Erwin Mortier - Marcel

“And so,” cooed Miss Veegaete as she swept into the room, “we’re all prepared to brave the cold of winter. Such a nice new ensemble. How much do I owe you, Andrea, do tell me …”

She took out her purse. Little Linda skipped out from behind her back and climbed onto a chair. She wore hair clips in the shape of jaunty ladybirds with big spots on their backs. The sight of them did not make me like her any better.

*

Linda came to the grandmother’s house only once. Miss Veegaete brought her along when she paid her autumn visit to discuss her spring wardrobe.

While Miss Veegaete’s measurements were being taken I lured little Linda to the attic, to show her my lair, my secret hiding place behind a forgotten dresser, an old armchair and the suitcase stocked with goodies I had filched piecemeal from the cupboard in the sewing room.

I offered her a big sweet with a runny filling.

“ Très jolie ,” she murmured.

“ Regarde moi ,” I said, “this is how you’re supposed to eat it.”

I bit into the side of the sweet and sucked out the blood-red syrupy filling.

“Go on, you try …”

Little Linda took a bite. The filling spilled from her lips and trickled down her chin. Next thing her face was covered in sticky goo and she was looking around anxiously for something to wipe her hands on. Before she knew it the goo was dripping from her chin onto her dazzling white blouse.

She stared at me, wide-eyed. Not in anger, not in dismay, but in sheer panic. I felt a stirring of sympathy. I pictured her, trembling like a leaf in the Brussels flat while her Papa and her Maman made a scene.

She held out her arms sideways, as if I had nailed her to an invisible cross.

“ Tu … vous … ” she faltered.

Dear me, how upset Miss Veegaete would be when she saw the mess her little china doll had made of herself!

Little Linda’s face turned red. Her hands fluttered about helplessly, her sky-blue eyes filled with tears and her mouth was set in a grimace. The red filling oozed from the corners of her lips. She did not make much of a noise, other than a hoarse sort of whistling. Then she clutched her stomach and doubled up, sobbing. I felt like a monster.

*

“You came on foot,” Miss Veegaete remarked as she let us out. Little Linda lolled against her aunt’s legs.

“We thought we’d take a stroll along the fields,” the grandmother said. “Saves meeting all the local worthies.”

“I know what you mean,” said Miss Veegaete. “Would you believe it, Andrea, I can still see the spite on their faces. I can always tell how they felt about the blackshirts, even if I’ve never set eyes on them before. It’s written all over them.”

“It’s time they stopped picking on us,” said the grandmother. “All those last-minute heroes, yes indeed, once the Germans had gone it was fine for them to be brave. I can still hear them marching up the drive in their shiny boots … inspection for this, inspection for that. Whether I charged fixed prices. Whether I kept the books in order … it got to the point where I suffered stomach cramps when the milkman came to the gate … But we must be off now.”

“Don’t forget, jeune homme ,” Miss Veegaete called after me, “that we’re going to do something special on our last day of term. You won’t forget, will you?”

I nodded.

“The boys are going to give their own lessons,” Miss Veegaete explained, “about the animal kingdom.”

“Ah well, that won’t be a problem then,” replied the grandmother. “He spends all his time in the fields. He knows exactly where the ducks’ nests are.”

“All the better,” laughed Miss Veegaete. “It’ll be most instructive, I’m sure.”

“ Au revoir, campagnard, ” little Linda simpered.

The door closed.

“Well,” said the grandmother, “they do like showing off their French, don’t they?”

*

It was nearly dusk and clouds were gathering. The soft blue sky faded into swathes of pearl-grey. A brassy, menacing glow rose up behind the poplar trees, and from the horizon came the rumble of thunder.

“It looks like we’re in for a real downpour,” the grandmother said, glancing up at the clouds accusingly. She hastened her pace and hurried me along.

The first drops were plopping onto the sandy garden path when we reached the gate. A gust of wind tore at the crowns of the apple trees. She had hardly flung the front door open when the rain came down in torrents.

“Just in time! That was lucky.”

The first flash of lightning reduced her, for a fraction of a second, to a two-dimensional, dark shape in the hall. It had luminous hair.

Stella and the grandfather were sitting in the parlour playing cards.

“There you are at last!” he cried. “I’m sick and tired of gin rummy. It’s a game for milksops. At least we can play hearts now.”

He shuffled the cards and cut them in four stacks.

Stella got up to unplug the wireless from the wall socket. “I’m not too fond of thunderstorms,” she said.

Meanwhile the rain gushed down the roof, overflowing the gutters.

The grandfather made a fan of his cards.

“Come on, what’s keeping you?” he said brusquely, drumming his fingers on the table.

“I’m putting my money away,” she called from the kitchen.

“I don’t fancy lightning much either,” Stella said.

There was a loud crash of thunder.

“That was close!” Stella crossed herself. “The worst thing about stormy weather is that I always get this pain in my side. I wasn’t bothered when I was younger. Now I get this pain every single time. And when it hits me here,” she said, pointing to her hip, “then I know we’re in for a thunderstorm. Without a doubt.”

“It’s the same with my knees,” the grandfather said. “They’ve been like this ever since my operation. It must be the scars.”

The grandmother came into the room, sat down and picked up her cards.

“There are some advantages I suppose,” Stella said. “I don’t have to go out and buy a barometer, for instance — I’m a barometer myself. Just listen to it pouring down outside. Silly of me I know, but whenever it pours like this I always think of Lucien. I’m glad he’s got his gravestone at last. At least that’ll keep him dry.”

Another clap of thunder rattled the window panes. Stella slumped against the side of the table and sat down, her face contorted with pain.

“If I were you,” the grandmother said without looking up from her cards, “I’d go and see the doctor.”

“It’s just old age,” Stella protested. “Besides, creaking carts last longest, so they say.”

The grandmother looked doubtful.

“I’ve never known anyone die of good health. You never know what it could be a sign of.”

She slapped a two of clubs on the table.

“Small aches great pains, I always say.”

THE LAST DAY OF TERM TURNED OUT UNSEASONABLY chilly. Perhaps that was why Miss Veegaete had decided to wear her new dress to school. It looked as if it had been cut from the wings of a rare butterfly. The shade hovered between blue and purple, and lit up in streaks on the skirt and sleeves every time she moved. It was as though the grandmother had taken strips of rainbow and worked them into the fabric.

Miss Veegaete was all dolled up. Her hair was drawn into a flat fold rather like an apple turnover on the back of her head. Framing her face were two locks of hair hanging unfettered from temples to chin in rustic curves. A string of pearls from Thailand gleamed beneath the bolster of flesh at her throat.

The school hummed with bittersweet anticipation. Outside, under the gallery, the breeze rattled the fronds of the potted palms and lifted the yellow crêpe paper skirt around the platform on which the chairs for the notables were lined up.