The Dragonfly

Chapter Three-1

CHAPTER THREEThe apartment block in the north east of the city was faced in cream coloured render which absorbed the light, reflecting nothing back, so that the building had a sort of density, heavy with the lives of people living there. Next to the entrance was a brass panel with a buzzer and a nameplate for every flat. Duvoisin. Colin found hers very quickly. He rang the bell.

“Allo?” The speakerphone whistled and hissed, as if the cables had been routed under the Atlantic.

“Madame Duvoisin? It’s Colin Aylesford–”

The frayed static of the intercom continued, uninterrupted. He half-expected her to hang up on him. “Madame Duvoisin?” he said more urgently “It’s–”

She buzzed him in.

Once inside, he didn’t wait for the lift, he took the stairs two at a time. She lived on the seventh floor. He leaned against the wall outside her flat, his lungs thick with air, wondering what on earth he was going to say to her.

Madame Duvoisin opened the door a slit’s width.

“I’m–” he began. “I’m terribly sorry about Charlotte.” At the mention of her daughter’s name the woman rested her head against the edge of the frame, so that the angle of the wood cut a groove into her brow. He could see the fine frost of her hair scored across her scalp; he was so close he could see particles of powder clouding her cheek, the weary folds of her skin.

“What is it you want from me? Why have you come?”

“Well…” This was not going to be easy. “In our different ways…we’ve both lost–” he broke off. He thought she might close the door in his face. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, it’s not the same for me, I know…”

“You don’t know.”

“Although my son’s on remand–”

“There is nothing you can say to me.”

They stood staring at each other, taut with the hunger of their separate losses. “Come in,” she sighed. She made a small, stealing gesture, as if she were drawing a cardigan around her shoulders.

Colin followed her into the flat. She stood at the entrance to the sitting-room with her back to the light, so thin she was nearly transparent; he could make out her collarbone, the ridges of her shoulder and the blue veins knotting her wrists.

“The thing is, I just don’t understand how it happened…” he said. He couldn’t stop himself.

“Ask–” when it came to it, she couldn’t say his name, “– your son.”

“I’ve…” he hung his head. “He won’t…”

She merely contemplated him, allowing the sense of his humiliation to accrue until it filled the hall.

“I spoke to his solicitor. He refuses to see me,” he swallowed. “I’m just trying to understand – what happened?”

“Read his statement.” She riffled through a pile of papers and handed him a copy of the document. “It’s all there, down in black and white.”

Colin scanned the pages ravenously. Michael had testified to the police that he and Charlotte were at home together with their daughter. They were standing on the landing at the top of the stairs. Charlotte had her coat on and was carrying her suitcase. She was in the act of leaving. In the act of leaving Michael.

The moment when she had turned to go elided with the one in which Michael had raised his hand to stop her and the blow sent her flying.

She fell all the way to the bottom of the stairs, followed by her suitcase. The child had come running from her bedroom, but Charlotte died before either of them could reach her.

He rubbed the heels of his palms into his eyes.

“He was a good boy. He wouldn’t hurt – anyone. He just wouldn’t.”

How would you know, her bitter gaze demanded. “I think it is a long time since you have seen him, non?”

“He always tried to do right by her,” he said obstinately. “He would never have hurt her.”

Madame Duvoisin pressed the tips of her fingers to her mouth. She let them rest there. “If you are suggesting,” when she took her hands away, she studied them as if she thought they might be flecked with blood, “If you are trying to suggest that Charlotte was, in any way, responsible–”

“No. No, I’m not saying that–” he blurted out.

“If you are suggesting that my daughter is to blame–”

“No, I’m not saying that. I’m not saying that.” Colin didn’t want to think it.

“I cannot help you.” She drooped a little; she looked exhausted. “You have to try and help yourself.”

“I had thought that we could help each other…” he said sadly.

A sound escaped from her, jagged and mirthless. “Do you want to help me?

“Of course, if there’s something I can do… anything…”

“Alright,” she answered, putting him to the test. “Alright. If you want to help me…” She took a moment to consider her words. “Take Delphine.”

“What?”

“She’s your granddaughter too. Take her. Take her for the summer. I’m too old; it’s too much for me… There are six weeks of holidays now, and the trial is coming and I cannot–”

“But I’m living on a little boat–”

“She’s with a friend this afternoon, but tomorrow you can take her. If you want to help. Maybe it is your turn now…”

“But I don’t – she doesn’t – we don’t know each other. And besides–” he was trying not to panic, “I don’t speak French. How would we…?”

“Delphine goes to the International School. Her English is… adequate.”

“But what would Michael say?” he went on wildly, “He might not want…”

She stopped him in his tracks. “I think in the circumstances he will not refuse me.” There was a scrape of anguish in her voice. She leaned close so that he would fully comprehend what she was saying. “Every time I look into her face, I see your son.”

~~~

Colin shaded his eyes. At the far end of the marina, he could see the traffic glimmering in the Place de la Bastille. He took in the elegant apartments, the office blocks, the charcoal scratchings of trees. The street above was thronged with workers on their lunch break. He noticed the bicycles for hire, the road sweeper, two stout old men resting on a bench, smoking not talking. A police car came skidding into view and his gaze swept over the old lady with the little girl at one end of the footbridge, leaning against the railings, watching the boats.

The child was sitting on a huge bag, the sort you can buy in a pound shop, made from shiny woven checked material that leaches colour when it’s wet. He could see that she had on a little denim skirt, some kind of bobbly tank top over a stripy T-shirt and slouched over one eye, a man’s hat of lavender grey tweed, halfway between a beret and a peaked cap. He wondered if the hat was Michael’s.

He bit his lip. To tell the truth, he didn’t know what to say to her, or how to be. Should he kiss her on the cheek? Both cheeks? Should he ruffle her hair, or shake her hand? Madame Duvoisin glanced at her watch; she fingered a button on her blouse, staring along the line of boats towards the river. Spotting Colin at a distance, she half raised her hand, so that he had no option but to wave back and hurry towards them.

“This is Delphine,” Madame Duvoisin said with a tight inclination of her head.

“Hello,” he answered.

The old lady prompted the child to greet him, “Bonjour Grand-père.”

“In English,” Madame Duvoisin said, in an admonishing tone.

“Hello Grandpa,” Delphine shot her grandmother a needling glance.

“I have told Delphine you will be going on a little trip. She is very excited.”

He could see the child’s flip-flop moving, sketching arcs on the tarmac. She was still sitting on her bag, her head hanging so that the hat obscured her face.

“Because it is the holiday she may stay up until eight-thirty, but it is essential that she is in bed after that, she is not sleeping very well since…” Madame Duvoisin tailed off. She blinked a couple of times and then, as though she was speaking from a script which had been difficult to learn, she ploughed on, “I’ve given her some pocket money and I’ve told her to telephone me once a week.” She turned to the little girl, “It will be a big adventure for you, non? To stay on a boat with your grandfather? To make a grand voyage?” The child was signalling with wide, alarmed eyes. The old lady hesitated, “She wanted me to be sure to tell you that she doesn’t like betterave – I think that you say beetroot – or butter that is without salt.”

“That’s a relief, I don’t like beetroot either. Or hard-boiled eggs. When I was at school, about your age, they used to make us eat egg and beetroot salad. Nightmare.” As an opening gambit, it had limited success. The child looked away.

Madame Duvoisin gripped the face of her watch, peering at it in order to make out the time, “It is not a good idea to drag this out, I think…” she observed in an undertone. She cleared her throat. “Which boat is yours?”

“It’s on the end, along there…” Colin gestured at the quay far beneath them.

“Very nice,” she answered stiffly, staring at the large gin palace which obscured the Dragonfly.

“My one’s behind that, actually…”

Nobody said anything.

Feeling protective, Colin went on, “Perhaps you’d like to have a look at her, so you can see…”

Madame Duvoisin managed a smile, her lips a closed line. “I’m sure everything will be fine…” Her eyes were screwed up against the brightness of the afternoon.

On the harbour wall he noticed a scrawny pigeon butting at a discarded carton of frites. There were one or two cemented to the bottom and the bird was trying to climb inside the greasy cardboard, turning its head one way and then the other, beaking after the chips.

“So, you have everything you need, Delphine?” asked her grandmother, glancing along the passarelle towards the metro station.

The child nodded. She stood up from the bag and with formal solemnity they kissed each other three times on the cheek and said their goodbyes. Not wishing to intrude, Colin watched the pigeon finish off the frites then fly away. For a moment he found himself wishing that he could do the same.

~~~

The child was smaller than he had pictured: smaller, fiercer and bafflingly French. In her own way she looked extremely stylish. He could see her, a few years down the line, riding pillion on a motor scooter with a Gitane hanging from her lower lip. He swallowed.

“I like your hat,” he ventured, and then hesitated. “Shall I take this?” He reached for her luggage.

“Non.” She grabbed the handles of the bag and started to drag it towards the top of the steps.

“Why don’t I…?” He broke off. She tugged the bag off the first step, then the second, until it began to gather its own momentum, bumping down behind her, threatening to flatten her. “Careful–!” he shouted, dashing down after her.

“Je peux me debrouiller,” she snapped, as if he were responsible for all of it, the whole damn mess. She was about to drag her belongings off down the quay, but he touched her arm, just for a second, before she went steaming ahead.

“If you speak French,” he said, as gently as he could, “I won’t be able to understand you. I don’t speak French, you see.”

The child turned round. She had the good manners not to roll her eyes to the heavens, but her wish to do so was implicit in the look she gave him.

“Except bonjour,” he ventured. “I can say that. Bonjour. And I can also say ‘Tell me the way to the cathedral.’ Ou est le–?”

“I can manage.” She spelt the words out then started to walk away from him, more slowly than before. A faint tide line of rubbish – twigs, sweet wrappers, cigarette butts – gathered round the bag as she dragged it along.

“I rather hoped that you might teach me,” he fell into step beside her.

“Where is your boat?”

“On the end. Look, why don’t you let me…” he eyed her bag, then her, and didn’t bother to finish his sentence.

He was keen to show her the Dragonfly. It was the only thing in this sticky, complicated situation that he was looking forward to. “Here we are,” he said with a small flourish as they walked past the prow of the gin palace and his valiant, lovely little boat came into view.