Since Gwen's arthritis had worsened, every afternoon now began much the same. After lunch, she and Al took a nap. Gwen used the bedroom and her husband lay on the couch in the living area. This was because Al liked the shutters closed but Gwen preferred them slightly ajar. She enjoyed drifting to sleep or, slowly waking at around half past four, being vaguely aware of a sliver of hot light as it edged through the day's predictable arc.
It was the light that had made them love Carla Bayle from the moment they arrived as passing tourists, 15 years before; the way it caressed the hot magenta and umber of the houses on the street, their slatted green and white shutters closed to the heat. The dream had always been to have what Gwen called "a place in the sun". It would be a reward for the thin years of country living as she and Al came and went to teaching jobs at the local comprehensive, when nobody really expected her to make the break into full-time writing. But she did, though not spectacularly.
The house they bought the following spring stood at the south end of the village, near the bronze memorial with its long scroll of the dead of two world wars. Across the road from the back of the house, off the patio, ancient fortified walls were the last obstacle between Carla Bayle and the plains. The land fell away to crops of sunflowers, barley and maize. Viewed from the ramparts, country roads meandered for miles until they joined with the route nationale. Finally, at that point in the distance where the eye relaxes, lay the Pyrenees, mauve-tinged at dusk, crevassed and fissured, the high peaks white and pink.
Today was a break in routine. Calista Stoney was in the region with her niece, by Calista's account a rising young poet. Joanna would love to meet Gwen, Calista had written, it would be marvellous if they could detour on their way to Auch. Gwen had written back that of course they must come for lunch, giving them a date and a time. Calista had sent a return postcard in her big, looped, forward-slanting hand:
"Dying to have a chat. Let me know if there's anything you want brought out from Europe's Hottest Capital!?! Love, Calista XXX."
Al's hair was nearly as white as her own, Gwen observed as he leant over the lettuce at the kitchen sink, separating the leaves for a Caesar salad.
She took a selection of local cheeses from the fridge, loosened the greaseproof paper slightly and left them to soften on the little wooden worktop. Sometimes she and Al drove to the far side of Toulouse to the market at Montauban. They always bought things they had not set out to purchase - rabbits, fowl, the local foie gras, which was different from the one they favoured at Carla Bayle, and, in season, des truffles.
"Oh darling, there's a tear in the parasol," Gwen remarked, almost as an afterthought, "maybe you could stick a pin in it or something?"
"For God's sake Gwen, it needs to be stitched." Al turned towards her, annoyed. "D'you think we have a strong needle and some thread?"
Gwen turned her attention to the cheeses again, this time completely removing the greaseproof paper.
"Hmmm? Needle and thread?" She poked at one of the cheeses with her finger. Condensation and slight mould clung to her fingertip. She licked it. "These cheeses look really good, Al."
Al gave a quiet snort and went to the food cupboard.
"It's here somewhere, I know it is," he said, his hands trembling as he felt his way in the cupboard's twilit space.
"Don't worry about it," she said, relenting. "It doesn't matter. Really it doesn't. Come here. Kissey-kissey-munchkins?"
He gave that stiff half-turn which had become so characteristic of him in his late 60s.
"Kissey-kissey," he murmured, smiling, "we'll sort out that parasol, you'll see."
Soft-spoken, given to thought rather than swift pronouncement, her husband was regarded by Gwen as infinitely wiser than she, and infinitely wiser than many of the writers of her acquaintance, who sometimes believed themselves to have a monopoly on wisdom. Giving up his teaching career at the school had been a major consideration. Unlike her, he had not had other aspirations.
"Have you done the croutons, dear?" Al called from the rough stone patio. He balanced on a white sun-chair, needle and thread to hand, squinting as he forced the needle in and out through the red and yellow canvas umbrella.
"Hell, no. Forgot."
"Not to worry. Lots of time."
Quickly, Gwen cut the bread into small cubes and tossed it into a pan of hot seasoned oil.
"Ummmm," Al sniffed as the aroma of oil, garlic and herbs wafted from the kitchen..
He came in behind her then and nuzzled her neck, nipping at her ear-lobe.
"Now, now, baby, you know Cook doesn't like to be interfered with," she turned and kissed the tip of his nose. "At least not in the kitchen."
"Hell. Visitors."
"What about 'em?"
"They mean work!" Gwen complained, wiping her brow with the front of her forearm.
"They'll be gone soon. Oh shit!" he gulped his drink, "I think I hear a car, do you? They're here, aren't they?"
"Shit. Yes. Nice to see Calista though." Gwen glanced down at her apron, then removed it hastily.
"You look fine. Anyway, they're here." He breathed out ceremoniously, "Calista and her young charge." Al brushed at his loose shirt, then glanced quickly in the oval mirror in the little hallway.
They stood at the open door, beaming a welcome. They extended their arms towards Calista as she ran towards them, smiling shyly.
"God, you two haven't changed a bit!" she squealed.
"Oh, go on now!" Al laughed, pleased.
A plump young woman of about 30 stood waiting to be introduced.
"And this lovely creature must be Joanna! Ah, youth, youth!" Al took her hand and embraced her, "Welcome, my dear," he murmured gently, his eyes curious. "Don't smother her, you old fool," Gwen joked, then rolled her eyes conspiratorially at Joanna.
Joanna, dressed in a sleeveless serge blouse and a matching skirt which swirled around her ankles, met their attempts at welcoming humour with a little smile, nodding at Gwen. With her short, uncoloured brown hair, pale, unmade-up skin, and the blue outfit, she reminded Gwen of a newly laicised nun. When she shook hands with Gwen, her clasp, Gwen noted, was firm and cool.
"Welcome," Gwen said, meeting the girl's eyes, which were also cool. Calista cornered Gwen immediately, enthusing about the house. She admired the wooden furnishings, running her hands over the surfaces of chairs, vases and wall panels.
"What intense light! And the curtains!" she cried, examining the drapes that separated the main living area from the galley kitchen. Joanna, ushered to the swing-seat by Al, sat out on the patio.
"Well yes, I suppose it does look rather grand from the perspective of the school staffroom on wet November morning," Gwen said gaily, "but you must remember that we get the most awful rainstorms here too. And winter is hard. It doesn't help my arthritis one bit!"
"Even here!" Calista exclaimed. "Well anyway, you're well out of the stress-palace. The school has gone from bad to worse . . ."
"So I gather," said Gwen, cracking an egg over the Caesar salad. Expertly, she tossed the salad leaves with her fingers until the egg was evenly distributed.
"I think we're ready to go," she said in a sing-song voice, "almost there. Calista, be a dear and carry out the bread. Two little baskets." They settled themselves in the shade of the parasol, close to a lemon tree.
Calista and Joanna made appreciative sounds when Gwen served the salad.
"Magnifique!" Calista kissed the tips of her fingers in her enthusiasm. "Can't beat it, can you?" She looked to Joanna for a response.
"What? Oh - no, this is wonderful. Really regal," Joanna spoke quietly.
"Du vin pour les belles dames?"
Al was really moving now, Gwen thought, playing the good host. He poured white wine for the three women, then, as an afterthought, offered them water.
"Please," Joanna nodded, pushing her water glass forward.
"So where do you live, Joanna?" Gwen asked, forking through her salad.
"Bray."
"What's that like nowadays?"
"Oh, you know. Lively. Hurdy-gurdys. Sugarloaf mountain. Local radio. That kind of thing."
Gwen wondered if there might be more to Bray, but didn't say so. "Have you always lived there?"
"More or less."
Calista cut some cheese and pushed it towards Joanna, who shook her head and passed it across to Al.
"Now for the good news from home."
Calista spoke coyly, smiling at Joanna. "Will I tell them?"
The girl shrugged, suppressed a smile. "As you wish . . ."
"Jo-jo's first collection of poems has been nominated for a McLachlan Award!"
"Oh wow! WOW!" Al cried, clapping his hands together.
"It's wonderful, dear, just wonderful," Gwen said. "If you win, it will be a great opportunity, and even if you don't actually win it will still have been an honour."
"You'll soon be able to keep a man in style, that's for sure," Al chuckled, breaking his bread in small pieces.
Gwen could tell by Joanna's face that it was the wrong thing to say.
"Jo-jo's steering clear of men for some time to come, right Jo-jo?" Calista intervened lightly, with a slight frown.
"Well, at least the world of arts and letters is in secure hands," Gwen said gently.
"I trust you brought a copy of Joanna's book?" Gwen looked across at Calista.
"Of course I did, I said to Jo-jo that you'd be really interested in reading her work."
"Good. I am."
"Do you review in Ireland?" Al asked Joanna.
"Well - " Joanna was diffident, "it's a tricky area. But yes, I like to review."
"Tricky is right," Gwen chipped in. "Like a rabbit in a tank of barracudas." For an instant, Joanna almost smiled.
"I'd imagine it's especially difficult for poets," Calista said then.
"So?" Gwen's eyebrows shot up.
"They all know one another," Calista said.
"The dunghill syndrome, you mean?"
"I beg your pardon?" Joanna was staring straight at Gwen, her face very serious.
"Oh, you know. Poets are like dung beetles. All that scrambling around in a mound of s-h-ONE-t, if you see what I mean."
Joanna gave an irritated little laugh. "It's a bit more complicated than that," she said with sudden vigour. "Poetry is -" she hesitated, "the highest art form there can possibly be."
Al and Gwen exchanged glances and smiled.
"And there was I - as a mere fiction-writer -" Gwen joked, "imagining it was one of many high art-forms!"
"No. Poetry is the highest art form there is."
Joanna went on to list her hierarchy of significant poets, the ones who counteracted that free-verse patter which the washed-up hippies and feminists wrote during the 1980s.
"It's sad!" Joanna shook her head.
"Hmmm." Gwen was thoughtful. "Now I can't be certain of this Joanna - not being a poet any more. I was one 20 years ago, but then I turned to fiction and found it altogether much more satisfying. An easier habitat, if you like -" she pushed her wine glass towards Al, "fill me up, dear."
"Oh come on," Joanna countered.
"In my experience. For what it's worth." Gwen said lightly.
"Yeah, but there are some really good poets coming along now," Joanna went on.
"Well, if they're good, they'll be heard, won't they?" Al said softly.
"You're right," Joanna nodded, "and the consoling thing is that in each generation of writers, only the best rise to the top."
"Oh nonsense!" Gwen's patience snapped. "In each generation some of the best are certainly there, but side by side with some of the mediocre!"
Joanna put her elbows on the table and folded her little hands beneath her chin, regarding Gwen with polite amusement.
"Don't you understand, Joanna, the mediocre is needed. It broadens the cultural habitat. That's if you must think in those terms," she finished with a smile.
They fell silent for a time, and sipped their wine. Al looked down at his glass. Calista gazed enquiringly from Joanna to Gwen and back again.
Joanna decided to hold herself at a remove, to at least signal disinterest in Gwen and everything Gwen stood for. As the three older people sipped their coffee, she wandered the small garden, examining everything with a fierce botanic attention, the deep green shiny leaves of the lemon tree, the olive bushes, a row of ripening vines which Gwen and Al had optimistically planted after they bought the house.
She also absorbed the conversation that drifted in scraps from beneath the parasol. All the time, new phrases ran through her head and displaced the words she overheard, snatches of poems she had yet to compose, colours of emotion freshly born from her encounter with these quaint expatriates. There was so much to do, to write, and, she thought savagely, they did not know the half of it.
At the table, conversation flagged. Calista and Gwen fell silent. Al sat rattling the previous day's edition of Le Figaro. Joanna moved around with a small camera in hand, then hung over the fence in order to focus on something which Gwen could not see.
"Gottit!" she cried jubilantly.
"Oh yes, our friends the lizards. All over the place." Al gave a broad wave of his hand.
Eventually, it was time to go. As they stood up, Gwen felt the familiar twinges in her ankles, as the skin of her feet pressed up in little cushions of flesh between the straps of her flat sandals.
"We want to make Auch by nightfall," Calista said.
Al chased Calista around the garden when she refused to give him a kiss.
"Come, come, Calista," he laughed, "for auld time's sake. Gwen understands these ancient staff alliances, don't you, maitresse?"
"Indeed I do, mon capitaine . . ." She blew him a kiss, aware that Joanna was observing them. Damn, she thought, as her ankles throbbed again. She had been sitting too long.
As Calista and Joanna drove away, Gwen and Al waved, calling out long goodbyes. Joanna stuck her arm out the window and waved briefly, but without turning back to look at them. It was strange, Gwen thought, to feel as she did now, of so little interest to this young person that the most they merited was a disdainful backwards toss of the hand.
They cleared up, moving back and forth between patio and kitchen. Gwen lifted the tablecloth and shook it. The movement churned the air, raising aromas of warm lavender and oregano, stirring butterflies on flickering trajectories.
"Here. Let me." Al took the cloth.
"Come to me," he said, holding her, pushing her back into the shade of the lemon tree. He stroked her back.
"I'm a fool," Gwen whispered, leaning on him. "My knees hurt too."
"I know your knees hurt, I know. But you're not a fool. Why should you be a fool?"
"Washed up. We are, you know."
"Did she bother you that much? But she's an innocent! She knows nothing." Al caressed Gwen's neck with his thumbs, then kissed her on the lips.
"Older people say that kind of thing. It's not always true," Gwen whispered, her voice shaky.
"In this case, you know it is. In this case."
"And we're not - we're getting -" Her lips trembled.
They made their way across the garden again, through the kitchen, across the living-room and into the bedroom. She dropped heavily onto the bed.
"That girl needs slapping down," she muttered.
"I daresay," Al said, removing her sandals. He stroked her feet, cradling her heels, one by one, in the palm of one hand.
"It's all right, mon capitaine, they're too tender. Leave them be."
"Maitresse."
He watched, his head to one side as he awaited her response. "Maitresse? Let it go. Some things have always been the same. This is one of them."
"Yes but -" Gwen thought of the anticipation she had savoured earlier in the day.
"Don't struggle. Not this time, maitresse," he whispered, kissing her forehead. He leaned closer and kissed her again, on the nose, on each cheek, finally on the mouth.
As they undressed, she grew less aware of the pain in her feet, and the pain that until moments ago had seemed to skewer her right knee.
Twenty minutes later, gasping and perspiring, they curled around one another, their lust still unsatisfied. But her courage had returned. She tilted her head back and kissed him yet again, to signal an end to hopeless frustration; she tried to tease and coax him back to good humour.
"It really doesn't matter," she murmured, "not the way you think."
He sighed, his hand caressing the mound of her pubis.
After he dressed, she listened for a while to the clearing-up sounds that came from the kitchen. Outside, a light wind stirred. The long cratch-cratch-cratch sound of the crickets dipped, then rose again as the wind-current rolled, ghostly, along the village walls. Somewhere, a rooster crowed. A car drove across the place, braked noisily, the engine left running. Gwen listened as two men talked and laughed. Eventually, she dozed. The light lengthened to a tawny oblong in the bedroom.
(c) Mary O'Donnell 2001