I haven’t seen Joe in a long time; now that I come to think about it, didn’t I see something in his eyes, that last visit, something bright and desperate. Something almost like hope?
Poor Joe. Of course he recalled her; I remember him at the funeral (yes, I was there, trying to prove to myself that we had won), dry-eyed and somehow unfocused, his little bunch of lily of the valley clutched so tightly in his hands that the knuckles showed white under the skin; and sometimes his hands shifted slightly, nervously, and I saw the marks his fingers had left on the delicate leaves, bruising them into transparency. No one else came; no friends, not the family she had said she had; no one, and yet all Grantchester seemed to welcome her back, mutely, with the ease of long understanding.
Yes, it must have been then that he called her; perhaps when he dropped the crushed flowers into the grave and felt the fragrant call of the earth; perhaps he saw her standing by the hawthorn tree all in white, like a novice. Sometimes I wonder whether he saw her looking at me. But he called her, I’m sure of it; as sure as I know the air I breathe. The wheel has come round again, and she is coming. April, come she will … This morning I thought I saw her in my mirror, looking out from her haunted underwater eyes. Did I see her? Or did Joe? Was she holding a noose? April … come she will. It almost sounds like a promise. Something inside her remembers … and come she will. I don’t think I can be like Daniel; I don’t have the strength to hold out for as long as he did; and for what? For all our efforts, she still came back.
Something inside me remembers …
We remember, don’t we? Yes, Daniel, and Robert, and Joe and Alice. We all remember, and we keep the faith while we can, alone, like children in the dark. That’s what she did to us. To all of us.
April, come she will.
I think she’s almost due.
THE END
About the Author
Joanne Harris is the author of Chocolat (made into an Oscar-nominated film in 2000, with Juliette Binoche and Johnny Depp), and ten more bestselling novels. Her work is published in over fifty countries and has sold an estimated 30 million copies worldwide. Born in Barnsley, of an English father and a French mother, she studied Modern and Medieval Languages at Cambridge and spent fifteen years as a teacher before (somewhat reluctantly) becoming a full-time writer. She lives in Yorkshire with her family, plays bass in a band first formed when she was sixteen, works in a shed in her garden, likes musical theatre and old sci-fi, drinks rather too much caffeine, spends far too much time online and occasionally dreams of faking her own death and going to live in Hawaii.
Meet up with her at http://www.joanne-harris.co.uk
Also by Joanne Harris
The Evil Seed
Sleep, Pale Sister
Chocolat
Blackberry Wine
Five Quarters Of The Orange
Coastliners
Holy Fools
Jigs & Reels
Gentlemen & Players
The Lollipop Shoes
Blueeyedboy
Peaches For Monsieur Le Curé
Runemarks
Runelight
With Fran Warde
The French Kitchen: A Cookbook
The French Market: More Recipes From a French Kitchen
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THE EVIL SEED
A BLACK SWAN BOOK: 9780552775045
Version 1.0 Epub ISBN 9781407034195
First published in Great Britain
in 1992 by Warner Books
Black Swan revised edition published 2008
Copyright © Frogspawn Ltd 1992, 2008
‘Strange Little Girl’ Words & Music by Jet Black, Jean-Jacques Burnel, Hugh Cornwell & David Greenfield © Copyright 1982 Complete Music Limited (60%). Used by permission of Music Sales Limited.
All Rights Reserved. International Copyright Secured. ‘Strange Little Girl’ (Jean Jacques Burnel/David Greenfield/Jet Black/ Hugh Cornwell/Hans Warmling) © 1982, reproduced by permission of Plumbshaft Ltd/EMI Music Publishing Ltd, London WC2H 0EA (40%).
Every effort has been made to obtain the necessary permissions with reference to copyright material. We apologize for any omissions in this respect and will be pleased to make the appropriate acknowledgements in any future edition.
Joanne Harris has asserted her right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988 to be identified as the author of this work.
This book is a work of fiction and, except in the case of historical fact, any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
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