William Boyd - Sweet Caress

‘You need a holiday,’ Charbonneau said, with untypical sweetness. ‘You’re working too hard. Leave it to me.’

He took me south, by train to Bordeaux and then on to Biarritz on the Atlantic coast, to the Hotel du Palais, perched on its rocky promontory at the end of the gentle crescent sweep of the grande plage. I was apprehensive — and not just because of my own troubled emotional state — Charbonneau seemed to be acting out of character — caring, selfless. What was he up to? Had he some idea about Sholto and the days we’d spent together?

However, Biarritz worked its charms. Charbonneau had said that we needed surf, real ocean — not lapping Mediterranean wavelets — and early spring on the Atlantic coast provided spectacular foaming breakers in endless succession. And the unique aspect of the Palais, as opposed to other grand hotels on seafronts, is that there is no wide promenade between the hotel and the ocean.

We were shown to our suite on the third floor and, flinging open the windows, received the full panorama of the sea, with no interruption of traffic, there in all its surging glory. The creaming white surf rolled in to break on the rocks directly below us. It was loud — the ocean can be very loud — but invigorating.

We settled in to our room but now I was sensing an edginess in Charbonneau — he wasn’t quite his usual hedonistic, cocksure self and I began to suspect this new solicitous persona as he kept asking me how I was feeling. Did I need a rest, should he order me some coffee? No, no, I said, I was feeling much better now that I was beside the sea.

He suggested that we eat that evening in the town rather than in the Palais’ rather stuffy restaurant and we found a big brasserie on the main square. Biarritz had been bombed in ’44 and the repairs to the damaged buildings were still in evidence, almost two years on, roads patched up, gable ends and shopfronts held in place by heavy timber raking-shores. There were concrete gun emplacements on the cliffs — and one realised this was the southern end of Hitler’s Atlantic Wall. The carefree resort town hadn’t fully expunged its wartime persona.

Charbonneau as usual fussed over the wine list, opting finally for some obscure Basque wine with a rare grape variety. I was, meanwhile, feigning a tranquil, utterly benign mood: everything pleased me, the brasserie was charming, the wine delicious, the freshness of the ocean air, perfection. I knew my serenity was making Charbonneau even more ill at ease.

He waited until the end of the meal.

‘You know that I love you, Amory—’

‘Oh dear, that sounds ominous.’

‘Please don’t make everything a joke. It’s the worst habit of the English.’

‘Wrong, it’s our best feature, our saving grace.’

‘Please.’

‘Continue.’

I lit a cigarette in my most mondaine manner and plumed smoke at the ceiling.

‘I am going to be married,’ he said, solemnly. ‘The announcement will be in Le Figaro next week.’

This did take me by surprise. I almost dropped my cigarette.

‘You’re obviously not going to marry me. Do I know the lucky young woman?’

‘You have met her, once or twice.’

‘And her name?’

‘Louise-Elisabeth.’

‘Louise-Elisabeth Dupont?’

‘No. If you must know — her name is Louise-Elisabeth Croÿ d’Havré de Tourzel de la Billardie.’

‘Goodness. No contest with plain old Amory Clay, then. Is she from Paris?’

‘From Burgundy.’

‘No doubt they have hillsides and hillsides of expensive vineyards.’

‘Yes that’s true.’ He looked at me and smiled. ‘ Le coeur a ses raisins que les raisins ne connaissent point. ’ He laughed at his joke as he always did and then his smile disappeared and he actually looked miserable for a moment, playing with the rind of cheese left on his plate. He gave a kind of rueful chuckle.

‘You know, I was wise once,’ he said.

‘Oh, yes? When was that?’

‘When I was born.’

‘I know what you mean. It gets difficult from then onwards.’

‘I want you to know, Amory, that my relationship with you will be unaffected by this marriage.’

‘Wrong. I assure you it will be very affected.’

‘Don’t be difficult. Let’s be sophisticated.’

‘No. Let’s be sensible. Let’s be honest. Why are you marrying this person?’

‘Because. . Because I wish to have a son. I’m forty-five years old. I’m at a certain age when a man—’

‘Do excuse me. I need some fresh air.’

I left the brasserie and strolled back towards the hotel, an unstoppable smile growing on my face. I wandered down to the esplanade, past the Casino Municipal, bright and noisy, right on the beach, and walked down some steps on to the sand, slipping off my high-heeled shoes and picking my way towards the foaming surf-edge. The constant roar of the waves was the sonic interference I required — I needed my head filled with noise. Off to the right the irregular sweep of the lighthouse on the clifftop flashed in my eyes. My clear eyes. I was happy for Charbonneau with his young aristocratic, fertile woman from the gratin. No doubt along with the vineyards there was a small perfect chateau to add to her allure. More importantly, I was happy for myself. I would give Charbonneau something of a hard time, of course, exacerbate his guilt over this betrayal, but, as I stood on the beach at Biarritz, I felt like dancing and singing; I felt like throwing my shoes in the air and running into the sea I was so happy. I knew where my life was heading, now, after so many years of mistakes and uncertainty and wrong turnings. I was going to marry Sholto Farr.

I CAN RECALL THE exact day when I realised Sholto was seriously ill, seriously damaged by his condition. It was 12 August 1959, the opening of the grouse season and — as we did every year — there was a shooting party for the first day of driven grouse.

I was sitting in the pony and trap with Rory McHarg, the second gamekeeper, as we clopped up the track towards the moor on the westerly slopes of Beinn Lurig, the big mountain that rose up at the end of our glen. We were bringing up lunch for the shooting party and the beaters — sandwiches, sausage rolls, a crate of beer, and Thermos flasks of soup and coffee. It wasn’t a grand shoot — no tables set and laid, staff attending — but it was a tradition that Sholto insisted on keeping. There were around a dozen guests — neighbours whose estates marched with ours, and, as usual, army friends of Sholto: David Farquhar, Aldous King-Marley, Frank Dunn (all ex-15 Commando) and our family doctor, Jock Edie.

It was a windy, cool day for August with an intermittent drizzle, but occasionally the clouds were ripped apart and the sun shone down on the mountains and the wide glen beneath, with the river, Crossan Burn, winding through it, making the heart lift at the astonishing splendour and beauty of the view. Up on the moor, on a clear day you could see a silver finger of the Sound of Sleat and, if the day was exceptional, beyond that the purple humps of the Cuillins on Skye.

I could hear a clink of glass coming from a jute sack bundled by Rory’s feet.

‘What’ve you got there, Rory? Liquid lunch?’

‘Nothing, Lady Farr,’ he said, and I saw the blush spread beneath his beard. I reached down for the sack and opened it. Two bottles of Bell’s whisky.

‘Who’s this for?’

‘His Lordship asked me to bring them up.’

‘Why would he do that?’

‘I don’t know why, My Lady. I just received the instruction.’

I replaced the sack at his feet and said nothing, though I wasn’t surprised. I saw the beaters making their way across the burned-off heather to the stone bothy — the drive was over for the morning. Rory gave the reins a shake and the pony picked its feet up.