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Marrying The Bookie’s Daughter
Port-au-Prince, Haiti 1985
On a hot, sultry afternoon in May when the breeze has stopped and the air was oppressively still, Ameline, the reste-avec in the St Lazare household, pushed open the door to the parlour, dragging her bucket and floor polishers behind her. It was three o’clock and the heat was still intense. Madame St Lazare was taking her customary afternoon siesta and the house was silent. Nothing moved, not even the hands of the grandfather clock in the corner that had stopped when Madame’s husband, whom Ameline had never seen, died. Or so Madame said. Five minutes past three on a Sunday afternoon. Ameline wasn’t sure she believed her.
She closed the door behind her carefully. It was the only time she was allowed in the parlour. Cleones, the ancient maid and cool, could no longer bend down and the task of polishing the wooden floorboards had naturally fallen to Ameline. She put down her bucket and picked up the dusters, working her way across the surfaces of the dark, heavy furniture that Madame favored and which showed of every speck of dust, ghostly white, like the talcum powder Ameline occasionally sprinkled over her skin on Sundays when she and Cleones went to church. She lifted the brass candlesticks, long empty candles, noticing that they needed polishing and set them down carefully again, making a mental note to tackle them before Madame’s eagle eyes noticed and she earned herself a rebuke. She ran her cloth gently over the two porcelain figurines that Laure, Madame’s sixteen-year old granddaughter had told her to come from a shop in Paris, in France. First the painted heads, then the smooth, stiff folds of their skirts, and finally the bases. And that was when she saw it, lying face up, on the green cloth. A pale blue airmail letter. She stared at it, her eyes widening. She hesitated for a second, then picked it up, her heart beginning to beat faster. She looked around her then quickly slipped it into the front pocket of her apron. Madame wouldn’t come downstairs again until five o’clock, when the sun had finally gone down. Laure would be in her favourite position; three branches above the ground in the jacaranda tree outside her bedroom window; she had to get it to her. Fast. Before Madame came back downstairs.
She gave the cushions a quick beating, straightened the covers on the sofa and hurriedly swept the floor. She would wax and polish it later; right now there were more pressing issues to attend to. She quickly ran the duster along the top of the door and closed it, hurriedly stowing her bucket and mop in the cupboard next to the kitchen door. Then she bolted through the house before Clones came through to inspect her work.
She darted through the back door and ran into the back garden, the letter creasing against her thighs as she ran. There would be hell to pay when Madame discovered the letter was gone but they’d cross that bridge later. She and Laure would have to make up some excuse as to how the letter had found its way into Laure’s hands – never mind that was addressed to her. Laure St Lazare. In Belle St Lazare’s handwriting. Belle St Lazare. Laure’s mother, who live din Chicago. She ran towards the jacaranda tree, waving it in front of her. ‘Lulu! Lulu! Look! Look what I found!’
Ameline’s whispered shout floated up through the leaves and brought Laure St Lazare’s day-dream to an abrupt halt, she sighed. Such a pleasant dream, involving as they usually did, her immediate departure from Haiti, suitcase in hand, walking across the tarmac to the enormous plane that would take her to Chicago and her mother and away from the stifling atmosphere of her grandmother’s house and the sticky afternoon heat that made her hair frizz and put a permanent shine on her nose. She peered down through the branches. ‘What is it?’ Ameline was holding something up to her, waving it urgently. She looked more closely. It was a letter. Her heart started to beat faster. A letter? From Belle? She hardly dared look.
‘I found it,’ Alemine whispered, thrusting the letter above her head. ‘Just now. When I was cleaning the parlour. Here, take it. Quick! Before Cleones sees it.’ She climbed nimbly on to the lowest branch and held it out. Laure reached down and grabbed it, her heart thudding, An airmail letter, of the pale blue sort that could only mean one thing. A letter from Belle. From Maman. She held it gingerly in her hands as though she couldn’t quite believe it. She looked down again but Ameline was already gone, her slight, wiry figure weaving through the garden until she disappeared from view. She looked at the letter again. Yes, it was her mother’s childish, looping scrawl; a Chicago postmark. She peered at the date. 3rd March, 1985. It had taken over a month to reach her. She stared at it again, then slid a trembling finger under the flap.
London, UK,1985
Melanie Miller looked at the clock on the mantelpiece. Ten past nine. She blinked, fighting back the tears of disappointment, avoiding her mother’s anxious gaze. The two of them sat in uneasy silence of the plush, velvet cushions in the living-room, neither, it seemed, willing to speak. Eventually her mother sighed. ‘He’s probably been held up at the airport or something, darling,’ Stella Miller said eventually, unable to keep the edge of annoyance from her own voice. ‘But it’s my birthday,’ Melanie said in a tight, angry voice. ‘He can’t have forgotten!’
‘He hasn’t, darling. I’m sure he hasn’t. I’m sure he’ll be here any minute.’
‘You’ve been saying that since seven and he’s still not here!’
‘I know, darling. He’ll be here any minute.’
‘Why d’you keep on saying that? Melanie’s voice rose. She stood up abruptly.
‘Oh, darling…’ Her mother scrambled to her feet. Her shoulders sagged helplessly. He’ll make it up to you, I promise.’
‘Did you remind him?’ Melanie could feel a single tear begin its journey down her face. She blinked furiously. She hated crying in front of her mother.
‘Yes,’ her mother lied quickly. ‘I spoke to him this afternoon…they were leaving for the airport. He was… he was going out to get a present for you and…’ ‘Oh, please,’ Melanie groaned. I’m eighteen, Mum, I’m not a child. You don’t have to lie to me!’
‘I’m not lying, darling,’ her mother stammered, her cheeks immediately betraying her. ‘Where…where are you going?
“Out.’ Melanie started walking towards the door.
‘Out?’ her mother called after her, her voice rising in alarm. ‘Out where?’
‘What do you care?’ Melanie shot back as she disappeared up the stairs. She slammed her bedroom door shut and gave vent to the hot, angry tears that had been forming behind her eyes all evening.
‘Oh, bloody hell, Mike,’ Stella muttered angrily, reaching for a cigarette. Poor, poor Melanie. She’d been looking forward to her eighteenth birthday dinner for weeks. Mike’s PA had booked a table at Le Caprice. Melanie had bought herself a new outfit…it was supposed to have been a celebration, the last before exams. She felt like crying herself. She’d reminded him, not once, but three times since the beginning of the week – and, would you believe it, he’s still forgotten. And she’d gone to such an effort – lots of lovely presents, including the beautiful silver and diamond necklace from Tiffany’s that he’d told her to buy. ‘Hang the fucking expense’, he’d instructed her happily on the phone from Dusseldorf or Munich or wherever the hell it was they were playing. ‘She’s my baby girl – only the best’. It had been on the tip of her tongue to say ‘she doesn’t want the best, just make sure you’re there’. But of course she hadn’t. And of course he wasn’t.
‘I’m going round to Jessie’s,’ Melanie’s voice interrupted her suddenly. She stood in the doorway, a tight, unhappy scowl on her tear-stained face.
‘Alright, darling.’ Stella looked at her and then looked away. Melanie’s hurt was almost too painful to bear. ‘Shall I drive you over?’ she asked gently. ‘No, I’ll walk over. I’ve been indoors all day.’ Melanie shoved her hands in the pocket of her coat. ‘See you,’ she muttered.
Stella watched helplessly as she left the room, her shoulders hunched against the disappointment that was burning inside her. Bloody hell, Mike, she repeated to herself. Damn you. Damn you.
Bookclub questions
If Daniel really loved Laure, should he have been able to accept her past, no matter what it involved?
Did Ameline owe Iain everything for her new life or were her own drive and talents, along with her women friends, bigger influences?
Being one of convenience, was Ameline’s and Iain’s marriage always destined to fail or can companionship and friendship be a good basis for a long and happy life together?
Because of her relationship with her rock star father, was Melanie damaged goods, incapable of having a successful relationship with a man?
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