She shrugged again. ‘If she’d been anyone else she could have counted on help from the village,’ she said. ‘But Marise – never says a word unless she has to, never smiles – I suppose people just minded their own business. That’s all it was really; there was no malice in it. She wanted to be left alone, and that’s what people did. Not that anyone really knew where Mireille had taken Rosa – except maybe Caro Clairmont. Oh, we heard all kinds of stories. But that was afterwards. How Marise stamped into Cussonnet’s surgery with a shotgun and marched him out to the car. To hear people talking you’d think half of Lansquenet saw that. It’s always the same, héh! All I can say is, I wasn’t there. And though Rosa was back at home before the end of that week, we never saw her in the village again – not in the school, or even at the firework display on the fourteenth of July, or the chocolate festival at Easter.’ Joséphine drained her coffee abruptly and wiped her hands on her apron. ‘So that was that,’ she concluded with an air of finality. ‘That was the last we saw of Marise and Rosa. I see them from time to time – perhaps once a month or so – on the road to Agen or walking to Narcisse’s nursery, or in the field across the river. But that’s all. She hasn’t forgiven the village for what happened after Tony’s death, or for taking sides, or for turning a blind eye when Rosa disappeared. You can’t tell her it was nothing to do with you; she won’t believe it.’
Jay nodded. It was understandable. ‘It must be a lonely life for them,’ he said. Thinking of Maggie and Gilly, of the way they always managed to make friends wherever they went, trading and fixing and doing odd jobs to make ends meet, always on the move, fielding insults and prejudice with the same cheery defiance. How different was this dour, suspicious woman from Joe’s friends of Nether Edge. And yet the child looked so very like Gilly. He checked for the rucksack on his way back to the farm, but, as he expected, it had already been removed. Only the dragon’s head remained, still lolling its long crêpe tongue, now embellished with a garland of fluttering red ribbons, which sat jauntily on the thick green mane. Coming closer, Jay noticed that the stump of a clay pipe had been carefully positioned between the dragon’s teeth, from which a dandelion clock protruded. And as he passed, hiding a grin, he was almost sure he saw something move in the hedge next to him, a brief flash of orange under the new green, and heard the impudent bleating of a goat in the distance.
38
LATER, OVER HIS FAVOURITE GRAND CRÈME IN THE CAFÉ DES Marauds, he was listening with half an ear to Joséphine as she told him the story of the village’s first chocolate festival and the resistance with which it had been met by the church. The coffee was good, sprinkled with shavings of dark chocolate and with a cinnamon biscuit by the side of the cup. Narcisse was sitting opposite with his usual seed catalogue and a café-cassis. In the afternoons the place was busier, but Jay noticed that the clientele still consisted mainly of old men, playing chess or cards and talking in their low rapid patois. In the evening it would be full of workers back from the fields and the farms. He wondered where the young people went at night.
‘Not many young people stay here,’ Joséphine explained. ‘There isn’t the work, unless you want to go into farming. And most of the farms have been divided so often between all the family’s sons that there isn’t much of a livelihood left for anyone.’
‘Always the sons,’ said Jay. ‘Never the daughters.’
‘There aren’t many women who’d want to run a farm in Lansquenet,’ said Joséphine, shrugging. ‘And some of the growers and distributors don’t like the idea of working for a woman.’
Jay gave a short laugh.
Joséphine looked at him. ‘You don’t believe that?’
He shook his head. ‘It’s hard for me to understand,’ he explained. ‘In London—’
‘This isn’t London.’ Joséphine seemed amused. ‘People hold close to their traditions here. The church. The family. The land. That’s why so many of the young people leave. They want what they read about in their magazines. They want the cities, cars, clubs, shops. But there are always some who stay. And some who come back.’
She poured another café-crème and smiled. ‘There was a time when I would have given anything to get out of Lansquenet,’ she said. ‘Once I even set off. Packed my bags and left home.’
‘What happened?’
‘I stopped on the way for a cup of hot chocolate.’ She laughed. ‘And then I realized I couldn’t leave. I’d never really wanted to in the first place.’ She paused to pick up some empty glasses from a nearby table. ‘When you’ve lived here long enough you’ll understand. After a time, people find it hard to leave a place like Lansquenet. It isn’t just a village. The houses aren’t just places to live. Everything belongs to everybody. Everyone belongs to everyone else. Even a single person can make a difference.’
He nodded. It was what had first attracted him to Pog Hill Lane. The comings and goings. The conversations over the wall. The exchange of recipes, of baskets of fruit and bottles of wine. The constant presence of other people. While Joe was still there Pog Hill Lane stayed alive. Everything died with his departure. Suddenly he envied Josephine her life, her friends, her view over Les Marauds. Her memories.
‘What about me?’ he wondered. ‘Will I make a difference?’
‘Of course.’
He hadn’t realized he had spoken aloud.
‘Everyone knows about you, Jay. Everyone asks me about you. It takes a little time for someone to be accepted here. People need to know if you’re going to stay. They don’t want to give themselves to someone who won’t stay. And some of them are afraid.’
‘Of what?’
‘Change. It may seem ridiculous to you, but most of us like the village the way it is. We don’t want to be like Montauban or Le Pinot. We don’t want tourists passing through, buying up the houses at high prices and leaving the place dead in the winter. Tourists are like a plague of wasps. They get everywhere. They eat everything. They’d clean us out in a year. There’d be nothing of us left but guest houses and games arcades. Lansquenet – the real Lansquenet – would disappear.’
She shook her head. ‘People are watching you, Jay. They see you so friendly with Caro and Georges Clairmont, and they think perhaps you and they …’ She hesitated. ‘Then they see Mireille Faizande going to visit you, and they think how perhaps you might be planning to buy the other farm, next year, when the lease expires.’
‘Marise’s farm? Why should I want to do that?’ he asked, curious.
‘Whoever owns it controls all the land down to the river. The fast road to Toulouse is only a few kilometres away. Easy enough to develop. To build. It’s happened before, in other places.’
‘Not here. Not me.’ Jay looked at her evenly. ‘I’m here to write, that’s all. To finish my book. That’s all I’m interested in.’
Joséphine nodded, satisfied. ‘I know. But you were asking so many questions about her. I thought perhaps—’
‘No!’
Narcisse shot him a curious glance from behind his seed catalogue.
Lowering his voice quickly: ‘Look. I’m a writer. I’m interested in what goes on. I like stories. That’s all.’
Joséphine poured another coffee and sprinkled hazelnut sugar on the froth.
‘It’s the truth,’ insisted Jay. ‘I’m not here to make any changes. I like the place the way it is.’
Joséphine looked at him for a moment, then nodded, seemingly satisfied. ‘All right, Monsieur Jay,’ she said, smiling. ‘I’ll tell them you’re OK.’
They toasted her decision in hazelnut coffee.
39
SINCE THAT TIME AT THE STREAM JAY HAD SEEN ROSA ONLY from a distance. A few times he thought he had caught her watching from behind the hedge, and once he was sure he heard quiet footfalls from behind an angle of the house, and, of course, he had seen her leavings. The modifications to the dragon head, for instance. The little garlands of flowers and leaves and feathers left on gateposts and fences to replace the red ribbon
s she had stolen. Once or twice a drawing – a house, a garden, stick-children playing under improbably purple trees – tacked to a stump, the paper already curling and fading in the sunlight. There was no way of telling whether these things were offerings, toys or some way of taunting him. She was as elusive as her mother, but as curious as her goat, and their meeting must have convinced her that Jay was harmless. Once, he saw them together. Marise was working behind the hedge. For a time Jay was able to see her face. Again he realized how far this woman differed from the heroine of his book. He had time to notice the fine arch of her brows, the thin but graceful line of her mouth, the sharp angle of cheekbone, barely grazed with colour by the sun. Given the right circumstances she could be beautiful. Not round and pretty-plump like Popotte, or brown and sensual like the young girls of the village. No, hers was a grave, pale, northern beauty, small-featured beneath the blunt red hair. Something moved behind her. She sprang to her feet, whipping round as she did, and in that instant he had time to glimpse another change. She was quicker than a cat, turning defensively – not towards him, but away – though even her speed didn’t hide that look … of what?
Fear?
It lasted less than a second. Rosa leaped at her, crowing, arms outstretched, face split in a wide, delighted grin. Another twist. Jay had imagined the child intimidated, perhaps hiding amongst the vines as he hid from Zeth in the old Nether Edge days, but that look held nothing but adoration. He watched as she climbed Marise like a tree, legs wrapped around her mother’s waist, arms locked around her neck. For a moment Marise held her and he saw their profiles close together. Rosa’s hands moved softly, close to her mother’s face, signing in the language of the deaf. Marise snubbed Rosa’s nose gently against hers. Her face was illuminated more sweetly than he could ever have imagined. Suddenly he felt ashamed at having believed, or half believed, Mireille’s suggestion that Marise might be mistreating the child. Their love was something which coloured the air between them like sunlight. The interchange between them was completely, perfectly silent.
Marise put Rosa down and signed to her. Jay had never watched anyone signing before, and he was struck by the grace and animation of the movements, of the facial expressions. Rosa signed back, insistently. His feeling of intrusion increased. The gestures were too quick for him to guess at the subject of the conversation. They were in their circle of privacy. Their conversation was the most intimate thing Jay had ever witnessed.
Marise laughed silently, like her daughter. The expression illuminated her like sunlight through glass. Rosa rubbed her stomach as she laughed and stamped her feet. They held each other as they communicated, as if every part of the body were a part of their talk, as if, instead of losing a sense, they had gained something more.
Since then he thought about them both more often. It had gone far beyond his curiosity for her story and into something he could not define. Joséphine teased him about it. Narcisse refrained entirely from comment, but there was a knowing look in his eye when Jay talked about her. He did so too often. He could not stop himself. Mireille Faizande was the only person he knew who would talk about her interminably. Jay had been to see her several times, but could not bring himself to mention the intimate scene he witnessed between mother and daughter. When he tried to hint at a warmer relationship between them than she had portrayed, Mireille turned on him in scorn.
‘What do you know about it?’ she snapped. ‘How can you possibly know what she’s like?’ Her eyes went to the fresh vase of roses by the table. There was a framed photograph beside it, showing a laughing boy sitting on a motorbike. Tony.
‘She doesn’t want her,’ she said in a lower voice. ‘Just as she didn’t want my son.’ Her eyes were hard. ‘She took my son as she takes everything. To spoil. To play with. That’s what my Rosa is to her now. Something to play with, to discard when she’s had enough.’ Her hands worked. ‘It’s her fault if the child’s deaf,’ she said. ‘Tony was perfect. It couldn’t have come from his side of the family. She’s vicious. She spoils everything she touches.’
She glanced again at the photograph by the side of the vase.
‘She’d been deceiving him all the time, you know. There was another man all along. A man from the hospital.’
Jay remembered someone saying something about a hospital. A nerve clinic in Paris.
‘Was she ill?’ he enquired.
Mireille made a scornful sound. ‘Ill? That’s what Tony said. Said she needed protecting. My Tony was a rock to her, young as he was. Héh, he was strong, clear. He imagined everyone was as clear and honest as he was.’ She glanced again at the roses. ‘You’ve been busy,’ she commented without warmth. ‘You’ve brought my poor rose bushes back from the dead.’
The phrase hung between them like smoke.
‘I tried to feel sorry for her,’ said Mireille. ‘For Tony’s sake. But even then it wasn’t easy. She’d hide out in the house, wouldn’t talk to anyone, not even to family. Then, for no reason, rages. Terrible rages, screaming and throwing things. Sometimes she’d hurt herself with knives, razors, anything which came to hand. We had to hide everything which could be dangerous.’
‘How long were they married?’
She shrugged. ‘Less than a year. He courted her for longer. He was twenty-one when he died.’
Her hands moved again, clenching and unclenching.
‘I can’t stop thinking about it,’ she said finally. ‘Thinking about both of them. He must have followed her from the hospital. Settled somewhere close, where they could meet. Héh, I can’t stop thinking that during all that year when she was married to Tony, when she was carrying his baby, the bitch was laughing at him. Both of them laughing at my boy.’ She glared at me. ‘You think about that, héh, before you go talking about things you don’t understand. You think about what that did to my boy.’
‘I’m sorry. If you’d prefer not to talk about it—’
Mireille snorted. ‘It’s other people who’d prefer not to talk about it,’ she said sourly. ‘Prefer not to think about it, héh, prefer to think it’s only crazy old Mireille talking. Mireille who’s never been the same since her son killed himself. So much easier to mind your own business, to let her get on with her life, and never mind that she stole my son and ruined him just because she could, héh, the way she’s stolen my Rosa.’ Her voice cracked, whether with rage or grief he could not tell. Then her face smoothed again, became almost smug with satisfaction.
‘But I’ll show her,’ she went on. ‘Come next year, héh, when she needs a roof over her head. When the lease runs out. She’ll have to come to me then if she wants to stay here, héh? And she does want to stay.’ Her face was sly and glossy.
‘Why should she?’ It seemed that whomever he asked it came back to this. ‘Why should she want to stay here? She has no friends. There’s no-one for her here. If she wants to get away from Lansquenet, how can anyone stop her?’
Mireille laughed. ‘Let her want,’ she said shortly. ‘She needs me. She knows why.’
Mireille refused to explain her final statement, and when Jay visited her again he found her guarded and uncommunicative. He understood that one of them had overstepped the mark with the other, and he tried to be more cautious in future, wooing her with roses. She accepted the gifts cheerfully enough, but made no further move to confide in him. He had to be content with what information he had already gleaned.
What fascinated him most about Marise was the conflicting views of her in the village. Everyone had an opinion, though no-one, except Mireille, seemed any more informed than the others. To Caro Clairmont she was a miserly recluse. To Mireille, a faithless wife who had deliberately taken advantage of a young man’s innocence. To Joséphine, a brave woman raising a child alone. To Narcisse, a shrewd businesswoman with a right to privacy. Roux, who had worked her vendanges every year when he was travelling on the river, remembered her as a quiet, polite woman who carried her baby in a sling on her back, even when she was working in the fields, who brou
ght him a cooler of beer when it was hot, who paid cash.
‘Some people are suspicious of us, héh,’ he said with a grin. ‘Travellers on the river, always on the move. They imagine all kinds of things. They lock up their valuables. They watch their daughters. Or they try too hard. They smile too often. They slap you on the back and call you mon pote. She wasn’t like that. She always called me monsieur. She didn’t say much. It was business between us, man to man.’ He shrugged and drained his can of Stella.
Everyone he spoke to had their own image of her. Popotte remembered a morning just after the funeral, when Marise turned up outside Mireille’s house with a suitcase and the baby in a carrier. Popotte was delivering letters and arrived at the house just as Marise was knocking at the door.
‘Mireille opened it and fairly dragged Marise inside,’ she recalled. ‘The baby was asleep in the carrier, but the movement woke her and she started to scream. Mireille grabbed the letters from my hand and slammed the door behind them, but I could hear their voices, even through the door, and the baby screaming and screaming.’ She shook her head. ‘I think Marise was planning to leave that morning – she looked all ready and packed to go – but Mireille talked her out of it somehow. I know that after that she hardly came into the village at all. Perhaps she was afraid of what people were saying.’