R Raichev - The Death of Corinne

‘Full moon,’ she heard Corinne say. ‘I can see it from here.’

‘Full moon, yes.’ Lady Grylls stood gazing out of the window. ‘Your mamma hated full moons. Said they made her feel tense and fearful and heavy – as though somebody was sitting on her chest – like in that nightmare picture – you know the one with the squatting succubus and the mare’s head? No, I don’t think “succubus” is right – succubi are female, aren’t they? Ruse said she couldn’t sleep properly when there was a full moon. Full moons gave her nightmares. She always had the feeling of impending disaster. Isn’t that when people are supposed to go berserk?’

Enough nonsense – but what did one talk to Corinne about? She couldn’t possibly ask her how she had kept herself so young-looking – or why she had given Ruse’s brooch to Maginot. Or, for that matter, what Maginot’s first name was. For some reason Lady Grylls felt curious… One couldn’t imagine Maginot being called Bernadette or Francoise or Cecile or Mireille. Women like Maginot didn’t seem to have a first name. One couldn’t imagine them ever having been young – or ever having been in love. The idea of Maginot in love seemed grotesque. Had Maginot any family? She was too much of a type somehow. The megalomaniac monster. One-dimensional – like the humours in Ben Jonson or in the commedia dell’arte. One couldn’t imagine Maginot separate from Corinne – leading an existence which was independent of the life and career of her charge.

Lady Grylls experienced an odd sensation – she couldn’t quite explain it – as though she were standing on the brink of some momentous discovery, but the feeling passed. I am exhausted, she thought. It’s been a long day. I am becoming fanciful. She pulled the curtains together. Turning round, she asked, ‘Do you remember your mamma at all? Hope you don’t mind me asking, my dear?’

‘I don’t mind.’ The pale smile again, the right hand going up to the fringe, then down to the lap to join the other. Lady Grylls’s short-sighted eyes fixed on Corinne’s hands. Well, there was nothing wrong with either of them; they struck her as smooth and supple, certainly not the hands of a fifty-five-year-old. Why did she wear gloves then? Not a single wrinkle or brown speck, not the merest hint of a liver spot either, as far as she could see, but then she couldn’t see properly. Lady Grylls pushed her glasses up her nose. She must have that cataract operation sometime soon. She was annoyed with old Morgan nagging at her, but it was rather unwise of her, she had to admit, to keep calling off the operation the way she did.

‘I do remember my mother, yes… vaguely. I was very young when she died.’

‘Yes, yes. Terrible business, ’ Lady Grylls said quickly. ‘Your mamma was a most colourful character. We were great chums. I do miss her sometimes,’ she added untruthfully. She meant to be kind. She was filled with compassion: the poor thing needed encouragement, bolstering – she had such a ‘lost’ look about her! ‘What is it you remember? What would you say was the most remarkable thing about your mamma?’

‘Her voice…’

‘Her voice? Well, it was low and husky and rather attractive, men liked it and all that, but of course Ruse couldn’t sing for toffee.’ Lady Grylls laughed. ‘I was a better singer than she ever was. Your papa had sung in a church choir as a boy, but it was his parents who made him do it. Now I adore the way Frenchmen talk, but his voice wasn’t in any way remarkable either. That’s why everybody was so stunned when you turned out such a miracle.’

‘I remember a song. I was very young, but I remember listening to it – it was probably the first song I actually liked… “Love Story”

… Of course it was my mother who – ’ Corinne broke off and looked down. She suddenly looked confused – frightened – as though she’d said something she shouldn’t… I am imagining things, Lady Grylls thought.

‘I mean, of all the songs I sang, “Love Story” was my favourite,’ Corinne went on. ‘My mother would have loved it, I always felt. I sang its French version. “Histoire d’Amour”.’

Lady Grylls frowned. Everything seemed to be out of focus somehow

… What was the girl on about? She didn’t make sense. She was rambling – must be frightfully tired. She must be suffering from a crise de nerfs. Lady Grylls felt sure Corinne had been about to say something different. Of course it was my mother who – What? What had she meant to say? Ruse wouldn’t have loved ‘Love Story’. Ruse had been the most unsentimental person who ever lived, cynical, pragmatic and as tough as old boots.

‘Oh yes? That’s from the film, isn’t it?’ Lady Grylls said. ‘Love Story. Rather sad, I remember. The gel dies at the end -’ She broke off. Mustn’t talk about death and gels dying, she thought.

She heard the grandfather clock in the hall downstairs chime the half-hour.

Half past eleven.

That was the last time Lady Grylls saw her.

The following morning, 4th April, at eight o‘clock sharp, when Provost went to Corinne Coreille’s room to deliver her cup of early morning tea – very pale Earl Grey, flavoured with a slice of lime, as she had requested – he found the door ajar. He knocked, then called out ‘Miss Coreille?’, but receiving no answer, pushed the door open and entered.

The room was empty. So was the bathroom. The bed, he observed, was made. He didn’t immediately assume that it hadn’t been slept in. There were no signs of any disturbance. He then went into the room next door, which was Maitre Maginot’s. The night before the ‘old Frenchwoman’, as he called her, had asked for a cup of camomile tea sweetened with honey for the morning. This room too was empty. He looked around: at the kimono with an elaborate floral pattern on the bed, the cellophane bag of sugared almonds and the tatty book – La Langue des Fleurs – on the bedside table. Next to the book lay two folded newspapers: the International Herald Tribune and Le Monde.

‘Where could they have gone, Provost?’ Lady Grylls wheezed as she sat in her bed, propped up between several large pillows, looking very pink. Her hair was in a hairnet and, as usual, she was wearing a pair of Rory’s old striped pyjamas – so much more comfortable than any of her nightdresses. She sipped the strong Assam tea, bit into a slice of buttered toast, drew on her cigarette, her first for the morning, and cast an eye over The Times, which Provost had placed on her tea-tray. She was smoking a Balkan Sobranie – they had been a present from Corinne. As she sat lost in thought, it looked as though she had a decadent mauve lipstick hanging from the corner of her mouth. Her glasses had slid down her nose but she didn’t push them up.

‘Perhaps they’ve gone for a walk – in the garden,’ Provost suggested. ‘It’s a lovely morning.’

Lady Grylls glanced across at the window, blinking at the bright sunlight that turned her white lace curtains golden. ‘So it is,’ she agreed. ‘Looks like spring’s come at last… About forty-five years ago there was quite a craze for something called “rhymes of impending disasters” – remember them, Provost?’

‘I am afraid not, m’lady. Before my time.’ Provost cleared his throat. ‘I am forty-four.’

‘Goodness, I thought you were thirty-six.’

‘That’s Shirley’s age, m’lady.’

‘Of course – she was younger than you. I keep forgetting. You don’t think that was the reason why she -’ Lady Grylls broke off. ‘I remember I was supervising the children – it was somebody’s birthday party, John’s or Patricia’s, I think – and I encouraged them to write as many rhymes of impending disasters as they could think of. Peverel – my nephew, you know – wrote something on the lines of “Aunt Nellie’s mislaid her glasses and thinks the burglar’s making passes”. He accompanied it with a silly drawing of a simpering fat woman being manhandled by a masked marauder. He must have been eight or nine… A puerile squib, you’d no doubt say, but, as it happened, I had mislaid my glasses, just before the party started, actually, so I was disproportionately upset by the whole thing… I don’t suppose I ever forgave Peverel.’