The chalet felt so empty. Everyone had gone. Only the Durebex remained, and M. Durebex would be leaving early the next morning. Laurent skated around the foyer in his socks, singing at the top of his voice to let us know how bored he was. He stopped outside my room from time to time and begged me to come and watch television with him. Finally, I relented.
In the bedroom next door we could hear Mme Durebex relating the abortive ski rescue attempt to her husband. Laurent cocked his ear, then jabbed me in the ribs.
– She lie, he whispered. We eat wis Sasha and ski all day, so she know you here. She lie!
His eyes glinted, and as if on cue his mother came into the room.
– Ma pauvre! she said to me.
She sat on the couch, unable to take her eyes off my broken wrist. She wondered what I’d done with my ski ticket. She hoped I’d managed to sell the afternoon left on it. She said I shouldn’t be so sure my wrist was broken. I wished her jaw was, so she would shut up.
– The doctors in Megève get people like you all day long, Shona. In, out, they don’t give a damn. It’s a factory. They make a mint.
The doorbell rang, saving me from her. It was Sasha. He gave me a big hug and did that rich laugh that made my legs feel loose. Then he held me at arm’s length and winked.
– One good thing, Shona, at least we got to know each other today. Now I can take you skiing in St Moritz, eh?
I smiled shyly. I wished.
– Where’s Mireille? he said.
Mme Durebex was in the kitchen getting leftovers out of the fridge. Though it was still early, I went to get Laurent for dinner and took him up to the kitchen to hear Sasha. But Sasha wasn’t laughing, he was arguing politely with Mme Durebex.
– I didn’t know you’d called the ski rescue, Mireille.
– We agreed we’d meet, Sasha.
– We waited for you at the top for nearly fifteen minutes. Aren’t you going to offer me a glass of wine?
He had already selected a bottle from the fridge. He poured it, saying, I was freezing! She was too, down there all alone. Then we—
– You should have waited longer! I was worried about her, Sasha.
– She didn’t seem to be expecting you when we got back down, Mireille, and I wasn’t going to leave her there.
She, her, where was my name? Cursory glances were sent my way. Sasha sipped his wine. I wanted him to offer me a glass. He looked at the label approvingly, then topped up his own.
Laurent hummed happily all through their exchange. Not a scrap of food did he spill, not a rude word did he utter. Mme Durebex nattered on, The ski rescue team, my one hundred francs … She had other francs on her mind too – the ones she would be spending on my plane ticket. The train strike had been confirmed.
– Stop worrying about your one hundred francs, Mireille! Sasha exclaimed. Go and get changed. I’m taking you out to dinner.
She left the room and Sasha pulled up a chair.
– Good skiing today, champ? He ruffled Laurent’s hair.
– Super! Did you see me do the big jump on the Princesse Noire?
– I sure did! The backward somersault half-twist pike. Woow!
I wanted to remind them no one could see anything on the mountain today.
– But poor Shona, said Sasha, shifting his chair to face me. She didn’t have such a good day skiing.
I looked up hopefully. Sasha poured himself another glass of wine. Laurent picked his nose, looked at it, then wiped it under the table.
– At least it happened at the end of the holiday, Sasha said to me.
What holiday?
Mme Durebex re-entered in her tight black jeans and lizard-skin boots. She was over twice my age and her legs were better than mine.
– On y va?
Jealously, I watched them leave. I ate another piece of tinned mackerel.
When the front door had closed I said to Laurent, Your mother didn’t lie. You did.
He played with his cutlery.
– I want dessert, please Shona. He pursed his lips beguilingly. S’il te plait?
– You have to make it.
He examined my arm. It was out of its sling, resting on the table. He twisted his own in imitation. His whole body contorted, his face in sympathy, he began to do everything with his right hand. He limped to the fridge and got himself a yoghurt, then he asked me to get the sugar down.
– You can reach it.
He did his exasperated sigh, then limped over to the packet of sugar. He poured it into the yoghurt till it overflowed, then plunged the spoon in. Sugar and yoghurt splashed across his face.
– It’s snowing! It’s snowing!
– You have to make me dessert as well, Laurent.
– What I do?
– I want banana and yoghurt.
He peeled the banana with his mouth and one hand, then hacked at it with the breadknife.
– Put honey in it.
– Wut?
– Miel – honey.
– Okay, I put honey. Hhhooney. Voilà!
– And there’s some bûche left. We can eat the bûche de Noël.
He pulled the box containing the cake from the freezer. He threw it around, laughing, till ice-cream dropped on the floor. I laughed too.
– You have to clean it up, you know, Laurent.
He looked at me irritably, wanting to understand the joke. I knew exactly how he felt.
– Tables are turning, Laurent.
– Wut? Wut you say?
– Tables are turning. What goes around comes around.
– Qu’est-ce que ça veut dire?
– Ça va changer.
Laurent got restless when the movie was over. He jumped from the couch to the floor and back again. He shook my good foot and growled, doggy fashion. I didn’t even snap back. Seeing as there was nothing else to do, he decided he was hungry again and we went up to the kitchen.
He boiled himself eggs. It was more of a strain making sure he didn’t burn himself, or drop an egg, or break a plate, than it would have been to make the food myself. All too aware of this, Laurent made performance art of his bad bread cutting. He smashed the eggs, almost raw, on the edge of the plate. He stirred the egg slime with chunks of baguette, then made faces at it. I sat there sagely. I recited the old lines, feeling my plaster cast, feeling as though it encased my whole being, wanting to break out.
– It’s almost bedtime, Laurent.
The food went into his mouth and into his lap, onto the table and onto the floor.
– Don’t make too much of a mess, will you, Laurent. He jumped up and danced out the door.
– I go and watch the late movie now! Bye!
He danced back in, waving his hands vaudeville fashion. Bread flew from his mouth as he sang, Bye! Bye-bye, Shona!
I should have returned the farewell then and there. But I couldn’t stop myself.
– Who do you expect to clean this up? I snapped.
Laurent spat out his mouthful. It wasn’t much – the blob landed on his sock. He pulled up the foot and caressed the back of his shin with it.
– The boys don’ know how to clean.
– They do. My brothers do, for instance.
That was a lie. I wondered who it came from.
– But your brothers are stupid, Laurent said.
– What?
– I’ve saw their photo.
– Anyway, my father—
– Your father, Laurent, is not like everybody else.
I may as well have been talking to myself – he held up a finger.
– Hé, Shona!
– What?
– Plus ça change, plus c’est la même chose!
He went careening down the stairs. He landed at the bottom with a whoop, then went into the study. The television came on, so loud I could hear it up here. Un film de Billy Wildeur. Little bastard. I hoped his father would wake up and go in there. And I hoped he would tweak his ear. Hard.
I began to clean up Laurent’s mess. I found that it wasn’t so difficult to clean with one hand, which annoyed me even more. At least I couldn’t sweep the floor. That pleased me. I heard the front door slam – Mme Durebex arriving home. She retested the acoustics in the high foyer with my name. I stuck my head out the door and yelled back.
– I’m in the kitchen, cleaning up after Laurent!
She came up.
– Look at the mess he makes, I tried to gesticulate. He eats like a pig! This time he’s gone too far, and I can’t do anything about it!
She nodded vaguely and left the kitchen, finger to the corner of her mouth. The staccato of her heels receded down the staircase, then her voice trumpeted through the chalet.
– Laur-ENT! Cette fois je vais te FRAPPER!
Silence followed. Alone in the kitchen, I searched the drawers for the implements I would need. I opened and took and shut and opened, cursing this French family. I put a carving knife in my sling, a ladle, a wooden spoon. I took the three sharpest vegetable knives, coffee spoons, some forks and an egg whisk. I got out a couple of tea-towels and stuffed them around the cutlery in my sling, then I stomped downstairs to my room. It was hard to stomp in thick socks, with a sprained knee and a very broken wrist, and muffle the clinking of booty at the same time.
I took two painkillers. I waited for bliss. Nothing happened. I took two more. I picked up my journal but the last page was written on. I put it back on the desk and perused the stack of books I’d brought with me. I’d read them all. I put them in my pack, along with my journal.
One by one, I took down Paul’s photos. Sydney, my family – I’d come here to escape them, yet I’d had the photos on the wall all this time. I was good at denial, I’d been taught by experts. I put the photos back in their envelope, and I put the envelope into the pocket of my pack.
The photos gone, I felt the absence of comfort, and the comfort of absence. Alone again, on the move back to Paris, I didn’t know what I was going towards. But I knew what I’d come from, and that I loved it as much as I hated it. Cosy, stifling, oppressive, just like this narrow room with its overactive heater.
And just in case I did manage to get away, I had ended up in another trap. Once again, I was playing a role in a family.
Jesus bloody Christ, Siobhan, you’re an au pair girl! It’s not a job.
My own private hell – that inner circle of family. Laurent was right: boys didn’t clean because they were boys. Fathers were mean and fathers were distant because they were fathers. Mothers were pushed and mothers were pushy because they were mothers. Children were naughty because they were children. The circle of family, tight and vicious. I wanted out.
The circle of family spinning around me. I felt dizzy, I couldn’t take my eyes off it. No beginning, no end, circles just go on and on. There was no escape.
But then, there were no blood ties with the Durebex.
I figured the Durebex owed me, in the same way Tom had said Dad owed us. I was going to make sure I got paid properly; I was going to get my Christmas bonus. I lay back and turned off the light, longing for sleep to overtake me.
Revenge, revenge, I dreamt of revenge. I could get help in that African voodoo shop opposite my Montmartre apartment. They sold voodoo dolls that came with their own little packets of pins. There were all those magic elixirs to choose from. They swam across the back of my eyelids. Oils to rub into the skin – strength, beauty, long life, infusions of wisdom, essences – you only needed a couple of drops on the tongue. There were spells for parents to control their children, spells for children to take revenge on their parents. There were bottles of bonne chance, amour, argent.
I woke in a tangle of bedclothes. It was dark outside. I went to the toilet, squinting against the bright light, opening my eyes gradually, adjusting to my surrounds. Yellow spots like planets bordered my vision. The light globe reappeared in the mirror and on the white tiled wall that Honorée brought to such a brilliant shine.
I went back to my room. It looked as though a fight had been going on in there: pillows on the floor, blankets twisted, my pack half full.
I looked at my watch – four a.m. The second hand ticked around and around the white face.
Surely the world was a bigger place than that which can be contained in one circle. A stone is thrown into water and the ripples extend.
Slowly I packed, neatly, carefully. I smoothed the blankets and got back under them, and I waited for dawn.