'It is not what I wished,' said Jean-Pierre, almost in tears. 'Believe me, it is not.'
The path to the waterfall had a notice: Julie — Son Fleuve. The three of them took the path. The river was running fast and furious because of rain in the hills. The pool was so full of white water and spray the rocks could hardly be seen. They stood by the railing that guarded the drop where Sarah had stood with Henry and with Stephen. Well, it was a place well suited to ghosts, or at least it was today, so dismal and cold. Was it really ten months ago? No, that was another region of time, seductive and deceiving, and if she turned her head she would see Stephen sitting on the bench, see Henry smiling and hear his low 'It's Sarah'. She cautiously turned her head, assured herself the bench was empty, and walked back past it, talking to Jean-Pierre about the musical. She had to raise the subject, for he was too embarrassed. Yes, he said, the committee did like the musical. Speaking for himself, he thought it was deplorable. But he could assure them that this year at least the authentic Julie would be played here for a full three months. Here he took Mary's hand and kissed it. 'With your help.' The musical would be tried out next year. He was confident everyone would see the musical was inferior. Yes, Patrick had been clever, he had incorporated some of Julie's musical ideas, but in a very ordinary and commonplace way.
But there was good news too, said Jean-Pierre. The Rostand family wanted to take Sarah's and Stephen's version and put it on as part of a fete they planned for the summer. In French, of course, but they liked the shape of Julie Vairon and what Sarah had done. Would Sarah mind? She assured him from the heart that she was delighted, and any help that she could… 'Perfect,' said Jean-Pierre. 'So this summer will be interesting. There will be Julie Vairon in French, as she should be, and there will be Julie Vairon in English. For the tourists. No, we shall make sure that they will not overlap.'
Mary took pictures of Sarah and of Jean-Pierre, separately and together, while they stood in the middle of the stadium, then sitting on the lower tier of the seats, and then on the highest seats, where — if the camera was positioned just so — Jean-Pierre's and Sarah's heads would be seen against a flying scroll, a metal banner that stretched from one umbrella pine to another: Julie Vairon. 1865–1912. Jean-Pierre said it was a pity Stephen's face would not be with Sarah's near the banner, but Mary said it was no problem: she could blow up a picture of Stephen and superimpose his face beside Sarah's on the banner.
Then Sarah told the two she would walk down by herself to the town, for old times' sake, for she could see they wanted to be alone.
On the plane going home, Mary said, 'I thought I had come to terms with everything, but I hadn't, really. So I have to do it all over again.'
This was shorthand for: I thought I had accepted that I would not marry or have a serious lover to live with, because my mother is ill and is getting worse and anyway I am getting old, my hair is going grey, and I was very unhappy, but I came to terms with it, but now…
'I understand perfectly,' said Sarah.
Sometimes women remembering past follies can exchange Rabelaisian laughter, but it was too recent. Later, no doubt.
'And there's another thing,' said Mary. 'I don't care about Julie any more. They've done her in.'
'Yes, she's well and truly dead now, isn't she.'
And that was the moment, frequent in the theatre, when, after months or even years of total immersion in a story — an Entertainment — the people who made it simply turn their backs and stroll away.
Sarah returned from France to find Joyce in her flat. This time it seemed she intended to stay. Again something had happened but Joyce was not going to talk about it. She had gone home, saying that she was going to.stay there because 'they aren't nice people' — meaning Betty and the gang. Her father had heckled and shouted, and found himself confronted by Anne, who announced that if he was ever 'nasty' to Joyce again she would leave him. Hal said Anne was being silly. Anne began packing. Hal said, 'What are you doing?' Anne said, 'What do you think I'm doing?' She had seen a lawyer. At that, hell was let loose. Sarah heard all this from Briony and then Nell on the telephone. The two grabbed the receiver from each other in turn. They were full of the awe appropriate to reporting a major hurricane. 'But when Daddy stopped shouting, Mummy said, "Goodbye, Hal," and started to leave,' said Briony. 'Yes; she got to the door before he realized she meant it,' said Nell.
He made promises. He apologized. The trouble was, Hal had never believed he was anything less than adorable. Worse, he had probably never wondered what he was like. He did not know what his wife meant by 'behaving nicely', but his manners did change, for whatever he said to Briony or Nell or his wife came out as short incredulous exclamations: 'I suppose if I ask you to pass the butter you are going to threaten me with a lawyer?' 'If I get your meaning rightly you're going to the theatre without me.' 'I suppose you'll fly off into a rage if I ask you to take my suit to the cleaners.'
Joyce removed herself to Sarah's. Anne said she was absolutely fed up with him and was going to leave him anyway. 'But I'm going to retire soon,' said Hal. 'Do you expect me to spend my last years alone?'
He came to see Sarah. He did not telephone first. Standing in the middle of her living room, he asked, or announced, 'Sarah, have you thought of us spending our last years together?'
'No, Hal, I can't say I have.'
'You aren't getting any younger, are you? And it's time you stopped all this theatre nonsense. We could buy a place together in France or Italy.'
'No, Hal, we could not.'
There he stood, gazing somewhere in her direction with wide and affronted eyes, his palms held out towards her, his whole body making a statement about how badly he was being treated — he, who was entirely in the right, as always. This big babyish man, with his little tummy, his little double chin, his self-absorbed mouth, making a total demand for the rest of her life, was not seeing her even now. Sarah went close to him, stood about a yard away, so that those eyes that always had so much difficulty actually looking at someone must take her in. She said, 'No, Hal, no. Did you hear me? No. No. No. No. No. No, Hal — finally, no.'
His lips worked pitifully. Then he turned sleep-wise around and rolled slowly out of the room, with the cry, 'What have I done? Just tell me. If someone would just tell me what I've done?'
Anne took a flat, and Joyce went to live with her mother.
Briony and Nell were outraged and would not speak to Anne or to Joyce. They announced they intended to marry their boyfriends, but their father wept and begged them not to leave him. At last they understood how much their mother had shielded them from, how much they had not noticed. Pride did not allow them immediately to forgive Anne, who, they kept saying, must shortly come to her senses. Meanwhile Sarah was a transmitter of messages.
'What did Mummy say when we said we wouldn't ever speak to her again?'
'She said, "Oh dear, but when they get over it remind them they have my telephone number.'"
Briony said angrily, 'But that's patronizing.'
'Do you want me to tell your mother so?'
'Sarah, whose side are you on?'
And Nell, a week or so later: 'What are they doing over there?'
'You mean, how are they spending their time? Well, your mother's working as usual. Joyce is cooking for both of them. And she's trying to learn Spanish.'
'Cooking! She's never cooked; she can't even boil an egg.'