Marina Kemp - Nightingale

The photograph showed a younger Suki grinning up at a plain, bored-looking man in a suit.

‘He looks – nice,’ said Marguerite.

‘Fat,’ Suki said immediately. ‘He’s so damn fat now. That was taken when he was still young and handsome.’ She smiled, finally flicking ash into a little dish. ‘Drink your tea.’

Marguerite took a sip.

‘Isn’t it wonderful?’ Suki said. ‘Of course, the water should be heated in a samovar. That’s the traditional way. But now tell me how you’re liking your new job. Or is it new? You’ve been here some time, I suppose.’

‘Almost six weeks.’

‘Six weeks! What do you do all day? Aren’t you bored?’

‘No – it’s very busy.’

‘I suppose that’s a good thing. Keeping busy. Well, six weeks isn’t long enough to get really, truly sick of the place. I moved here in ’84. So what’s that, eighteen years now? I’m no use at maths. All I know is that it’s been a long time.’

‘Where did you live before?’

‘Marseille. Tehran, then Hilversum in the Netherlands, then Marseille. So I was used to life in a big city. I’m like you, I’m a city girl by nature. I’m not made for all this.’ She gestured at the window behind her and grimaced. ‘How old do you think I am?’

‘Oh, I never get this question right.’

‘Guess!’ she insisted. ‘I won’t be offended.’ She lifted her chin, turned her face a little.

‘Twenty-nine,’ said Marguerite, lying.

‘Thirty-eight!’ she cried. ‘People are always tricked by my skin, I don’t have any wrinkles. Even though I smoke like a chimney, I’ve got not a single wrinkle. It’s genetic.’ She leant forward for Marguerite to inspect her face, pulled with one finger at the skin around her eyes. Her eyeballs were a little pink. ‘See?’

There were lines, of course, but it was true that her skin was smooth. It seemed polished. Marguerite leant back so Suki didn’t inspect hers.

‘Anyway, so I married Philippe when I was twenty and came to this little dump. He was very rich, and handsome – you’ve seen the photo – and I thought I was going to have a terribly romantic life in the countryside. Instead, I sit here all day whilst he works in a technology park. A technology park!’ She smiled, looking down at her hands. Her nails were the palest pink, immaculately painted. ‘It’s not quite the glamorous set-up I had imagined, as you can see.’

‘Well, look at my set-up,’ said Marguerite. ‘I’m aware it’s not what most people would choose.’

Suki lit another cigarette. ‘And no doubt Jérôme treats you like absolute crap,’ she said.

‘No, he’s fine.’

‘Okay, I know what you’re like. You’re not going to admit it. Very professional. But everyone knows that he’s a tyrant.’ She topped up their glasses. ‘Just a little more,’ she said. ‘And I suppose you’ve met the gardienne ? Brigitte?’

‘Yes, of course.’

‘And?’ She looked sharply at Marguerite. ‘All your evil spinster great-aunts rolled into one, right?’

‘Well …’ She paused. ‘She’s quite stern.’

Then she thought of the woman’s visit two days before and felt freshly irritated. Brigitte had walked around the ground floor, inspecting how clean it was. She had peered at the food in the fridge and cupboards, enquired into Jérôme’s diet, asked questions about his medication that were nothing to do with her.

‘Actually, she’s terrible,’ she said, and Suki threw her head back and laughed.

‘Still waters run deep,’ she cried. ‘I knew you couldn’t be as sweet as you seem. You’re right, of course. She is terrible. She can’t stand the sight of me. In fact, she can’t stand the sight of any good-looking female – that’s probably why she’s nasty to you.’

‘I really doubt that.’

‘Stop being modest. Look at you! So young. What are you? Twenty-five?’

‘Twenty-four.’

‘And look at your little waist!’ She reached forward as if to pinch Marguerite’s waist, but Marguerite wrapped her arms around herself. ‘Are you naturally slim or do you diet?’

‘I really can’t stay,’ she said.

‘Won’t you wait for the rain to stop?’

‘I really can’t, I have to cook Jérôme’s dinner. It’s getting late.’

‘Don’t be silly. I’ll give you a tour of the house.’

She stood up and took Marguerite’s glass from her hands, putting it down on the table. Then she took one of her hands – her own were smooth, warm from holding the glass – and started to take her through to the kitchen.

Marguerite resisted, pulling her hand out of Suki’s grip.

‘Please, I would love to see it next time. But Jérôme will wake up and he might be in pain. I have to be there.’

Suki pursed her lips and cocked her head to one side. Then she smiled. ‘Okay then,’ she said. ‘But make sure next time is soon.’

Marguerite was glad to get out of the heat and gloom. In the sullen white light and rain, her stomach uncomfortably full of pastry and tea, she walked home at her briskest pace, almost a jog. The forest on either side of her dripped and crackled like fire.

She could hear Jérôme as soon as she opened the back door, banging repeatedly on his headboard. She dropped her wet jacket and ran through to his room, the stench of shit hitting her before she entered. It was formidable, a wall of smell.

She breathed hard through her mouth as she took him in her arms and raised him up onto his feet. He was wailing quietly, his mouth puckered.

‘Let’s get you to the bathroom.’

‘Where were you?’ he cried as they shuffled towards the door.

‘Getting food from the village.’

‘I don’t understand it, I just woke up and it had happened.’

‘It can happen to anyone.’ She lowered him onto the bidet, removed his pyjama bottoms and was hit afresh by the stench, its unmistakable acrid sweetness. She tried not to look as she folded them roughly, flinging them into the sink. She wiped and cleaned him in the bidet, something he could usually do himself. But he was limp, leaning forwards onto her, his face between her shoulder and neck. His head was very heavy.

‘I don’t understand,’ he said again.

‘Don’t worry. These things happen.’

He was silent, letting her take his full weight. When she had cleaned him, she pushed him back gently so that he leant against the wall.

‘Are you feeling all right? Can you sit like this while I get you clean pyjamas?’

He didn’t answer. He sat there with his mouth drawn down, staring at the floor.

She took away the soiled pyjamas, threw them in the battered, ancient washing machine in the utility room. The smell still hung everywhere. When she went back into the bathroom, he would not look at her.

‘Would you like a bath?’ He nodded slowly. He sat there, naked from the waist down, knees knocked together, hands in his lap as if to cover himself. She wrapped a towel around his shoulders and pulled him up to stand again, very gently, so that he could sit more comfortably on the disintegrating wicker chair in the corner of the room.

‘Strong,’ he whispered.

‘I’m sorry?’

He paused. ‘I said you’re strong, for a girl.’

She smiled. ‘Yes, I suppose.’

She turned the taps on at full force. She fetched vanilla essence from the kitchen and dropped it into the rising water. When the tub was full, she helped him in, folding a towel under his head as he rested back.

‘I’ll be right next door, making dinner. Just call if you need anything.’

He was silent for a moment, but as she left the room he cleared his throat. ‘I suppose the sun is starting to set.’

She stopped. ‘Yes.’