Page 41 of Sisters Making Mischief
With commendable reflexes, I thought, I span around on one leg rather dramatically, nearly fell over and managed to throw it over myself.
‘My Bastien’s father made that table,’ Eugénie said, ignoring me as I stood dripping and trying not to swear, ‘just after he andgrandmèrewere married. They were so poor; he said every day was a struggle. They had terrible health that nothing could cure. Both dead now of course, their lives cut tragically short by war and poverty.’
Isabel threw me a look. ‘But they both lived to be over ninety,Mamie.’
Eugénie took no notice. ‘What are you doing out here?’
‘I told you; we are getting the barn ready for the new visitors.’
‘So, there is no chance for an old woman, who has walked all this way in the freezing cold and with weak ankles, to be given coffee?’
‘Of course.’
Eugénie turned and gave me a puzzled look, sweeping from my red, sweating face to my soaking wet trousers.
‘And what on earth are you doing? Did you know you are very wet? It’s very bad to have wet shoes, you will catchpneumonie– a bad chest – and then you will need to go to hospital. There used to be nuns at the hospital, I remember them well. They were very fierce. I knew someone who went there with suspected appendicitis. The nuns said he was a fool, he had indigestion and was to go home and stop wasting their time, and he did.’
‘Goodness me, what happened?’
Eugénie shook her head sadly and crossed herself.
‘A terrible tragedy. Only twelve years later he was dead. He was run over by a milk lorry.’
I choked back a laugh and squelched after her and back into the house to change.
Back downstairs again I found Eugénie busy interrogating my sister about Luc.
‘Why a doctor needs to build his own house I do not know. Surely he makes enough money from his patients to pay someone?’
‘He’s not a medical doctor,’ Isabel said, ‘he told us was a professor of English history.’
‘Ne sois pas ridicule!How will he know how to treat me when I’m ill? Read me Baudelaire or Shakespeare? The world has gone mad. I said as much to Charles last night.’
‘Is he still singing under your window?’ I asked.
‘If you can call it singing. He has tried something new. Half past one and he has brought his portable record player and starts up with Edith Piaf, “Sous les Ponts de Paris”. Do I look like the sort of woman who would like to sleep with the vagabonds under the bridges of Paris? I should have thrown a bucket of water overhim,’ she added with a look at me.
‘He means well,Mamie,’ Isabel said, ‘he can’t help himself.’
Eugénie nodded. ‘He isamoureux de moi, in love with me. I can’t blame him for that. He says he has felt this way for years, ever since he saw me dressed asMarianneon the float on Bastille Day in 1965.’
‘Well, of course,’ Isabel said, ‘I saw the photograph.’
Behind her back I mimed a question at my sister. The famous painting ofMariannegenerally showed a bare breasted maiden, gallantly leading the revolutionary forces towards freedom. Which personally I would have thought would have been far too much of a distraction for thesans-culottes. Had Eugénie done that too? Isabel bit her lip to stop herself laughing and shook her head.
‘I have something for you,’ Isabel said, ‘I know it’s late, but I saved some especially.’
She brought out a plate with the slice ofGalette du Roion it and placed it in front of Eugénie with a little pastry fork.
Eugénie looked at it and then leaned forward to peer at it.
‘It is very bad luck to be late with such a thing. I expect we will have a terrible year. And then I will be ill. This is bought pastry, isn’t it?’
Isabel and I exchanged a knowing look, and she rolled her eyes.
‘Well yes, I didn’t have time to make it myself,’ Isabel admitted, ‘but it turned out very well.’
Eugénie took a tiny taste of it and then prodded the rest with her fork.
