‘Of course,’ he said. ‘Anything.’
Marise sat down stiffly at the table. She was wearing jeans and a green jumper, which brought out the green in her eyes. She touched the typewriter keys tentatively. Jay saw that her nails were cut very short, and that there was dirt under them.
‘You don’t have to say yes,’ she said. ‘It’s just an idea I had.’
‘Go on.’
‘Do you write with this?’ She touched the typewriter again. ‘Your books, I mean?’
Jay nodded. ‘I always did have a retrogressive streak,’ he admitted. ‘Can’t stand computers.’
She smiled. She looked tired, he noticed, her eyes strained and bruised-looking. For the first time, and with a feeling of surprise, he saw her as vulnerable.
‘It’s Rosa,’ she said at last. ‘I’m worried she might catch cold – fall ill – if she stays in the house. I wondered if you would perhaps find room for her in your farm for a few days. Only a few days,’ she repeated. ‘Until I can get the house back into shape. I’ll pay you.’ She pulled out a bundle of notes from the pocket of her jeans and pushed them across the table. ‘She’s a good girl. She wouldn’t interfere with your work.’
‘I don’t want money,’ said Jay.
‘But I-’
‘I’d be happy to take Rosa. You, too, if you like. I have plenty of room for both of you.’ She looked at him with an air of bewilderment, as if in surprise that he had given in so easily.
‘I can imagine the problems the flooding has caused,’ he told her. ‘You’re very welcome to use the farm for as long as you like. If you want to bring some clothes-’
‘No,’ she said quickly. ‘I have too many things to do at home. But Rosa…’ She swallowed. ‘I would be very grateful. If you would.’
Rosa was exploring the room. Jay could see her looking at the pile of typed sheets he had arranged in a box on the end of his bed.
‘Is this English?’ she enquired curiously. ‘Is this your English book?’ Jay nodded. ‘See if you can find some biscuits in the kitchen,’ he told her. ‘The chocolate will be ready soon.’ Rosa scampered off through the doorway.
‘Can I bring Clopette with me when I come?’ she called from the kitchen.
‘I don’t see why not,’ said Jay mildly.
From the other room Rosa gave a crow of triumph. Marise looked at her hands. Her face was careful and expressionless. Outside the wind rattled the shutters.
‘Perhaps you’d like that wine now,’ Jay suggested.
55
AND THEN THERE WAS ONE. THE LAST OF JOE’S SPECIALS. NO more after that, not ever. As he reached for it in the rack he felt a sudden reluctance to open it, but it was already alive in his hand, black-corded Damson ’76, releasing its scent as he touched it, effervescent. Joe made himself scarce, as he often did when Jay had company, but Jay could just see him, standing in the shadows beside the kitchen door, the light from the table lamp gleaming on his bald forehead. He was wearing a Grateful Dead T-shirt and holding his pit cap in his hand. His face was little more than a blur, but Jay knew he was smiling.
‘I don’t know if you’ll like it,’ said Jay, pouring the wine. ‘It’s a special kind of home-brew.’ The purple scent was thick, almost cloying. To Jay it had an aftertaste which reminded him of the sherbert fountains Gilly had enjoyed so much. To Marise it was more like a jar of jam which has remained sealed for too long and has become sugar. The taste was tannic, penetrating. It warmed her.
‘It’s strange,’ she said through numbed lips. ‘But I think I like it.’ She sipped again, feeling the heat crawl down her throat and into her body. A scent like distilled sunlight filled the room. To Jay it felt suddenly right that they should drink it together, this last of Joe’s bottles. Strange, too, that the taste, though peculiar, should be oddly pleasant. Maybe at last, as Joe had predicted, he was getting used to it.
‘I’ve found the biscuits,’ announced Rosa, appearing at the doorway with one in each hand. ‘Can I go upstairs and look at my room?’
Jay nodded.
‘You do that. I’ll call you when the chocolate’s ready.’
Marise looked at him. She knew she should feel wary, but instead there was a softness working through her, smoothing away all tension. She felt very young again, as if the scent of the strange wine had released something from her childhood. She remembered a party dress precisely the colour of the wine, a velvet party dress cut down from an old skirt of Mémée’s, a tune played on the piano, a night sky wide with stars. His eyes were exactly the same colour. She felt as if she had known him for years.
‘Marise,’ said Jay quietly. ‘You know you can talk to me.’
It was as if she had been dragging something heavy behind her for the past seven years and had only just realized it. It was as simple as that. You can talk to me. Joe’s bottle was a hive of secrets, uncoiling like busy vines in the still air, peopling the shadows.
‘There’s nothing wrong with Rosa’s hearing, is there?’ It was barely a question. She shook her head. She forced the words out like bullets.
‘It was a bad winter. She developed ear infections. There was a complication. She was deaf for six months. I took her to see specialists. There was an operation – very expensive. I was told not to expect too much.’ She drank a little more of Joe’s wine. It was rough with sugar. There was a syrupy residue at the bottom of the glass which tasted like damson jelly. ‘I paid for special lessons for her,’ she continued. ‘I learned sign language and continued to teach her myself. There was another operation – even more expensive. Within two years ninety per cent of her hearing was restored.’
Jay nodded. ‘But why the pretence? Why not simply-’
‘Mireille.’ Strange that this wine, which should have made her garrulous, should instead have made her terse. ‘She’s already tried to take her from me. All she has left of Tony, she says. I knew that if she once managed to get hold of Rosa I’d never get her back. I wanted to stop her. It was the only way I could think of. If she couldn’t talk to her, if she thought she was damaged in some way…’ She swallowed. ‘Mireille can’t bear imperfection. Less than perfect doesn’t interest her. That’s why when Tony-’ She stopped abruptly.
She should not trust him, Marise thought to herself. The wine was drawing more out of her than she was prepared to give. Wine talks, and talk is dangerous. The last man she had trusted was dead. Everything she touched – the vines, Tony, Patrice – died. Easy enough to believe that it was something she carried, passing it on to everyone with whom she came into contact. But the wine was strong. It rocked her gently in a cradle of scents and memories. It teased out her secrets.
Trust me. The voice from the bottle snickered and crooned. Trust me.
She poured another glassful and downed it recklessly.
‘I’ll tell you,’ she said.
56
‘I MET HIM WHEN I WAS TWENTY-ONE,’ SHE BEGAN. ‘HE WAS MUCH older than me. He was a day patient in the psychiatric ward in Nantes hospital, where I was a student nurse. His name was Patrice.’
He was tall and dark, like Jay. He spoke three languages. He told her he was a lecturer at the Université de Rennes. He was divorced. He was funny and wry and wore his depression with style. There was a ladder of cuts up his right wrist from an unsuccessful suicide attempt. He drank. He’d taken drugs. She’d thought he was cured.
Marise did not look up as she spoke of him, but instead watched her hands climb up and down the stem of the wineglass, as if playing a glass flute.
‘At twenty-one you’re so eager to find love that you see it in every stranger’s face,’ she said softly. ‘And Patrice was a real stranger. I saw him several times outside the hospital. I slept with him once. That was enough.’