Bleu en été

To read a description of Marie's Room, go to

Marie's Room  (E) Marie's room reflects her personality perfectly. #1126277 by Barmymoo

Marie lay on the grass, soaked in sunshine and clad in a rather revealing blue bikini. There was a blade of grass just in front of her nose, slightly longer than the rest, and it was annoying her. She longed to reach out and break the end off, to make it uniformly short like the rest of the lawn, but she couldn't find the energy.

She rolled onto her back, looking at the sky through the branches of the trees. It was a deep azure blue, fading to almost white towards the edges, until it looked like a giant dome above the earth. There was not a cloud in sight.

And yet Marie knew that a storm was brewing. Inside the house, her mother was sitting tensed and angry, as she had been every day since school had ended. Marie's peaceful sunbathing made her more restless, more annoyed than anything she could have done deliberately, if only because there was no reason why she shouldn't be doing it. All her coursework had been finished, the few household chores that her mother had hinted at had been done, and the garden was beckoning to Marie like whiskey to an alcoholic.

What Marie couldn't understand was why her mother couldn't do the same. There was nothing to do inside the house; she wasn't being any use just sitting motionless at the table for hours on end, not even listening to the radio. She could quite easily bring out a book and a cold drink and lie on the ground beside her daughter, or even just loll in a deckchair for an hour or two. But instead she chose to sit in the dark kitchen, an untouched cup of coffee turning cold on the table, moping.

Marie sat up suddenly, shaking the loose grass out of her hair, and reached for her sarong. She would make an effort, one last time, to make peace with her mother. If it didn't work then they'd only be in the same situation as they had been for the last two weeks, the same situation they'd existed in for years on end.

***

The porch door banged. Juliette didn't look up; she knew who it would be. Marie had spent the entire holiday in the garden, slowly frying her skin and turning her hair prematurely white. Didn't she know that life was short? Didn't she realise what a waste it was, giving away her childhood like that?

The familiar sense of anger swelled up, threatening to engulf her the way it did so often. History was repeating itself all over again; didn't it ever stop?

"You're ruining your life," she whispered, her fists clenched.

Marie swirled into the kitchen, all golden tan and blue fabric. The unfairness of it hit Juliette with a blow that jolted her stomach. She had never looked like that, so laid back and at ease with the world. She had lived the same way as her daughter, taken the same paths, made the same choices and yet it had been such a rough ride. Marie had it so easy and she didn't realise.

"Want a drink?" Marie was saying, peering at the coffee cup. "I was going to get some orange juice, that coffee must be stone cold by now." She sashayed across to the fridge, not waiting for Juliette's answer. She was so confident. It hurt so much that anyone could be that happy when she, Juliette, was not.

She watched as Marie poured the orange juice into two tall glasses. It would be the crystal ones, she was like that. She didn't have to replace them when they got broken. She didn't mind that it took her twice as long to wash as the normal glasses. She had all the time in the world.

***

"What's wrong?" asked Marie gently, placing the orange juice in front of her mother and sitting on the other side of the table. "You've been sitting here for hours."

"And why shouldn't I? I've nothing to do, why shouldn't I relax how I choose to?" snapped Juliette, her hands clenching round the handle of her coffee cup. "You spend every waking hour lying in the garden, that's the same thing."

"But it's not," Marie ventured, knowing she was on shaky ground. "It's so nice in the garden, it's cheering. You can't be happy in here in the dark. It'll make you ill."

She'd overstepped the mark again, as she so often did. The signs were almost imperceptible, but so familiar to Marie that she recognised them immediately: the tautness around the eyes, the tightening of the grip on the mug.

"There is nothing wrong with me," hissed Juliette. "It's you that'll be getting ill, lying there in the sun all day frying your skin. Don't expect me to be sorry for you when you get skin cancer, it'll be your own fault!"

Marie breathed hard, counting to five in her mind. There was no point in revisiting old ground, they'd had this argument a thousand times.

"Well, maybe you could sit in the shade and keep out of the sun, but it's so nice a day. Don't waste it in here, please."

Juliette stood up abruptly, the coffee slopping onto the table. She batted her hands at it angrily, making the spill worse.

"Don't you talk to me about waste, young lady!" she snapped at her daughter. "You're wasting your whole life out there in the sun. At least some of us have done something useful with their lives!"

She left the room, stiffly. Marie watched her go from her seat at the table.

"What have you done?" she asked her absent mother. "What have you ever done that was any use?"

And as always happened after one of their arguments, tears began to trickle down her cheeks and the day was ruined.

***

It hadn't always been just the two of them. Marie could remember a time when her father was around and they were happy together, the three of them. But then Daniel left them to live with Viveka, his young Swedish lover, and things started to change rapidly. Juliette blamed Marie, blamed the office trip to Sweden, blamed the strong wine, blamed Viveka's long blonde hair. She didn't want to believe that it was her fault. Typical of Juliette, Marie thought angrily. Nothing was ever her fault.

Marie had only been twelve at the time, old enough to understand but too young to forgive and she had taken sides, first with her mother and then with her father. When they flung recriminations at one another and Daniel had packed his bags, she hated both of them and barricaded herself in her room, refusing to come out even for meals.

After a while they had got used to it, though. Daniel had moved to Sweden with Viveka and their baby Pia-Rose, and Juliette stopped smashing CDs and started redecorating their bedroom. She moved into the small room opposite Marie's and the master bedroom became a spare for all Marie's friends when they came to stay. They lived a charmed life, for a few years.

But then something had gone wrong. It was hard to pin down but Marie could guess that it coincided with when she had gone to visit her father in Sweden, the summer before last. They had argued for weeks and she had caught the plane with her mother's angry shouts still ringing in her ears.

"He left us, Marie!" she had yelled across the runway, not caring who heard. "Don't you dare let him tell you otherwise!"

Sweden had been lovely but Viveka was dreadful. Marie had hated her on sight, with her slimline jeans tucked into her cowboy boots and a red low-shouldered silk top contrasting stunningly with her white-blonde hair. Marie had never seen anyone who made so much effort. She looked like a lap dancer.

Pia-Rose cried all night, and Marie hadn't got any sleep at all. Viveka had said, in her broken English, that since Marie was staying in Pia's room she could get up for her midnight bottle. Marie had thought she was joking. No, Viveka had said with a viper smile. There wasn't a spare room now that the baby had been born. And Pia Rose loved her night time bottle.

She ought to be on solid food by now, Marie had told her silently. How many two year olds lived on milk unless they were sick or disabled? She had quietly rebelled the first night, rolling back to sleep whenever Pia-Rose's cries woke her, but she had paid for it in the morning. Viveka had known and she retaliated by putting Marie's best blouse in the wash with a tie-dye scarf. It was ruined.

Marie had flown home three days early, pleading schoolwork and homesickness. Viveka's knowing smile had been triumphant.

She told Juliette that Viveka was lovely, and that Pia was so sweet you wouldn't believe. Now, she couldn't remember why she had lied but it had meant another row and another crack in their already feeble relationship.

She had been scared, of course. Marie at fourteen hadn't realised that but now, at sixteen, she could see that Juliette was petrified of losing her daughter as well. She had never been able to understand Marie's need to keep in touch with her father, she had seen it as a threat.

Snapping her mind away from memories, she finished her mother's untouched orange juice and put both glasses in the sink. No doubt she would be washing them later but she wouldn't do it yet. It was a statement: she wasn't going to be crushed into obedience by sulking and berating.

It was, she realised suddenly, as though their roles had been reversed and suddenly, at sixteen, she was mother to a thirty-nine year old child.

***

It wasn't on that day but the following one when the argument eventually flared up. Marie had spent the evening clearing up, one ear listening for the sound of Juliette coming out of her room to make amends. But it didn't happen and when she finally went up to bed herself there had been no sign of her mother.

The following morning they were like puppies on ice, trying not to slip and crack the thin veneer of tolerance that the night had created. Breakfast, which in term time was eaten separately, was a silent meal with only the chink of bowls and spoons playing against the tick of the clock. Marie thought dryly that it was rather like waiting for a bomb to explode.

The explosion came shortly before lunch. Juliette, who had spent the morning sat on the sofa with a magazine closed on her lap, had made no move towards sorting food. At quarter to two, hunger finally drove Marie into the cupboards to find something to eat.

At once her mother jumped up, snatching the packet of pitta breads from her hand.

"We're having those tomorrow!" Juliette stormed in a strange, strangled voice. "Don't interfere, I can manage."

"I know you can," Marie said patiently, "but I'm hungry and I was just looking for something for lunch."

She looked at her mother's face, properly, for the first time in a long while. There were more lines than she remembered, more crinkles of worry around her mouth. There was something else as well, some glint in her eye that was worrying.

"Stop staring at me," Juliette snapped irately. "I hate it when you act like that, you patronise me. I'm still your mother, don't think that being sixteen automatically makes you an adult. It's how you act that counts, and you've got a long way to go until you're mature."

Marie didn't say anything. The thought in her mind, that her mother was the only one acting immaturely, probably wasn't the best thing to say.

***

It was infuriating, the way she just stood there with that look on her face. As if she was saying "Don't be so stupid, mother". She didn't need to say it. It was written all over her.

Suddenly she felt an urge to shout at her daughter, to scream all the patronism and wastefulness out of her with well-chosen words. Before she could stop herself, she was shouting at the top of her voice, every word a bullet. She shook the girl's shoulders, slapped her face, screamed at her. All her anger and pain flooded out of her like a river breaking down a dam. Marie just stood there, shocked, letting the acquisitions wash over her, powerless to stop them, trying to shield herself from her mother's blows.

Finally Juliette ran out of steam. She looked at her daughter's face, horror at what she had done slowly creeping into her mind.

"Marie?" she asked, tentatively. "Marie, I'm so sorry..."

Marie didn't move for a second. Then her face closed in and she turned and fled.

***

She had never heard her mother so angry before, even during the fights between her parents before the divorce. She'd never been on the receiving end of such violence, and it had shaken her to the core.

Marie collapsed on her bed, clutching the pillow and trying not to cry. She could hear her mother downstairs, the chair scraping back and then being placed under the table again. She began to count the seconds until her mother came upstairs.

Right on cue, footsteps began up the stairs. Eleven... twelve... thirteen... fourteen... and there was a tap at the door.

Marie didn't move. Her mother could open the door herself, or she could turn round and leave. She knew which one she'd prefer.

The door opened anyway, and Marie's mother came inside. She closed it again carefully and went to sit on the swivel chair at Marie's desk. Marie was very glad she had cleared away her journal that morning: she couldn't bear the thought, at this moment, of her mother reading her innermost thoughts.

"Marie, I'm sorry," said Juliette gently, reaching out to her daughter's shoulder but suddenly changing her mind.

Marie didn't reply. She was clutching the pillow very tightly, her knuckles stark white against the golden tan of her arms. The long blonde hair was tangled around her face and her body was shaking with sobs.

"Please Marie, I'm so sorry," Juliette whispered again, her voice quaking slightly with tears of her own. "I don't know what came over me... I'm so, so sorry."

For a moment neither of them moved. Then Marie rolled onto her side, her legs curling up in front of her chest. Her face was streaked with tears and her eyes were blotchy and small with unhappiness.

"Just go away," she snarled at her mother, pulling herself back on her bed. "Just go away and leave me alone, I don't ever want you in my room again."

"Marie, you have to listen to me!" shouted Juliette desperately, a bubble of anger swelling up again despite her struggle to stay calm. "I've said I'm sorry!"

"Sorry isn't going to undo what you've just done," Marie hissed at her, the red-rimmed eyes beginning to glimmer with a fresh flood of tears. "And I'll never forgive you for it."

Juliette stood up sharply, her attempts at reconciliation rejected. She bit back a furious reply and turned on her heel, slamming the door to the unnaturally tidy bedroom in fury.

***

It felt as though she had cried for hours. Her side was aching and her face stung, the feeling of her mother's hand against her cheek still strong as though it had been seared into her skin.

Marie lay in silence for a moment, staring at the ceiling. She was tired of crying, and yet there was somehow no energy left inside her to move. But she was hungry, more so than ever now, and the memory of a box of biscuits stashed inside her chest of drawers was floating to the forefront of her mind.

She rolled off the bed, rubbing at her eyes and trying to steady her breathing.

***

That afternoon, for the first time that summer, Juliette lay beside Marie in the garden. Together they flicked through a seed catalogue, choosing vegetables and flowers for the following spring.

When they finally went inside that evening, Juliette looked around the garden. She'd never seen it look so beautiful.