Peaches for Monsieur Le Curé (7 page)

Of course. I had forgotten. ‘It’s empty. It still belongs to the Clairmont boy. He didn’t want to sell it – but I don’t see him living there, either.’

Vianne was looking thoughtful. ‘I wonder if he’d let us stay? Just for a few days, while we’re here? We’d look after the place, clean it up, tidy up the garden—’

I shrugged. ‘Perhaps. But—’

‘Good,’ she said.

Just like that. Decided. Almost as if she’d never been gone. I had to smile – and I am not a man who smiles easily or often.

I said: ‘At least take a look at the house. For all you know, it’s falling down.’

‘It isn’t falling down,’ she said.

I had no doubt that she was right. Luc Clairmont would never have let his grandmother’s house go to ruin. I surrendered to the inevitable.

‘She used to leave the door keys under a flowerpot in the yard. They’re probably still there,’ I said.

I was not at all certain that I should be encouraging her to stay, but the thought of Vianne Rocher back in Lansquenet, even now, at this difficult time, seemed almost irresistible.

Vianne herself seemed unsurprised. Perhaps her life is always like this; solutions to her troubles offering themselves like suitors for her favour. Mine is as painfully intricate as a ball of razor-wire, where movement in any direction may cut. I wonder whether I shall be cut during this little interlude. I think it very likely I shall.

Vianne Rocher smiled at me.

‘Oh, and one more thing—’ she said.

I sighed.

‘Do you like peaches?’

CHAPTER ELEVEN

Sunday, 15th August

LES MARAUDS. THAT’S
where trouble starts. Les Marauds, where it all began. That’s where I first met Armande, walking by her little house. That’s where the trouble
always
starts; it’s where the river-rats moored their boats; where Anouk used to play with Pantoufle along the reedy banks of the Tannes. And it’s where Armande
told
me to go, if only I’d been thinking clearly.

There used to be a peach tree growing up the side of my house. If you come in summertime, the fruit should be ripe and ready to pick
.

It was – an elderly peach tree, its limbs half calcified with age, its dagger-shaped leaves scorched by the sun. But she was right – the fruit was ripe. I picked three, still warm from the sun and downy as a baby’s head. I handed one to Anouk, then Rosette. Then I gave one to Reynaud.

The scent of peaches was all around; a sleepy, end-of-summer scent that seemed to leave a glow in the air like a trace of sunset. Armande’s little house is on a rise, slightly apart from the rest of Les Marauds, and from this vantage point we could see down towards the river. There were lights along the boulevard; they shone on the water like fireflies. Already we could hear the quiet sounds of the evening: voices; sounds of pots and pans; children playing in back yards; crickets and frogs by the water’s edge as the birds fell silent.

Anouk had found the back-door key where Armande had always left it; but the door was already unlocked, like so many doors in Lansquenet. The gas and electricity have both been cut off, but there’s Armande’s range if we want to cook, and a pile of logs at the back of the house. There’s linen in the cupboard and woollen blankets in lemon, rose, vanilla and blue. There’s a double bed in Armande’s room, a folding cot in the room upstairs and a sofa in the living room. I’ve stayed in worse places.

‘I really like it here,’ said Anouk.

‘Bam,’ agreed Rosette affably.

‘Then it’s settled,’ I told them. ‘We’ll stay the night, and talk to Luc in the morning.’

Reynaud was still holding his peach, looking stiff and awkward. His sense of correctness is so pronounced that he would rather have slept in a ditch than use an empty house without the formal permission of the owner. As for the peaches, I had no doubt that by his standards they too were stolen, and he looked at me with the same unease that Adam must have looked at Eve when she handed him the forbidden fruit.

‘Aren’t you going to eat that?’ I said. Anouk and Rosette had finished theirs in greedy, luscious mouthfuls. It occurred to me that I had only once seen Reynaud eat – to him, food is a complicated business, as much to be feared as savoured.

‘Listen, Mademoiselle Rocher—’

‘Please,’ I said. ‘Just call me Vianne.’

He cleared his throat. ‘I appreciate your not asking me the obvious question,’ he said. ‘But I think you should know that, until further notice, I have been relieved of my duties as priest of Lansquenet, pending an inquiry into the fire at the old
chocolaterie
.’ He took a deep breath and went on. ‘Of course, I need not tell you,’ he said, ‘that I am in no way responsible. I was not arrested. I have never been accused. The police simply came to ask questions. But for a man in my position—’

I could well imagine the scene, viewed from behind the shutters. All of Lansquenet’s gossips must have been out in force that day. The shop, half burnt and derelict. The fire truck, an hour too late. The police car parked outside the church. Or even worse – outside Reynaud’s house, his little cottage on the Rue des Francs Bourgeois, with its neat beds of marigolds.

The Church owns the cottage, of course. The marigolds are Reynaud’s responsibility. So like dandelions, in their way, and yet, to him, there is a world of difference between those sly, invasive weeds and the pretty little yellow blooms that grow with such military straightness.

‘You didn’t need to tell me that. I know you didn’t light the fire.’

His mouth twitched. ‘If only everyone were as certain. Caro Clairmont has been spreading the word like mad, while continuing to pretend sympathy, and hanging on to every word that my successor utters.’

‘Your successor?’

‘Père Henri Lemaître. The Bishop’s new pet. An upstart with too many teeth and a passion for PowerPoint.’ He shrugged. ‘It’s only a matter of time now. You know what they’re like in Lansquenet.’

Oh yes, I do. I’ve been the subject of gossip myself, and I know how fast it spreads. I also know that, in the current climate, any hint of a scandal concerning a member of the priesthood must be seen to be dealt with. The Catholic Church has had too many scandals recently; and even if the police have no evidence to accuse him, Reynaud may end up being condemned by the court of public opinion.

He took another deep breath. ‘Perhaps, Mademoiselle Rocher, if you are going to stay awhile, you might convey your –
doubts
to any of your friends among the community who seem to take amusement from the situation. Joséphine, Narcisse—’

He broke off sharply and looked away. I stared at him in growing astonishment. The icy precision of his speech was still as apparent as ever, but there was no doubting the look on his face. In his oblique and diffident way, Francis Reynaud was asking for help.

I can barely imagine how difficult it must have been for him to ask. After everything that has happened here, to admit to himself that he needs someone – especially someone like me—

Reynaud’s world is black and white. He thinks this makes things simple. In fact, all his black-and-white thinking does is harden hearts, fix prejudice and blind good folk to the harm they do. And if something happens to challenge the way in which they see the world, when black-and-white thinking at last dissolves into a million shades of grey, men like Reynaud are left floundering, grasping at straws in a hurricane.

‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘What can you do? Forget I even asked.’

I smiled. ‘Of course I’ll help you if I can. But only on one condition—’

He looked at me bleakly. ‘What’s that?’ he said.

‘For pity’s sake, will you eat that peach?’

CHAPTER ONE

Monday, 16th August

LUC CALLED ROUND
this morning. Reynaud told him we were here. He found us over breakfast – peaches and hot chocolate, served in Armande’s mismatched crockery; ancient china translucent as skin, chipped at the gilded edges and hand-painted with the traditional designs of the Sous-Tannes; that tiny oblong of the Gers cut off from the rest by the river Tannes before it joins the larger Garonne. Anouk’s bowl had a painted rabbit; Rosette’s a clutch of chickens. Mine had flowers, and a name –
Sylvie-Anne
– painted on in curly script.

A relative, perhaps? It looked old. A sister, a cousin, a daughter, an aunt. I wondered what it would be like to have a bowl with my own name on it; given to me by my mother, perhaps, or handed down from my grandmother. But which name would it be, Armande? Which one of my many names?

‘Vianne!’

A call from the open door jolted me from my reverie. Luc’s voice has deepened, and he has lost his childhood stammer. But otherwise he looks the same: brown hair falling over his eyes, a smile that is at the same time open and mischievous.

He hugged me first, and then Anouk, and stared in frank curiosity at Rosette, who greeted him with bared teeth and a pert little monkeyish sound –
cak-cakk!
– that first startled him, then made him laugh.

‘I brought you some supplies,’ he said, ‘but it looks like you’ve finished breakfast.’

‘Don’t you believe it,’ I said with a smile. ‘The air gives us an appetite.’

Luc grinned and handed out fresh croissants and
pains au chocolat
. ‘Since it’s my fault you’re here,’ he said, ‘feel free to stay as long as you want. Grand-mère would have liked that.’

I asked him what he meant to do with the house, now that he owned it outright.

He shrugged. ‘I’m not sure. Maybe live in it. That is, if my parents—’ He bit off the phrase. ‘You heard about the fire, of course.’

I nodded.

‘Accidents happen,’ he said. ‘But Maman thinks there’s more to it than that. She thinks Reynaud lit the fire.’

‘Does she?’ I said. ‘And what do you think?’

I remember Caro Clairmont; one of Lansquenet’s most fervent gossips, she has always taken sustenance from the scandals and dramas of village life. I could imagine the covert glee with which she had welcomed Reynaud’s disgrace; tempering those rumours with extravagant shows of sympathy.

Luc shrugged. ‘Well, I’ve never liked him much. But I don’t think he did it. I mean, he’s cold and kind of stiff-necked, but he wouldn’t do a thing like that.’

Luc was in a minority. We heard the rumour a dozen times more before the day was over. From Narcisse, bringing vegetables from his shop; from Poitou, the baker; from Joline Drou, the schoolteacher, who called by to see us with her son. In fact, most of Lansquenet seemed to be passing through Les Marauds today – with one surprising exception – as word of our arrival spread like dandelion seeds on the wind.

Vianne Rocher is back
, they said.
Vianne Rocher is home at last
—

But that’s absurd. I
have
a home. It’s moored on the Quai de l’Elysée. I don’t belong here any more than I did eight years ago, when Anouk and I first arrived. And yet—

‘It would be so easy,’ Guillaume said. ‘You could fix up the old
chocolaterie
. A lick of paint, we could all lend a hand—’

I caught a flash from Anouk’s eyes.

‘You should see our houseboat in Paris,’ I said. ‘Right underneath the Pont des Arts, and in the mornings the river’s all covered in mist, just like the Tannes.’

The flash subsided, veiled under long eyelashes.

‘You ought to come and see us, Guillaume.’

‘Oh, I’m too old for Paris.’ He smiled. ‘And Patch is used to first-class travel.’

Guillaume Duplessis is one of the few who do not believe in Reynaud’s guilt. ‘It’s just a malicious rumour,’ he says. ‘Why would Reynaud burn down a school?’

Joline Drou was certain she knew. ‘Because of
her
, that’s why,’ she said. ‘That
burqa
woman. The woman in black.’

Anouk and Rosette had gone outside, and were beating a dusty carpet with a pair of old brooms. Joline’s son, Jeannot, was with them – a lad of Anouk’s age, whom I remembered from the days of the old
chocolaterie
. He and Anouk had been good friends, in spite of his troublesome mother.

‘Who is she?’ I said.

Joline arched an eyebrow. ‘Apparently, she’s a widow, the sister of Karim Bencharki. I know Karim – he’s very nice – he works at the gym in Les Marauds. But she’s very different. Aggressive. Aloof. They’re saying her husband divorced her.’

‘You mean you don’t know?’ Joline is one of Lansquenet’s most assiduous gossips. I found it hard to believe that she hadn’t found out every detail of the newcomer as soon as she moved into town.

Joline shrugged. ‘You don’t understand. She never talks to anyone. She’s not like the other
Maghrébins
. I don’t even know if she speaks French.’

‘You’ve never tried to find out?’

‘It’s not as easy as that,’ said Joline. ‘How do you even start to talk to someone who never shows their face? We used to be quite friendly with some of the women in Les Marauds. Caro used to invite a group of them to her house for tea. People think we’re just rural folk, but we’re
very
multicultural here. You’d be surprised, Vianne. I’ve even started eating couscous. It’s really very healthy, you know, and not as fattening as you’d think.’

I hid a smile. Joline Drou and Caro Clairmont think they can enter a culture because they like eating couscous. I imagined those tea parties at Caro’s house; the conversation, the little cakes, the china, the silver, the canapés. The well-meaning discussions, intended to promote
entente cordiale
. I winced at the thought.

‘What happened?’ I said.

Joline pulled a face. ‘They stopped coming round when that woman moved in,’ she said. ‘She’s nothing but trouble. Walking around with that veil on her face, making people uncomfortable. Those women are all so competitive. It caught on like a fashion craze. Everyone started wearing it. Well, maybe not
everyone
, but you know. It drives men crazy, apparently. Keeps them guessing what’s underneath. Makes their imaginations work overtime. Of course, Reynaud didn’t like it. He’s always been stuck in the past. He has no idea how to cope with a multicultural France. You heard about all that fuss with the mosque? And afterwards, with the minaret? And then, when that woman opened the school—’ She shook her head. ‘He must have cracked. That’s all I can say. It wouldn’t be the first time—’

‘How many pupils were there?’ I said.

‘Oh, perhaps a dozen or so. God knows what she was teaching them.’ She hunched a shoulder pettishly. ‘Those
burqas
don’t want to mix with us. They think we’ll corrupt them with our loose morals.’

Or perhaps they’re just sick of being patronized and misunderstood
, I thought, but did not comment.

‘Isn’t there a daughter?’ I said.

She nodded. ‘Yes, poor little thing. Never plays with any of ours. Never talks to anyone.’

I looked out of the window, to where Anouk and Jeannot were sword-fighting with brooms while Rosette hooted encouragement. Living and travelling as we did for so long, my daughter and I have had more contact with different kinds of folk than anyone in Lansquenet. We have learnt to see to some extent beyond the layers in which we hide ourselves. The
niqab
– or, as Joline wrongly calls it, the
burqa
– is only a layer of fabric. And yet, in the eyes of such as Joline it has the power to change an ordinary woman into an object of suspicion and fear. Even Guillaume, usually so tolerant, had little to say in defence of the woman from the
chocolaterie
.

‘I always raise my hat when I meet her,’ he said. ‘It’s what I was taught to do as a boy. But
she
never says as much as hello: never even looks at me. It’s rude, Madame Rocher, plain rude. I don’t care who anyone is, I always try to be polite. But when someone won’t even
look
at you—’

I understand. It must be hard. But I have no moral high ground to take. For years I fled the Man in Black, seeing only my mother’s fear and the black soutane of a hostile faith. For years I was like Guillaume and the rest, blinded by my prejudice. Only now do I see the truth; that my Man in Black is just a man, as vulnerable as any other. Is Lansquenet, with its Woman in Black, really any different? And could it be that under her veil, she too, like Reynaud, is in need of help?