Michael Ridpath: Amnesia

My pride couldn’t accept the idea of allowing a stranger to pay for me to have sexual relations with another stranger. I was still a virgin, and I rather hoped that the first time would be with some girl whom I loved. Did that make me a romantic? Or was I just a stuffy provincial afraid of breaking the rules? Was it pride, or was it cowardice?

Oddly, despite his own eagerness to break all rules, especially where sex was concerned, Stephen had seemed to understand me. I was grateful for my friend’s help in making my escape. Pleasantly drunk, and grinning at the memory of my first evening in Paris, I eventually found myself at the rue de Bac and our hotel, and put myself to bed, trying not to allow my thoughts to dwell too much upon what the others were up to.

Stephen, Nathan and I spent the next couple of days sitting in cafés chatting, reading and drinking, interspersed with the odd stroll around a church or the Louvre. I would have liked to have spent a little more time in the Louvre, and I did my best to hide my impatience, but actually it was very pleasant just sitting, idling. I had brought À la Recherche du Temps Perdu with me to France, which I was reading extremely slowly, but that was fine. Stephen and Nathan seemed to get on much better than I had feared. Nathan was highly intelligent, and although it was his first time in France and his language skills were poor, he was quick to observe the ways of the natives and to exchange these observations with Stephen. The night spent at the Panier Fleuri seemed to have created a bond between them.

We passed the evenings at Alden’s apartment, arriving for cocktails after a day’s steady drinking already half intoxicated. Neither Alden nor Madeleine seemed to mind. There were no more nocturnal excursions; instead we stayed up until the small hours, talking, drinking Alden’s excellent brandy and playing backgammon. Elaine, who spent the day at drawing classes, joined us, doing her best to flirt with Stephen, but not making much impression.

Alden had taken a villa at Deauville for the summer, and it was decided to go down there for four days. There was a big horse race on, apparently, and Alden wanted to show Nathan the town. Alden’s friend, Tony Volstead, the painter of the rotten vegetables, was to join us.

Despite its size, there wasn’t enough room for everyone to fit in Alden’s Hispano-Suiza for the trip, so it was decided that I would travel down with Tony in Tony’s car. This turned out to be a sporty Amilcar convertible. Tony Volstead did not look much like a struggling artist: big and bluff, with ruddy cheeks and a pencil-thin moustache, he wore a striped blazer and a broad grin. He slung my bag in the back and me in the front seat next to him, and we were off.

The idea was that we were supposed to be following the Hispano-Suiza, but once we were outside Paris, the convoy turned into a race. The Hispano was clearly much more powerful, but the Amilcar was nimble, and Tony was willing to take risks with it. Tearing through the French countryside, with a maniac at the wheel and lesser cars ducking out of the way, was bloody marvellous.

‘Ever been horse racing, Angus?’ Tony asked, as he settled in to a winding stretch of road where even he couldn’t overtake.

‘A couple of times. At Ripon. It’s a local course near where I live.’

‘Win anything?’

‘Gambled half a crown and lost it all.’

‘I can give you a few tips, if you like,’ Tony said. ‘I know people. You have to know the right people.’

‘That’s all right,’ I said. ‘I’ll just watch.’

‘Oh, don’t worry about that,’ said Tony. ‘I’m sure Alden will front you some stake money.’

‘I couldn’t possibly. I’ve taken far too much of his hospitality as it is.’

‘He won’t mind. Alden’s a stand-up guy. Smart too. He’s been a big supporter of my paintings.’

I asked him about the pictures I had seen in Alden’s drawing room. Despite his outward impression, Tony took his art desperately seriously and was happy to explain why he thought his paintings of discarded food in Parisian alleyways symbolized the decay of twentieth-century Europe. It made some sort of sense to me, and I couldn’t deny that it was genuinely expressed. Whether Tony was as good a painter as he clearly thought he was, I had no idea. But I did like the man.

After luncheon with the others in Rouen, we arrived at Deauville, a seaside resort of smart people, smart shops and flowers wherever you looked. The villa Alden had taken was a large house on the edge of the town, at the foot of a wooded hillside. It was tall and square with high steep roofs, two or three fairy-tale turrets and a timbered cream façade, set in a large garden of fruit trees and roses. Inside, suits of armour guarded the hallways, and swords, halberds and arquebuses hung from the walls.

‘The owner is an antiquarian nutcase,’ Alden explained. ‘English. Just your cup of tea, Angus.’

Alden had joined in Stephen and Nathan’s gentle teasing of my interest in all things medieval. And indeed I enjoyed studying the armour and the prints of old French maps and charters.

We went to the races the following day, a Friday, and for the first time on the trip, my English dowdiness made me feel uncomfortable. It was August and it was hot, and I felt sweaty in my crumpled Hepworth’s worsted suit bought at Allen’s in Harrogate. This was one of the great weeks in the French social calendar and half of Paris had descended on Normandy. It was not just that the clothes were so elegant and expensive, it was that they were worn with such style. Madeleine looked gorgeous in a dress of polka dots and a broad summer hat, and she and Elaine had been shopping at Schiaparelli for a light-blue dress that transformed the seventeen-year-old from American schoolgirl into a pretty Parisian woman. Stephen was every inch the young elegant English gentleman, and Tony and Alden sported blazers and boaters.

I refused to accept stake money from Alden, and in doing so managed to offend my host for the first time. I had no moral objection to gambling, but my pride wouldn’t let me keep my winnings and expect Alden to cover my losses. Just like it seemed wrong to expect Alden to pay a woman to have sex with me. The others all bet. Tony won one race, Madeleine another, and Elaine was terribly excited when her fifteen-to-one outsider came in first at the last race.

Sophie joined us for dinner that evening, having taken the train down from Paris. Unlike everyone else at the table, she seemed to have a job that involved her going into work on weekdays.

There was great enthusiasm for the next day’s racing. Elaine was eager to repeat her success, vowing to stick with outsiders. Tony seemed in high spirits but nervous, and he and Alden exchanged some knowing comments about a horse called Fantastic, which they pronounced the French way. I had the feeling that there was a big bet about to be placed, if it hadn’t been placed already.

After we had polished off a delicious clafoutis, made with cherries from the villa’s own garden, Alden turned to me. ‘Racing isn’t really your thing, is it, old man?’

I was about to protest politely, but actually I regretted rebuffing Alden’s offer of stake money earlier. I liked our host and decided it was best to give him a straight answer. ‘Not really. Sorry.’

‘Have you heard of Honfleur?’ Alden said. ‘It’s only a few miles from here.’

‘Where Henry V led his men once more into the breach?’

‘I think so,’ said Alden. ‘It’s a pretty place. Old. Real old. French painters love it. Why don’t you go there tomorrow instead of the races? Sophie will take you, won’t you, Sophie? She hates racing too.’