Free Unravelling Oliver by Liz Nugent Page B

women, to work the land on a seasonal basis. Right up until the summer of 1973.

8. Michael
    Nobody slept for days after the fire. Obviously, the vineyard work was cancelled. I proposed going home to Ireland, but Oliver pointed out angrily that it was our duty to stay and help, and Laura agreed. I felt somewhat ashamed. Madame Véronique was discharged from hospital a week later, in time for the funerals. She resembled a ghostly scarecrow, her arms and hands heavily bandaged, her face scorched and what was left of her hair sticking out in tufts. I did my best to make her eat a morsel of this or that, and helped her to apply ointments to her face and head as her skin slowly healed. The kitchens had been largely unaffected by the fire, and I took control of mealtimes for all the people that came to help; but her spirit seemed to have disappeared, as if her body were only carrying the functioning parts she needed for breathing.
    Oliver changed on the night of the fire too. Drastically. I knew he had grown close to d’Aigse and the little fellow, but he was grieving as if he were family, seldom talking, his face pinched by sorrow. On the day of the funerals, he disappeared completely, only returning late at night, refusing to answer questions or to be comforted. Laura reckoned that Oliver had replaced his absent father with Monsieur. He undertook to salvage the contents of Monsieur’s ruined study – a job he oversaw with great diligence. Laura, already sidelined, was now ignored completely. After two
weeks, the bulk of the clearing work was done. There was no question of being paid for our work; we stayed on and got bed and board, the food often donated by neighbouring families and prepared by me. The vineyard was abandoned once again, and there were whispers about the demolition of the east wing. There was nothing more for us to do. We had already missed the first couple of weeks of college. It was time to go. Oliver packed his bags in silence and bade a stoic farewell to Madame, who thanked him for his loyalty and hard work. Some of d’Aigse’s map collections had been rescued, though Madame was devastated to lose so many of his books, of which nothing remained but ashes. I remember that Oliver seemed unable to accept the hug of commiseration and left Madame looking awkward and spare. I could have killed him for that, but it was apparent that Oliver was undoubtedly suffering too.
    Laura then became a cause for concern once again. Unexpectedly, she refused to come home, insisting that she wanted to stay and help Madame. I couldn’t understand what she was thinking; it was just another example of her increasingly erratic behaviour, as far as I was concerned. There were several trunk calls back and forth to Dublin as my parents tried to order her return, but Laura was steadfast. Madame didn’t seem to care what happened one way or another, but she assured me that it wasn’t a problem if Laura wanted to stay. She could certainly find something for her to do. I had to be satisfied with that. Laura bade us a tearful farewell. She clung to Oliver hopefully, but he was as emotionless and detached as a tombstone.
    The new academic year started slowly, the drab autumn greyness of Dublin seeming so dull compared to the sun-drenched brightness of Bordeaux. I tried to put the trauma of the summer behind me and get back into study and college life. I quickly linked up with some rather camp individuals, the ones I had shunned the previous year out of fear, and began to develop friendships in a different social circle. Even though I still met up with Oliver from time to time, we were clearly estranged, and any time I raised the topic of the summer we had just spent in Bordeaux, he quickly changed the subject, until after a few attempts I never raised it again. I don’t know if it was my sexuality, my relationship to Laura or the fact that I reminded him of death that caused the distance between us. Perhaps he blamed Laura for taking