That day it rained for the first time in weeks. A fierce rain from a hot white sky, barely refreshing. Narcisse grumbled that, as usual, it had come too late and that it would never last long enough to wet the ground, but in spite of this, it endured late into the night, pouring out of the gutterings and onto the baked ground with lively plashing sounds.
The next morning was foggy. The heavy rain had stopped, to be replaced by a dull drizzle. Jay could see from the waterlogged state of the garden how heavy the downpour must have been, but even without sunlight to dry it out the standing water had already begun to dissipate, drawing the cracks in the earth together, sinking down deep.
‘We needed that,’ remarked Joe, bending down to examine some seedlings. ‘Good job you got these jackapples covered, otherwise they’d have been washed away.’ The Specials were in a cold frame, carefully snugged against the side of the house, and remained unharmed. Jay noticed they were a remarkably quick-growing plant; the ones he seeded first were twelve inches tall now, their heart-shaped leaves fanning out against the glass. He had about fifty seedlings ready to be bedded out, an excellent success rate for such a demanding species. Joe was fond of saying how it took him five years just to get the soil right.
‘Aye.’ Joe looked at the plants with satisfaction. ‘Mebbe the soil’s right just as it is.’
That morning, too, another letter from Nick arrived, with news of two more offers from publishers for Jay’s incomplete novel. These were not final offers, he said, though already the sums involved seemed extravagant, almost ridiculous, to Jay. His life in London, Nick, the university, even the negotiations on the novel seemed abstract here, eclipsed by even the small damage caused by an unexpected rainstorm. He worked in the garden for the rest of the morning, thinking of nothing at all.
52
AUGUST WAS FREAKISHLY WET FOR LANSQUENET. RAIN EVERY other day, overcast the rest of the time, and with winds which lashed at crops and stripped their leaves. Joe shook his head at this and said he expected it. He was the only one. The rain was merciless, stripping away topsoil and washing tree roots bare. Jay went to the orchard in the rain and used pieces of carpet to wrap around the bases of his trees to protect them from water and rot. It was another old trick from Pog Hill Lane, and it worked well. But without adequate sunshine the fruit would fall unformed and unripened from the branches. Joe shrugged. There would be other years. Jay was not so sure. After the old man’s return he had become preternaturally sensitive to the changes in Joe, marking every change of expression, going over every word. He noticed that Joe spoke less than he had before, that sometimes his outline was blurry, that the radio, tuned permanently to the oldies station since May, sometimes played white noise for minutes before finding a signal. As if Joe, too, were a signal, gradually fading into oblivion. Worse, he had the feeling that it was somehow his fault that it was happening, that Lansquenet was somehow taking over – eclipsing Joe. The rain and the falling temperature dampened the scents which were so characteristic of the old man’s appearances, the scents of sugar and fruit and yeast and smoke. During the past few weeks these too had faded, so that for unbearable moments Jay felt absolutely alone, bereaved, a man sitting at a dying friend’s bedside, listening for the next breath.
Since the wasp incident Marise no longer avoided him. They greeted each other over the fence or the hedge, and though she was rarely exuberant or forthcoming, Jay thought Marise had begun to like him a little. Sometimes they talked. September was a busy time for her, with the grapes fully formed and beginning to turn yellow, but the rain, which had not really given up since last month, was causing renewed problems. Narcisse blamed the disastrous summer on global warming. Others muttered vaguely about El Niño, the Toulouse chemical plants, the Japanese earthquake. Mireille Faizande curled her lip and talked about Last Times. Joséphine remembered the dreadful summer of ’75, when the Tannes dried up and rabid foxes came running out of the marshes into the village. It did not rain every day, but even so the sun was barely present, a tarnished coin in the sky, giving little warmth.
‘If it goes on like this there won’t be any fruit for anyone this autumn,’ said Narcisse dourly. Peaches and apricots and other soft-skinned fruit were already done for. The rain ate through the tender flesh and they dropped, rotten, to the ground, before they had even finished developing. Tomatoes failed to ripen. Apples and pears were hardly any better. Their waxy skin might protect them to some extent, but not enough. Vines were the worst.
At this stage the grapes needed sunlight, Joe said – especially for the later harvests, the Chenin grapes for the noble wines, which had to be sun-dried, like raisins. These grapes rely on the exceptional conditions of Lansquenet’s marshland: the hot, long summers, the mists which the sun brings from across the river. This year, however, the pourriture noble had nothing noble about it. Rot, pure and simple, set in. Marise did what she could. She ordered plastic coverings from town, which she fixed into place over the rows of vines with the help of metal hoops. This saved the vines from the worst of the rain, but did nothing to protect the exposed roots. Any sunlight was hampered by the presence of the sheets, and the fruit sweated inside the plastic. The earth had long since been trodden into mud soup. Like Joe, she laid pieces of carpeting and cardboard between the rows to avoid further damage to the ground. But it was a futile gesture.
Jay’s own garden fared a little better. Further from the marshland, raised above the water level, his land had natural drainage channels, which carried excess water down to the river. Even so the Tannes rose higher than ever, spilling out across the vineyard on Marise’s side, and cutting dangerously close on Jay’s, eroding the banking so sharply that great slices of earth had already fallen into the river. Rosa was under instructions not to approach the damaged banking.
The barley was a disaster. Fields all around Lansquenet had already been abandoned to the rain. In one of Briançon’s fields a crop circle appeared, and the more gullible of Joséphine’s drinkers began to speculate about space aliens, though Roux thought it more likely that Clairmont’s mischievous young son and his girlfriend knew more than they were telling. Even the bees were less productive this year, Briançon reported, with fewer flowers and poor-grade honey. Belts would have to be tightened throughout the winter.
‘It’s hard enough getting the money from this year’s crop to plant next spring,’ explained Narcisse. ‘When the crop’s bad, you have to plant on credit. And with rented land becoming less and less viable, héh!’ He poured Armagnac carefully into the hot dregs of his coffee and downed it in a single mouthful. ‘There’s not enough money in sunflowers or maize any more,’ he admitted. ‘Even flowers and nursery produce aren’t making what they used to. We need something new.’
‘Rice, maybe,’ suggested Roux.
Clairmont was less downcast, in spite of poor business throughout the summer. Recently, he had been north with Lucien Merle for a few days, returning full of enthusiasm for his Lansquenet project. It transpired that he and Lucien were planning to go into partnership on a new scheme to promote Lansquenet in the Agen region, though both of them seemed unusually secretive about the matter. Caro, too, was arch and self-satisfied, calling at the farm twice ‘in passing’, though it was miles out of her way, and staying for coffee. She was full of gossip, delighted with the way Jay had renovated the farm, intensely curious about the book and hinting that her influence with the regional literary societies would be certain to make it a success.
‘You really should try to get yourself some French contacts,’ she told him naively. ‘Toinette Merle knows a lot of people in the media, you know. Perhaps she could arrange for you to give an interview to a local magazine?’
He explained, with an attempt not to smile, that one of the main reasons for escaping to Lansquenet had been to avoid his media contacts.
Caro simpered and said something about the artistic temperament.
‘Still, you really should consider it,’ she insisted. ‘I’m sure the presence o
f a famous writer would give us all the boost we need.’
At the time Jay barely paid attention. He was close to completing the new book, for which he now had a contract with Worldwide, a large international publisher, and had set himself a deadline of October. He was also working on improving the old drainage channels on his land, with the aid of some concrete piping supplied by Georges. His roof, too, had developed a leak, and Roux had offered to help him mend it and repoint the brickwork. His days were too busy to give much time to Caro and her plans.
That was why the newspaper article took him completely by surprise. He would have missed it altogether if Popotte hadn’t spotted it in an Agen paper and cut it out for him to read. Popotte was touchingly pleased by the whole thing, but it immediately made Jay uneasy. It was, after all, the first sign that his whereabouts were known. He could not remember the exact words. There was a great deal of nonsense about his brilliant early career. There was some crowing about the way he had fled London and rediscovered himself in Lansquenet. Much of it consisted of secondhand platitudes and vague speculation. Worse, there was a photograph, taken in the Café des Marauds on 14 July, showing Jay, Georges, Roux, Briançon and Joséphine sitting at the bar with bottles of blonde in their hands. In the picture Jay was wearing a black T-shirt and madras shorts, Georges was smoking a Gauloise. He did not remember who took the photograph. It could have been anyone. The caption read, ‘Jay Mackintosh and friends at the Café des Marauds, Lansquenet-sous-Tannes.’
‘Well, tha couldn’t have kept it quiet for ever, lad,’ observed Joe when Jay told him. ‘It had to get out some time.’
He was at his typewriter in the living room, a bottle of wine at one elbow, a cup of coffee at the other. Joe was wearing a T-shirt which read ‘Elvis is alive and well and living in Sheffield’. Jay noticed that now, more and more often, his outline seemed translucent at the edges, like an overdeveloped photograph.
‘I don’t see why,’ he said. ‘If I want to live here it’s my business, isn’t it?’
Joe shook his head.
‘Aye. Mebbe. But you’re not goin to carry on like this for ever, are you?’ he said. ‘There’s papers to sort out. Permits. Practical things. Brass, anall. You’ll be short of that soon.’ It was true that four months of living in Lansquenet had cut heavily into his savings. The repairs to the house, furniture, tools, supplies for the garden, drainage pipes, the day-today expenses of food and clothing, plus, of course, the purchase of the farm itself, had eroded them beyond his expectations.
‘There’ll be money soon enough,’ he replied. ‘I’m signing the book contract any time now.’ He mentioned the sum involved, expecting Joe to be awed into silence. Instead he shrugged.
‘Aye. Well, I’d rather have a quid in me hand than a cheque int post,’ he said dourly. ‘I just wanted to see you sorted, that’s all. Make sure you’re all right.’
Before I go. He didn’t have to say it. The words were as clear as if he’d spoken aloud.
53
STILL THE RAIN CONTINUED UNRELENTING. ODDLY, THE TEMPERATURE remained high and the wind was hot and unrefreshing. At night there were often storms, with lightning dancing on stilts across the horizon and ominous red lights in the sky. A church in Montauban was hit by lightning and burnt down. Since the incident with the wasps’ nest Jay wisely kept away from the river. In any case, it was dangerous, Marise told him. The banks, sharply eroded by the current, had a habit of slicing away into the slipstream. Easy to fall, to drown. Accidents happen. She did not mention Tony in their conversations. When Jay touched on the subject she shied away. Rosa, too, was only mentioned in passing. Jay began to think that his suspicions that day were unfounded. He had been, after all, feverish and in pain. A delusion induced by wasp venom. Why should Marise deceive him? Why should Rosa? In any case, Marise was preoccupied. The rain had ruined the maize, working wet fingers of rot into the ripening ears. The sunflowers were soft and heavy with water, their heads bowed or broken. But the vines were the biggest disaster. On 13 September the Tannes finally broke its banks and flooded the vineyard. The top end of the field suffered less because of the sharp incline, but the lower end was a foot below water. Other farmers suffered, too, but it was Marise, with her marshy pastures, who was the worst affected. Standing pools of rainwater surrounded the house. Two goats were lost in the flood water from the Tannes. She had to bring the remaining goats into the barn to avoid further damage to the ground, but the fodder was wet and unappetizing, the roof began to leak and the stores were suffering from damp.
She told no-one of her predicament. It was a habit with her, a matter of pride. Even Jay, who could see some of the damage, did not guess at the full extent. The house was in the hollow, below the vineyard. Water from the Tannes now stood around it like a lake. The kitchen was flooded. She used a broom to sweep the water from the flags. But it always returned. The cellar was knee-deep in water. The oak barrels had to be moved, one by one, to safety. The electricity generator, which was housed in one of the small outbuildings, short-circuited and failed. The rain continued unabated. Finally Marise contacted her builder in Agen. She ordered fifty thousand francs’ worth of drainage pipes, and asked for them to be delivered as soon as possible. She planned to use the existing drainage channels to install a system of piping, which would channel the water away from the house and back towards the marshes, where it would drain away naturally into the Tannes. A bank of earth, like a dyke, would be raised to give some protection to the farmhouse. But it would be difficult. The builder was unable to spare any of his workers until November – there was a big project to finish in Le Pinot – and she refused to enlist Clairmont’s help. Even if she asked, he would be unlikely to help her. And besides, she did not want him on her land. To call him in would be to admit defeat. She began the job herself, digging out channels while she waited for the delivery of pipes. It was a slow business, like digging war trenches. She told herself that it was indeed a war, herself against the rain, the land, the people. The thought cheered her a little. It was romantic.
On 15 September Marise took another decision. Until now Rosa had slept with Clopette, in her little room under the eaves of the house. But now, with no electricity and hardly any dry firewood, she had little choice. The child must leave.
The last time the Tannes flooded, Rosa contracted the infection which had left her deaf in both ears. She was three then, and there was no-one to whom Marise could send her. They had slept together in the room under the eaves for a whole winter, with the fire gouting black smoke and rain streaming down the panes. The child developed abscesses in both ears and screamed incessantly during the night. Nothing, not even penicillin, seemed to offer any relief. Never again, Marise told herself. This time Rosa must go away until the rain stopped, until the generator could be fixed, until the drainage could be put into place. This rain would not last for ever. Its end was already overdue. Even now, if the work could be completed, some of the crop might be salvaged.
There was no choice. Rosa must go away for a few days. But not to Mireille. Marise felt her heart tighten at the thought of Mireille. Who, then? No-one from the village. She did not trust any of them. Mireille spread the rumours, yes. But everyone listened. Well, maybe not everyone. Not Roux, or newcomers like him. Not Narcisse. She trusted both of them to some extent. But to leave Rosa with either of them would be impossible. People would find out. In the village, nothing could remain a secret for long.
She considered a pension in Agen, a place where Rosa might be left in safety for a while. But that, too, was dangerous. The child was very young to be left alone. People would ask questions. And besides, the thought of Rosa so far away was like a pain in her chest. She needed to be close.
Only the Englishman remained. The location was ideal: far enough from the village for privacy, but close enough to her own farm for her to see Rosa every day. He could make up a room for Rosa in one of the old bedrooms. Marise remembered a blue room under the south gable, which must have been Tony’s, a
child’s bed shaped like a boat, a blue glass ball which was a lamp. It would only be for a few days, maybe a week or two. She would pay him. It was the only solution.
54
SHE ARRIVED UNANNOUNCED ONE EVENING. JAY HADN’T SPOKEN to her for several days. In fact, he hadn’t really gone out, except to the village to buy bread. The café was mournful in the rain, the terrasse reverting to a road as the tables and chairs were taken in, rain dripping steadily from parasols bleached colourless by the weather. In Les Marauds the Tannes had begun to stink, hot foul waves rolling off the marshes towards the village. Even the gypsies moved on, taking their houseboats to calmer, sweeter waters. Arnauld was talking about calling in a weatherworker to solve the rain problem – there were still a few in this part of the country – and the idea met with less scorn than it would have a few weeks before. Narcisse scowled and shook his head and repeated that he had never seen anything like it. Nothing in living memory even came close.
It was nearly ten o’clock. Marise was wearing a yellow slicker. Rosa was standing behind her in her sky-blue mac and red boots. Rain silvered their faces. Behind them the sky was a dull orange, occasionally lit by the dim flare of distant lightning. Wind shook the trees.
‘What’s wrong?’ Their appearance surprised Jay so much that at first he didn’t even think to invite them in. ‘Has something happened?’
Marise shook her head.
‘Come in, please. You must be freezing.’ Jay cast an automatic glance behind him. The room was tidy enough to pass muster. Only a few empty coffee cups littered the table. He caught Marise looking curiously at his bed in the corner. Even after the roof had been fixed he’d never quite got round to moving it.