Monet's Angels Read online

  Marie’s dark hair had become loosened from its bun and hung round her face. She pounded her fist on the blue table. ‘It will not rise. I beat and beat but it remains flat.’

  ‘I believe it is not an easy dish. It took even Marguerite a long time to master it,’ Blanche said soothingly.

  ‘Marguerite, always this Marguerite!’ She seized one of the copper pans as if it were a weapon. ‘She must be a saint!’

  ‘Not exactly…’ Blanche remembered some of their former cook’s muttered oaths as yet another attempt was sent back to the kitchen. ‘Sacré bleu,’ was the least of them. There had been worse problems with Marguerite’s attempts to recreate the tarte tatin. In the end, Papa had given up and they all piled into his beloved car and drove to the Hotel Tatin to consume his favourite dessert, ‘…but she got there, in the end.’

  Marie snorted. ‘Well!’ She twitched at one of the gingham curtains, which hung perfectly straight. ‘And then there is the question of the asparagus.’

  ‘It was overcooked. You did fine the second time.’

  ‘It is not good for the digestion to eat asparagus raw.’

  ‘Not raw, Marie, he likes it very lightly done. You’ll remember from now on.’

  ‘Oh yes.’ Marie wiped the perfectly clean table surface using large, angry movements. ‘And as for all these… peppercorns, madame. A little too much, don’t you think?’

  ‘Yes, yes I know, he does use them rather a lot.’

  ‘The duck, the salad – when does it not appear? Ah!’ Her sarcasm returned. ‘Summer pudding. I believe there are no peppercorns in that.’

  ‘Oh, Marie. Please don’t upset yourself any further,’ Blanche pleaded.

  She stared at the wall tiles, concentrating on the blue against white, asking herself once again exactly how many there were. She mused on the change of design over the oven area, whose idea was that? Maman had pronounced the overall effect bizarre.

  What if Marie handed in her notice? There would be all that interviewing again, the need to go through the dishes that delighted his palate, explain the precise way he liked them prepared. If only Marguerite were still here; it was so difficult to find anyone to measure to the esteem Papa had held for her. Blanche felt weary of all this responsibility.

  ‘Have patience,’ she pleaded. ‘The old are difficult.’ She had hit on something they could both agree upon.

  Marie’s tone changed. ‘Yes, madame, my grandmother is the same. She drives my mother to distraction.’

  ‘You see? We must both stay calm and collected.’

  ‘I feel sorry for you,’ grunted Marie and turned back to the oven to check on the fish.

  Blanche felt relieved but time must be getting on. She took her watch from the breast pocket of her blouse. God, it was practically half-past eleven. There was going to be trouble. The staccato sound of a whistle sent her scurrying away, aware of Marie’s pitying look.

  Sunlight streamed into the dining room, the glass fronts of the cupboards reflected its beams, and the cutlery sparkled. Blanche thought, as she often did, it was a shame that, by some sleight of hand, the paintwork could not be changed for summer. You needed bright, light colours during a gloomy Normandy winter but she found all this yellow dazzled and confused her when the sun shone into the room.

  ‘Here I am, Papa.’

  He was standing with his back to her, examining one of his prints but as she entered whirled round. ‘Luncheon is late, Blanche.’

  ‘It is on its way now.’

  ‘Over five minutes late.’

  ‘Pardon. I was speaking to Marie.’

  He took his place at table and poured a glass of cider. ‘Couldn’t you have done it at a more convenient time?’

  ‘It was she who broached it. She’d obviously been brooding over it for several days.’

  ‘Brooding over what, Blanche? Can you be more precise?’

  Oh dear, Blanche told the porcelain cat that viewed her from the dresser, he’s been getting himself into a state about something this morning. But was it his painting or his eyes? He wouldn’t tell her. They never discussed anything very serious over meals. Whatever it was making him anxious he would simply take out on her.

  At that moment Annette rattled into the room with the trolley and she was spared discussing the Yorkshire pudding again. For a while they ate the salad.

  ‘The green beans are good,’ he broke the silence.

  ‘Yes. Jules says there is a bumper crop.’

  ‘So are the broad beans. But the lettuce…’

  ‘Apparently they have suffered in this warm weather.’

  He threw his fork down with a clatter. ‘They need extra watering then.’

  ‘Papa, of course they are watered but it is very hot. Personally, I am enjoying the summer.’

  ‘You wouldn’t if you were a lettuce,’ he remarked dryly and they caught each other’s eye and burst out laughing.

  He resumed eating then halted again. ‘There is not enough peppercorn.’

  Blanche’s eye returned to the porcelain cat, it seemed to gaze at her scornfully. Peppercorns again! She dreaded Marie’s reaction if the salad was sent back to the kitchen.

  ‘Didn’t you tell the woman?’

  ‘Please be lenient. She’s only been with us a fortnight. We don’t want to lose her, do we?’

  There were days when she found it particularly difficult to cope with his irritability. This was one of them. Early this morning, she had dreamt of her mother, seen her sitting in the garden wearing a white dress, and woken with a dreadful sense of yearning. Thank heaven they were over Papa’s initial collapse, those weeks he had scarcely spoken or eaten but just mooned about reading Maman’s letters. At least he was back to painting again, although he never seemed satisfied with the results these days; then there was the continuing anxiety about his sight. She had done her best to support him but it left her little space for her own mourning. In the dream, her mother was reading a book but looked up as Blanche approached her and smiled. The image had lingered with her and she had little appetite for the fish.

  If only there were someone else to share the burden. Yesterday, she had walked up the road with some roses to lay on the family vault. She saw several other bouquets on the white marble, some of them simple posies of wild flowers; the poppies Maman loved. The warm evening air intensified the scent of the roses and she hesitated, bringing them to her nose before setting them against the latest inscription. How did you cope with him, she asked her mother. All that business over the Japanese bridge, the trips to Lyon for yet more horticultural specimens – you used to say he loved the gardens more than you. You ordered your life around him but why must I sacrifice mine? She had entered the church and prayed to its patron saint: ‘Radegonde, take some of this weight off my shoulders. It’s too much to bear alone.’

  ‘Blanche?’

  She realised he was offering her plum brandy and shaking herself from her reverie, accepted a glass, sniffed the rich aroma and took a sip. The trolley came rattling in once more: Marie had made a passable peach ice cream. Maybe she had peeped into one of the cooking journals. Blanche watched him spoon it eagerly into his mouth and thought how frail he was looking.

  He glanced up and met her gaze. ‘You are always so good and I must be irritating to everyone.’

  The remark made her feel guilty about her earlier impatience, on the other hand, why did she feel she must apologise for her feelings? Was there always this conflict of emotions when you cared for an elderly relative? The compassion, the anger, the jealousy of sisters who were wives and mothers and somehow exempt? His visitors did not see his surly and difficult side; only Georges realised what she had to bear. She reached in the pocket of her skirt for a handkerchief and felt the letter. She drew it out and laid it on the table.

  ‘Papa, I forgot this, it came this morning. Baudy’s boy brought it.’

  He helped himself to more ice cream. ‘Not another one.�
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  ‘Shall I read it for you?’

  Taking his silence for agreement she unfolded the sheet of paper. The writing reminded her of past calligraphy lessons: an educated hand. She read:

  Dear M. Monet,

  I am a great admirer of your work and am writing to ask if you would allow me to come to see you. I have just arrived from America and am lodging at Hotel Baudy. I should be much obliged if you could send word of when it would be convenient to call on you.

  Yours sincerely,

  Judith Goldstein

  He reached out for the bottle. ‘Another wretched American! Hasn’t someone told her I need to be left alone to paint?’

  ‘You never used to think that way. We had such fun in the past,’ Blanche said. ‘Remember those wonderful meals at Hotel Baudy?’ Remember John Leslie, she thought. ‘It would take you out of yourself to see a new face.’

  ‘I have no time, Blanche. You know how it is.’

  ’And what of me, do you never imagine I might enjoy company?’

  He had lit a cigarette, narrowed his eyes against the smoke. ‘You have friends in the village.’

  And when did she ever have the time to see them? Blanche felt she could scream with frustration. He put his painting before everything else, what about hers? All those years she had spent working on her technique… She eyed him over the rim of her coffee cup. There was a time when people mistook her work for his.

  He picked up the letter and stuffed it back in its envelope. He brought it so close it almost touched his nose, sighed and ran his hands over his face. Her anger dissolved into pity. She knew his fear of following in Degas’ footsteps. Since the turn of the century, they had both noticed the coarsening of that painter’s once precise detail, the blurring of his careful shading, the lessening of attention to the folds of ballet costumes and towels.

  ‘Papa, are you using the drops?’

  ‘Of course.’

  Blanche refilled his cup. ‘And they’re still helping?’

  ‘I’m not sure. Perhaps I should go to Paris again.’

  ‘Is that necessary?’

  ‘I probably need to have some more tests.’ Abruptly, he pushed back his chair. ‘Now I must get back to work.’

  Blanche remained to savour the last of her coffee. She counted the chairs round the table: ten, fourteen including those that stood against the walls. She looked back over the years spent in Giverny, remembering the time when this room rang with the family’s voices and laughter. The table would be adorned with bright floral arrangements from the gardens, set with Monet’s yellow and blue Limoges. She seemed to hear Suzanne’s chiding as he carefully decanted the Veuve Clicquot. Now the Limoges was imprisoned behind the glass-fronted cupboards and there were only two place settings, Marguerite’s lavish menus a thing of the past. The Japanese prints gazed out at the silent room. The geishas’ self absorption and devotion to the pleasures of life seemed to mock her. It was hard not to feel bitter about what had happened to her life and her art.

  1888

  That afternoon she escaped the relentless watering duties in the garden and walked through the fields of golden yellow wheat with Suzanne.

  It was her sister’s idea. ‘Oh come on Blanche I think I’ll go mad if I don’t get away from all those plants for a while.’

  Suzanne stood on a hillock, tall and slender, her pale dress ruffled by the wind. She held a parasol and looked as if she were posing for the picture Monet had painted of her, two years before. ‘Isn’t this far better on such a lovely day?’

  Of course it was but guilt came into it. As a rule she never let him down. ‘He’ll be furious if the lawn gets parched,’ she said.

  But Suzanne only laughed at her. ‘You’re far too much the dutiful daughter, Blanche. All these years of trailing after him like a little packhorse: life is to be enjoyed, not spent stuck in front of an easel all the time. I can’t wait to get married and have a husband who takes care of all the boring things.’ She looked so pretty, her skin lightly flushed, her eyes sparkling with mischief. ‘I’d just like to stay up here and laze in the sun and not go home for dinner.’

  ‘You know we can’t do that,’ Blanche scolded. ‘Monet would be furious.’

  ‘There you go again! So serious! He has you round his little finger.’

  It was half-past five before they made their way back through the village. They had almost reached home when they heard laughter and voices speaking in English, which seemed to come from the garden of a pink washed house. As they peered over the wall, they glimpsed a tableau against a setting of green grass: a table spread with a lacy cloth on which were set tea things and a cake stand. Seated round the table were an older woman in a lemon summer frock and two young men who looked strikingly alike.

  ‘Now, now John Leslie, we won’t indulge you any more today,’ they heard the woman say.

  Suzanne whispered, ‘I think they are some of those Americans.’

  So these were the people Monet grumbled about, saying they were ruining the peace of Giverny; he had warned the girls to have nothing to do with them, even threatened to move away. How clean they are, Blanche thought, and then wondered at her choice of such a word. But it was true, they were, clean and fresh in their light coloured clothes, also their voices, which were quick and merry, filled with laughter. Spotlighted by the sun, they seemed to symbolise another, much younger world. She was charmed.

  The young man who had been addressed as John Leslie left the table and began to wander round the garden, stopping now and then to admire this plant, that flower. She felt her heart beat faster as he approached where they were standing. Then she gasped as they saw him peering through foliage like the face of a young Pan. Their eyes met and he whistled and said: ‘Holy mackerel! What have we here?’

  Suzanne giggled. ‘Good afternoon.’

  Blanche took command. ‘Pardon. It was very rude of us to spy on you.’

  But the young man was opening the garden gate. ‘Come in,’ he said. ‘Come in and get acquainted.’

  When they hesitated he smiled, showing even white teeth. ‘I won’t bite, you know.’

  Suzanne had already slipped inside so Blanche had no choice but to follow. By this time, the two seated at the table had noticed what was going on.

  John Leslie led them over. ‘Just look what I found!’ he laughed.

  ‘Shall we be properly introduced?’ The woman, who was as tall as Suzanne, rose and held out her hand. ‘I’m Mrs Breck and these two scoundrels are my sons, John Leslie and Edward.’

  To Blanche’s surprise, the men clicked their heels and bowed their heads.

  Mrs Breck sighed. ‘That’s what comes of sending them to study in Germany. They have become perfectly Teutonic.’

  Blanche caught John Leslie’s eye and blushed. He looked so fine in his open-necked white shirt, an exotic species it seemed, in contrast with her noisy brothers. There was something about his gaze, an intentness as if he noted everything with particularity. She was the current focus of it and felt the colour rise into her face. Gazing down at her fingernails, she heard Suzanne make the introduction.

  ‘And do you live around here?’

  Suzanne twirled her parasol. ‘Certainly we do, at Le Pressoir.’

  There was a pause.

  ‘‘But isn’t that the home of Monet?’

  Suzanne hesitated.

  ‘Our mother is married to him,’ Blanche lied. There was no need, she thought, to explain the exact position of Maman.

  ‘Oh my dears!’ said Mrs Breck. ‘You have no idea how much we would like to meet him, John especially, of course. He’s the painter in the family, you see.’

  John Leslie took his disconcerting gaze away from Blanche and turned to Suzanne.

  ‘Could you arrange that, ma’mselle?’

  ‘I don’t think so,’ Blanche broke in. ‘You see for Monet, the world ends at his garden gate. He does not admit just anyone beyond it.’
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br />   ‘Maybe he doesn’t like Americans?’ The mother suggested.

  ‘It is not so much that, although he does find their presence disturbing. Ever since we arrived here, four years ago, the local people have put obstacles in our way. Once when we were boating and had tied up for a picnic they cut the mooring rope.’

  ‘But why should these people behave like that? It seems mighty unfriendly.’

  ‘They don’t consider painting an appropriate occupation for a man.’

  The Breck family found this very amusing. If that was the case why were so many Americans studying in Paris? The city was swarming with them.

  ‘It is different there; Giverny is an agricultural village. People farm, they grow vegetables not flowers. You cannot eat flowers.’

  The mention of flowers conjured a picture of Monet emerging from his studio into the garden to find no watering being done. ‘It’s time we went,’ she said. ‘Come along, Suzanne.’

  Her sister was obviously fascinated by these people. ‘Oh must we?’

  ‘You must call again,’ Mrs Breck urged.

  ‘Oh yes do, please,’ John Leslie added. He saw them to the gate. ‘Until the next time,’ he said, keeping his eyes on Blanche’s face.

  ‘Well, well,’ murmured Suzanne as they walked away. ‘He’s certainly taken to you.’

  ‘Don’t be such an idiot,’ Blanche frowned. ‘Americans are obviously less formal than we are. He was just being friendly.’ But she had a sense of unease about the encounter as if it had not been quite the thing. ‘All the same, it’s best we don’t mention it to Monet.’

  – FIVE –

  JUDITH

  A

  nother clear blue day. Hot sun but a touch of sultriness in the air and no hint of a breeze. Judith sat under the trees on the hotel terrace, sipping lemonade. The afternoon drowsed about her, serene but for the soft thwack of tennis balls, the occasional cry of triumph or dismay from the courts below. It made her want to jump up and do something, anything rather than endure the sense of frustration she felt. She drummed her fingers on the table, sighed and turned her mind onto herself.