That was before Maudeâs time, before theyâd built up the business. Yvette wanted Sylvie to talk and for her to talk back to her. She kept saying the wrong thing, but that was hardly her fault, as Sylvie gave her no clues. Sylvie knew that she didnât. Yvette imagined herself in the same situation; then, because she wasnât entirely egotistical, toned down the emotional content, made it emptier, in line with the way she saw Sylvie. It wasnât a good fit. She gave the impression that visiting the dying might feel a bit of a nuisance. An imposition that, if you were realistic, you could see an end to. No more problems with parking or trailing through hospital corridors, smelling that smell. The end was the point of the process. Yvetteâs own mother had died suddenly at the top of the stairs. She had got to the top and it happened. The family had assumed that, as Mother never usually went upstairs in the daytime, she must have been feeling under the weather and gone up for a lie down. The low-key logic seemed to keep them happy. It was quick and no trouble. The direction pleased them. Half way to heaven. Whenever Yvette talked in this way, Sylvie stared at her, shocked by her liveliness. Yvette was only a year or two younger than her mother and not dissimilar. Eve and Yvette. They looked different. Eve had been beautiful before her illness. But they were somehow the same. Maternal and ebullient. She had felt crushed by both of them.
Sylvie still had a sense of those late summer evenings when she drove back home from the hospital, heavy with the baby, but thinned out mentally. The road was straight and therewere particular places where the landscape opened and she was aware of the sky and the position of the sun. The days were getting shorter, though not in gradation. A suddenly bright one appeared to reverse the direction. It was lucky. It was no good to see it as standard, let alone merited. Lives were like days. There was no point in congratulating yourself on your own health or longevity.
She would draw up in one car; Yvette, who was looking out for her, would pull away in another. Her husband Gilles would be waiting for her, wanting his supper. Sylvie felt she was part of a chain reaction of obligations, as pointless as an ugly piece of knitting. She longed to unravel it, or at least drop a few stitches. She realised too, as she changed back into her tidy clothes, that the exchange was deficient. Yvette was well suited to running the restaurant. She, herself, was a come down. All she had to offer at that time was an odd kind of sympathy, born of witnessing illness. The clients were all potential patients. She treated them with care, believing that she knew what was coming to them.
Her other fault was her failure to appreciate her husbandâs creativity. She couldnât see it like that, as his mother could. Or, she had to admit it, as Maude could. Maude had a way of going into the kitchen and admiring. She stood and asked lots of questions that had no answers, but flattered the respondent. How did Paul know that rice vinegar and unsmoked bacon were the ideal accompaniment for sea bass, or that the tiny blanched turnips would look so witty round the edge of the plate? She interpreted the clients to him. They were stupid and didnât know what they were eating. He was wasted on them. They were savouring every mouthful, speechless, clearly discerning. She was good at sniffing too. She had more than one kind. Quick, appreciative and launched from the larynx, or slow, with more of the bed than the stove about it.
6
THEY ARRIVED ALL at once for Mauriceâs party. They came in from the car park and gathered in the hallway, struggling out of their damp, dark coats, that at the end of the evening would all look the same. A bright piece of silk, hanging out of a pocket, was good for cloakroom identification, otherwise they would be looking at labels and buttons and stray hairs on the collars.
Sylvie still had a sense of those late summer evenings when she drove back home from the hospital, heavy with the baby, but thinned out mentally. The road was straight and therewere particular places where the landscape opened and she was aware of the sky and the position of the sun. The days were getting shorter, though not in gradation. A suddenly bright one appeared to reverse the direction. It was lucky. It was no good to see it as standard, let alone merited. Lives were like days. There was no point in congratulating yourself on your own health or longevity.
She would draw up in one car; Yvette, who was looking out for her, would pull away in another. Her husband Gilles would be waiting for her, wanting his supper. Sylvie felt she was part of a chain reaction of obligations, as pointless as an ugly piece of knitting. She longed to unravel it, or at least drop a few stitches. She realised too, as she changed back into her tidy clothes, that the exchange was deficient. Yvette was well suited to running the restaurant. She, herself, was a come down. All she had to offer at that time was an odd kind of sympathy, born of witnessing illness. The clients were all potential patients. She treated them with care, believing that she knew what was coming to them.
Her other fault was her failure to appreciate her husbandâs creativity. She couldnât see it like that, as his mother could. Or, she had to admit it, as Maude could. Maude had a way of going into the kitchen and admiring. She stood and asked lots of questions that had no answers, but flattered the respondent. How did Paul know that rice vinegar and unsmoked bacon were the ideal accompaniment for sea bass, or that the tiny blanched turnips would look so witty round the edge of the plate? She interpreted the clients to him. They were stupid and didnât know what they were eating. He was wasted on them. They were savouring every mouthful, speechless, clearly discerning. She was good at sniffing too. She had more than one kind. Quick, appreciative and launched from the larynx, or slow, with more of the bed than the stove about it.
6
THEY ARRIVED ALL at once for Mauriceâs party. They came in from the car park and gathered in the hallway, struggling out of their damp, dark coats, that at the end of the evening would all look the same. A bright piece of silk, hanging out of a pocket, was good for cloakroom identification, otherwise they would be looking at labels and buttons and stray hairs on the collars.
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