Free A Short Walk from Harrods by Dirk Bogarde Page B

…
France,
um … L for
Londres,
A for, umm …
Au revoir
…’), said, ‘M’sieur is ill. Very ill. They don’t know what is wrong. Perhaps a
thrombose.’
This continued for a week and then one day he was whipped off to hospital.
    Madame Moineau spent all her days there, tending herbeloved man. The garden slowly became neglected, the dead blooms hung on the morning glory like dirty handkerchiefs, weeds sprang up among the onion rows, the roses budded, opened, were spent and fell, the shutters remained closed.
    â€˜Why is she always at the hospital? Does she stay there?’
    â€˜Until the evening. Then she comes here to sleep. She has to help the nurses.’
    â€˜I don’t understand? Doesn’t she get in the way?’
    â€˜He wants her there. He is very alarmed. She takes her crochet. It comforts him. It is his first time in hospital.’
    â€˜Is it grave?’
    She shrugged, stamped a pile of tourists’ postcards, a job she detested.
Bang! Bang! Bang!
‘I think perhaps it is. They do not say. She helps to change his sheets and so on …’
    â€˜Change his sheets? Can’t the nurses do that? She is so tiny …’
    Madame Pasquini gathered the cards into a bundle and bunged them into the thick sack ready for the evening collection at five-thirty. ‘How can the nurses change his sheets if he is in the bed? Madame gets him out, he trusts her, and sits him on a chair while they do their work.’
    â€˜I see …’ I didn’t, of course. French logic. How can they make your bed if you are lying in it? Worrying. But I asked no more, and during the next few days we did not speak about the owner of Villa Les Sylphides, until one afternoon I heard dreadful, wrenching cries coming through the open window of the
bureau.
Madame Moineau was clasped tightly in Madame Pasquini’s arms. She was destroyed with sobbing and every now and again uttered terrible howls of grief. I was about to quietly leave but Madame Pasquini called me to please stay. She would take Madame across to the villa.Perhaps I would telephone Madame Ranchett to come quickly to Les Sylphides – the number was on the wall? … And mind Jack?
    I was left alone in the post office. I could have robbed the till. Anything. But I called the Mini-Market; Florette Ranchett said she would come down right away, was it
grave?
I said yes.
And
serious. There is a distinction in France.
    Fortunately for me, no one came in, no one asked for a stamp, no one wanted to use the telephone or demand their pension. I just sat on a stool beside the dog until, in a few moments, looking pale and naturally distressed, she returned briskly, shut herself firmly behind her cage. She thanked me and said that Madame Ranchett was now in charge, the doctor was on his way with a sedative. Fortunately they had found a bottle of cognac to calm her down. Later on, she said, she would go across and stay overnight in the villa. ‘Jack will keep me company.
Hein?
Jack? Guard Maman?’
    I asked for the stamps I needed. She tore them out from the stamp-book, pushed them under the grille, did a little sum on a piece of paper. Back to business.
    â€˜Twenty-five francs.’
    I gave her the money. ‘Can I ask you what has happened? Can you say?’
    She looked at me sharply, her eyes were red. ‘
Si. Si.
I can say. It is catastrophic. Catastrophic! Sweet Saviour, give us help …’ She shut her eyes tight.
    â€˜His heart? Has something happened because of that? Thrombosis they said?’
    â€˜I told you that. Yes. But it is not so. He is not dead … better that he were …’
    â€˜Not his heart?’
    Suddenly she came from behind her counter and cage, crossed the tiled floor, slammed the front door, turned the key, and leaning against it, head down, she said: ‘They have cut off his legs. Both his legs!’
    â€˜Oh God! But why…’
    â€˜An error!