she was Monique from that walk, that gait. She was in her late thirties, and wore slim-fitting clothes that could be described as classic: a knee-length russet skirt, and a fawn blouse, with low sandals. Her face was a little flushed, I guessed from the heat of the afternoon kitchen, and a few strands of her chestnut hair had come loose from the hair slide that gathered the rest into a sleek ponytail. She was handsome, erect and alert, with dark, equine eyes and a strong neck. She smiled at me indirectly and went to Mr. Prain, saying,
“Je m’excuse
.” She then proceeded to explain something in exceedingly rapid French, to which he responded in the manner of a lord listening to a portentthat told of a rebellion amongst his serfs: with slight anxiety and irritation, but with the sure recognition that this could be forestalled by proper handling.
Monique leaned down, resting her hands on her knees, as she bent towards his ear. He twisted around and stretched up. They both looked uncomfortable and vaguely sculpturesque. I was quite sure he was in no hurry to abbreviate Monique’s explanations. He replied in elastic French, slow and fast, considered and lucid, which bespoke a long stay in France during his formative years, sufficient to acquire more than the public school smattering of the tongue. They were quite absorbed in discussing the situation, and did not look at me for a few minutes. It seemed a long time, especially with my pointed question unanswered. I tried to understand the gist of the conversation, but failed through an inability to distinguish more than about five words. At any rate, I was not in the mood for an oral comprehension test. I felt as if I had been left perched on the top of a fence I had been in the process of climbing over. Mr. Prain was supposed to help me down the other side, and instead he was blithely chatting in French, while I sat there looking at the blue sky framed by the window.
I still played host to the pastry, which suddenly grinned at me from my lap below, indicating that it might be an opportune moment, without conversation, in which to sink my teeth into it. My companions were too engrossed in their problem to notice if I squirted cream down my arm or rained icing sugar on the Persian carpet.But before I lifted the cake towards my lips, Mr. Prain rose, Monique returned to her erect posture, and both appeared apologetic.
“I’m afraid I’ll have to leave you for a moment,” said Mr. Prain. “A domestic problem has arisen which requires my immediate attention.”
The cliché! People actually said such things. I had to chase away a smile.
“Please take as long as you need,” I said. “Would you mind if I snooped about the room in your absence? There’s quite an interesting collection of things here.”
“By all means,” replied Mr. Prain, graciously.
I smiled at Monique, whose manner suggested that she was solitary and capable. But was she his mistress as well as housekeeper? She had, however, used
“vous”
to him, and her attitude suggested both respect and distance from her employer. Standing there together, they made an attractive couple: not unlike in physical appearance, both with the same self-contained air. Then, all at once, I recognised there was a complicity here beyond that of master and servant. There was something in the way that Monique looked at me, something in her soft mouth, something in her eyes or in her hand as it slowly approached her face to pull back the fallen strands of hair, that made me think she was cognizant of an important fact of which I was unaware, as if she had heard me ask that question and knew the answer, and perhaps could tell me something. I felt I had to make contact.
“
Ces pâtisseries sont trés bonnes
,” I said, valiantly, half-wondering if I had said, “These cake-shops are very righteous,” in an effort to compliment her on her pastries. Monique smiled in an amused and yet grateful way while Mr. Prain seemed a
“Je m’excuse
.” She then proceeded to explain something in exceedingly rapid French, to which he responded in the manner of a lord listening to a portentthat told of a rebellion amongst his serfs: with slight anxiety and irritation, but with the sure recognition that this could be forestalled by proper handling.
Monique leaned down, resting her hands on her knees, as she bent towards his ear. He twisted around and stretched up. They both looked uncomfortable and vaguely sculpturesque. I was quite sure he was in no hurry to abbreviate Monique’s explanations. He replied in elastic French, slow and fast, considered and lucid, which bespoke a long stay in France during his formative years, sufficient to acquire more than the public school smattering of the tongue. They were quite absorbed in discussing the situation, and did not look at me for a few minutes. It seemed a long time, especially with my pointed question unanswered. I tried to understand the gist of the conversation, but failed through an inability to distinguish more than about five words. At any rate, I was not in the mood for an oral comprehension test. I felt as if I had been left perched on the top of a fence I had been in the process of climbing over. Mr. Prain was supposed to help me down the other side, and instead he was blithely chatting in French, while I sat there looking at the blue sky framed by the window.
I still played host to the pastry, which suddenly grinned at me from my lap below, indicating that it might be an opportune moment, without conversation, in which to sink my teeth into it. My companions were too engrossed in their problem to notice if I squirted cream down my arm or rained icing sugar on the Persian carpet.But before I lifted the cake towards my lips, Mr. Prain rose, Monique returned to her erect posture, and both appeared apologetic.
“I’m afraid I’ll have to leave you for a moment,” said Mr. Prain. “A domestic problem has arisen which requires my immediate attention.”
The cliché! People actually said such things. I had to chase away a smile.
“Please take as long as you need,” I said. “Would you mind if I snooped about the room in your absence? There’s quite an interesting collection of things here.”
“By all means,” replied Mr. Prain, graciously.
I smiled at Monique, whose manner suggested that she was solitary and capable. But was she his mistress as well as housekeeper? She had, however, used
“vous”
to him, and her attitude suggested both respect and distance from her employer. Standing there together, they made an attractive couple: not unlike in physical appearance, both with the same self-contained air. Then, all at once, I recognised there was a complicity here beyond that of master and servant. There was something in the way that Monique looked at me, something in her soft mouth, something in her eyes or in her hand as it slowly approached her face to pull back the fallen strands of hair, that made me think she was cognizant of an important fact of which I was unaware, as if she had heard me ask that question and knew the answer, and perhaps could tell me something. I felt I had to make contact.
“
Ces pâtisseries sont trés bonnes
,” I said, valiantly, half-wondering if I had said, “These cake-shops are very righteous,” in an effort to compliment her on her pastries. Monique smiled in an amused and yet grateful way while Mr. Prain seemed a
Similar Books
