Marc was trailing us. Hence the absence of sex on the sunshine shore.

“Dwoorlink,” I said, all misty, when we were sipping in the bay window. “I’ve an idea! Let’s sleep here tonight!”

“Oh, Lovejoy.” She smiled, but close to tears. “You’re such a romantic. But it’s impossible.”

“Why?” I was bright as a button. “Can’t you see? Nobody near us, to see us or hear us…” I halted, uneasy at the words’ familiarity. I’m no wooer. Women see through me.

“Because,” she said. It was meant to sound light-hearted, but came out unutterably sad.

“Because what?” I took her hand. “I’ve never said this to any other woman, love. But I honestly wish you were the very first woman I’d ever met. I want us to—”

“No, Lovejoy. Don’t say it.”

She turned away, real tears flowing. I was uncomfortable, more upset than she was, because I’d almost nearly virtually honestly been about to say something unspeakably dangerous. I felt myself go white inside, if that’s possible. Why had she stopped me? Usually women go crazy to hear such daftness from a bloke. Was she acting, then? Or even more chained than me?

We spent the rest of the time proving merriment to each other, that this was a holiday affair of the very best kind. We made it home at the very edge of light.

And saw a Jaguar making its throbbing approach towards our very own front door. Like I said, I almost got everything nearly right—another way of saying everything wrong.

“Good heavens!” Almira exclaimed in a way that told me she was furious we’d not returned earlier. Probably planned how we’d be sipping aperitifs or something clearly innocent when he arrived. “Look who’s here! How ever did you manage to find us, Paul?”

With a man of vigour, you’d say uncoiled from the car. Paulie unravelled.

“Good evening, Almira.” He’d been ordered to sound portentous. “Lovejoy.”

“Wotcher, Paulie. Alone, I see.”

“Afraid so. It’s Cissie.”

“Oh, aye.” When was it ever not? I didn’t say it.

“She’s ill, Lovejoy. She wants you to come. I phoned home to find you, Lovejoy. And heard you were here, at your friend Claudine’s chateau, Almira.”

Suspicious, but maybe true.

“What are you doing in France, Paulie?” I asked, eyes narrowing, ready to disbelieve.

“We were on our way to Marseilles, a clinic there. Cissie’s been ill, took a turn for the worse on the journey. I got her seen at the local hospital. She’s there now, Lovejoy.”

It might just be true. I looked at Almira, who was being all concerned. “Oh, poor thing,” and all that. I wondered how genuine we three were all being. He honestly did look distressed. But was Cissie truly honestly ill, or had Paulie merely been ordered to do King Lear?

“Come where?” I gave back, wary. Coming on Cissie’s orders was no simple matter.

“The general hospital, Lovejoy. It’s about forty miles. I’ll drive as soon as I’ve got myself together.”

Madame Raybaud hove into view, sombre of mien. Old women everywhere have this knack of sensing morbidity. They’re drawn to it like motorists to an accident.

“Poor thing!” et sympathetic cetera from Almira. “I hope it’s nothing serious…?”

His eyes wavered. “I… I’d better let them tell you there,” he said. “She wants to see Lovejoy. For his help.”

If he was acting, it wasn’t bad. If it was genuine, it was, well, a totally different game. Maybe not even a game at all.

“How come you know Almira?” I asked, still wary.

“Know each other?” She gave me her huge eyes, a half-incredulous laugh. “This is no time for silly jealousy, Lovejoy!” She coloured slightly. “Paul has been my investment counsellor for over six years!”

So the party line was that she knew about Cissie and, formerly, me. And about Cissie and, now, good old Paulie. Therefore Cissie knew about Almira and me, and wouldn’t blab to Jay. One thing rankled, though. I’d never known Cissie pass up a chance to stab an orphan kitten, let alone make a cutting remark about my indiscretions. Cissie would have slashed me with some remark about consorting with rich married women. Apart from that little flaw, their combined story could just be true.

“Why does she want me?” I asked. She never had before.

“She wants to tell you herself, Lovejoy.” He looked at me, then away. “We’ve not got all that long.”

“Oh, my God!” from Almira, starting indoors to find some packing to burden us with. “Come on, Lovejoy! Get ready!”

An hour later, we hit the road in Paulie’s Jag. I looked back several times, but we weren’t followed, far as I could tell. I perked up. Maybe the hospital had some antique medical instruments for sale. I know a collector in the Midlands gives good prices for mint surgical stuff. I’d ask Cissie, if we were on speaking terms. I wondered if she knew the word for charades in French.