the prison whether they knew where she was but they didn’t know, or, more likely, they didn’t want to tell me. Do you know, Maestro?’
‘Me? No. I never did go see her again. She probably changed her name again. She’d be 82 now.’
‘If she’s still alive.’
‘Exactly.’
He glanced at his watch. ’Well, Maestro, I’ve taken enough of your time and I’ve got a long way to go.’ He slipped his pen into his inside pocket and put his notepad into his briefcase. ‘I know you have to pop out soon.’
‘What?’
‘You said you have to go and see a neighbour, or something.’
‘Oh, yes, of course. I ought to go and do my duty.’
‘Very good of you.’ He struggled out of the settee. Pulling the creases out of his jacket, he offered me his hand. ‘It’s been a real pleasure.’
‘The pleasure’s all mine, Monsieur Bowen. Now, have you got everything? Good. I’ll see you out.’
‘Thank you.’
‘I think it might rain soon,’ I said, stepping outside with him. ‘When do you think the article will appear?’
‘After the photographer’s been over. I’ll get her to give you a ring. Then probably a week or so after that.’
‘That’s fine. I look forward to reading about myself,’ I said, aware that I’d let slip a hint of my old vanity.
‘Yes, well. Thank you for the tea.’
‘Have a good trip back.’
‘I will. Thank you. Goodbye, Maestro.’
‘Goodbye, Monsieur Bowen. Goodbye.’ I watched him leave, in his dapper cream-coloured suit, and thought, what a charming fellow.
*
Returning indoors, I ate another biscuit and finished my tea. Yes, I thought, I’d better go – it was almost three. She doesn’t like it if I’m late. Not that she ever goes anywhere, but she likes the routine.
I felt strangely content – as if I’d just purged myself of something unpleasant. I felt lighter somehow. Is this how Catholics feel after confession, I wondered. Donning my overcoat and taking my umbrella, I closed my front door behind me, and made my way down the road. I told Monsieur Bowen I was visiting a neighbour but in fact, they lived right at the far end of the village. I strode across the village square and past the church, and along another street lined with picturesque cottages and well-tended gardens, a spring in my step, waving to various people whom I knew by sight. I was wrong about the rain – indeed, the sun was appearing from the clouds. I stopped by at the village shop and brought a newspaper, a dozen eggs, powdered milk and a small assortment of vegetables. What a fine day it’d been. I thoroughly enjoyed unburdening myself. And what a pleasant young man was Monsieur Bowen, Henri. I was sure he would do the article justice. And here it is. I pushed open the gate and admired the front garden which I had, just a few days previously, spent some time clearing and weeding, dead-heading the plants and flowers. Having my own key, I let myself in.
‘Only me,’ I shouted as I closed the door behind me.
‘I’m in here,’ she shouted back from the living room. Not that she’d be anywhere else.
‘I got you your paper and the groceries you asked for.’ I said, handing her the newspaper. She spent the whole day in her living room, sitting in an old armchair with a blanket over her knees, a small space cluttered with too much furniture and too many paintings on the wall, and a mantelpiece adorned with cheap horse figurines. In the corner, opposite her, the television was on, the volume turned down. Next to her, on a high, small table, a blue-coloured budgerigar in its cage. ‘How’s Pompidou?’ I asked.
‘A bit quiet today, aren’t you, Pompy? Next time you pass the shop, can you get me some more birdseed?’
‘Sure.’
‘And some more headache pills.’
‘Again?’
She glanced at the paper’s headlines. ‘I don’t know why I read the paper,’ she said. ‘It’s nothing but bad news.’
Stepping into her tiny kitchen, I packed away the groceries.
‘Me? No. I never did go see her again. She probably changed her name again. She’d be 82 now.’
‘If she’s still alive.’
‘Exactly.’
He glanced at his watch. ’Well, Maestro, I’ve taken enough of your time and I’ve got a long way to go.’ He slipped his pen into his inside pocket and put his notepad into his briefcase. ‘I know you have to pop out soon.’
‘What?’
‘You said you have to go and see a neighbour, or something.’
‘Oh, yes, of course. I ought to go and do my duty.’
‘Very good of you.’ He struggled out of the settee. Pulling the creases out of his jacket, he offered me his hand. ‘It’s been a real pleasure.’
‘The pleasure’s all mine, Monsieur Bowen. Now, have you got everything? Good. I’ll see you out.’
‘Thank you.’
‘I think it might rain soon,’ I said, stepping outside with him. ‘When do you think the article will appear?’
‘After the photographer’s been over. I’ll get her to give you a ring. Then probably a week or so after that.’
‘That’s fine. I look forward to reading about myself,’ I said, aware that I’d let slip a hint of my old vanity.
‘Yes, well. Thank you for the tea.’
‘Have a good trip back.’
‘I will. Thank you. Goodbye, Maestro.’
‘Goodbye, Monsieur Bowen. Goodbye.’ I watched him leave, in his dapper cream-coloured suit, and thought, what a charming fellow.
*
Returning indoors, I ate another biscuit and finished my tea. Yes, I thought, I’d better go – it was almost three. She doesn’t like it if I’m late. Not that she ever goes anywhere, but she likes the routine.
I felt strangely content – as if I’d just purged myself of something unpleasant. I felt lighter somehow. Is this how Catholics feel after confession, I wondered. Donning my overcoat and taking my umbrella, I closed my front door behind me, and made my way down the road. I told Monsieur Bowen I was visiting a neighbour but in fact, they lived right at the far end of the village. I strode across the village square and past the church, and along another street lined with picturesque cottages and well-tended gardens, a spring in my step, waving to various people whom I knew by sight. I was wrong about the rain – indeed, the sun was appearing from the clouds. I stopped by at the village shop and brought a newspaper, a dozen eggs, powdered milk and a small assortment of vegetables. What a fine day it’d been. I thoroughly enjoyed unburdening myself. And what a pleasant young man was Monsieur Bowen, Henri. I was sure he would do the article justice. And here it is. I pushed open the gate and admired the front garden which I had, just a few days previously, spent some time clearing and weeding, dead-heading the plants and flowers. Having my own key, I let myself in.
‘Only me,’ I shouted as I closed the door behind me.
‘I’m in here,’ she shouted back from the living room. Not that she’d be anywhere else.
‘I got you your paper and the groceries you asked for.’ I said, handing her the newspaper. She spent the whole day in her living room, sitting in an old armchair with a blanket over her knees, a small space cluttered with too much furniture and too many paintings on the wall, and a mantelpiece adorned with cheap horse figurines. In the corner, opposite her, the television was on, the volume turned down. Next to her, on a high, small table, a blue-coloured budgerigar in its cage. ‘How’s Pompidou?’ I asked.
‘A bit quiet today, aren’t you, Pompy? Next time you pass the shop, can you get me some more birdseed?’
‘Sure.’
‘And some more headache pills.’
‘Again?’
She glanced at the paper’s headlines. ‘I don’t know why I read the paper,’ she said. ‘It’s nothing but bad news.’
Stepping into her tiny kitchen, I packed away the groceries.
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