Chapter 8

1969. Cavaillon & Compagnie was a busy Bordeaux wine merchants. Like many hand-me-downs, it was not in very good shape when Edouard Cavaillon took over from his father. He decided to make it pay. Many years of hard work, long hours and increasing connections turned it from a small local business into a sizeable export house. Trade was good.
Edouard was in a predicament: Georgette, his wife, had decided it was time their daughter got married. In principle, he was quite in favour of it - expensive things, daughters - let some other blighter cough up for a change. Bernard Figeac was the happy man, and he couldn’t have wished for better. The two families went back a long way: sound chap, Bernard. Then that damned tree-surgeon turned up.
He had charm. If Georgette could call him a ‘nice young man’, there was serious cause for alarm. The difference between the two was night and day. Bernard - plodding Bernard - was reliable, safe, and predictable. Olivier was like a snake. There was no competition. Bernard skulked around in the background, brooding.
Secretly, Edouard rather liked the tree chap too, but he had no intention of letting him near his daughter. He could already see the signs of premeditated defeat. She had to be protected from herself.
The range of possible distractions was limited. At twenty-one, she was not the brightest of girls, so finding a job would not be easy. The answer was obvious: learn English. A couple of months abroad seemed a good idea, she’d soon forget all about him and that would be an end to it.

Béatrice wanted to go to London, but Edouard had seen enough about those Carnaby Street hippies on the news, and decided on Brighton instead.
School was boring. She studied nouns, verbs, adjectives and prepositions till they came out of her ears. Week after week, she sat in the language lab regurgitating the monochrome adventures of the Brown family (and dog Rover) until she hated every one of them. But she was learning English. The hardest thing was practise. The natives spoke too fast and the only other people she knew were students, and their English was worse than hers. Except for the Scandinavians, of course, but their behaviour was so scandalous, she refused to associate with them.
The solution came from a trip to Tunbridge Wells. A play was being performed in a quaint little pedestrian precinct, Shakespeare probably, and one of the actors decided she would be his stooge. His name was Justin. And he lived in Hove, right next to Brighton.
“Hey, what a coincidence, man!”
Béatrice had never seen or met anyone like him. He didn’t have a job and didn’t want one either. He was going to be an actor, a real actor.
“But you are very good actor today!”
“Baby, you are beautiful.”
Baby? Nobody had ever called her ‘baby’ before.
She started speaking English.
He called on her a week later. He’d just come back from London: “Man, the scene is really groovy”. London… Béatrice needed little encouragement. There was a free concert in Hyde Park next weekend. Entranced by his magnetic opposite to everything she’d ever known, the more he talked, the less she understood, the more she smiled and said ‘yes’.

The concert was not what she’d expected. It wasn’t classical music like she thought it would be, and she was glad, but it was like nothing she’d ever heard before. Who it was she never knew, she saw someone dressed in white but the stage was too far away and then all hell let loose. All she remembered was a wave of fear and running as a horde of skinheads charged around with wooden sticks beating people up.
The panic spread and they ran too. Béatrice was still shaking when he took her into a pub. Justin produced an envelope and put a couple of pills in his hand. He took one and swallowed it. “Try this, it’ll calm you down.” “Thanks,” she said. She could do with an aspirin…
The afternoon became sunnier and sunnier and soon she lightened up. She felt good, the world was beautiful. At Kensington, he took her into dimly-lit stores with incense and feathers. There was strange music, necklaces and purple-painted walls. Somewhere in her mind was the slippery notion that she ought to be getting back, but Justin kept on talking about a party and suddenly there were dozens of them in a van with black velvet walls and an octopus who kept on draping his tentacles over her shoulder then stairs and a big smoky room with blue lights and someone playing the guitar. She passed out.
She woke up with a headache. It was dark, but there was sun behind the orange curtains. She stood up and opened them. People groaned, turned over and went back to sleep. Béatrice felt strange, her mouth was dry and itchy. Bodies, empty cans and ashtrays were lying on the floor. Stepping over the obstacles, she left the room and found a bathroom, where she washed her face. She looked pale. Justin was downstairs in the kitchen, drinking coffee and reading. She felt so ashamed.
“Hey, Baby, you are so beautiful,” he said. She cried, and he held her in his arms. He made another coffee and they talked. “It’s cool, everything’s groovy.” She didn’t know what it meant, but if he said it, it must be good.
He gave her another pill.
Weeks went by and school went out the window. Some of the girls in the hostel stopped talking to her. She couldn’t care. She went to parties, drunk wine her father wouldn’t use to clean the drain, smoked pot, chewed her “Mother’s Little Helpers”, and did everything except that. She was not that kind of girl.
So Justin proposed. They got married in a commune in Camden Town. It might have involved cosmic harmony, but Béatrice was already floating high above the world.
On one of her landings, she wrote to her parents, telling them how happy she was. This was her karma. They were going to India and live in an ashram, but she needed some money for the journey.
Ironically, her father was already in hospital with a heart attack. Her mother tore up the letter and threw it in the fire. She phoned the school. Blank. When her father was fit again, he flew to England to track her down. After five fruitless days searching squats in north London, he gave up. She was lost.

By November, she thought she was, by December she knew she was, by January Justin had disappeared.
And there was no-one to give her pills. And then the police came and threw everyone out. Night-time arrived and she was still walking the streets when a familiar voice called her name. When a new squat was opened, Tonk was always there. She could trust him. For once, the house was clean, the owners were on holiday. But she needed some uppers first. But he wanted her to come upstairs first, and the chase began. Luckily, the lock on the bathroom door was strong. Eventually he went away.
Luckily, she wasn’t that dependent either. The next few days were hell.
The pink light told her it was morning and she could go. She walked for hours. Near the Seven Dials, she found a little Italian café and went in. She ordered a coffee and a Kitkat, and sat facing the window. The chocolate melted in her fingers but she couldn’t eat.
A couple walked past with a buggy, then stopped, laughed, kissed and carried on. It was so ordinary. Her mouth opened and her face tingled with emotion. For a few seconds, she sat there, mute, then the facts woke up and a long rasping moan escaped her throat, rose to a wail and broke into loud reverberating sobs. Her eyes reddened with shining tears.
Luigi’s wife was the first to move. She went to the table and stood in front, about to give her a good talking to, then saw her face. Her body sagged. “Oh my God” she said, and sat down next to her. The poor thing looked so young and fragile. Maria put her arm around her and hugged her, making the soft little noises she would to a child. Béatrice buried her head into the large, homely breast and cried. A chubby hand stroked her hair.
Little by little, the story came out: her coming to England, Justin, the drugs and the stupid empty marriage... He’d used her, he got what he wanted and deserted her, alone and pregnant. How could she go back home now, an illegitimate child inside her? Her mother would never understand. She knew her well enough. She would never forgive her, never. She’d lock her up in a convent. She could and she would do it, of that she was certain. The thought of abortion never even crossed her mind. She knew where Hell was.

Maria knew the neighbourhood, she helped her find some digs in Lisle Street, one of the meaner areas of Soho. It was dingy but cheap. Her ring, a beautiful cameo of a Grecian goddess that came from her great-grandmother, went for eight pounds. The last link with home was gone. Maria helped her find a job as a waitress too. She waited, praying for a miscarriage. Drink gin, they said.

Guy was born on 2nd July 1970. He was healthy and nothing distinguished him from the dozens of other babies born every day in the maternity ward. Béatrice greeted him with mixed feelings. It was her baby, yet the ‘cause’ of all her troubles. She picked up the bundle of crying pinky-purple and suckled it. As he tugged and sucked, all she could feel was Justin pumping her dry, feeding on her like a leech. Within two days, her breasts dried up and Guy was given the bottle.
She had to go back to work. In early August, she became a hostess in a night-club. It paid better than waitressing and, with her looks, the tips were good. Her troubles were on reprieve.

Guy was five at the time. From the well-brought-up young lady she once was, his mother had turned into a filthy slattern. Life was a vicious circle of dirty jobs, alcohol, forgetting and getting sacked again.
Florence moved into the building two years ago. She was on the game, but thick-skinned enough for it to pay. She was also French. They became friends and Florence was forever dropping in for a chat, nattering on about her Paulo, borrowing sugar, and even helping out on occasions when Béatrice was in a fix.
Béatrice had been out of work for three weeks and prospects were bleak. Her money had nearly run out, food was low, she had no cigarettes and she couldn’t pay the rent. She didn’t even dare think what that could mean.
It was Florence’s birthday. Paulo organised a party with his Maltese friends. Music, wine and euphoria. Angelo was playing poker at a smoky table. Now and again, he looked at her and smiled. At one in the morning, he threw in his hand and went to sit on the sofa. Béatrice was pretty sloshed.
“Come on, let’s get you upstairs to bed.”
She resisted feebly, but his firm hands and friendly smile helped her up the stairs. On the landing, he held her by the shoulders, looked into her eyes and kissed her. It was the first time in years.
He took the key and opened the door. Guy was in his cot in the kitchen, asleep.
He kissed her again and the warmth spread through her body. He was strong and protective, and his hands touched her everywhere, playing, taunting. It was so good.
Afterwards, he got up and dressed, inspecting himself in the mirror.
“Thanks,” he said, put some money on the table and left.
When Florence knocked on the door five minutes later and came in, she was sickened.
“See, not so bad as all that, is it?”
Béatrice said nothing, she just felt horribly cheated and wanted her to go away.
“I just listen to the radio half the time, they don’t even notice,” Florence droned on. “Still, I wasn’t nearly as lucky as you with my first one, he was fat and smelled and took for ages! But you get all sorts don’t you, you just have to ignore them, I mean, you’re getting paid aren’t you?” She spotted the money on the table. “Ooh, now that’s not bad is it, that’ll see you through for a day or two won’t it?” On and on she went with her stupid chatter until Paulo came to fetch her. As they left, he stuck his head back through the door.
“Wouldn’t want anyone in Bordeaux to know about this, now would we?” He smiled. Béatrice was trapped.

Over the next two years, the stream of men rid her of any vestige of decency she once had.
She drank, it seemed to help. The more she drank, the less it helped.
Guy spent most of his time alone. During the day, his mother slept and if he had the misfortune to wake her, there was hell to pay. He lived in the kitchen, among the dirt and the dishes. At night, she put the door on the latch. At night, they came. He heard noises, strange noises and, more than once, the sounds of a fight. Sometimes, she had to stay in bed for a couple of days.
And sometimes, without warning, she disappeared. Guy would wake up in the morning, tiptoe to the crack in the door and look through. The bed was empty and unmade. He didn’t dare call out, he just waited, watching the bare walls as the shaft of light shifted slowly across the room. He measured the emptiness, the desertion, in patterned minutes of nicotine-stained wall-paper, and the day divided itself up between the curling edges of each strip, then into imperceptible shades of growing darkness. He learned to tell the time. Nights and days of darkness, unbelievable silence and never-ending loneliness.

She was out again. In the early hours of the morning, he heard the key in the lock. The door opened. She stumbled as the handle hit the wall. Behind her, a revolting-looking man with thin wisps of pale hair plastered across his sweaty forehead. “Wait there, I’ll be back in a minute.” She went into the bathroom. The punter wandered around the room. A bottle of whisky caught his eye, he unscrewed it, threw the cap into the corner and took a long swig, then burped.
He picked up odds and ends, putting them down any old how. Guy watched through the crack. He wanted him to go away. Suddenly, with unexpected violence, he kicked one of Guy’s toys across the room. Behind the door, the knuckles went white.
She came out and lit a cigarette, the last-minute reprieve before the ordeal. He put his hands on her breasts and squeezed. She shrugged him off. He did it a second time. “In a minute!” she snarled. His palm sliced across her face, sending the cigarette flying. Brutally, he grabbed her by the arm, slapped her twice again, threw her on the bed, pulled off his trousers, and fucked her.
The cigarette smouldered on the lino.
Four minutes later, he got off and picked up the nearest thing to him, a small grey shirt, and wiped his penis. Guy’s eyes were fixed like stone, frozen. Then the torture burst into flame. He spat out a foaming torrent of abuse, screeching and screaming at the top of his voice. The punter twisted his head round sharply and glared at him with such relentless rage that Guy was stunned into a state of shocked silence.
Béatrice leapt from the bed. In her rush to get to the kitchen, she bumped into the massive shape of the boy’s tormentor. He pushed her viciously. Her bare foot landed on the still-glowing tip of the cigarette and she let out a piercing scream.
The man had had enough. “You finished your bloody noise or what?”
It was too much. The years of frustration, of abject submission to filthy, disgusting old creeps boiled up inside. She was at him, scratching, biting, hitting and kicking with the fury of a wild-cat. A single punch in the face sent her staggering. It was followed by a sharp and intensely powerful kick in the stomach. She doubled up in pain, excruciating spasms of agony shooting through her bowels, and collapsed on the bed. She lay there for a moment, twitching and gagging. Then stopped.
All was still for a few seconds. Guy was forgotten. The man looked at the body on the bed, then got dressed hurriedly. He went into the bathroom, filled a bowl with water and dashed it over her face. Nothing happened. He was getting frightened. He took out some money, thought better of it and left. One last look, and he was gone.
Guy was standing behind the door, watching the naked, immobile body of his mother, glistening with water in the pale light.

For three days, Guy was locked behind the kitchen door.
On the third morning, Florence waltzed in, and stopped. She didn’t need to look closer to know she was dead. That afternoon, she moved out. On the way down, Paulo knocked on the landlady’s door: “You’d better look in up on the third, there’s been some trouble”. ¶ 2:03 AM