The Greengage Summer (11 page)

“Yes, on that day . . .” I broke off. I still did not like to mention that day to Joss, but Hester said, “When Eliot was queer.”

There was a silence. Then I brought out huskily, “Perhaps he was queer because he did not want Inspector Cailleux to see him.”

“Don’t imagine things,” said Joss sharply, but the sharpness told me she was imagining too.

It was next morning. Late the night before Willmouse had stirred, smiled and woken again. Madame Corbet must have been worried because she came straight up to him and he had had hot soup, some
bread and butter, had smiled at us and gone back to sleep. In the night I had heard him rustling. He wanted to go to the Hole and I had taken him. Surely now he must be awake enough to talk . . .
or not to talk, I thought desperately.

All night I had pondered, conning over these difficult bits and pieces. Why I? I thought, why should it be I? People are not sent what they cannot bear; Mother had said that in the train, but
that was about pain. I could have borne a pain, but this, this horrible knowledge that was in me I could not bear. It’s imagination, I said, pushing it out of sight. At all costs, I thought,
that was what I must do, refuse it, keep it down, be silent, not talk not let Hester talk, or anyone else. “Willmouse, wake
up
!”

He opened his eyes. “Have I been asleep?” asked Willmouse.

“Can you understand me?” I said.

“Why not?” He was astonished.

“I want you to promise me something.” My tone must have been very solemn, for his eyes were as big as an owl’s as he looked at me.

‘Is it important?”

“Very important. Willmouse, if they—anyone—ask you if you saw anything, say nothing. Promise.”

“Did I see anything?” he asked.

“Shall I make the bloodstain for you, as Paul isn’t here?” I asked. I had meant to be sarcastic, to show Madame Corbet we knew what frauds they were, but she only nodded. To
her it was normal hotel business and she said, “You could bury the skull as well, but first put Rita and Rex in the kennel or they will dig it up now.”

“Where are Rita and Rex?”

They were not on the house-step in their usual place, nor inside the house, nor in the garden; then I heard barks from the orchard, barking and whining. I remember that as I went to see what had
excited them I passed the box hedge, rubbing a leaf in my hands to catch the hot bruised smell, and dawdled in the orchard to see if any greengages were left. There were a few, on the trees,
overripe in the sun, but still firm under the leaves; I ate both kinds and they added to the chaotic feeling in my stomach. Then, with the dog leashes in my hand, I went down the first long
alley.

At the end of the alley there was a pit under the wall; it was filled with loose earth and rotting leaves, grass mowings and weeds; everything was thrown there to make a compost heap for
Robert’s beloved bedding plants in the top garden.

In this heap Rita was digging; her excited whines and barks sent quivers through Rex, who was sitting upright on the grass, his ears pricked. He was holding something in his mouth and his tail
thumped proudly at the sight of me; though Rita found it, it was always Rex who brought the skull and he got up now and came to me and put the thing into my hand.

It was an espadrille, grey-white and sodden, with the tapes still knotted. I flinched and dropped it on the ground while Rex looked up at my face and thumped his tail.

“Wait, boy,” I said. It was a sound like a croak and I took three steps to see what it was that Rita was digging.

In the brown-yellow of the leaves was something pale. I took another step and the whole orchard seemed to tilt and run into a blur as the kitchen had done when I saw Inspector Cailleux’s
picture, but now the orchard ran into the sky. The pale thing was a foot, a foot and ankle lying downwards; the rest was under the leaves. There was an edge of blue cotton trouser, but the ankle
was bare; its skin looked white and tender as the back of Vicky’s neck, a young skin. There was a leaf stuck to it, a little bright-yellow leaf; not knowing what I was doing, I bent down to
take it off.

It was stuck; almost absently I scraped it with my nail and my finger touched the skin, and it was cold.

I had been cold for two days, but this cold was different; it was a chill all its own. Shivers went over me and my lips began to shake. The foot was cold and stiff with a dreadful stiffness. The
smell of decay that rose up from the leaves and rotting weeds filled my mouth and nose and seemed to me the smell of death. There was no escape now. My head had come out of the sand and I had to
know. The foot had worn the espadrille, Paul’s espadrille . . . and this was Paul.

CHAPTER 16

“G
REENGAGE INDIGESTION
!” said Madame Corbet.

She had come upon me sick on the garden path. “Too many greengages,” she said, and her topknot shook not with pity but with indignation.

I did not contradict her. I could not, I could onlv gasp and moan; and she was right, it was as if I were trying to fling out Paul, Eliot, Les Oeillets, all of it; a sudden rising of my stomach
to my mouth in the same way that the orchard had run up into the sky.

“Too big a girl to eat so many,” scolded Madame Corbet.

“I’m not big. I’m little, too little,” I wanted to cry, but I could not speak; she had to help me, unwilling as she was, until at last I could lean against her and get my
breath. “Are . . . Rita and Rex shut up?”

“I put them in the kennel,” said Madame Corbet, annoyed. “I even have to do that. I have everything to see to. Everything! Have you finished?” she asked sharply.

“I—I think so.”

“Then go and lie down. You will not have any lunch.”

Thankfully I escaped and went upstairs. In our room I went to the washing-stand which had not been emptied and cleaned. If it had, we were not allowed to touch it until the visitors were gone. I
washed and washed my hands; I think I was trying to wash away the feeling of that cold and the smell of the dead leaves. I remember I was trembling, and the beating was back in my head. “You
know what you have seen,” said that beating. “You know. There is no shadow of doubt. You will have to do something now. What are you going to do?” I should have liked to have
crept into the unmade bed and pulled the clothes over my head, but Toinette was at the door. I escaped from her and went into Vicky and Hester’s room.

Toinette had finished in here, it was tidy and clean; Nebuchadnezzar, getting very withered now, was in his basket on a chair by Vicky’s side of the bed; there were fresh flowers,
pimpernels, daisies and wild geranium in Hester’s liqueur glass. As I noticed it I had an overwhelming desire to look at Eliot—Eliot who had done . . . that. I opened the drawer where
she hid her photograph from Toinette. The little frame was lying on its face. I picked it up, and it was empty.

I was still staring at the empty frame when Joss came in. “Madame Corbet says . . .” she broke off. Then, “I took it,” said Joss.

“The photograph?” She nodded. “So that they shouldn’t . . .” I do not know why I asked her that. She could not know who ‘they’ were, but as if she did
know she shook her head. “I told Hester I wanted to copy it . . . make a portrait.” Her face was so set and hard it looked like a stone carving of Joss. “But you
didn’t,” I said and asked, “What did you do with it?” She did not answer and I said, “You gave it to Monsieur Dufour.”

“No.”

“Then what?”

“I sent it to Inspector Cailleux.”

“The Dormans man?”

“Yes.”

“Joss!”

“Eliot shouldn’t play fast and loose.” She was not stone now. “That is what they call it and that is what it is; keep you, then push you away, take you and push you away.
It’s cruel. It’s not only me; he has done it to Mademoiselle Zizi, and Monsieur Armand says the diamond merchant’s secretary woman as well. He played with us, like . . . like
chess, she and Mademoiselle Zizi and me.”

“He wasn’t playing with you.”

“Shut up,” blazed Joss. “Shut up!” but I was steady.

“He didn’t play with any of us,” I said. “We were the only people he didn’t play with.”

Joss went to the window and stood with her back to me.

“When did you do it?” I asked.

“Yesterday. As soon as I knew, after you had brought me the paper, I wrote and went down to the office and asked for a stamp. Madame Corbet gave it to me. I went out to the comer and
posted it. It caught the post.”

“You don’t know it was he.”

“If it isn’t they won’t come,” said Joss, but we were both waiting for them to come. “I knew it as soon as I saw the paper,” said Joss.

“Just from Inspector Cailleux?” I said, marvelling.

“Not from him. From Eliot,” and she cried, “That was what made him so unhappy.”

“They will get it this morning,” I said slowly.

“And Paris isn’t very far,” said Joss.

There was a silence. We were both listening. Then, “What will they do to him, Cecil?” asked Joss. “Will they put him in prison?”

“They have to catch him first.” That was ripped out of me, a hope. Then I knew that I ought not to hope. I said, “Joss . . .”

She had sat down on the bed; she was still listening for sounds outside and, almost absent-mindedly, she raised her eyes to me. “They won’t put him in prison,” I said.

Her eyes came alive. She rapped out, “Why not?”

“Because if they catch him I think he will have to be hanged.” Holding to the bedpost I told her what I had found. When I began she put out her hand and caught my wrist as if she
would stop me; it was a stranglehold and my hand went limp and white; when I had finished and she let me go the blood rushing back into it hurt excruciatingly. There was another silence, then,
“They don’t hang people in France,” she said. “They guillotine them.”

“It’s too early,” said Joss.

We were in her room and had only to go to the window to see what car it was, but we stayed huddled together on the bed. The car drove in and stopped. Joss laid her cold hand on my cold one.
“Cecil, you look.”

“I can’t.”

“You can. You didn’t send for them.”

I did not go to the window but went downstairs just as Monsieur Dufour walked in. “What, again?” said Madame Corbet, who was crossing the hall.

“Again,” said Monsieur Dufour; his voice did not sound kind but curt and angry. Behind him were two other men; one was big, in a tweed jacket, and carried a despatch case; the other
was small, and I held to the banisters as I recognised him. Yes, it was the Dormans man with the sandy hair and moustache, even the sand-and-olive-coloured suit; he had been in the newspaper, now
he was here. Inspector Cailleux had come. A curious little sound came from me and seemed to float out into the hall.

As Monsieur Dufour talked rapidly and angrily to Madame Corbet she caught sight of me. “Go into the garden and call Mademoiselle Zizi,” she commanded in French.

Mademoiselle Zizi must have been lying in the long chair on the terrace, but I think she too had heard the car because as I came to her she was standing and as still as Joss had been. Did she
have some sixth-sense warning? I reached her and she gripped me. “Who is it?”

“The police.”

“Police!” Her face looked suddenly older but her eyes were like a child’s, filled with fear, looking far over my head.

“Where is Irène?”

“With them. They want you.” I paused. “Mademoiselle Zizi . . .”

No answer, only the fingers gripping me, kneading my arm.

“Mademoiselle Zizi.” I said it more loudly. Her eyes came back to me, but they looked quite senseless. With my free hand I gave her fingers a sharp slap, but she did not seem to feel
it.

“Zizi!” Madame Corbet came down the terrace, “Zizi. Vas-y.”

Then Mademoiselle Zizi did let me go. She looked at Madame Corbet and backed away from her. “You!” she said, her voice ugly. “You sent for them.”

“I? Why should I?” Madame Corbet put out her hands, but Mademoiselle Zizi still backed away from her.

“It was you.”

“Zizi. Qu’est-ce que tu nous racontes?”

“It was you.”

“Hush,” I said like a grown-up. “Listen.
Listen!”
and I stamped my foot. They stared. “There is something you should see before you go in. It . . . he . .
.” I thought I was going to be sick again and tumbled the words out, “It’s in the orchard.”

“What ‘it’?” but I could not tell them.

“Look, quickly, in the heap where the leaves are thrown.”

“Et maintenant qu’est-ce que
tu
nous racontes?”

“Quickly.”

“What
is
it?” but I had taken refuge in being a child and had begun to cry. “Something . . . I think . . . I found. Oh, look! Look quickly. I will go in and say you are
coming, but go. Go.”

The policemen were in the bar where Mauricette was bringing them drinks on a tray. Monsieur Dufour was walking up and down, looking miserable and angry; the other two were sitting calmly at a
table; Inspector Cailleux was looking round him with what I imagined was a detective look, taking every detail in. I could see Joss on the stairs, her hand holding the rail.

“Et Mademoiselle de Presle? Elle vient?” barked Monsieur Dufour at me.

With Joss watching I was dignified in spite of my red eyes. “Dans un petit moment,” I said, closing the garden door behind me; but Monsieur Dufour sprang forward and wrenched it
open, for, just then, down in the orchard Mademoiselle Zizi began to scream.

CHAPTER 17

W
HEN ANYTHING
happens in a house the children are treated like cattle. We were rounded up, herded upstairs and into our rooms; as we went up we could
hear Mademoiselle Zizi having hysterics, and Monsieur Dufour trying to calm her. Madame Corbet had to leave her to him, for as usual she had everything to do: control Mauricette, Toinette and
Nicole, who seemed to want to have hysterics too, enlist Monsieur Armand’s help, telephone the doctor, install Inspector Cailleux in the little salon and allow his assistant to use the
telephone in the office. I have always wondered what happened to the parties for lunch.