about what your duties are to be.’
‘Thank you, madame.’
Anne knew she must be sounding too proud for a waitress, but there was something false in her relation with the old woman that irritated her. Why shouldn’t she talk to clients? What was a client but someone who had paid to eat? Hadn’t she herself been a client in restaurants too? She searched out Pierre, who was going through the stocks in the cellar, checking the bottles in their racks against a long inventory he held clipped to a board.
‘You’re looking nice this morning,’ he said, holding up a bottle of wine under the light and running a duster over it.
She showed him her hands and told him what Mme Bouin had said. He swore with genteel violence.
‘You understand, don’t you, Pierre? I don’t want to be any different from anyone else. I like taking the plates and things through, and I thought I was doing it all right.’
‘Of course I understand. I’ll see if I can do something about it. Now you just sit and talk to me for a bit while I do this.’
‘Would you let me serve in the bar tonight? I know Mme Bouin says I’m not to wait at a table, but it would be all right in the bar, wouldn’t it?’
Pierre put down the bottle and glanced at her briefly before taking another one from the rack. She could see his face clearly now. ‘Anyone in particular you hoped to see?’
‘No. Why?’ Anne looked down at her feet.
‘Who was the man you were talking to for such a long time last night? I thought he must be ordering a banquet, but then it turned out he didn’t even want another drink!’
‘I can’t think who that was. M. Mattlin, perhaps?’
‘I think not. A friend of Mattlin’s, though.’
‘Oh, that man. Yes, what’s his name? I forget.’
‘Hartmann.’
‘Yes, that’s it. I remember now. Why? Do you know him?’
‘Oh well, one hears things.’
‘What sort of things?’
Pierre put the bottle he was holding down on the table and peered at her over the rim of his spectacles. ‘He used to live here as a child, but went away when his father travelled abroad. After the war he lived in Paris for a long time and then, when his father died, he came to live in the Manor. He’s a lawyer by profession, but I think he did other things in Paris as well. They’re a well-off family – Jewish blood, you know. The grandfather came from Austria. He made his money in some sort of business.’
‘But what about him? I mean, what do you know of him as a person?’
‘Anne?’
‘Yes?’
‘Is this wise?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘You know what I mean.’
Anne blushed. ‘I don’t – I – I only asked.’
‘All right,’ said Pierre. ‘We’ll say no more about it. Tell me about your family, then. What did your father do?’
‘He was a shopkeeper before the war. But we – there was difficulty in the family, and now we haven’t any money. Not that we were rich anyway.’
‘And what about your mother?’
‘What? Oh, Pierre, don’t ask me any more, please. I’m sorry, but it’s difficult, you see.’
‘Not if it’s upsetting you. I’m sorry.’
There was an embarrassed silence. Anne was familiar with the sequence of events. Often with someone she liked and wanted to befriend she had to repel intimacy at the moment it appeared to be offered. She watched Pierre who, for all his gentleness, looked a little affronted, and tried to win his trust again with unsuccessful small-talk.
She was glad for once to hear herself summoned from upstairs. ‘Goodbye, Pierre,’ she said, dashing up the steps to answer Mme Bouin’s call.
On Wednesday afternoon Anne borrowed Roland’s bicycle and made off on the south-west road out of town. She hadn’t told anyone at the hotel where she was going. If the job became hers and the visits regular, then she might tell Pierre, but she feared that if Mme Bouin knew about the work she would find a reason to forbid it. She told Roland she wanted to explore the coast and go for a
‘Thank you, madame.’
Anne knew she must be sounding too proud for a waitress, but there was something false in her relation with the old woman that irritated her. Why shouldn’t she talk to clients? What was a client but someone who had paid to eat? Hadn’t she herself been a client in restaurants too? She searched out Pierre, who was going through the stocks in the cellar, checking the bottles in their racks against a long inventory he held clipped to a board.
‘You’re looking nice this morning,’ he said, holding up a bottle of wine under the light and running a duster over it.
She showed him her hands and told him what Mme Bouin had said. He swore with genteel violence.
‘You understand, don’t you, Pierre? I don’t want to be any different from anyone else. I like taking the plates and things through, and I thought I was doing it all right.’
‘Of course I understand. I’ll see if I can do something about it. Now you just sit and talk to me for a bit while I do this.’
‘Would you let me serve in the bar tonight? I know Mme Bouin says I’m not to wait at a table, but it would be all right in the bar, wouldn’t it?’
Pierre put down the bottle and glanced at her briefly before taking another one from the rack. She could see his face clearly now. ‘Anyone in particular you hoped to see?’
‘No. Why?’ Anne looked down at her feet.
‘Who was the man you were talking to for such a long time last night? I thought he must be ordering a banquet, but then it turned out he didn’t even want another drink!’
‘I can’t think who that was. M. Mattlin, perhaps?’
‘I think not. A friend of Mattlin’s, though.’
‘Oh, that man. Yes, what’s his name? I forget.’
‘Hartmann.’
‘Yes, that’s it. I remember now. Why? Do you know him?’
‘Oh well, one hears things.’
‘What sort of things?’
Pierre put the bottle he was holding down on the table and peered at her over the rim of his spectacles. ‘He used to live here as a child, but went away when his father travelled abroad. After the war he lived in Paris for a long time and then, when his father died, he came to live in the Manor. He’s a lawyer by profession, but I think he did other things in Paris as well. They’re a well-off family – Jewish blood, you know. The grandfather came from Austria. He made his money in some sort of business.’
‘But what about him? I mean, what do you know of him as a person?’
‘Anne?’
‘Yes?’
‘Is this wise?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘You know what I mean.’
Anne blushed. ‘I don’t – I – I only asked.’
‘All right,’ said Pierre. ‘We’ll say no more about it. Tell me about your family, then. What did your father do?’
‘He was a shopkeeper before the war. But we – there was difficulty in the family, and now we haven’t any money. Not that we were rich anyway.’
‘And what about your mother?’
‘What? Oh, Pierre, don’t ask me any more, please. I’m sorry, but it’s difficult, you see.’
‘Not if it’s upsetting you. I’m sorry.’
There was an embarrassed silence. Anne was familiar with the sequence of events. Often with someone she liked and wanted to befriend she had to repel intimacy at the moment it appeared to be offered. She watched Pierre who, for all his gentleness, looked a little affronted, and tried to win his trust again with unsuccessful small-talk.
She was glad for once to hear herself summoned from upstairs. ‘Goodbye, Pierre,’ she said, dashing up the steps to answer Mme Bouin’s call.
On Wednesday afternoon Anne borrowed Roland’s bicycle and made off on the south-west road out of town. She hadn’t told anyone at the hotel where she was going. If the job became hers and the visits regular, then she might tell Pierre, but she feared that if Mme Bouin knew about the work she would find a reason to forbid it. She told Roland she wanted to explore the coast and go for a
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