It wasn’t because he sneered at him, or called him names behind her back, that Georges despised the nephew. More the way he scowled at having to trek upstairs to fetch her cardigan because her legs weren’t up to it, or screwed up his face when she forgot things. Georges scuffed his foot. He knew all about forgetting things, and saw how much it embarrassed Madame Morreau, being dependent on someone else to put it right. Especially someone who resented doing it...
“I don’t think he was even sorry that she died.”
Georges had never encountered sudden death before, so he couldn’t be certain. But that look on Weasel’s face when the doctor signed that piece of paper—
“I wish I could put a name to that expression,” he said, but his parents were back poring over their plans, discussing colour charts and debating whether the floor tiles in the bathrooms would be better white or cream. To them, the incident was closed. But for Georges, the misgivings wouldn’t go away, and though the winter gales came lashing in from the Atlantic, bending the pines around the lake and causing them to hiss like angry snakes, his mind remained on aniseed and ruffled hair. On cardigans that smelled of lavender, and happy, girlish giggles.
People imagined Madame Morreau was as well-heeled as the other guests, but Georges knew otherwise. Her suits were quality, but seconds, he’d seen the crossed-out labels. Also, her petticoats had worn thin, her stockings were darned, and her shoes, although good quality and polished to a shine, were almost through to holes. And even he, who didn’t understand figures very much, knew that red ink on a bank statement was bad news. Which is why he thanked her so politely for the candy every year, and refused a tip for carrying her bags. She’d had to really scrimp and save for her fortnight at Les Pins, and go without a lot of things to pay for her nephew to come with her. He knew all this, because he’d read it in her diary.
And her diary said nothing about heart attacks and seizures—
“Oh, Georgie. You’ve let the paste go hard.”
Paste? Then he remembered why he was up this blooming ladder. Sticking fresh wallpaper on No. 21. “It’s not right, Mum.”
“Not now it isn’t, love. It’s set like concrete in this wretched bucket.”
“I don’t mean the glue. Madame Morreau.”
But by the time he’d trundled down the ladder, both his mother and the tub of paste were gone, and he’d painted the whole of the first-floor corridor and was halfway through emulsioning the ceiling in Reception before it dawned on him.
“You said pillows,” he said, laying down his brush.
“No, I didn’t, love. I said windows. Can you wash the windows when you’re done? Only Suzette’s gone and got herself pregnant, and God only knows who the father is. But the point is, I don’t want her up a stepladder, not in her condition.”
“You said she died snuggled into her pillows,” Georges said, except she couldn’t have. Madame Morreau never used a pillow, stacking all four neatly in a pile beside the bed, and that’s where she used to rest her diary when she’d finished writing up her day. On the pile of pillows, with her specs. “She liked to sleep flat,” he added. For her neck.
“Suzette?” Irene looked confused. “Anyway, the thing is, the hotel inspector’s coming down to view the new extension, and I would really like to have the whole place looking its best for when he comes. Sparkling from roof down to the cellar!”
Georges tried to imagine the roof sparkling, but couldn’t. “Madame Morreau had a good heart.”
“Indeed she did, love. She was kind and patient, just like you, and I know you were fond of her, Georgie, but you have to accept that her poor old heart was simply worn out with age.”
Was it? All night he couldn’t sleep for worrying, because who could he tell? Who’d listen to the ramblings of a daydreaming handyman who couldn’t spell and couldn’t add up, either?
Who would believe a man who crept in people’s rooms at night?
“Hey, Carrot Top!”
The season was in full swing again.
“Fetch me a cold beer, will you? I’m absolutely gasping.”
Georges paused from emptying the hedge clippings on the compost. That voice — He peered round the corner and could hardly believe his eyes. Madame Morreau’s nephew!
“Yes, you. Gingernut.” Jean-Paul was addressing a girl, whose bare feet were half buried in the sand. “You wouldn’t allow a man to die of thirst, would you?”
“She’s not staff,” Georges said. “She’s—” For the first time he took a good, hard look at her. “She’s—”
“Recently moved in across the lake.” Her little snub nose wrinkled in apology. “Sorry. Am I trespassing? Only I was curious to see what our village looked like from this side.”
“No. I mean, yes, but—”
He could see how Jean-Paul mistook her for a waitress. Black skirt, white blouse. Red hair tied back from her face.
“What he means is, can’t you read?” Weasel pointed to the big, bold sign that proclaimed PrivateProperty. “It specifically says ‘No Carrot Tops Allowed.’”
“Don’t call her that.” Georges felt something stir inside. “It’s mean.”
“True.” The nephew winked, then turned and walked off whistling. “I’ll stick with Gingernut instead.”
Over in the car park, Georges saw Madame Morreau’s ancient Peugeot straddling two bays. The mirror shine had gone, the number plate was black with flies, and rust had begun to creep along the sills. A pair of fluffy dice, one pink, one blue, dangled above the grimy walnut console.
“Thanks for sticking up for me,” the girl said, scuffing her toe deeper into the sand. “But I’m used to being ribbed about my hair.”
The teasing still hurt, though. He could tell by the way her skin had turned bright pink, right down to her neck. “Is that why you tie it back? To hide it?”
“Wouldn’t you?” The greenest eyes he’d ever seen misted over. “I tried dyeing it, but that made it ten times worse.” This time the nose wrinkled in disgust. “It’s horrible hair. I hate it.”
“You shouldn’t.” For some reason, he had an urge to reach out and feel how its curls would spring about between his fingers. “It’s beautiful.”
“It’s bright red!”
“Like maple leaves in autumn,” Georges said, nodding. “The colour of a robin’s breast and squirrels’ fur and sunsets on the lake, and you know what else? Your face. It reminds me of a wren’s egg.”
“Because of the mass of brown freckles on a very white background?”
“Because it’s small and smooth and fragile,” he corrected.
Across the lake? He glanced at the dots that were the village in the distance. She did. She definitely said, across the lake.
“Is it true you know where every swan and heron has its nest?”
Her name was Sandrine and she worked in the boat-hire office that her father had just opened and which, according to her, was doing exceptionally well. Despite her leaving customers lined up outside because she forgot to open up, or else stranded on the open water, having not filled up their gas tanks.
“Are there otters in the lake?” she asked, peering through her binoculars.
“No, but there’s a family in the river that feeds into it.” Her legs were long and slim, and covered in the same pretty freckles that covered her face and arms. “I built a hide to watch them.”
He could have talked for hours, and the odd thing was, he had the feeling Sandrine would have listened, too. But round the door of Reception, he could see a finger being crooked, beckoning him. An arrogant, bony finger, with a weaselly sneer on the end of it.
“Going to carry my cases for me, Slowpoke?”
Through the office, Georges could see Irene had had to take an urgent phone call, and remembered that although he’d serviced the lift earlier this morning, this was yet another occasion when he’d gone off to cut the hedge without reconnecting the blasted electricity.