The House with Blue Shutters by Lisa Hilton Page B

to tell the truth.’
    ‘Oh dear,’ said Sarah Ashworth.
    ‘I’m bleeding.’ Giles hoped he didn’t sound whiny. Charles-Henri, his heroism unappreciated, wandered off.
    ‘This is, I’m sorry? This is Mr Froggett. The dogs bit him.’ Giles limped a little, affectedly if he were honest, as they
     approached the tea table. ‘I’ve already met your dogs!’ he called cheerfully.
    ‘The Hounds of the Baskervilles?’ said the man, his English more heavily accented than, presumably, his grandson’s. He was
     obviously pleased with this remark, more pleased than concerned.
    ‘Vicious, I would say,’ answered Giles defensively, conscious of the man’s soft linen jacket, his gold signet ring, irritated
     even further by the consciousness.
    ‘They were only, as you would say, doing their job. I am very sorry. I hope you are not badly hurt?’
    Charles-Henri reappeared, crumbs on his mouth, tugging at the jacket and speaking French.
    ‘I see,’ said the man to Giles, ‘you were lost?’
    ‘That’s it, I’m staying down the hill there, at Murblanc.’ He pronounced it ‘moorblonk’.
    ‘Of course, at the Henrys’ house. Well, would you like Sarahto find you a bandage? A glass of water? Or perhaps you would prefer to be driven home?’
    This was clearly the right choice. Down the hill and back up the lane to Murblanc in Sarah’s capable little Renault, Giles
     wondered why he had said ‘Yes, please’ like a child who has behaved badly at a birthday party.
    Dinner at the Harveys’ that night was a surprisingly gay affair. Eventually the sky was streaked yellow and purple like a
     new bruise, Sunday was on the way to being dispensed with, everyone took a late swim. Claudia, her bikini top thoughtfully
     attached, practised diving with Oliver and Richard. They tried to teach her the pike, and she plunged again and again, sopping
     hair trailing her mouth as she resurfaced, laughing, unable to get it right. She had forbidden Alex to mention her collapse,
     the relief, as she surfaced in his arms, of the knowledge that he could not possibly have understood what Oriane had said,
     was cooler than the water. She felt loving towards him again and thought that the faint could introduce nicely her resolution
     to tell him the truth. She flexed her legs, trying to bring up her knees and shoot them out straight as she turned in the
     air, the pool meeting her body too soon each time before she had executed the movement, and she tumbled splashily until she
     felt truly tired, an incipient languorousness in her limbs promising real sleep. She would drink water tonight and leave her
     cigarette packet upstairs.
    Aisling thought ‘Sod it’ and cooked a great crock of spaghetti with tomato sauce and a salad. No one changed, they ate outside,
     slurping in their damp bathing costumes. Magnanimously, she told the boys that they really ought to practise their French
     with Claudia, she spoke perfectly. Claudiaquestioned Jonathan, intelligently ignorant, about wine, she leaned her head on Alex’s shoulder. When it was dark, the men
     lit citronella candles in yellow ceramic pots against the mosquitoes. Alex found a CD of baroque music and turned the stereo
     in the drawing room up loud, so the sound of violins poured over the balcony to the garden. Claudia said, ‘Aisling, you must
     be dying for a night off from cooking for us ogres. Alex and I thought we might go out to dinner tomorrow night.’
    ‘Fine, what about going into Landi, guys? We could go to the pictures and then have a pizza.’
    ‘
Star Wars The Prequel
? Kevin says it’s in VO.’
    ‘Oh, God, all right.’
    ‘Cool.’
    At ten o’clock, Mrs Froggett appeared, looking morose. She asked Aisling if she had any disinfectant. ‘Giles was bitten by
     a dog,’ she explained.
    Aisling glared pre-emptively at her sons. Poor Mr Froggett was a geography teacher, apparently the saddest profession known
     to man, and nearly as funny as Jaffa Cakes. Richard and