Peaches for Monsieur Le Curé Read online

  I nodded.

  ‘Is she hiding?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Why?’ said Maya.

  I looked at her. ‘Can you keep a secret?’ I said.

  ‘Mmm-hmm. Can I tell Omi?’

  I shook my head. ‘No, Maya. You can’t. Not Omi, not Jiddo – your grandfather – just let’s keep it a secret, shall we?’

  ‘Not even Du’a? She’s my best friend.’

  Once more, I shook my head. ‘No, you mustn’t tell anyone. Alyssa’s staying here with me. She doesn’t want anyone else to know.’

  ‘Why?’ said Maya.

  ‘She doesn’t want anyone to know that, either.’

  ‘Oh,’ said Maya. ‘Can I stay, too?’

  ‘I don’t think that’s a good idea. But you can come back any time you like. As long as you don’t tell anyone. And if you’re very, very good—’

  She took a step inside the house. ‘What are you making?’

  I told her.

  ‘Oh. Can I try some?’

  ‘Of course you can, when it’s ready. You and Rosette can label the pots. Would you like that?’

  ‘Can Du’a come? She’s bigger than me. She can keep a secret, too.’

  I sighed. This was getting complicated. But Maya, I knew, was only five, and perhaps Du’a might be able to keep her from talking. Besides, I was still curious about Inès Bencharki’s child; perhaps, if I got to meet her, I might find out more about her mother.

  ‘Where is Du’a now?’ I said.

  ‘At home, with her mother, doing chores. She only comes out when her mother sleeps.’

  ‘Where do they live?’

  ‘With Sonia, of course. But Amma says I can’t play there. So Du’a and I, we play somewhere else. We have a place, a special place—’ She stopped. ‘But that’s our secret.’

  I noticed that as we were talking, Alyssa had come down to sit on the stairs. She sat there in silence, hugging her knees, her pale face pinched with tension.

  ‘I won’t tell anyone you’re here, Alyssa, I promise,’ said Maya.

  Alyssa hesitated a moment longer, then seemed to relax a little. ‘All right. How’s everyone?’

  Maya shrugged. ‘OK, I guess. Everyone’s looking for you, though. My jiddo and my Uncle Saïd aren’t talking at all any more. Omi says they’re both as bad as each other, but I don’t know. And Omi is making tamina cake for iftar tonight. She says it’s OK to taste it to see if it’s done. But my jiddo says she tastes it too much. Half of it is already gone.’

  I smiled, imagining the scene. I wondered if the quarrel between old Mahjoubi and Saïd was about the leadership of the mosque; Omi had already hinted at a conflict between them. It seems ironic, doesn’t it, that both Reynaud and old Mahjoubi should be in the same situation, replaced by someone younger, someone more open to new ideas?

  I said as much to Alyssa when Maya had gone. She looked surprised.

  ‘Is that what you think? If so, you’re wrong. My grandfather isn’t the problem. He doesn’t think we need to live in the Middle Ages. He doesn’t tell me what to do, or what to wear, or who to be friends with. He doesn’t go crazy if I talk to a boy from the other side of the river—’

  She broke off abruptly, looking away.

  ‘Is that what your father does?’ I said.

  She gave that characteristic half-shrug so common to adolescent girls. ‘I dunno.’

  I said nothing more. Already, this was progress. Instead I turned my attention back to the copper of peach jam, releasing its autumnal scent. Peach is perhaps the most perfect fruit for making jam: sweet, yet firm; the golden flesh turning to a darker burnt-orange with cooking. My method allows the pieces of fruit to stay intact during the process, while retaining all the flavour. Today, we will leave the sugar and peach mixture to steep under a sheet of muslin; tomorrow, we will cook it, then ladle it into clean glass jars to put away for the winter.

  There’s something very comforting about the ritual of jam-making. It speaks of cellars filled with preserves; of neat rows of jars on pantry shelves. It speaks of winter mornings and bowls of chocolat au lait, with thick slices of good fresh bread and last year’s peach jam, like a promise of sunshine at the darkest point of the year. It speaks of four stone walls, a roof, and of seasons that turn in the same place, in the same way, year after year, with sweet familiarity. It is the taste of home.

  ‘There.’ I covered the pan with the muslin sheet. ‘Tomorrow we’ll put it into jars.’

  Alyssa nodded. ‘OK.’

  I knew better than to try to resume our earlier confidences straight away. Maya’s interruption had broken the connection I’d made. But there was a connection; and I am sure that, with time, I can make it again. For now, we have guests to prepare for; a menu to plan, baking to do. Whatever Alyssa’s secret may be—

  Like the peaches, it will keep.

  CHAPTER NINE

  Sunday, 22nd August

  PÈRE HENRI LEMAÎTRE is busy today. Morning Mass in Lansquenet, then Florient, Chancy and Pont-le-Saôul. With Lansquenet added to his list of parishes, he has cut down on weekday services in some of the smaller communities, but Sunday Mass is still a priority everywhere along the Tannes. Standing here on the bridge now, I can hear the bells from their steeples borne to me on the Autan wind – Saint-Jérôme’s double carillon, the twin bells of Florient’s Sainte-Anne, the cracked and characteristic sound of Chancy’s little chapel bell. With so much activity in the air, it seems wrong for me to be idle; more so to be here without my soutane, looking like a tourist.

  And yet I will not hide, mon père. Let the flock think what they please. Walking to church in their Sunday suits, hats crammed down against the wind, the women in their high-heeled shoes on the uncertain cobbles, they look at the same time a little shamefaced and oddly triumphant; unruly sheep who know that the dog has a thorn in his paw. I know what they’re thinking. Reynaud has earnt his comeuppance. Serves him right for thinking that he could be above the law.

  It is only a matter of time now till word comes from the Bishop. Perhaps he will send Père Henri Lemaître with the news of my relocation – perhaps to another village where my reputation is intact; perhaps to an inner-city parish in Marseille or Toulouse, to teach me the value of community relations and interracial entente cordiale. In any case, Père Henri insists, this is not a punishment. It is merely the Church’s way of deploying its human resources where they are most needed. It is not up to the priest to decide where and how he will be deployed. A good priest should have the humility to make whatever sacrifice the Church demands; to look into his soul and uproot the weeds of selfishness and pride. And yet, mon père, you understand, I’ve lived in Lansquenet all my life. This is where I belong; this place, with its cobbled streets and crooked rows of houses. This countryside, with its marquetry of little fields and strip-farms. This scouring wind; this river; this sky. This wholly unremarkable place – except to those who call it home.

  I told Père Henri the other day, a priest has no friends. In good times, he has followers; in bad times, only enemies. Set apart by his calling, his vows, he has to be more than human; every day walking the tightrope of faith, knowing that if he falters, those who applauded yesterday will turn upon him in a pack today, wallowing in his disgrace, overjoyed to see him brought low.

  The sheep are almost ready to turn. Few people greet me this morning. Guillaume Duplessis was one of them, and so was Henriette Moisson; but Charles Lévy looked furtive, and Jean Poitou, of whom I’d thought better, pretended to be talking to Simon Cussonet when he passed by on the way to church. Everyone ignores me in his or her particular way. Louis Acheron is contemptuous; Joline Drou regretful, but firm. Georges Clairmont is sheepish and guilty; Caro sweetly triumphant.

  Everyone knows he did it, of course. They’ll never manage to prove it, but—

  Do you really think he’ll go?

  Oh, yes. It’s only a matter of time. He’s always been so difficult. Do you remember, when Vianne Rocher�
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  Shh! Be quiet! Here he comes.

  They file past the bridge towards the church, faces lowered into the wind. The weather is turning again; the sky has veered from blue to mackerel-grey. I hear their voices, carried downwind, echoing the sound of the bells:

  He looks so different without his soutane.

  What’s he doing, staring like that?

  The Autan must have driven him mad.

  Well, Caro, perhaps it has. But at last I feel very empty – as if my head were full of seeds that the wind has blown away. I thought I was necessary to this place; that, whatever else happened, Lansquenet would always be my kingdom, my parish, my refuge, my home. People called me Father. And now—

  ‘Mon père?’ A voice at my shoulder. ‘Can I offer you a drink?’

  Joséphine doesn’t go to church. I’ve always known the reason. She, unlike Caro Clairmont, has never made a secret of her dislike of me, which makes it all the more perverse of her now, when most of the village shares her opinion, that she should choose to seek me out and offer hospitality.

  Maybe she feels sorry for me. Wonderful. That’s all I need. To be pitied by Joséphine Bonnet, to be taken home like a stray dog—

  I turned and saw her smiling. ‘I thought you could use a coffee.’

  ‘Do I look so terrible?’

  She shrugged. ‘I’ve seen you look better. Listen, I’ve baked an apple tart. Perhaps you’d like to try a slice? On the house?’

  I gritted my teeth. All the same, I knew she meant well. She has no reason to like me, or to offer me sympathy, and yet she offers it openly, in defiance of Caro and her poisonous toadies. Of all those I have offended here, I’d thought Joséphine the least likely to show me any compassion, and I found myself unexpectedly moved.

  ‘You’re very kind.’

  I followed her home. Not quite like a dog, perhaps, but feeling almost as humble. The Bishop would have approved, I thought. But Vianne Rocher would have laughed at the joke.

  She served the tart with whipped cream, the coffee with a splash of cognac. With her round face and cropped blonde hair she looks nothing like Vianne Rocher, and yet she has something of her style. That way of waiting quietly; of smiling with her eyes. I ate. I was hungrier than I’d expected. Over the course of the past few days I thought I had lost my appetite.

  ‘I’m supposed to be having dinner with Vianne,’ she said. ‘I hoped maybe you’d come along, too.’

  I shook my head. ‘I don’t think so, thanks.’

  ‘I’d be so happy if you would.’

  I looked at her suspiciously. Was this a trick to humiliate me? She did not seem to be making fun. Instead I thought she looked concerned; hands moving restlessly in her lap as they had in the days before Vianne Rocher. In those days, Joséphine Muscat was as much of an outcast as I am now; a sad, inarticulate woman whose kleptomaniac tendencies she confessed to me every week, just as Paul-Marie confessed his regular abuse of her.

  Perhaps that’s why she hated me. Because I knew her secret. Because I was the only one who knew her husband beat her, and allowed him to pay for it in Avés instead of intervening. Since then, she has not been to church. God did not protect her. More importantly, neither did I – bound hand and foot by my vows and the secret of the confessional.

  And yet, today, the old Joséphine was back – or at least, the ghost of her. These days, she looks so self-assured that no one but I can see the truth; the perpetual crease between her eyes; the way she looks to the left when she speaks to me, like a child telling a lie. There’s something on her mind, I thought; something she would like to confess. Something to do with Vianne Rocher—

  ‘Listen, Joséphine,’ I said. ‘I appreciate the gesture, but I really don’t need to be rescued. Not by Vianne, and not by you. I can look after myself.’

  She blinked. ‘You think that’s why I invited you?’

  No doubt about it; she was sincere. Something was troubling Joséphine which had nothing to do with me, or my current predicament.

  ‘Is there something wrong?’ I said. ‘Have you quarrelled with Vianne?’

  ‘Oh, no! She’s my dearest friend—’

  ‘Then what is it?’ I asked her, more gently than I might have done with someone like Caro Clairmont. ‘Why don’t you want to see her?’

  I’ll admit, this was a long shot. But Joséphine flinched, and I knew I’d hit home.

  ‘It’s not that I don’t want to see her,’ she said. ‘But – people change.’ She gave a sigh. ‘I don’t want to disappoint her.’

  ‘Why do you think you would?’ I said.

  ‘We had so many plans, she and I. She did so much to help me. I owed her everything, and then—’ She raised her eyes to mine again. ‘Curé, I need a favour,’ she said.

  ‘Anything,’ I told her.

  ‘It’s been eight years since I last went to church. Somehow it didn’t feel right any more. But now you’re here, I wonder if – you could take my confession?’

  That came as a surprise. I faltered. ‘Surely, Père Henri would be—’

  ‘Père Henri doesn’t know me,’ she said. ‘He doesn’t care about any of us. We’re just another village to him, another step up the ladder to Rome. You’ve been here for ever, mon père.’

  ‘Not quite for ever,’ I told her drily.

  ‘But will you do it?’

  ‘Why me?’ I said.

  ‘Because you understand, of course. Because you know how shame feels.’

  In silence, I finished my café-cognac. She’s right, of course. I know it well. That Scylla to the Charybdis of pride, it has been my companion for many years. Its voice is always in my heart, reminding me of my failings, while pride stands by with a flaming sword, barring my way to forgiveness.

  Two words. Forgive me. That’s all it takes. And yet, I have never spoken them. Not in the confessional, not to a relative, not to a friend. Not even to the Almighty Himself—

  ‘Will you, mon père?’

  ‘Of course I will.’

  CHAPTER TEN

  Sunday, 22nd August

  MAYA CAME BACK this morning to help Alyssa finish the Jam. She and Rosette spent a messy half-hour labelling the glass jars and decorating the labels – Rosette with her favourite drawings of rabbits, monkeys and flying snakes; Maya with less practised but all the more exuberant pictures of various kinds of fruit, including pineapples, strawberries and, improbably, coconuts (these are for Omi, she explains), with the word PEECH (or sometimes CHEEP) in capitals on every one.

  At five, making friends is easy. It begins with a shy kind of circling, like two little curious animals. Language is no barrier; culture and colour, irrelevant. Rosette puts out a hand to touch the golden bangle around Maya’s wrist; Maya is equally fascinated by Rosette’s red, curly hair. Five minutes later, they are at ease; Rosette signing and chattering in her private language, Maya, who seems to understand, watching her with round, bright eyes.

  I noticed that Bam, always curious, had moved in to inspect the newcomer. I can see him quite clearly today, like something glimpsed against the sun. Long tail, whiskery face, eyes alight with intelligence. Maya sees him too, I think; but of course, she’s only five.

  After they’d finished the labels, the two of them went out to play while Anouk went off to meet Jeannot Drou, leaving Alyssa and me to complete the task of filling the jars. Alyssa was silent this morning, her face bland and expressionless, and when I tried to draw her out I found her unresponsive.

  Perhaps it’s the prospect of Joséphine coming for dinner tonight. Alyssa’s presence in the house makes entertaining difficult, but to cancel at short notice might attract too much attention. Alyssa can always hide in her room – besides, I have my own reasons for wanting to talk to Joséphine.

  ‘She has a son,’ I said. ‘Eight years old, and she never told me.’

  Alyssa was using a wet rag to wipe the jars as I sealed them. Each one topped with a cellophane square, fastened with an elastic band, like a string of
paper lanterns filled with a mellow golden light. The smell of hot sugar and cinnamon was like a caress over everything.

  ‘Who?’ said Alyssa.

  I realized I had spoken my thought aloud. ‘My friend,’ I told her. ‘Joséphine.’

  My friend. In their way, the words are almost as unfamiliar as home. Friends are the ones we leave behind, so my mother taught me; even now, I invoke the word with a kind of reluctance, as if it were a genie that, once released, might be dangerous.

  ‘What happened?’ said Alyssa.

  ‘She reinvented herself,’ I said.

  Well, yes. I suppose that’s what it was. Joséphine reinvented herself. How could she not, after all? I am myself a mistress of reinvention. I taught her my technique. And now, for the first time, I understand why my mother never looked back; why she never revisited the places she and I once loved.

  ‘The trouble with people is, they change. Sometimes beyond recognition.’

  ‘Is this what happened with your friend?’

  I shrugged. ‘Maybe it was,’ I said.

  The copper pot was empty. Together, we’d filled every jar in the house. I cook when I am restless; I like the simple recipes; the preparing of ingredients; the knowledge that if I follow the rules the dish will never disappoint. If only people were like this. If only the heart was as simple.

  ‘What did she do?’ said Alyssa, looking into the copper pot. She ran her finger along the rim as if to lick it; then hesitated. ‘I mean, to reinvent herself? What did she do?’

  Good question, I thought. When I called the other day, she seemed so glad to see me. And yet, I’ve been here over a week—

  ‘It’s hard to explain,’ I told her. ‘There are so many things that have stayed the same. She looks a little different – she’s cut her hair and dyed it blonde – but underneath she’s still Joséphine, impulsive and warm-hearted and sometimes a little crazy, but there’s something about her that’s different somehow—’

  ‘Maybe she has something to hide.’

  I looked at her inquiringly.

  ‘Sometimes, when you feel that way, you just can’t face being with your friends. It’s not that you don’t want to see them, but you know you can’t talk to them, either.’ She put her finger into her mouth and sucked it. ‘There. I broke my fast. What would my mother say if she knew?’