Sara Craven - Solitaire

Marty drank her Orangina gratefully when it came, and then bestirred herself to look at the menu. As usual there was a choice of meals at various prices, and after some wistful lingering over the menus that offered grilled shrimps and moules marinières as starters, she decided to settle for the plat du jour —a thick slice of rare roast beef, accompanied by a steaming dish of pommes frites, and preceded by a delicious home-made terrine with a side-dish of tomato salad in an aromatic dressing.

In spite of some inner qualms of nervousness at the prospect of meeting Uncle Jim again after all these years her healthy young appetite would not be denied, and she sat back at last with a sigh of repletion, blinking her eyes sleepily in the sun as she drank her coffee and toyed with one of the nectarines that had been served as a dessert.

If the worst came to the worst, she told herself, and Uncle Jim had not received her letter in reply, telling him that she was on her way, or even if he was away, she had enough money to supply her with a night’s lodging here in Les Sables, or even two nights if it came to the pinch. There had been a generous amount of francs enclosed in Uncle Jim’s letter, and she had converted her own small savings into travellers cheques as well.

It was probably this more than anything, she thought, that had convinced Aunt Mary that she was really going to France.

‘You’ve closed your savings account?’ Her aunt had stared at her as if she had gone mad. ‘What on earth has possessed you, child? You surely haven’t been taken in by the boasts of that ridiculous old vagabond? You’ve no idea what kind of conditions he may be living in. He probably wants an unpaid housekeeper to look after him. A Frenchwoman would drive too hard a bargain for him, so he’s thought of you, after all these years without a word.’

Marty bit her lip, willing herself to be silent, while she flinched at the scathing nature of her aunt’s remarks. She had always known that Aunt Mary would not be pleased to hear of her plans, but she had not expected quite such a vitriolic reaction. And she could have replied hotly that she was little more than an unpaid housekeeper living where she was, Aunt Mary having dispensed with the daily woman she had employed for some years on economic grounds, leaving the bulk of the heavy work to Marty at weekends.

Aunt Mary was going on. ‘You’ll make the biggest mistake of your life, my child, if you throw up everything here. Your mother did exactly the same thing, and look what a disaster that was—marrying a man of that class, and then being widowed, left with a young child to bring up. I would have thought the example of her folly would have taught you a thing or two.’

‘And so it has,’ Marty said hotly, unable to restrain her anger any more at this slur on her mother. ‘It taught me that it’s love that matters in this world, and even you can’t deny that my mother and father were happy together. And Uncle Jim loves me, so even if this house in France is—a slum, I don’t care.’

‘I think you will.’ Aunt Mary’s lips were so tightly compressed that they had almost vanished. ‘You are used to certain standards, my dear—standards that your father’s family, good people though they may be, probably don’t even know exist. And what kind of a life has Jim Langton been leading all these years? Heaven only knows, but it’s doubtful whether he’s ever been fit company for a young girl, especially someone with your upbringing. And you seriously intend to throw it all up and go to live in a country—where it’s not even safe to drink out of the taps,’ she added on a note of pure bathos.

Angry as she was, Marty could not help seeing the funny side of it all and a reluctant smile started to spread, but Aunt Mary had no sense of humour, and she reached forward and to Marty’s shock slapped her hard across her face.

‘This is no laughing matter,’ she rapped, her own face alarmingly red. ‘Understand this, if you leave here, if you go to that no-good tramp of a man, then I shall alter my will. Not a penny will you get, nor this house. And don’t imagine that Jim Langton will cushion you against the hard times. Money flows through his hands like water. He’s been totally improvident all his life, and it’s unlikely that age has changed him.’

Marty stood very straight, her large grey eyes fixed on her aunt’s furious face, the fingermarks standing out angrily on the pallor of her cheek.

‘It isn’t your money I want, Aunt Mary,’ she said quite gently. ‘It was always something that you couldn’t give me—or weren’t prepared to. Your love and your time. But there’ll be plenty of that where Uncle Jim is. I shall always be grateful for what you’ve done for me,’ she added, ‘but I really don’t want any more. You must do as you wish with your possessions. They’re really none of my business.’

There was a long and fulminating silence and then Aunt Mary turned precipitately and left the room.

The following week, up to the time that Marty left to board the Hovercraft at Ramsgate for the Channel crossing, was not an easy time, full of strained silences and edged and embittered remarks. Miss Barton made no attempt to come and see Marty off, and Marty herself did not suggest it. She had been hurt by her aunt’s assumption that she could be bought, and felt that any move towards a conventional leavetaking would be nothing short of hypocrisy. Her one tentative suggestion that she should write when she got to France and let her aunt know that she had arrived safely and that all was well was met with an icy ‘It won’t be necessary.’ And when the front door of The Poplars finally closed behind her, Marty knew that an era in her life had come irrevocably to its end.

She could not drive, but even if she had possessed a licence she felt she would have thought twice about driving in France. Even before she got out of Calais, she saw some near-accidents involving tourists who had not got the hang of the French priority from the right. Her own journey was to be rather more sedate, on public transport, so that she could see something of the countryside on her way to the Vendée region of France where Les Sables des Pins was situated.

It wasn’t a part of France that Marty really knew very much about, and her researches at the local library prior to her departure had not been very revealing, although she had discovered that La Rochelle was the nearest big town to Les Sables, and she knew that La Rochelle had played a major part in the tragic religious wars in France during the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries.

Her journey down to Les Sables might not have been a totally straightforward one, but she felt she could have had no better introduction to France. The trip through Anjou had been particularly enjoyable, and she had stayed overnight in Angers, taking time off to visit the chateau with its odd decapitated turrets—another relic of the religious wars. She was fascinated by the acres of vineyards stretching away on both sides of the road, and the little stalls set up at intervals urging passers-by to stop and taste some of the famous wines of Anjou. Marty would have loved to have done so, but the bus she was travelling on never seemed to stop at a convenient place, and she had to promise herself that she would get Uncle Jim to bring her one day.

She paid the bill for her meal, and asked Madame rather haltingly if she knew the whereabouts of a house called Solitaire. Madame’s eyebrows rose a little, but her reply was immediate. But of course she knew of it. Who did not? Gladly she would direct Mademoiselle, but what did Mademoiselle seek there?

Marty hesitated, but only for a moment. After all, she told herself, there was no harm in telling this woman what the situation was.