Page 46 of Sisters Making Mischief
‘See? I told you they would, they are good boys really. And how are your two getting along? Any updates?’
‘I had a long email from Vanessa. They have had heavy snow, but the roads get cleared in no time. John is working hard, she has had lunch with a couple of the company wives, who are called Betsy and Tatiana. I expect they spent the whole time pushing salad around their plates and complimenting each other. Vanessa would have loved it. The girls are horrifiedbecause they have to wear tartan kilts as part of their school uniform, but Bunny is thrilled that she has a real celebrity’s daughter in their class.’
Isabel took down a couple of the bin liners and prodded about inside them. ‘Anyone we know?’
‘I can’t remember, apparently he is in a band and the girl gets delivered to school by a chauffeur and a bodyguard every morning. Sara says she is doing well, the girls are fine, too, and she has started divorce proceedings. Marty is outraged. She sounded quite upbeat actually.’
‘Right then, so nothing for you to fret about,’ Isabel said, ‘you did exactly the right thing.’
I nodded. ‘I suppose I did. Now then, let’s have a look in these boxes.’
I ripped off the packing tape and opened the cardboard flaps.
‘Don’t get your hopes up, that stuff was from a house clearance,’ Isabel said, ‘and I got there late, and only got a few things. They were a job lot because the trader wanted to finish for the day. No Fabergé eggs or old masters.’
Inside was a lot of what I think could only have been described as junk. Some kitchen utensils, a couple of iron doorstops, an old biscuit box filled with bits of glass jewellery, and a couple of painted, tin buckets and spades. The sort of thing any French child might have taken to the beach in the 1960s. I opened another box, which was filled with much the same sort of thing. Remnants of someone’s life that had once meant a great deal to the owner but had now ended up in my sister’s shed. If that wasn’t a life lesson, I didn’t know what was.
‘I hope you didn’t pay a lot for all this,’ I said.
‘A few euros, I think. Nothing much.’
We worked away for a couple of hours, putting some things back into the boxes and others into piles to be transferred to thedisplay barn and then predictably Isabel got bored and wanted to do something else.
‘Let’s go and see how the concrete is coming along,’ she said, ‘it should be setting by now, surely.’
Outside we found Pierre and Sylveste standing admiring the new concrete base, which looked very smooth and smart. A big cement lorry had come and gone that morning, disgorging the contents into the structure they had created. We stood respectfully admiring it, it looked very professional, and I was impressed.
‘Oh, it is nothing,’ Pierre said modestly, lighting his roll-up, ‘the drainage was all done, and then the compacting and the gravel and sand. And we used up some old flagstones too. Then we built these wooden shutters to get the right shape, we just need a few days without rain for it to finish setting properly although it’s firming up nicely. We’re going to prop a canvas over it too this evening, just in case it rains. I’m really pleased with it.’
Sylveste chimed in. ‘And we just need to keep the dogs off it –non!Antoine! Marcel!Non!Stop them!’
Unusually quiet, the two dogs had snuck up behind us and were watching. Marcel had moved forward to give the concrete a sniff and had raised one paw, trembling over the surface. Antoine was just a dog’s length behind him.
We all adopted the same rather ineffective position; knees bent, crouching, and holding out warning hands towards the pair of them, making encouraging noises.
‘I told you to shut them in the house,’ Sylveste hissed at his brother.
‘And I toldyouto,’ Pierre hissed back.
‘It’s okay, I’ll get them,’ Isabel said confidently, and took a step forwards.
It was too late.
A pigeon flew low over our heads, hotly pursued by Antoine and Marcel, who barking with joy chased after it, straight through the setting concrete, leaving a pattern of paw marks across the middle.
‘Je te l’ai dit, idiot! I warned you!’ Pierre shouted.
‘Ne me blâme pas!’ Don’t blame me. The perennial cry of the older brother. ‘Look out! Catch them!’
Splattered with cement from the dogs’ flying paws, Isabel stood helplessly, calling to them and for one moment they both stopped, paws planted in the concrete, looking at her with interest, presumably wondering what the four of us were up to and were there any treats to be had.
Isabel succeeded in catching hold of Marcel’s collar and Antoine followed but then he doubled back to see what Pierre was shouting about and ran across the concrete again, causing further mayhem and another fresh set of paw prints.
Marcel meanwhile broke free and did some zooming around on his own, barking at the pigeon who had landed in the branches of a nearby tree. Unfortunately, one of the cats was already up there, having an afternoon nap, and it took a swipe at the pigeon causing it to fly off again in a flurry of feathers. Marcel followed it down the field and onwards, barking all the way, while the cat slipped off the branch, dangled meowing and complaining, until it fell into the bushes below with a startled yowl. This new excitement caused Marcel to do a speedy U-turn and he raced back through the concrete yet again, his paws slipping.
‘Blasted animals,’ Pierre shouted at him, ‘arrête ça! Stop it!’
Unexpectedly, Marcel stopped obediently in the middle of the churned-up concrete, tongue lolling, one front paw raised. I put both hands over my mouth in horror, and then I couldn’t help myself, I burst out laughing and after a moment Isabel joined in.
