Monet's Angels Read online

  She brought the bottle to her lips then gave a deep sigh. ‘That’s better.’ She smiled up at him. ‘How old are you, Michel?’

  He shrugged.

  ‘You are young like me but so serious.’

  He gave a faint smile. ‘That’s what my mother tells me.’

  ‘Are you serious all the time, even when you are not working?’ She imitated his expression, which forced him to laugh. It encouraged her to pat the seat beside her. ‘Sit down for a moment, it is very hot. I won’t bite, you know.’

  He hesitated then sat beside her. ‘I have to be serious here,’ he explained. ‘It is a great responsibility to work in these gardens and M’sieur Breuil is a tough man to work for.’

  ‘Well, he isn’t here at the moment so you can relax.’

  His mood seemed to change and he looked at her inquisitively. ‘You are American, aren’t you? There are so many Americans in Giverny now. They speak French in a strange way.’

  Judith laughed. ‘Strange? Do I?’

  ‘Well, yes, I suppose you do but it sounds pretty when you speak.’

  Judith smiled to herself. They were getting somewhere. ‘I like the language,’ she continued. ‘I like France and I love Giverny.’

  ‘It is fine for you,’ he replied. ‘You don’t have to work.’

  ‘Oh work!’ she laughed. ‘Such a horrible word. My father is always talking about it and Mother is always telling him to relax and enjoy life, sometimes.’

  She realised he was watching her intently as if amazed by what she was saying. She must seem very different to the folks he usually mixed with. ‘What do you do to relax, Michel?’

  He spread his hands. ‘I don’t know. Sleep.’

  ‘Oh! Oh my goodness, what a waste! We’ll have to do something about that.’ This was her opportunity. ‘I know, oh yes, why don’t you come to Hotel Baudy, one evening after work. We can sit on the terrace and have a cocktail. What do you say?’

  His expression was wary. ‘A cocktail! What is that?’

  She clicked her tongue. ‘Oh really, you’re missing out if you’ve never had a cocktail. It’s, you know, liquor.’

  Ah, but that is medicinal: anise, brandy. Whenever my father thinks a cold is coming he drinks a small glass of whiskey.’

  Judith laughed. ‘Medicinal, well I suppose you could call it that. I have to say a cocktail sets me up no end. A classy champagne cocktail, mmm!’

  But Michel had stopped listening. He rose from the bench. ‘We must go, M’sieur Breuil will be asking himself where I am.’

  ‘Oh, just when I was enjoying myself.’

  They walked to the door and he made to shoot back the bolt.

  Judith put out her hand to check him. ‘So you’ll come to Hotel Baudy?’

  ‘I don’t know, I usually go straight home after work. My parents expect…’

  ‘Oh come on, Michel, don’t be such a baby. What are you, six years old?’

  He frowned. ‘Very well, I will come. Tomorrow evening.’

  ‘Oh that’s swell. Seven o’clock, then? I’ll be waiting.’

  – NINETEEN –

  JUDITH

  H

  e was late in arriving but it never crossed her mind he wouldn’t come. She had enjoyed arousing his curiosity that afternoon, teasing him and gradually drawing him in. It had been a heady feeling as she took control. The serving girl came to take her empty glass away and she ordered another cocktail, leaned back in her chair and closed her eyes. It was a beautiful evening, warm and still, and she was enjoying this moment alone, listening to the sound of starlings gathering for the night. Then she saw Michel coming along the terrace but for a moment hardly recognised him. Standing on the bridge above the lily pond, he had looked self-assured, comfortable in his role of gardener, now he kept his head down and seemed ill at ease. He wore a suit, which she guessed was probably the only one he possessed and, as he approached her table, she saw the jacket was rather tight, the trouser legs too long so that they dragged on the ground. But his dark hair shone with brushing. His nails were scrubbed clean. In this different setting, he seemed a stranger.

  ‘Michel!’ She jumped up from the table and pulled out a chair for him. ‘It’s so good to see you. Do sit down.’

  He did so, looking about him and murmuring: ‘well, well, so this is Hotel Baudy.’

  ‘Like it?’ She so much wanted to please him. ‘It’s lovely here, isn’t it, especially on an evening like this? Now, let me order for you.’

  She caught the eye of the serving girl and ordered a second Champagne Charlie. Michel queried the name and she told him the story behind it: the music hall song that had been so popular back in the last century, its singer who had been paid in money and in kind by Moet and Chandon. She sang a few bars.

  ‘Pretty,’ he said. ‘Very pretty.’ He seemed to be lost for words, embarrassed by these unfamiliar surroundings, his gaze darting about.

  Judith was struck again by the animal quality about him, his very physical presence. She eyed the large hands holding the flute, so different from Charlie’s hands. What would they feel like, hard and rough if he touched her? She raised her glass to him. ‘À ta santé.’

  He took a sip and an expression of wonderment came over his face.

  ‘Don’t you like it?’ she asked. ‘If you don’t, I can order something else.’

  Michel shook his head. ‘But no, it is delicious.’ He took another sip. ‘Mmm, delicious.’

  She laughed and he joined in. What was in this wondrous drink he wanted to know.

  ‘It’s made with a shot of apricot brandy and champagne. You pour the apricot brandy into a flute glass and top up with chilled champagne. If you’re feeling romantic, you serve it garnished with a pale pink rose petal.’

  ‘Ooh, la la!’

  They were away after that, coasting through the next hour or so, any barrier between them of language or background vanished as they talked and joked and Judith ordered more cocktails.

  ‘So this is what you do while I’m working hard in the gardens,’ he teased her. ‘Sit on this terrace and drink champagne.’

  ‘Oh, I do other things as well. I watch the artists paint. I read and now, of course, I’ve made the acquaintance of Monet so I’ll probably be up at the house more often.’

  ‘What a beautiful life!’

  ‘Sure, but it’s nice to have some company of my own age.’

  The other tables were filling up and Judith noticed several people turn to stare at them, attracted by their laughter. Then she caught Robert’s disapproving gaze. He sat alone, a glass of beer on the table before him, observing her. Damn him, what right did he have to be so critical, telling her what to do, behaving like her mother? She was relieved when Harry appeared from the tennis courts and distracted his attention. When the two men rose and went into the hotel, presumably for dinner, an idea came into her head.

  ‘Say, Michel, you like gardens. Why don’t we take a stroll round the one here?’

  He hesitated. ‘What is the time?’

  ‘Oh, it’s early yet. Come on, just a little stroll. There are some marvellous roses.’

  She led him along the same route she had taken with Robert, away from the hotel, up the uneven flights of steps to the higher levels. Michel remarked on how different this garden was from those of Le Pressoir. Apart from the roses, which had obviously been intentionally planted, it seemed to him that the rest had been left to nature, self-seeding and rustic, filling every available gap.

  ‘I suppose it has,’ Judith said without much interest. She eyed the vines snaking their way up the tree trunks and walls. ‘It’s the kind of place you dream of as a child, where you can play hide and seek and get lost.’

  ‘You play that also in America?’

  ‘Why yes, of course, the children are the same as anywhere else.’

  Michel sighed. ‘I would like to go to America.’

  She laughed. ‘I wouldn’t
bother if I were you. It’s much nicer here.’

  ‘All those beautiful American limousines.’

  ‘Noise and dirt.’

  ‘Money.’

  ‘Yes, there is that,’ she agreed as they started down the little steps again. ‘Money is useful.’

  The scent of the roses was powerful and she thought of the secluded bench where she and Robert had sat. She wondered what Michel would say if she suggested they sit there now, hidden from view. Would he think her awfully forward? This was something she had never done in her life before: be alone with a stranger, because he was a stranger, really. A shiver ran through her body at the realisation of what she had done. It was her turn to fall silent, wondering what to say. Michel, too, said nothing but she could feel his eyes on her. Did he imagine she wanted him to kiss her? Did she want him to? Now that the effects of the alcohol were subsiding, she felt suddenly nervous, at a loss as to what should be her next move.

  There came into her mind an image of Charlie in his tweed plus fours and pullover, on his way to play golf at the Buffalo; tall, lanky Charlie with an anxious expression on his face. He had stopped off at the house in Madison Square after her telephone call to tell him her little dog Daisy had died. The scent of his cologne as he held her close to him, the sound of his voice were so known to her. The catch phrase he always used, ‘cheer up Cully, you’ll soon be dead,’ had made her smile through her tears.

  ‘Oh kitten, I just can’t bear to see you sad.’

  Charlie adored her, she was certain of that; he always said he would give her the moon if he could. Why was she behaving like this? Judith felt a jolt of fear. Supposing he had read into this European trip a lack of commitment and found another girl? So they passed the bench and approached the hotel again.

  Michel looked away. ‘I must leave now. I begin work very early in the morning.’

  ‘Oh, well…’

  They reached the door and here he paused, gazing at her. She thought she must look rather lovely in her pale frock, standing there in the dusky light. What was he thinking? He had probably never been in the company of someone like her in his life. But then he was unknown to her too. Where did one go from here?

  He was smiling. ‘It has been very pleasant, may I come again?’

  She pushed thoughts of Charlie from her mind. ‘Sure. Of course you may.’

  ‘Sunday… er… no, I have something to do on Sunday. Monday?’

  ‘Monday it is!’

  ‘Au revoir, Judith.’

  The moment he had gone, she went into the hotel and ordered a bottle of champagne to be served at the table under the wisteria. She would sit there and drink it while she thought over the day and how she was progressing very nicely. It was then Robert appeared, he might have been spying on her, his timing so perfect.

  ‘What are you doing here?’ she demanded. ‘Can’t a girl have a quiet drink without you popping up?’

  ‘Stop being so angry with me.’

  ‘Then will you stop following me about, criticising me? Leave me alone.’

  She turned away from him, staring out over the garden, the roses shining ghostly pale; a night bird called. The only presence that was spoiling things was his.

  Robert said: ‘Do you realise what you are doing, Judith? Tonight, for example, who was that young man?’

  ‘A gardener from Le Pressoir, if you want to know.’

  ‘A gardener from Le Pressoir sitting on the terrace with you, drinking champagne, and you have a perfectly decent fiancé in America.’

  ‘Oh, stop keep reminding me, Robert.’

  ‘Well it’s the truth and you need to consider what I’m saying. I’ll bet he’s waiting patiently for you to return not dreaming…’

  Judith drained her glass and reached for the bottle. ‘I said stop it.’

  ‘How would you like it if he did something like that?’

  ‘He wouldn’t,’ she said, certain of that now.

  ‘Okay.’ Robert paused to light a cigarette. ‘How did this come about?’

  She shrugged. It was none of his business but it only made her more determined to see Michel again.

  ‘Tell me something, Judith,’ Robert persisted. ‘Was it a pick up?’

  She turned on him. ‘What do you take me for? A tramp?’

  ‘It was, wasn’t it? You picked up a gardener and invited him here. I’m sure no-one else at Le Pressoir knows about this. Didn’t you see all those people staring at you? And there you sat, plying the young man with drink. I told you before, the culture is different here and you must understand it. Women just don’t behave like that.’

  For some reason, she found this amusing: he so earnest, she knocking back the champagne. ‘You’re jealous.’

  ‘No, I’m not.’

  ‘You are, because I’m young and enjoying myself.’

  ‘If it were only that, but it isn’t, you worry me. There is something about you that is reckless, impervious to danger. It’s attractive in a way, this joie de vivre of yours. I’m not against you, Judith, I guess I want to protect you.’

  ‘I don’t need protecting. I am twenty-five years old, Robert.’

  ‘Well you don’t behave like it.’

  He was making her feel uncomfortable again. Judith stood up and thumped her glass on the table.

  ‘Know something? I was having a lovely evening until you stuck your nose in. I don’t care what people do or don’t do here. I shall carry on behaving exactly as I choose and to hell with the consequences.’

  She went into the hotel and left him sitting there.

  – TWENTY –

  ROBERT

  H

  e felt his present self dissolving, his mind changing again. He saw the family kitchen, his childhood home. Florence was standing on the pine table while his mother put the final touches to her gown. It was made of sprigged muslin printed with a green leaf motif, the bodice low cut with puff sleeves. His sister was so excited she couldn’t keep still. ‘I’ll never have this finished if you jiggle about all the time, child.’

  His father came into the kitchen and put the back of his hand across his eyes, pretending to be blinded. ‘Who’s this vision? It can’t be Florrie Harrison.’

  ‘Oh Father, you know it’s me.’

  ‘Well I’ll be darned. I tell you, young lady, you’ll be the belle of the ball.’

  Tonight his aunt was ill and his parents were taking the trap to visit her. They couldn’t disappoint Florence who had set such store by going to the dance. He was to accompany her on his own.

  His mother uttered the familiar words, ‘Take care of her, Robert.’

  In the church hall he saw the trestle tables laid with white cloths and decorated with sheaves of corn and stacks of apples and pears, in honour of the harvest supper. Each table was crowded with dishes of food: there were jerky and cured hams, pies, puddings and tarts; set at regular intervals were jugs of lemonade. All the congregation was there, laughing and joking with the minister, eating and drinking, their faces flushed in the light of the lanterns strung across the hall. He saw Florence in the midst of them and saw himself in his best striped waistcoat cross to join her.

  ‘You don’t need to stick by me all the time, Robert,’ she said. ‘I’m sixteen, remember. I can take care of myself.’

  But could she? He was filled with a nameless fear of where her recklessness might lead her.

  Then the black fiddler arrived and struck up a reel and Florence was pulled away from him to join in. Throughout the evening, he caught glimpses of her, flushed and excited, oblivious of him and he envied her. Envied her popularity, her capacity for throwing herself into the moment without a care or a thought, while he remained on the outskirts, unnoticed and alone. But there was something else, a quality about her, which made him afraid. She was like a flame burning brightly, too brightly, he thought. At ten o’ clock he went in search of her for it was time to go home. She was sitting on one of the chairs
ranged around the hall and there was a young man with her. They were deep in conversation and at one point, rocking with laughter, Florence laid her hand on the young man’s hand.

  ‘What would Father and Mother say?’ she mimicked him as they walked home. ‘Don’t you dare tell them.’

  He wouldn’t, of course, not admit that, in spite of his best endeavours, he had failed their trust in him. He remembered his powerlessness and his fear.

  – TWENTY-ONE –

  CLAUDE

  I

  t has rained during the night and when he takes his morning walk in the gardens, he is delighted to see how everything has responded. There is a scent of refreshed earth, the poppies and marguerites; the satiny peonies hold their heads high. The delphiniums have taken a bit of a beating and he is glad to see Michel is busy reinforcing their stakes. He pauses, smiles down at the crown of the young man’s hat, and moves on. You can water a garden as much as you like but nothing revives it like a heavy shower of rain.

  Mealtimes have lifted his spirits even more. Finally, it seems, Marie is coming to understand his palate and his standards. Last night, she had produced a passable Yorkshire pudding and there was enough peppercorn seasoning in the duck. A sense of contentment seems to have settled over the household, Blanche is not bickering with him, even the little blonde laundry maid seems happy.

  Now he sits in his studio, the blinds drawn against the sun, sketching. His hand moves quickly and surely over the paper as he falls into the old familiar rhythm, simple and direct. It is a long time since he did any figurative drawing, the garden and now, of course, the lily pond have so absorbed him.

  But Judith has impressed him with her liveliness and audacity. The meeting of a few days ago continues to resonate. He searches in his mind for the poses she takes, her self-absorption; there is a bird-like quality about her. She is undoubtedly chic which is something he had never expected in an American; maybe not as beautiful as Camille was beautiful, but she has that je ne sais quoi quality which magnetises the eye. With a stick of vine charcoal, he sketches in the shape of her head, its angle tilted slightly sideways, quizzical, the long lean contours of her body. Then he will move on to compressed charcoal for texture and detail.