Jericho by Dirk Bogarde

Author:Dirk Bogarde
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Bloomsbury Publishing

Chapter 10

After the second Jack Daniels it was suggested that we drop the ‘Miss’ and just use Martha. This I did. Easier, familiar, relaxing.

She was altogether comforting in her movements, slow, deliberate, calm, unfussed. After my trip up the hill I felt disjointed and unsettled. Bewildered, I suppose, is a better word.

Anyway, Martha, and Jack Daniels, sorted all that out comfortably.

The room, as far as I remember it that first day, was white, uncluttered, clear. Simple furniture, soft colours, flowers, books scattered, one or two old prints on the walls, a terracotta plate over the big fireplace of a Madonna and Child.

The dark, as always in Provence, had taken me by surprise. It would seem that quite a lot of things in Provence took me by surprise, but the fall of night was extraordinarily rapid, ravishingly lovely. A vague suggestion of twilight steals upon the brilliance of day, the sky slowly bleeds away from intense blue to bleached blue, to softest mother-of-pearl streaked suddenly with the faintest lemon tendrils, and then the sun begins to die in a ripple of tiny scarlet and orange waves of vapour. There is suddenly a perfectly tangible silence, a breath held, the evening fades away and night has fallen.

The air was still warm, the tiles of the little terrace beyond the open front door retained the heat of the sun; the dog, a Dalmatian, lay in a wide-legged sprawl, the scent of wallflowers mingled with the freshness of damp earth. She had been watering the pots and urns when I arrived and from a distance, somewhere in the valley, the frogs began to fiddle and cry. A star appeared, bats swung silently against the dark sky attracted by the beam of light which spilled out across the terrace as Martha lit an oil lamp on the small table at my elbow.

‘This time of day,’ she said, setting the glass chimney over the wick, replacing the white floral globe, ‘this time of day I always call “l’heure verte”. The green hour. It’s a kind of sad time. I don’t honestly know why. Here, in France, it’s called “Between the dog and the wolf”.’

‘I thought that was known as “l’heure bleue”?’

‘It’s verte, in my vocabulary.’ She carried the taper across to a lamp by the windows, for a moment shadows danced against the white walls, then were steady. ‘Sometimes, in New England, it’s called “taper time”. But, frankly I don’t know. I stay with “verte”. I feel a sadness. The Jack Daniels helps. I do have, in case you are wondering, electricity. But I prefer lamplight. I admit it’s a bore to trim wicks and polish chimneys and get the kerosene but, and this is important, it is a very kind light for ageing faces like mine.’ She sat in a large, stuffed chair covered in black and white ticking amidst a swaddle of cushions, her glass in one strong-fingered hand.

‘You have your wind back, I think?’ she said.

‘I do. Thank you. I really did need a stiff drink.

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