Clapham omnibus

It is the middle of the night and I am dreaming of my mother. I am trying to get her to sign a document. Some garish-looking relations are helping me. "Whatever's she's done," I protest, "she's my mother, she's your sister, and she's his aunt!"

I am woken by soft knocking at the front door. My room is pitch black, I am confused, and my first thought is that they have come from England or Portugal here to southern France to tell me that my mother is dead.

The knocking stops, and my anxiety vanishes. I go through the dark hall to the loo. It is very quiet. The two French women friends with whom I am staying must be sleeping soundly upstairs.



I return to my room, and compose myself for sleep. I have forgotten the knocking, but hear a night train passing on its way to or from the Midi. And now other noises begin: taps, bangs, wrenching noises. I suppose it must be H?lia. She is a chronic insomniac, and each of the three nights I have been here she has wandered around the house.

I am drifting back to sleep, but the strange noises prevent me. With some shock, I hear one which appears to be someone forcing the shutter of my room from the outside. But can I really tell from which direction sounds are coming? And H?lia could have gone outside. She is a temperamental woman, a bit of the tricoteuse, and I certainly don't want to confront her if she is in a flaming temper with her partner, Yvonne.

There is a huge crash. I almost get up. But I do not. It would be unwise for anyone to underestimate my lethargy. And this is not my house. Surely the two women would have heard such loud noises if they had been caused by someone else. They were both heterosexuals before they found each other in middle age. Perhaps it is one of their former boyfriends come to have it out with them. Let them sort it out.

I hear smashing glass. Now I am frightened. But I just turn over in the bed. H?lia is probably in a fit, like my mother, who often used to smash things or bite the carpet when I was a child.

I hear whoever it is wandering about near my door. Better not look. Better not turn on the light. Let the boyfriend, if it is one, murder the two women if he wants. If I lie tight in the dark, he will not know I am here.

The door of my room is opening. I panic. "Who is it?" I scream in English.

"Who is it?" I whisper in shock as I totter towards the door.

On the threshold I see him, the figure of a young man outlined in the darkness, brandishing a club or perhaps a crowbar in his right hand. He utters no word, but makes strange grunting noises. We both stand transfixed, I within the room, he in the hall. Three seconds pass perhaps. Then he vanishes from my sight.

I close the door of my room behind me. I stand trembling in the dark. It has gone quiet. He has probably killed the two women. They will be lying in a pool of blood upstairs. But if I just stay here, I'll be all right. He may still be in the house. But his quarrel is not with me.

Ten minutes pass. The house is still deathly quiet. Another train passes. Gingerly I open the door. No one is outside. The kitchen light across the hall is on. The front door is open. I see the broken pain of glass in the door that has been used to get in.

I put on my dressing gown and mount the stairs. Half of me is in moody anticipation of the spectacle of my murdered friends.

But they are lying peacefully in the double bed. They both wake as I enter. "Il y avait un voleur," I say. "Il est entr? dans la maison."

We all three rush downstairs. At the front door they notice with despair that he has stolen the keys which they always leave in the inside-lock. He has also taken three ice-creams out of the fridge in the kitchen and arranged them on the table. They say that he must be a madman. Nothing like this has ever happened on their quiet housing estate between the railway and the Route Nationale Sept. People even leave their front doors open when they go out. He used immense force over a period of about 20 minutes to force entry to their house and then did nothing except stand gibbering at me.

There is now a question-mark in their minds over me. Why did I do nothing except lie in bed in the dark? The gendarme is to ask Yvonne privately the next day whether I am very sensitive. If the neighbour did not confirm that she saw a man drive up in a car and approach the house at the crucial time, I might have been suspected of manufacturing the incident myself.

Over these 24 hours, my insecurity comes into brutal flower. I had been planning to leave for the Midi in a few more days, but now I bring my departure forward to the following morning.

That night, frightened, I cannot close the shutter. Yvonne is in the loo, and comes to help me. She is naked and looks very plump and gentle. I am curious to see her bush, but although she manhandles the shutter comprehensively and I give her a demonstrative goodnight kiss she disappoints me. n