The dog was watching me. It was positioned on the top step as if guarding the chateau against unwanted guests. We, Maggie and I, did not fall into that category – we’d paid our seven euro entrance fee like everyone else. Well, I say everyone else. In fact, apart from a knot of camera-festooned Japanese or possibly Korean or even Taiwanese tourists accompanied by an excitable guide, we were the only visitors on this chilly March day. Nonetheless, the dog had fixed me with a stare that was verging on the malevolent.
I said as much to Maggie.
“Don’t be silly, Kate, how can a stone statue be staring at you at all, never mind malevolently?”
“We saw that portrait in the last place whose eyes seemed to follow us round the room.”
“Yes, but it’s not the same thing. That was the skill of the artist. This is just a roughly carved statue of a dog.”
And I had to admit it was just that, a statue of a giant mastiff cross bloodhound – or whatever the French equivalent was. It was obviously quite old because its body was pitted and worn, although the top of its head was smooth from years of being touched for luck. But the eyes were neither worn nor smooth. On the contrary, they were deeply carved and still prominent. And they were looking at me.
We were on a tour of chateaux in the Loire Valley, Maggie’s idea. I hadn’t been sure if it was my sort of holiday but it was turning out OK. Maggie had brought colour into my dull grey existence. We’d met through her work, in a manner of speaking. She had been a prison chaplain. That was a few years ago now and she’d left the prison behind to enjoy a retirement of history and travelling. I left the prison behind at about the same time – though I don’t know if either of us really retired from our calling. Maggie was passionate about old churches and I – well, she kept me on the straight and narrow. We’d struck up a friendship and this continued. Maggie was long divorced, I had never met anyone I fancied sharing my life with. We were both lonely, I suppose.
She thought I needed some culture and took me to museums and art galleries, to stately homes and gardens. It gave me some purpose, something to look forward to. Then, last autumn, she asked if I’d like to join her on a tour of the Loire Valley, her treat, she didn’t want to go on her own and, anyway, a single room would cost almost as much as a twin. Why not? I enjoyed her company and it would be a new experience for me. So here we were, four chateaux down and three to go.
What struck me about the French, at least as far as their heritage was concerned, was how careless they were. In the English historic houses we’d gone round, stewards patrolled every room, glass protected precious wallpaper, lighting was dim so as not to fade the colours. Here, no-one bothered if you carried a hefty rucksack, or wore studded boots, or touched the tapestries, or even handled the china set out on the dining table.
This morning’s chateau was not large and clearly the authorities thought that one person at the entrance to take our euros was adequate staffing. We had worked our way through the salon, dining room and library, up a rather grand staircase to two spacious and two smaller bedrooms and then downstairs again to a pretty sitting room. The wall hangings and curtains in the reception rooms were sumptuous and Maggie pointed out several fine pieces of furniture. I liked some of the paintings and the delicate porcelain birds perched on the shelves of a glass-fronted wall cabinet. In the sitting room I’d spent ages admiring the contents of a display case – bejewelled necklets, gold rings and a couple of fob watches on silver chains and, nicest of all, a set of five exquisite miniatures of a beautiful young woman. Maggie had gone on ahead to inspect the kitchen off the passage leading to the back door and exit. The house was very quiet. The Japanese party must have finished their tour.
*
“Come on, it says in my guide book that the gardens, although compact, are well worth seeing.”
I followed Maggie past the front of the building, trying not to look at the dog. As we rounded the corner, Maggie exclaimed in delight at the symmetrical bed laid out before us. Low hedges formed a grid in which were planted a variety of flowers and shrubs, colourful even now, in early Spring. The corner section was devoted to herbs and it looked as if this was mirrored in the other three corners. Urns and vases were placed at strategic points with, here and there, a figure of a nymph or some such.
“This is a tiny version of Villandry. Just wait until you see that, Kate!”
I wandered round dutifully. I wasn’t really a garden sort of person but I couldn’t deny that it was attractive. Neatly trimmed grass edged the gravel paths. Everything was immaculate, not a weed to be seen. Evidently, the French took better care of their gardens than their stately homes. I turned back towards the chateau.
“Maybe we’d better go and find somewhere to have lunch now. You said there was an interesting church you wanted to visit this after…” My voice trailed off.
“Kate? What’s the matter? You sound funny.”
“It’s that dog. It’s here, on the bank, staring at me.”
“Where? Oh, I see it. It’s not the same statue! How can it be? They were usually made in pairs; instead of having them flanking the steps, they’ve put one in here. That’s all, nothing to worry about!”
Common sense told me that Maggie was right and it couldn’t possibly be the same dog, but I wasn’t convinced. It had the same eyes, the same stare. And why hadn’t I noticed it when I first came in? But what was I saying then? That a weighty statue had somehow shifted itself a hundred yards or more? Don’t be ridiculous, Kate!
I felt an unreasonable panic rising in me. I couldn’t stay there. A wooden sign marked Sortie pointed towards the lower part of the garden and I almost ran down the path by the side of the flower bed and across the bottom to the exit turnstile. I glanced back and the eyes of the dog glared at me, as if – and I realise this sounds fanciful – as if they were searching my soul. Maggie hurried after me, concerned at my odd behaviour. The metal arms spun then released me into the car park. I had almost reached Maggie’s 2CV before I stopped, breathing heavily. I couldn’t shake off the image of those eyes burning into me. I knew what I must do.
“Sorry, Maggie, I have to go back to the house. I need to… to go to the toilet. We might not come across one for miles!” I attempted to make a joke of it.
“Are you sure you’re all right? Do you want me to come with you?”
“No, no, I won’t be long.” And I scurried back to the entrance gate.
The attendant recognised me, of course. “Back so soon, Madame?”
I explained that I needed to use the toilet.
“Bien sur! Through the swing door, on the left.”
I passed the doors marked Dames and Hommes and walked quickly along the corridor. One, two, three rooms… yes, here it was, the sitting room. I slipped inside, checking to make sure no-one was about, then, as quietly as I could, lifted the unlocked lid of the display case (the French are so careless of their precious heritage), took the miniature out of my jacket pocket and replaced it carefully on its blue velvet cushion. I returned to the toilet, popped in and flushed in case it could be heard at the entrance, then strolled out, bidding the attendant merci.
As I went down the steps, I couldn’t avoid going past the dog statue. Its eyes gazed into the distance, dim and unseeing. I touched the top of its smooth head – for luck.
I said as much to Maggie.
“Don’t be silly, Kate, how can a stone statue be staring at you at all, never mind malevolently?”
“We saw that portrait in the last place whose eyes seemed to follow us round the room.”
“Yes, but it’s not the same thing. That was the skill of the artist. This is just a roughly carved statue of a dog.”
And I had to admit it was just that, a statue of a giant mastiff cross bloodhound – or whatever the French equivalent was. It was obviously quite old because its body was pitted and worn, although the top of its head was smooth from years of being touched for luck. But the eyes were neither worn nor smooth. On the contrary, they were deeply carved and still prominent. And they were looking at me.
We were on a tour of chateaux in the Loire Valley, Maggie’s idea. I hadn’t been sure if it was my sort of holiday but it was turning out OK. Maggie had brought colour into my dull grey existence. We’d met through her work, in a manner of speaking. She had been a prison chaplain. That was a few years ago now and she’d left the prison behind to enjoy a retirement of history and travelling. I left the prison behind at about the same time – though I don’t know if either of us really retired from our calling. Maggie was passionate about old churches and I – well, she kept me on the straight and narrow. We’d struck up a friendship and this continued. Maggie was long divorced, I had never met anyone I fancied sharing my life with. We were both lonely, I suppose.
She thought I needed some culture and took me to museums and art galleries, to stately homes and gardens. It gave me some purpose, something to look forward to. Then, last autumn, she asked if I’d like to join her on a tour of the Loire Valley, her treat, she didn’t want to go on her own and, anyway, a single room would cost almost as much as a twin. Why not? I enjoyed her company and it would be a new experience for me. So here we were, four chateaux down and three to go.
What struck me about the French, at least as far as their heritage was concerned, was how careless they were. In the English historic houses we’d gone round, stewards patrolled every room, glass protected precious wallpaper, lighting was dim so as not to fade the colours. Here, no-one bothered if you carried a hefty rucksack, or wore studded boots, or touched the tapestries, or even handled the china set out on the dining table.
This morning’s chateau was not large and clearly the authorities thought that one person at the entrance to take our euros was adequate staffing. We had worked our way through the salon, dining room and library, up a rather grand staircase to two spacious and two smaller bedrooms and then downstairs again to a pretty sitting room. The wall hangings and curtains in the reception rooms were sumptuous and Maggie pointed out several fine pieces of furniture. I liked some of the paintings and the delicate porcelain birds perched on the shelves of a glass-fronted wall cabinet. In the sitting room I’d spent ages admiring the contents of a display case – bejewelled necklets, gold rings and a couple of fob watches on silver chains and, nicest of all, a set of five exquisite miniatures of a beautiful young woman. Maggie had gone on ahead to inspect the kitchen off the passage leading to the back door and exit. The house was very quiet. The Japanese party must have finished their tour.
*
“Come on, it says in my guide book that the gardens, although compact, are well worth seeing.”
I followed Maggie past the front of the building, trying not to look at the dog. As we rounded the corner, Maggie exclaimed in delight at the symmetrical bed laid out before us. Low hedges formed a grid in which were planted a variety of flowers and shrubs, colourful even now, in early Spring. The corner section was devoted to herbs and it looked as if this was mirrored in the other three corners. Urns and vases were placed at strategic points with, here and there, a figure of a nymph or some such.
“This is a tiny version of Villandry. Just wait until you see that, Kate!”
I wandered round dutifully. I wasn’t really a garden sort of person but I couldn’t deny that it was attractive. Neatly trimmed grass edged the gravel paths. Everything was immaculate, not a weed to be seen. Evidently, the French took better care of their gardens than their stately homes. I turned back towards the chateau.
“Maybe we’d better go and find somewhere to have lunch now. You said there was an interesting church you wanted to visit this after…” My voice trailed off.
“Kate? What’s the matter? You sound funny.”
“It’s that dog. It’s here, on the bank, staring at me.”
“Where? Oh, I see it. It’s not the same statue! How can it be? They were usually made in pairs; instead of having them flanking the steps, they’ve put one in here. That’s all, nothing to worry about!”
Common sense told me that Maggie was right and it couldn’t possibly be the same dog, but I wasn’t convinced. It had the same eyes, the same stare. And why hadn’t I noticed it when I first came in? But what was I saying then? That a weighty statue had somehow shifted itself a hundred yards or more? Don’t be ridiculous, Kate!
I felt an unreasonable panic rising in me. I couldn’t stay there. A wooden sign marked Sortie pointed towards the lower part of the garden and I almost ran down the path by the side of the flower bed and across the bottom to the exit turnstile. I glanced back and the eyes of the dog glared at me, as if – and I realise this sounds fanciful – as if they were searching my soul. Maggie hurried after me, concerned at my odd behaviour. The metal arms spun then released me into the car park. I had almost reached Maggie’s 2CV before I stopped, breathing heavily. I couldn’t shake off the image of those eyes burning into me. I knew what I must do.
“Sorry, Maggie, I have to go back to the house. I need to… to go to the toilet. We might not come across one for miles!” I attempted to make a joke of it.
“Are you sure you’re all right? Do you want me to come with you?”
“No, no, I won’t be long.” And I scurried back to the entrance gate.
The attendant recognised me, of course. “Back so soon, Madame?”
I explained that I needed to use the toilet.
“Bien sur! Through the swing door, on the left.”
I passed the doors marked Dames and Hommes and walked quickly along the corridor. One, two, three rooms… yes, here it was, the sitting room. I slipped inside, checking to make sure no-one was about, then, as quietly as I could, lifted the unlocked lid of the display case (the French are so careless of their precious heritage), took the miniature out of my jacket pocket and replaced it carefully on its blue velvet cushion. I returned to the toilet, popped in and flushed in case it could be heard at the entrance, then strolled out, bidding the attendant merci.
As I went down the steps, I couldn’t avoid going past the dog statue. Its eyes gazed into the distance, dim and unseeing. I touched the top of its smooth head – for luck.