Devil In Velvet. Anne Mather
‘I imagine it’s overgrown with weeds, too. The garden, I mean. And don’t call me Harry!’
Susan grinned, the freckles on her face standing out against its pallor. These past weeks had robbed her of what little colour she had had, and it was good to see her smiling again. If the house could do that for her, it couldn’t be all bad.
‘Well, you don’t like me calling you Aunt Harriet, do you?’ she was saying now, and Harriet’s features relaxed.
‘No, that’s true. But I’d prefer it if you called me plain Harriet instead of the abbreviation.’
‘All right. Plain Harriet, it shall be,’ teased Susan mischievously, and they both laughed. ‘Seriously, though,’ she went on, ‘it’s not so bad, is it? I like it. I’m sick of—conventional things.’
Her voice quavered a little, and to give her a moment to recover herself, Harriet essayed a determined interest in her surroundings. There were other doors, and with some trepidation she opened one of them, relieved to find a wooden stairway winding to the upper floor.
‘The stairs!’ she announced dryly, and taking a deep breath, began to climb up.
There was no handrail, and they were very steep, and any notion of carpeting them would have to be abandoned. But at least they seemed sound enough. They emerged into a square apartment with a ceiling that sloped sharply towards tiny windows set under the eaves, and a floor that was rough with knots and uneven boards. There was a sagging bedstead, and a rag mat, and near the windows was a rickety old washstand with a cracked jug and basin. The smell of rotting fruit was stronger here, and the heat of the sun had robbed the room of all air, giving it a stuffy oppressive atmosphere.
The windows would all be intact here, thought Harriet cynically, but when she tried to open them they resisted all her efforts. The fact that it was cleaner up here registered only faintly as she fought with swollen woodwork.
Susan had followed her up and now exclaimed excitedly: ‘Look! There must be a loft. There’s a trapdoor.’
Harriet looked round half impatiently, looping her long pale hair back behind her ears with a careless hand. Susan was pointing to a square-shaped opening set into the crumbling plaster of the ceiling, and now Harriet noticed a wooden ladder propped against the wall beside the bed. Leaving the stubborn window, she came to stand below the trapdoor, but vetoed Susan’s eagerness to explore further.
Glancing at her watch, she said: ‘It’s almost a quarter to five. If we’re to spend the night here, and I’m not at all sure that we should, we ought to be making an effort towards tidying up downstairs.’
Susan stared at her. ‘You’re not thinking of leaving!’
‘Not that exactly.’ Harriet spoke slowly. ‘But you must admit, Sue, it isn’t exactly what we expected.’
‘I don’t mind.’
‘You say that—’
‘I mean it,’ Susan interrupted her. ‘It’s a sort of adventure, really. And I’ve slept in worse places. Heavens, when I went camping with the Guides—’
‘Well, I certainly didn’t spend several thousand francs on a house that’s only fit to camp in!’ declared Harriet firmly, and then seeing Susan’s face beginning to crumple, added quickly: ‘Perhaps we can do something about it, but for tonight I think we should find a pension and stay there until I’ve had a chance to contact Monsieur Frond—’
‘But we planned to camp here!’ Susan pursed her lips. ‘We’ve brought our sleeping bags.’
‘Because I expected the beds might need airing,’ Harriet reminded her, gesturing behind them. ‘As you can see, there’s only one bed, and I wouldn’t allow a dog to sleep on that mattress! Besides, the air up here is foul, and until we can get those windows open…’
Ignoring the lost look that came into Susan’s eyes, she clattered down the stairs again, her cork soles echoing hollowly on the treads, and emerged into the infinitely fresher atmosphere of the kitchen.
Susan followed her and together they surveyed the room. ‘You have to admit—it is deplorable!’ Harriet insisted, and Susan hunched her shoulders.
‘Where are we going to stay then? And what will you say when you speak to Monsieur Frond?’
Harriet shook her head. She didn’t honestly know herself. Had she any redress? She doubted it. She should have investigated the property beforehand, and not allowed herself to be duped by fairytale fantasies of vineyards and chateaux, and lazy afternoons punting along the river with an unlimited supply of Dubonnet.
‘I don’t know what I shall do,’ she said now, noticing how the dust had already soiled her shirt. She stepped gingerly across the flagged floor and emerged into the sunlight breathing deeply, and unfastened another button to reveal a depth of cleavage she would never have dared display at home.
The car was parked in the lane, beyond the thorny hedge that marked the garden. It was certainly peaceful enough, and approaching down a tree-shaded avenue she had been as enthusiastic as Susan. But even this front stretch of garden rioted heedlessly, and what had seemed a simple enough task when she walked up the path, had now assumed larger proportions. The walls of the house needed painting, along with all its other shortcomings, she saw now, but she had allowed the wild roses and nasturtiums to blind her to that fact. She had scarcely noticed the knee-high grasses and choking bindweed, or the nettles that threatened to sting unwary legs.
‘We will come back, won’t we?’ Susan demanded anxiously, as Harriet turned the key in the squeaking lock, and her aunt looked at her ruefully.
‘We shall probably have to,’ she conceded dryly. ‘Or go home.’
Susan’s lips trembled. ‘You wouldn’t—we couldn’t do that, could we?’
Harriet gave a resigned grimace. ‘Probably not,’ she agreed. ‘Come on, I’m thirsty. I think there’s a can of lime juice in the car.’
Harriet felt tired and depressed now. She had been driving since early that morning, urged on by the eagerness to reach their destination. But it had all gone flat, and even her resentment towards Monsieur Frond was giving way to anger towards herself. When would she learn that people were not always what they seemed?
Sharing the can of lime juice with Susan, and assuming an interest she was far from feeling, she consulted the map, spreading it out over the steering wheel of the car, pinpointing their position with wry accuracy.
‘Well, we’re about thirty kilometres from Beynac, which I suppose is the nearest town, but the village is nearer, of course—Rochelac. Do you think we should try there?’
‘Of course.’ Obviously Susan preferred to stay within a reasonable distance, and the village was only a matter of some three or four kilometres.
‘There may not be a pension there,’ Harriet observed thoughtfully, but Susan felt sure there would be. ‘What if there’s not?’ asked Harriet reasonably, and her niece shrugged.
‘We can always sleep in the car,’ she pointed out, and unwillingly Harriet let her have her way.
To reach the village necessitated reversing back up the lane, it was too narrow to turn, and regaining the road that ran between two villages, Bel-sur-Baux and Rochelac. There was something vaguely familiar about Rochelac, which was what had attracted Harriet to it in the first place, but she didn’t exactly know what it was.
From the road, it was possible to look down on the trees that surrounded the house. They were even able to see the grey tiles of the roof, and beyond, the shallow ravine where the stream tumbled. Distance lent enchantment, but Harriet was too tired and dishevelled to appreciate its finer points right then. Susan was less inhibited and looked back longingly, but her aunt pressed her foot down hard on the accelerator, and the small Fiat surged obediently forward.
Rochelac