Englishwoman in France by Wendy Robertson Page B

the boat. Flag irises, clover, carpets of vetch, lovely grasses. And birds.’
    I wonder what Billy would think if I say I saw ghosts on the canal today. I want to keep talking to him because I like him, and also for some respite from Mae’s attention and Philip’s surveillance. ‘Nyrene rides along the canal path every day on her bicycle. She knows about flowers. And birds. She says there are nightingales in the evenings.
Rossignols
in French,’ I add.
    His eyes brighten behind his round glasses. ‘Bicycles? Can we get bicycles?’
    â€˜Yep!’ I say. ‘You can borrow them from the landlord. He’s a good sort.’
    Billy puts his head on one side and looks at me. His eyes are much kinder, less searching than Mae’s. ‘Sea air’s doing you good, then?’
    I like Billy. Sturdy, uncomplicated GP. Ex rugby player running to fat; easy-going and quite content to let Mae push him around. I’ve also thought that’s how he manages her. He has this chubby face and wears round glasses; he smells of cornflakes and, very faintly, of that antiseptic wash doctors use. I think the cornflake smell is because he’s around the children a lot.
    Suddenly there is shrieking and a strange thumping inside the house.
    Mae laughs, her bright white, well capped teeth gleaming. ‘Terrors on board!’ she says easily. ‘Playing trampolines on the beds.’
    I wonder what my stylish landlady would think of that. The beds are big wooden carved wonders from the last century. Philip tells me the
brocante
shops here and in Pezenas down the road are full of them. Visiting them is one of his regular lone jaunts.
    Come to think of it, these antiques will probably survive the bouncing better than the Ikea beds at home.
    Mae catches my thought. She lights another cigarette. ‘Go and get them, Billy. Can’t have them getting into
Madame
here’s bad books, can we?’
    Billy vanishes through the glass doors into the house and at last Philip comes to my rescue. ‘Estella needs a bit of a rest, Mae.’ He gives me a gentle push. ‘Go and lie down, Estella. I’ll sort the meal.’ He usually calls me by my Sunday name. I’ve never asked him why.
    Billy comes through the glass doors, hung about with George and Olga, four and six years old respectively. George is a small roly-poly version of his dad. Olga is tall for her age, just into little-girlhood. Designer jeans and tee shirt. Bare feet. Hair up in bunches and round red-framed glasses. She holds out her hand. ‘Hi Auntie Starr.’
    Oh Siri!
    â€˜Olga!’ I fold her small hand in mine and feel the shadow of the thousand or so times I had done this with Siri. I feel sick.
    â€˜Hi Auntie Starr,’ squeaks George just behind her.
    I take his hand too and smile. ‘Hello, love. Haven’t you grown!’ My voice is crackly like a bad record.
    I hurry past them and, looking back, I catch a knowing glance between Mae and Philip, before charging through the glass doors and up the wooden stairs. I throw myself on the day bed in my top-floor eyrie. I’m angry at their knowingness – knowing that I am sliding away to some place where they can’t reach me, exasperated because they can’t help.
    I close my eyes and concentrate. Now again I can feel the slight sway of the canal boat. I can hear again the chatter of the people as the boy jumps, his hair streaming behind him. The dark man is there and he leans down again to pick up his dropped book. This time, though, he looks at me directly, his eyes locking on mine. ‘
Travelling through, just like you
.’ His tone resonates in my ear. Manchester? Edinburgh? No. That doesn’t seem right. His voice is accent-less. Timeless.
    My heart stops, then falters on.
Siri!
    I can’t sleep. I jump off the daybed, go to my work table and check my list. I bring up a chart on the screen and start to make notes. This work is