Madam Vanerre's Shuffle

Madam Vanerre never walked anywhere, she shuffled. Her feet, like
tiny rollers, never left the ground. She moved with the speed of a
hostess trolley in slow-mo. Today she was cooking veal for her
granddaughter, as she knew the veal "is zo terrible in England".

Sophie was staying with her godmother for the summer to improve her
"very disappointing French" and had been ferried over to her
grandmother's flat to visit for the day. She was usually vegetarian,
but today she was torn between the strength of her views on veal
farming and her desire to befriend this singular grand-parent who,
shuffling round the over-furnished flat, grasped at any small talk the
two might be able to share. "Ze vether is so terrible in England. You
must be very glad that you are in France for the summer?" Madam Vanerre
began, passing her granddaughter a large glass of wine with cassis. The
old woman allowed herself to fall into the deepest armchair, oblivious
to the cloud of dust, jettisoned by the impact of her landing, as she
observed, "Oh! It is starting to rain."

Sophie, sat up beautifully straight. She sipped the delightfully strong
drink and, drawing on her best manners replied, "I'm very glad to be in
France, Bonne Maman. I have always loved France and everyone has been
so kind to me."

Madam Vanerre looked pleased, examining her granddaughter's face anew.
"You have my eyes, you know." She observed. "But your hair! Quelle
horreur! May be I should take you to my coiffeur!"

Sophie had laboriously washed out every trace of gel, lacquer, and soap
and water that she'd spent months building up, and flattened the spikes
that had demanded such dedication to cultivate. She had rowed with her
parents, accusing them of using France as an excuse to exert pressure
over the hair issue. She had postponed the opportunity to become
completely purple headed until the following September when she would
enter sixth form, and she had temporarily forsaken her black eye-liner
and lipstick. But she still replied, "This is the fashion in London,
Bonne Maman."

"Oh-ho-ho-ho-ho!" Mme Vanerre laughed. "Of course! Ze fashion is so
terrible in England!" And with considerable effort she pushed herself
up out of the armchair and shuffled to the kitchen to check on the
veal.

Sophie could remember this flat from when she and her sisters had
visited as young children. It had never seemed possible that so many
objects could fit into this tiny box in Neuilly, which overflowed with
antiques, objets d'art, and some morbidly frightening Catholic
iconography. Navigation around the flat necessitated care and it seemed
impossible that her grandmother had ever had more than a couple of
guests at once.

Once the veal was eaten, the coffee drunk and several cigarettes were
smoked with a liberal enthusiasm that would have horrified Sophie's
parents, Mme Vanerre announced a little surprise. Urging Sophie to take
her arm and responsibility for "la parapluie", after some confusion
over keys, the old lady took her outside where they moved very slowly
to the end of the boulevard and turned into a shopping street.

Mme Vanerre beamed, her eyes creasing underneath her fur hat, her
yellowed teeth exposing every stain known to dental hygiene. She hung
from Sophie's arm, barely up to the grand-daughter's shoulder, much to
the latter's relief as she tried to put the musty smell of her
grand-mother's ancient mink from her mind. She was feeling guilty about
the veal and thinking about sending some money to the WorldWide Fund
for Nature when they stopped outside a boutique. "Here we are!" Grinned
the octogenarian, drawing the teenage wannabe punk into the shop.

"Bonjour Madam Vanerre!" "Bonjour Madam Vanerre!" "Bonjour Madam
Vanerre!" The shop assistants repeated after one another, each forcing
lopsided smiles on paint-covered faces. The most senior stopped to
enquire after the old lady's health, the most junior quickly pulled up
a chair as soon as the most senior's fingers were clicked.

Mme Vanerre presented her grand-daughter, from England. Some comment
was passed that Sophie didn't fully understand, but contained the words
"la mode a Londres" and caused a titter of false laughter and
artificial affection among the three shop assistants. The most senior
regarded Sophie with what could have passed for a smile but was closer
to a condescending sneer. The second-in-command nodded with a more
charitable disdain, while the third took her cue from her superiors
standing with a vacant grin, until fingers were clicked and she
recalled she had no business hanging around Mme Vanerre when there was
work to be done. She bowed in deference to all others present then
busied herself arranging tissue paper and boxes behind the
counter.

For a moment the most senior discussed matters with Mme Vanerre, her
face contorted with a fixed smile. A wave of her hand instructed number
two to wheel forward a rail that hung with blouses. Number Two held
each blouse up in turn, as Mme Vanerre rhythmically repeated, "Non!
Non! Non!" Sometimes Madam wanted to see something more closely, but on
examination she would wave her hand with a dismissive "Non!" More
discussion took place. Sophie watched as the junior removed draws of
gloves one by one from underneath the counter, carefully laying out the
contents, dusting the shelves and the draws before replacing each pair
of gloves.

"Non! Non! Non!" The pantomime continued as a new rail of blouses was
brought to be inspected. Each blouse was different from the rest, all
one-offs, with scarves attached or wide collars, loud swirls, bright
colours and pastels. Hideous in Sophie's opinion. She wondered how
taste changes so dramatically within a generation; her mother loved
Laura Ashley; her Bonne Maman was still inspired by the hey-day of Coco
Chanel. Sophie, then sixteen in the mid-1980s, modelled herself
somewhere between Debbie Harry (black leather, pouting lips) Chrissy
Hind (dark rimmed eyes, neck-scarves, pouting lips) and Madonna (lace
tights, lace gloves, pouting lips).

"Non! Non! Ah oui c'est ca!" Her grandmother tugged Sophie's arm
excitedly, drawing her attention to a rose pink, light cotton blouse,
wide collar, thin white pin-stripe. "C'est parfait!"

The senior shop assistant, her head angled up from an obsequious
hunched posture, stood, one arm outstretched in the direction of the
changing room. Sophie glanced at her grandmother, who nodded
encouragement smiling with girlish glee.

The curtain briskly closed behind her with an ominous finality. How
could she get out of this? She must play for time; she needed to think
of something. She stared at the hated item of clothing in anger, the
blouse had become her enemy, the over-made-up shop assistants were the
evil perpetrators of her untold suffering. She would be expected to
wear this hideous item, in front of all the young people. Very slowly
she took the hated garment of the coat-hanger and slipped her arm down
one sleeve.

She heard a familiar shuffle on carpet, the curtain edged open an inch,
a hooked nose appeared followed by a yellowed grin and eyes creased in
sallow skin. She let her other arm down the second sleeve.

"OH!" Mme Vanerre gasped in the guttural back of her throat. "Oh! C'est
magnifique!" The curtain was fully opened; Sophie was steered towards a
full-length mirror where she saw the full horror of her
appearance.

"Oh la la! C'est super Madam!" The senior shop assistant assured her
grandmother.

Sophie's face read dread and despair while her grandmothers, a head
lower than hers, shone, happiness watering from her glassy blue
eyes.

"Bonne Maman" Sophie faltered, "This is very kind of you but I think my
father will be very angry when he discovers that you have been spending
your money on me!"

"Oh ho ho! Let him be angry!" The thought of upsetting her son seemed
to delight the old lady. Tant pis pour lui!" She enthused, "I have a
right to treat my grand-daughter!"

"My sisters will be jealous!" Sophie tried, visualising how her sisters
would laugh if they could see her trapped in that Parisian
boutique.

"Let them come to France if they want gifts!" Mme Vanerre retorted,
reaching in her alligator handbag for her snakeskin purse.

Time was running out, the stopwatch counting down. The senior shop
assistant had shooed number three from behind the counter. Number two
was peeling the blouse from Sophie's back and tissue paper was being
prepared.

"Bonne Maman! I really don't think you should spend your money on
me..."

The old lady grinned gleefully, patting Sophie's hand. Sophie's young
face wrinkled, aging prematurely as the blouse was whisked towards the
counter.

"But Bonne Maman..." Sophie couldn't think of anything to say, no more
polite excuses, she would have to wear the blouse. She would have to
wear the blouse in front of all the other young people. There would be
photographs... "But Bonne Maman..."

"I like to buy you something nice to wear!"

"But Bonne Maman! I don't like it!" spewed Sophie.

Mme Vanerre's face fell. The yellowed teeth hid behind a rubbery pout,
the sallow jowls wobbled like the cheeks of a bloodhound, the head hung
in deep disappointment. The senior shop assistant scowled at Sophie,
her eyes snaked with poison, her face flushed under thick make-up, her
greasy whale-blubbered lips shivering with hate.

"You don't like it?" The old lady asked frailly. "Are you sure?"

"I'm sorry Bonne Maman, it's a very kind thought, but I'm afraid I
don't." Sophie stammered, mirroring her grandmother's pain.

"I don't believe you! You are only saying this because you don't want
your father to be angry."

"No! I'm not Bonne Maman. I appreciate your kindness very much. But
honestly, I don't think I'd ever wear it."

"Bon, d'accord!" The old lady mumbled, returning her purse to her
alligator handbag with a sigh. "J'suis desolee madam!" She muttered to
the senior shop assistant, who remembering herself quickly removed her
scowl and replaced it with the fawning compliance she had adopted
previously.

Mme Vanerre was helped into her fur by the second shop assistant and
passed her hat by the third. She took Sophie's arm and they shuffled
back to the flat in slow silence.

Back at the flat, Mme Vanerre had lost the enthusiastic joie de vivre
that had sparkled earlier in the day. She made tea. Sophie sat among
the antiques, objets d'art and iconography looking out on the rain that
wept on the garden beyond the balcony, on Paris and on her mood. Sophie
hated herself. She hated her superficial stupidity and vanity. Why did
she care what she wore? She wanted to be close to this lost relic of
her family, to this half stranger, to know her and be loved by her. Now
she'd hurt her feelings over nothing but a stupid blouse, over
vanity.

Mme Vanerre shuffled in with the tea tray trembling in her arthritic
hands. She set it on the coffee table between them. Landed on her
armchair, was lost for a moment as dislodged dust swam around her. She
lit a cigarette, nudged the box of Dunhill over towards Sophie. Poured
the tea.

"Je suis desolee, Bonne Maman, de vous decevoir." Sophie stumbled in
her thick English accent, taking a cigarette from the pack.

"Oh mais c'est pas grave, cherie!" The old lady smiled.

The doorbell sounded. It would be Sophie's godmother come to collect
her. Mme Vanerre pushed herself up with great effort from the armchair,
shuffled over to buzz her in, opening the flat door. Light footsteps
approached, followed by exchanged kisses and polite small talk while
Sophie put out the cigarette in Mme Vanerre's huge but overflowing
ashtray. She stood up as her godmother leant round the door, greeting
in sing-song tones.

"Au revoir Bonne Maman!" Sophie leant down to kiss her Bonne Maman as
she was leaving. "Merci beaucoup pour tous!" She was about to follow
her godmother when the grandmother latched onto her arm, "Attends-la!"
The old dear shuffled into her bedroom, where, Sophie could see through
the open door, she reached into a cupboard and rummaged, apparently
pulling out the first thing that came to hand. She shuffled back and
plunged it in Sophie's hand, folding her fingers over it, "Tiens!" she
insisted. "But Bonne Maman, what is this?" "C'est rien, c'est rien!"
The old woman muttered pushing her grandchild towards the door.

Sophie rushed down the hall to catch up with her godmother, and had
jumped into the car before she looked down at what had been placed in
her hand. A necklace. Bold and beaded, in a style that perhaps Cindy
Laupher would have worn, or even Madonna, perhaps.... If it had not
been made of solid ivory.