‘Yeah. Like, wouldn’t miss it for the world.’
‘Does he have any special dietary requirements?’ I asked, still aware of my professional responsibilities even if nobody else was.
‘Nah. Doesn’t give a shit about all that.’ Emma flicked her eyes mischievously at her father. ‘Hey, do you know what, Dad? Josh says I’m spicy.’
‘Spicy! Are you a curry or—’ Catching my eye, Luc stopped dead mid-sentence. ‘Well, that’s nice of him, isn’t it?’ he finished, a touch over-heartily.
Emma looked bemused. But then as, with a shrug, she bent her head to her cup of tea, I telegraphed silent approval to Luc. He rewarded me with a secret little grin. Perhaps it was going to be not too bad a Christmas after all.
The first person to arrive at ten-thirty the next morning was Henri, the uncle, or, as Luc had said, Luc’s father’s cousin three times removed. (I never know what removed means.) He arrived with a carer which, it was explained with profuse apologies, was the reason he had arrived so early, in order for the carer to enjoy the rest of the day with her own festivities. Although in his late eighties and physically quite frail and stooped, Henri was clearly not only completely on the ball mentally but totally unperturbed at finding himself abandoned by his nurse. A stout, no-nonsense Provençal woman in a straining blue uniform, she was carrying a large suitcase which she dumped unceremoniously on the floor of the hall. Henri watched her go.
‘Give the gel a day off, eh, what?’ he boomed with a wink at Luc. Although French, there was a surprisingly English air about him. His speech sounded like Trevor Howard in an old war film and, notwithstanding his age and fragility, when divested of his elegant camel overcoat, he was immaculately dressed in what looked like a Savile Row suit of dark grey worsted with a sparkling white shirt, an Old Etonian tie and a pink rose in his buttonhole. The quintessential gentleman of the old school, I thought, these days a comedy figure except he was lovely. Attractive too, if withered by age, with bright, treacle-brown eyes that thoroughly appraised me as I took his coat. You could imagine he had been what they would have called a lady-killer back in the day.
However, the most striking thing about Henri was not his appearance or demeanour but that he was also in the company of a dog. At least, I assumed it was a dog, given I’d never seen a dog like it.
‘My Christmas present to you all, my dear fellow!’ boomed Henri, handing the animal’s lead to Luc, who took it bemusedly.
‘What’s this?’ he said.
‘My Christmas present to you all,’ repeated Henri with a smile that could only be described as beatific.
‘Yes, you just said that, butwhatis it?’
‘A dog, dear boy, a dog. Do you not know a member of the noble canine race when you see one?’
‘Frankly, in this case, no. It looks more like a lamb.’
Henri chuckled. ‘Well, I can assure you he is a dog, a dog of proud lineage. His great, great, great,great-grandfather was First in Show at Crufts.’
‘It must have been the year the judges went on strike.’
‘He was the dearly beloved pet of my dearly beloved lady friend who, alas, departed this life last month. Wonderful woman. Lived on lettuce leaves and Armagnac but truly wonderful. Always cooked for me a pork chop for luncheon on Sundays.’ Henri sighed. ‘But now I am left with only the dog. I promised faithfully to see his future secured. He is called Alfonse.’
In silence, Luc handed the lead to me.
‘I’ll take him to the kitchen,’ I suggested as Luc seemed bereft of speech.
‘Good plan, dear girl, good plan. Here is his kit.’ Henri indicated the large suitcase. The dog looked at it and emitted a querulous whine. ‘That means he wants a biscuit.’ Nodding wisely, Henri patted my arm. ‘He will tell you all his needs, Madame. Although he is a French dog, he speaks excellent English.’
With a glance of mixed irritation and amusement at me, Luc bore Henri off to the salon where a bright log fire burned and the Christmas tree lights sparkled. With a little hum of appreciation, Henri settled himself on a sofa without further ado, chattering away to Luc in a perfectly relaxed fashion, even if the latter still seemed to be struck dumb.
In the kitchen, now redolent with the aroma of roasting turkey, Emma Mandeville jumped up from her desultory and slow peeling of sprouts; she had a habit of stopping after each one to squint at it through half-closed eyes as if it were a specimen on a laboratory slide. Bouncing into the kitchen at eight o’clock this morning, she had insistedon helping me, which was welcome as Nicole had again disappeared to the mosque, and, in between gossiping gaily about every subject under the sun or leaping up to dance around to whatever song was playing on the ancient transistor radio perched on the dresser, was steadily if slowly working through any task I offered her.
‘What on earth’s that?’ she now cried as I navigated Alphonse and the suitcase into the room, not easy given he seemed to be a dog with a low opinion of swing doors.
‘A dog,’ I said shortly, chucking down the suitcase.
‘Are you sure about that?’ Taking the lead from me and unclipping it from the animal’s collar, Emma promptly began to make a huge fuss of him, which went down considerably better than the swing door. ‘He looks more like a lamb.’
‘Your father just said the same.’
‘But he’s lovely! What’s his name?’
‘Alphonse, and he speaks English although he’s French.’
‘A bilingual dog! How cool!’
Alphonse appeared in agreement as he rolled over onto his back, submitting to Emma’s caresses with something close to slavishness.
