“A bit,” Georges admitted.
“Don’t be, love.” His mother squeezed his hand. “The old dear had a long and happy life, and you should be pleased she died peacefully, snuggled in her pillows.” She turned to Marcel and pulled a face. “Even if it was in our hotel.”
“The undertakers were very discreet, I thought.”
“Only because you slipped them lorry loads of francs, but it’s the chambermaids I’m proudest of. None of them so much as screamed.”
“They wouldn’t bloody dare,” Marcel muttered under his breath, but Irène wasn’t listening.
“The guests had no idea that anything was amiss, and even Madame Morreau’s nephew carried himself well, I thought. Considering.”
When Georges closed his eyes, he could see Jean-Paul in conversation with the doctor that the hotel had been obliged to call. Saw him showing him the pills Madame Morreau took for her bad heart. Heard him telling how she’d had two seizures this year already.
“Nice boy,” Irène added, with a sigh. “Always so conscientious when he stayed here with his aunt.”
“No, he wasn’t.”
If anyone was an expert on the subject of being chivvied up, it was Georges. But never on account of being lazy.
It’s very good of you to do this for me, Georges.
I like doing it, Madame Morreau. Honest.
Unlike some, who wouldn’t be seen dead supporting an old lady’s arm while she took a walk along the lake.
I don’t know where Jean-Paul’s got to, I really don’t.
Georges did. As soon as she said she wouldn’t mind a stroll, Weasel had been off. Greyhounds on a track don’t run that fast.
It’s so nice to be able to take a walk, while I’m still able. He remembered the sad little smile she’d shot him, as she patted his arm. I’ll be in a wheelchair next year, Georges.
That’ll be good, though, won’t it? I’ll be able to push you round the lake. In fact, I’ll run.
Will you? Will you, Georges? Her laugh suddenly became happy and girlish, and for a moment he saw how she must have looked sixty years ago. You’ve no idea how exciting it’d be for an old woman to feel the wind in her hair again.
You bet, he’d promised, and he meant it.
“Jean-Paul thought fetching things and looking after her beneath him,” he told Marcel and Irène.
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 Number 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?” Irène 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 Private Property. “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.”