Barbara imagined her willful, ignorant daughter being enticed, trapped, molested, impregnated, and disgraced. And ending up wondering how it happened, Barbara thought. She saw Molly’s seducer, brutish and dull. I’d get him by the throat, she said to herself. She imagined the man’s strong neck and her own small hands, her brittle bird-bones. She said, “You are never, ever to speak to a stranger on the bus. You’re not to get in a car with a man — not even if you know him.”
“I don’t know any man with a car.”
“You could be waiting for a bus on a dark afternoon,” said Barbara. “A car might pull up. Would you like a lift? No, you must answer. No and no and no. It is different for the boys. There are the two of them. They could put up a fight.”
“Nobody bothers boys,” said Molly.
Barbara drew breath but for once in her life said nothing.
Alec’s remission was no longer just miraculous — it had become unreasonable. Barbara’s oldest brother hinted that Alec might be better off in England, cared for on National Health: They were paying unholy taxes for just such a privilege. Barbara replied that Alec had no use for England, where the Labour government had sapped everyone’s self-reliance. He believed in having exactly the amount of suffering you could pay for, no less and no more. She knew this theory did not hold water, because the Laceys and Alec’s own sister had done the paying. It was too late now; they should have thought a bit sooner; and Alec was too ravaged to make a new move.
The car that, inevitably, pulled up to a bus stop in Nice was driven by a Mr. Wilkinson. He had just taken Major Lamprey and the Major’s old mother to the airport. He rolled his window down and called to Molly, through pouring rain, “I say, aren’t you from Lou Mas?”
If he sounded like a foreigner’s Englishman, like a man in a British joke, it was probably because he had said so many British-sounding lines in films set on the Riviera. Eric Wilkinson was the chap with the strong blue eyes and ginger mustache, never younger than thirty-four, never as much as forty, who flashed on for a second, just long enough to show there was an Englishman in the room. He could handle a uniform, a dinner jacket, tails, a monocle, a cigarette holder, a swagger stick, a polo mallet, could open a cigarette case without looking like a gigolo, could say without being an ass about it, “Bless my soul, wasn’t that the little Maharani?” or even, “Come along, old boy — fair play with Monica, now!” Foreigners meeting him often said, “That is what the British used to be like, when they were still all right, when the Riviera was still fit to live in.” But the British who knew him were apt to glaze over: “You mean Wilkinson?” Mrs. Massie and Mr. Cranefield said, “Well, Wilkinson, what are you up to now?” There was no harm to him: His one-line roles did not support him, but he could do anything, even cook. He used his car as a private taxi, driving people to airports, meeting them when they came off cruise ships. He was not a chauffeur, never said “sir,” and at the same time kept a certain distance, was not shy about money changing hands — no fake pride, no petit bourgeois demand for a slipped envelope. Good-natured. Navy blazer. Summer whites in August. Wore a tie that carried a message. What did it stand for? A third-rate school? A disgraced, disbanded regiment? A club raided by the police? No one knew. Perhaps it was the symbol of something new altogether. “Still playing in those films of yours, Wilkinson?” He would flash on and off — British gent at roulette, British Army officer, British diplomat, British political agent, British anything. Spoke his line, fitted his monocle, pressed the catch on his cigarette case. His ease with other people was genuine, his financial predicament unfeigned. He had never been married, and had no children that he knew of.
“By Jove, it’s nippy,” said Wilkinson, when Molly had settled beside him, her books on her lap.
What made her do this — accept a lift from a murderer of schoolgirls? First, she had seen him somewhere safe once — at Mr. Cranefleld’s. Also, she was wet through, and chilled to the heart. Barbara kept refusing or neglecting or forgetting to buy her the things she needed: a lined raincoat, a jersey the right size. (The boys were wearing hand-me-down clothes from England now, but no one Barbara knew of seemed to have a daughter.) The sleeves of her old jacket were so short that she put her hands in her pockets, so that Mr. Wilkinson would not despise her. He talked to Molly as he did to everyone, as if they were of an age, informing her that Major Lamprey and his mother were flying to Malta to look at a house. A number of people were getting ready to leave the south of France now; it had become so seedy and expensive, and all the wrong people were starting to move in.
“What kind of wrong people?” She sat tense beside him until he said, “Why, like Eric Wilkinson, I should think,” and she laughed when his own laugh said she was meant to. He was nice to her; even later, when she thought she had reason to hate him, she would remember that Wilkinson had been nice. He drove beyond his destination — a block of flats that he waved at in passing and that Molly in a confused way supposed he owned. They stopped in the road behind Lou Mas; she thanked him fervently, and then, struck with something, sat staring at him: “Mr. Wilkinson,” she said. “Please — I am not allowed to be in cars with men alone. In case someone happened to see us, would you mind just coming and meeting my mother? Just so she can see who you are?”
“God bless my soul,” said Wilkinson, sincerely.
Once, Alec had believed that Barbara was not frightened by anything, and that this absence of fear was her principal weakness. It was true that she had begun drifting out of her old life now, as calmly as Alec drifted away from life altogether. Her mock phrase for each additional Lou Mas catastrophe had become “the usual daily developments.” The usual developments over seven rainy days had been the departure of the cook, who took with her all she could lay her hands on, and a French social-security fine that had come down hard on the remains of her marble block of money, reducing it to pebbles and dust. She had never filled out employer’s forms for the people she had hired, because she had not known she was supposed to and none of them had suggested it; for a number of reasons having to do with government offices and tax files, none of them had wanted even this modest income to be registered anywhere. As it turned out, the gardener had also been receiving unemployment benefits, which, unfairly, had increased the amount of the fine Barbara had to pay. Rivabella turned out to be just as grim and bossy as England — worse, even, for it kept up a camouflage of wine and sunshine and olive trees and of amiable southern idiots who, if sacked, thought nothing of informing on one.
She sat at the dining-room table, wearing around her shoulders a red cardigan Molly had outgrown. On the table were the Sunday papers Alec’s sister continued to send faithfully from England, and Alec’s lunch tray, exactly as she had taken it up to him except that everything on it was now cold. She glanced up and saw the two of them enter — one stricken and guilty-looking, the other male, confident, smiling. The recognition that leaped between Barbara and Wilkinson was the last thing that Wilkinson in his right mind should have wanted, and absolutely everything Barbara now desired and craved. Neither of them heard Molly saying, “Mummy, this is Mr. Wilkinson. Mr. Wilkinson wants to tell you how he came to drive me home.”