Free A Good Year by Peter Mayle Page B

to be on good terms with them.
    His thoughts turned to Madame Passepartout, who would be arriving in the morning, and he walked through the succession of rooms, trying to decide where to tell her to start cleaning. Or was she as sensitive about housework as Roussel was about vines? Perhaps it would be more diplomatic to let her decide for herself. God knows she had plenty of choice. He came to a stop by the grand piano, with its impressive layer of dust and dead insects. The silver frame with its old photograph of him and Uncle Henry, caught in a slant of evening sunlight, looked particularly tarnished and dingy. As Max picked it up for a closer look, the worn velvet back of the frame came away in his hand. Another photograph, tucked behind the first, was revealed, and with it a previously hidden chapter in Uncle Henry’s life.
    The second photograph also featured Uncle Henry, but this time a younger version. He was standing next to some kind of truck with his arm around the shoulders of a good-looking blond woman. They appeared to be joined at the hip, both smiling at the camera, and the woman had one hand resting on Uncle Henry’s chest, a gesture at the same time casual and possessive. There could be little doubt about the intimacy of their relationship.
    Max looked more closely at the photograph. Judging by the clothes, it was obviously taken in the summer. But judging by the truck, probably not in France. He took the photograph over to the window where the light was better, and was able to distinguish more detail: the glint of a wedding ring on the woman’s hand, the Chevrolet emblem above the truck’s radiator, and, blurred but just legible, the California license plate. What was Uncle Henry doing running around with blondes in California? The old devil.

Seven
    Another glittering morning, another run, another slippery session of acrobatics in the shower. Max pulled on shorts and a T-shirt and was hoping that yesterday’s bread would still be edible when he heard the sound of a car pulling up outside the house, then three imperious toots on the horn.
    He went downstairs and opened the door to see a brightly colored bottom and two sturdy legs protruding from the back of an old but highly polished Renault 5. The bottom’s owner withdrew from the car and straightened up, clutching a vacuum cleaner and a plastic bucket, which she placed on the ground next to an array of mops and brushes and cleaning products. Madame Passepartout had arrived.
    “I haven’t deranged you?” she asked, pumping Max’s hand up and down as though she were trying to detach it from the rest of his body. “But I wanted to get here before you had breakfast.” She plunged back into her car and reappeared with a paper bag. “
Voilà.
They’re still warm.”
    Max thanked her, and stood nursing his croissants while Madame Passepartout brought him up-to-date on the current state of French bread (not what it used to be), and the morals of the baker’s daughter (not what they should be). A reply clearly wasn’t expected, and while Max helped Madame Passepartout carry her equipment into the kitchen he had time to study this voluble new addition to his life and household.
    At a guess, she was in her early fifties, but despite her age and her substantial build she was not yet ready to abandon the clothing of youth. Tight and bright was the Passepartout style, with an orange tank top and turquoise leggings, stretched to the maximum, relieved by a pair of sparkling white tennis shoes on surprisingly dainty feet. Her black hair was cut almost as short as a man’s, her dark eyes bright with curiosity as she now looked around the kitchen.
    There was a sharp intake of breath. “
Ho la la! Mais c’est un bordel.
An old man living alone. One can always tell.” She stood with her hands on her hips, her lips clenched in disapproval. “This won’t do for a nice boy like yourself. Dust everywhere! Mice, no doubt! Probably scorpions!
Quelle horreur.
”