A Four-Course Lunch

by Rozanne Charbonneau

Table of Contents

Table of Contents
parts 1, 2, 3

conclusion

It is Monday morning. I race through the school gates at eight-thirty. I must warn Madame Castagné of my mistake with Mr. and Mrs. Jones. She will not be pleased. I have also created serious trouble for Lucy. I made her disobey her father. This man, I suspect, knows no forgiveness. Madame Castagné must never tell him that Lucy stole his manuscript. I can only hope that it is not too late.

Madame Castagné stands in the empty courtyard, smoking a cigarette. Her arched eyebrow signals that she is already informed.

“I am so sorry, Madame. If you let me explain—”

She drops her cigarette to the ground and crushes it with her pump. “They are already in my office. You are to remain silent unless I address you. Do you understand?”

I nod, depressed. How could I have let this woman down?

The smell of vanilla floats into the courtyard. Chef Jacques has already put his génoises in the oven for lunch. When cool, he will glaze the cakes with apricot jam. Their scent washes over me and I think of my mother at the door. “Welcome home, my darling girls. Put on your slippers and tell me of your adventures at school.” I feel a bit better and follow Madame Castagné inside.

* * *

Mr. Jones paces over the creaking floorboards of Madame Castagné’s office. He aims for a dramatic effect. “There is nothing the matter with a little healthy competition between siblings. Mademoiselle Sophie has no right to make Lucy think she is special. Just because our daughter is ‘a young girl on the cusp of womanhood’ doesn’t mean she can disrespect me.” Today the man is sober. He peppers his French with contempt.

My boss sits at her desk, observing his performance. “I understand. You feel Mademoiselle Sophie has undermined your authority.”

Mrs Jones sits in the corner with her eyes on the floor. It is clear she is embarrassed by her husband’s tirade.

“Lucy is like a nail sticking out of a plank of wood,” he continues. “She is arrogant, stubborn, and disobedient. She cannot be trusted. It is a constant battle to keep her down.”

Madame Castagné purses her lips in distaste. I am overcome with guilt. How many times have I judged Lucy for being unruly? I am no better than the tyrant in front of me.

Madame Castagné recomposes her expression. A professional mask is de rigueur. “You are right, Monsieur. Women of Mademoiselle Sophie’s generation can get emotional and make mistakes.”

He places his hands on her desk and looks downwards. “Then discipline her. My wife and I don’t need a teenager making our war with Lucy any more difficult than it already is.”

He turns and points his finger at me. “She thinks she knows us.”

I squirm in my chair and hold my tongue. Madame Castagné could lose the tuitions of three children if I am not careful. She asks me to apologize. Ever so meekly, I tell both of Lucy’s parents that I am sorry.

Mr. Jones accepts my apology and shakes my hand. “You should smile more.”

I turn my lips upwards. Anything to appease him.

Mrs. Jones’s eyes meet mine. “Please don’t judge me,” they seem to say.

After the Americans have left the room, Madame Castagné leans back in her chair. “Mon dieu.”

“I promise to mind my business from now on, Madame.”

She waves her hand in the air, signalling that I should leave her in peace. “I am sure that you have learnt your lesson.”

I can’t help myself. “Does Mr. Jones know that Lucy took his manuscript?”

Madame Castagné folds her hands on the desk. “What manuscript?” Her tone is challenging.

“But last Friday—”

“There is no manuscript.”

I nod and leave her office, relieved. Even if Mr. Jones is paying the tuition for three children, she knows enough to keep Lucy’s secret.

* * *

Lucy sits next to me on the bench in the park. I do not mention what happened. School must feel safer than home. She pulls a lipstick out of her pocket and hands it to me. It is my favourite Mary Quant, the one I lost last fall. I put it in my backpack. No lectures today. She has made amends. Did her father order “her butt to the ground” after the The Poseidon Adventure? Most likely. Did he force the children to repeat this race if Lucy reached her mother first? Most likely. Anything to “keep her down.” I don’t understand his hostility towards his daughter. Is it because she is not a boy? I fear he wants to break her.

I open Une Espionne dans la maison de l’amour to a page that is vivid but chaste. “Can you read in French as well as you speak?” Lucy brightens at the compliment. Her voice loses its childlike pitch, and she takes care with every word. Her finger moves in a straight line underneath the print. The nail is pale, like a scallop in the sand. Today the leaves on the trees glimmer like emeralds in the sun. In a few weeks they will dim to jade. Summer break is two months away, but the moment feels so fleeting.

* * *

Madame Castagné calls me into her office after I have delivered the children. She tells me that she needs my help tomorrow afternoon. “Our French teacher has taken ill. I would take over the children’s lesson myself, but I must monitor Lucy’s examination.”

“May I ask what kind of examination?” Who is putting her to the test?

“Lucy must take the Common Entrance for Great Britain. Her mother wants to send her away to boarding school as soon as possible.”

But why? I wonder. Mr. Jones is the man who should be sent away.

* * *

The next day Lucy pushes her blanquette de veau around her plate. At least she dips her bread into the sauce. I give her two triangles of The Laughing Cow cheese. She must be strong for her exam. Madame Castagné enters the dining room and announces that I will be their French teacher for the afternoon. The children poke one another in the ribs and promise to be good.

Lucy’s hands twitch as Madame Castagné leads her away. How long has she known that she must leave this school? Her rage at the pervert in the park now makes sense. Why should we always move for these men? Did she take her father’s manuscript for revenge? Was she planning to throw it in the rubbish bin outside the kitchen of Monsieur Jacques?

* * *

The children read from their books containing Les Fables de La Fontaine. Today, they must answer questions about Le Corbeau et le renard. Exercises highlight the fox’s wily ways, how he flatters the singing voice of the crow perched in the tree. Seduced, she caws and drops the cheese from her mouth. The fox gobbles it up. A great lesson about predators. They are everywhere.

I walk to the back of the classroom. From the window, I can look across the courtyard and into the room on the ground floor. Blurred shapes move behind the glass. I can make out Lucy’s shoulders, hunched over her desk. Her hand scribbles across a page. Madame Castagné pulls the paper away and gives her another. Who sends a child to another country so young? When my sister and I misbehaved, our mother would threaten to call the nuns in the convent on the outskirts of town. “Sister Marie Joseph will be happy to take you off my hands.” We would laugh in her face. We knew she wasn’t serious.

* * *

It is five o’clock. The children clatter down the stairs into the courtyard. I follow them and lean against the wall of the main entrance. I am tired but would like to ask Lucy how she is. Was the examination difficult? Does she feel confident that she answered the questions well?

Parents open their arms to greet their offspring. They seem so joyous. I catch my breath. Mr. Jones stands apart from the other adults in a wrinkled trench coat. A bib of grey covers his jaw and neck. His face lights up as his sons approach him. He ruffles their hair when they grab his waist.

Lucy exits the building as if in a trance. I raise my hand to tap her shoulder, but then hide it behind my back. She walks at a snail’s pace towards her father. He crosses his arms at the sight of her. He asks her nothing about her day.

* * *

Madame Castagné’s office door is ajar. She is stuffing papers into a plastic pouch. I tiptoe into the room. “The British insist I send the exam off by courier. Of course, they have no faith in our postal system.”

“Madame, I have come to the conclusion that I must resign.”

She looks at me in surprise. “Whatever for?”

I burst into tears. “I am a fraud. I have no business working with children.”

She motions me to sit down on the other side of her desk. “Nonsense. Apart from your scrape with la famille Jones, you are doing a fine job here.”

“In the beginning, I did not even like Lucy. And then I intervened and made her life worse.”

She offers me a tissue, then walks over to the filing cabinet. “If you quit this sniffling, I might give you a raise.”

I obey but am still determined to leave.

Madame Castagné opens a file and pulls out copies of the children’s passports. She points her finger at the hazy pictures. “First of all, you will see that Lucy’s real last name is Parker. Mr. Jones is the stepfather.”

My father won’t let me grow my hair. Lucy has never used the word stepfather. This other man’s existence must be a taboo.

She hands me a bank statement. “The tuition of the three children is paid by a trust fund in the name of Mrs. Jones. Mr. Jones is not gainfully employed in Paris.”

I have never met a kept man before this week. All the men back home must work.

Madame Castagné looks around the room as if someone were listening. I am the only ears in sight. Satisfied, she walks to the door and locks it. She then pulls the manuscript out of her desk and places it in my hands. I stare at the first page: Under the Eaves of Paris, a novel by Frank Jones. So, he had the time and money to write a novel. Lucky man.

Madame Castagné lowers her voice to a whisper. “Look closer, Mademoiselle Sophie.”

I flip through the pages. His hell soon becomes apparent. Chapter one is filled with his prose. The following nine chapters are different. He has typed out the Book of Genesis, over and over again. “Oh no...”

Madame Castagné sighs and shakes her head. “Hemingway did a great disservice to the American male. His lean prose convinced an entire generation that they, too, could write.”

I read the first lines of the manuscript. “The SS France left the port of New York at ten knots an hour. Around midnight the band played ‘La Vie en Rose.’ They were a tight band.” Is this good or bad? I hesitate to judge English literature.

“There must be dozens of men like Mr. Jones in Paris. They think that if they live like Papa, the words will flow.”

“But Lucy shouldn’t have to pay for his unhappiness.”

Madame Castagné clucks her tongue. “Lucy is the lucky one. Her mother is setting her free from the asylum. Pity the stepbrothers left behind.”

I have never heard such a sad tale. When the rich have problems, they seek a geographical cure. I hand the manuscript back to Madame Castagné. Her fingers grasp its sides and tap its bottom on her desk. The pages are now aligned. “Lucy did well enough on her exam. The Cheltenham Ladies’ College will accept her. Once she is safe across the Channel, I will drop this masterpiece in the mailbox outside of Harry’s Bar. When Mr. Jones receives it, he will assume that he left it there after too many martinis.”

Her plan is worthy of Detective Maigret.

* * *

Chef Jacques wheels his trolley into the dining room. He has created a bûche de Noël with hazelnut buttercream for Lucy’s final dessert. It must be one meter long. A single candle stands tall amongst the ridges and swirls of his Christmas log. Lucy smiles and blows out the flame.

Chef Jacques cuts his cake fast before the icing dissolves in the heat. He has outdone himself. He could have refused to bake such a confection on short notice, but Lucy is his favourite eater. The idea that she will soon face British food is more than he can bear. The children have decorated the dining hall with banners that wish her bonne chance. At Madame Castagné’s command, they rise and sing farewell. Lucy’s eyes travel over her friends. I can tell that any fights are now forgotten. Only the sweet times remain.

* * *

Lucy sits on a chair in an empty classroom. She holds two barrettes with rhinestone butterflies up to the light. They cost me a fortune at the parfumerie. I part her wisps of hair with my comb and sweep it to the side. The drugstore diamonds glitter above her ears. “There. You look like a true gamine.”

Lucy picks up my compact mirror and admires her reflection. “My mother says I will be joining the élite.” It is clear she does not understand the term.

“I lived in a small town all my life. You, on the other hand, will become a citizen of the world.”

She bites her lip and picks at the button on her cuff. “I wish I could stay here.”

If only I could wipe away her fears. “Just think, Lucy. With your French and British education, you could become a diplomat.”

She sits up straight, interested. “You mean like an ambassador?”

I nod my head. “Like an ambassadress. If you study hard, you might go to Africa and India.” I can already see these continents in her eyes. “You will go far. You are the bravest, smartest girl I know.” But my heart whispers words I cannot say. Oh Lucy, if you were my daughter, I would never let you go.