Englishwoman in France (16 page)

‘Stay? On your own?' Mae's voice pitches up the shriek, charged with disbelief. ‘
On your own?
'

Misou jumps off my feet and barks.

Even Billy's staring at me. ‘I hope this isn't about the shenanigans with these two idiots, Starr,' he says quietly.

I shake my head. ‘Not a bit. Sorry to disappoint you, but it's nothing to do with Mae or you. In fact it's nothing to do even with Philip. Except I'm trying to be fairer to Philip than I've been for a while.' I pause, trying to be honest without giving anything away. ‘It's just that I have so many things to work out. And I feel so much better here.' I look Billy straight in the eye. ‘I can feel Siri here.'

Mae groans. ‘I knew it! Better? She's getting worse!'

I shake my head. ‘No, love. It means I'm getting better.'

Now we all just concentrate on our brandy glasses. Philip holds his so he can see the candle flame through it. ‘Well,' he says quietly. ‘Perhaps Estella will be better here for now. I don't really know but I understand now it's nothing to do with me. But if she thinks . . . well, she'd better get on with it.' He gulps off the whole of his brandy. ‘Of course my mother will be devastated.'

‘Your
mother
!' shrieks Mae.

For some reason this makes us all laugh and Billy half fills Philip's glass with more brandy.

I spend the next twenty-four hours in a dream, watching the Maison d'Estella empty of the bodies, the properties and the objects associated with Mae and her family. And Philip. I watch him go off with them: Philip, my beloved companion of the last ten years; Siri's beloved Pip.

He kisses me on both cheeks as he says his goodbye. It's as though we've just met. Mae looks uncharacteristically helpless but kisses me and clutches me very tight. Billy gives me a very big hug and whispers in my ear. ‘You're on the right track, Starr. Set your course fair, old girl. And keep in touch.'

Now they've gone to the airport, and I walk around the house clearing up, black-bagging things they've left behind. For some reason I hang on to a big black tee shirt of Billy's that's still on the washing line and some black jersey pantaloons that Mae bought at the Thursday market and discarded as being ‘too French'.

The house clear and clean, I walk Misou down to the harbour, along to the Place de la Marine and back up the rue de la Poissonnerie. I stand and look at the house, but there's no sign of either Madame Patrice or Louis. My mind fills with thoughts of yesterday when we kissed and made love in the narrow room. Misou jumps up at Madame Patrice's window but I pull him away. I stamp back up to the Maison d'Estella, disappointed but not cast down.

I work all the rest of the afternoon, doing charts and calculations, drafting emails and redrafting columns for the next three weeks, ready to file as soon as I can get into the library.

Drumming itself through me like a song you've heard too many times is the need to be
ready
,
prepared
. I know in my heart that all around me some kind of story is evolving which has Siri at its centre. I can feel this pulse in the air, like a storm gathering. It's like a cosmic version of what happens when I write my columns. I write the stories to fill the column inches and to make money – in the first place to keep me and Siri, and more recently to survive, so that I can see her again. These stories, written for such arbitrary reasons, have hit home with many people across the world, as though I dip into some big soup of memory that we all share and by a kind of magic say something unique to each of them.

Having done my ‘send' in the library I have a shower using the last of Mae's shower gel and expensive shampoo. I brush my hair until it's so dry that it expands to twice the volume and crackles in the air. On an impulse, instead of putting on my pyjamas, I put on Billy's big black tee shirt that smells of that day's sun, and pull on Mae's black pantaloons. They are very comfortable.

And at the end of this day, as always, I cast Siri's chart, as though she's here beside me. Tonight, the conclusions are very interesting. What emerges from those calculations is a very complicated period for her: a worrying movement backwards and forwards. Unbelievably, it says that studies beckon. And there is singing: such a lot of singing. And one special person is being drawn to your side, Siri. That person keeps coming again and again.

St Etienne's bell tolls eleven o'clock and suddenly the air is torn apart with cracks and rumbles and explosions. I run outside into the dark alley and follow a crowd down to the quayside to see a brilliant display of the fireworks so beloved of the people here. A poster tells me that this weekend we're celebrating Pentecost when, it says, the followers of Jesus were given the gift of tongues.

Down at the quay people are still in their daytime processional costume – Druids, monks, medieval knights and ladies, sans-culotte revolutionaries, ill-fated aristos, Napoleonic heroes – men, women, young, old. In front of me are white-faced Druids dripping with red and white ribbons. All – all – are looking up in wonder at the dazzling display of artificial stars and planets that make the real thing fade into nothingness.

Then the noise and light reaches a brilliant crescendo, which is greeted with a storm of shouts and applause that dissolve into silence. And now people are throwing flowers, stems and petals into the air and they float down in the darkness like snow. Then the air is filled with huge claps of thunder – this time the real thing. One of the Druids in front of me turns round and I scream at the sight of his whitened face with the jagged, bloody scar painted right down one side. I look round for help and two men in friars' habits turn towards me. My heart leaps as I recognize Louis and the boy. I know them, but neither of them shows a blink of recognition at the sight of me.

Now all the faces turn to look at me, their bodies shimmering, their eyes shining, their mouths opening and closing without any sound. My body is burning and shaking and I can see the flashing lights again.

Misou yelps and yelps.

Something is pulling me across the black stones of the quayside towards the water. I scream. And scream.

A
s time went by Tib and Modeste settled into their camp and began to explore the branches of the river, visiting hamlets and villages and offering their cures in return for bread and wine and vegetables from the gardens of people they met. But always they returned to their encampment near the village of Cessero where they now had a hut and a garden planted with the help of the Cesseroneans. At their camp they now had a beehive filled with bees which seemed to possess the air with their humming.

In these villagers – a reserved and quiet people – the man and the boy eventually found a gracious welcome and source of refreshment. Led by Léance, the husband of the first woman they met, they brought food for the strangers and sat at their feet listening to Tib's stories of the Nazarene who preached love and toleration, and listened to Modeste as he read the letters of Paul which were a guide to a good life. They revered Modeste's wisdom and his medicine, but were more moved by the boy, whom they saw as one of their own: a boy who radiated grace and goodness, who could cure a sick man of his demons with a touch. They relished the boy's beauty and his high intelligence and his insight into the human heart. They knew from experience that his touch could raise any human spirit to its highest. He offered instant cures to people he met in the road, and they revived just as the sun revives flowers and plants blighted by a storm.

It's crazy.

The fireworks have stopped, the storm has abated and here I am standing in bulrushes just by this rough landing stage. Misou is round my neck, the water is up to my knees. Billy's black tee shirt and Mae's black pantaloons are soaking. I lean down towards the water and meet the gaze of a mad woman with a halo of afro hair. Even crazier, my hair is full of flowers. My mind pricks with a memory of another time, long ago I think, when I saw my reflection in a river and there was a man beside me whose name I can't remember.

I pull marigolds, daphne, clover, even small sticks of jasmine blossom, from my hair. If my mother could see me now! And there is this bird that must think I'm a bush because it perches on my shoulder and sings
Or ee ole, Or ee ole
, its whistling jarring in my ear.

Misou creeps from my neck down into my sleeve. The bird on my shoulder does not budge.

A dream. It has to be a dream. Or am I crazy?

Or both, because here before me are Louis and the boy, still in their friars' clothing, a kind of long tunic caught up with a rope belt, and a long pointed hood.

The sunlight glints off the boy's red-gold hair and he smiles. He smiles at me.

‘
Mummy
.' I can hear Siri's voice in my ear. ‘
Mummy
. . .'

The bird on my shoulder stirs and flies away.

I feel faint. Louis catches me. ‘Madam, how are you?' he says. It
is
Louis. But he sounds different. This has to be the dream effect.

‘Louis!' I say.

‘Not here,' he says. ‘In this place I am Modeste.' He turns to his companion. ‘And this is Tibery, known to all as Tib.'

The boy beams at me and it's like catching the sun in the palm of your hand. ‘I dreamed of you many times, madam! I saw you and you needed me but we always passed each other by.'

I look into his eyes. ‘Then we were dreaming of each other, Tib. Because I dreamed of you. I dream of you now.' I like the sound of his name on my tongue but I don't know whether he will understand me.

Louis reads my thoughts. His voice is in my ear. ‘Is it not the feast of Pentecost?' he whispers. ‘All people understand each other. The bird alights on our shoulders with the gift of tongues in its beak.'

What are we doing? Are we dreaming each other? Are we in each other's dreams? I clutch my brow. It's all too hard.

‘Don't worry, lady,' says Tib. ‘It will be all right. You will be with us. We'll take care of you.'

‘So who am I?' I say, meaning
who am I in this dream?

Louis picks a stick of jasmine from my hair. ‘You're Florence, the lady of flowers,' he says, his blue eyes sparkling. He kisses my cheek and it's like the fireworks all over again. Tib chuckles and I look at him and know he's read my thoughts. I start to shake and shudder; my mind is shot with all the colours, all the lights again. I want to be sick.

Then the boy grips my hand and all the bright confusion goes away: the hurtful colours, the blinding lights. Now I can see a thousand images of Siri right there in front of me, like a pack of cards being flipped. She is born, she is three, she is five, seven, nine, thirteen successively. But she goes on further – seventeen, nineteen, twenty-nine . . .

He squeezes my hand again and even this stops. I feel wonderful. ‘What does it mean, Louis?' I say.

‘It is
Modeste
,' he says calmly. ‘You must call me Modeste.'

‘What does it mean,
Modeste
?'

‘Louis?' The boy Tib looks up at him, frowning.

‘My name is Modeste. That is who I am, here and now. And it means we need you here, now,' says Louis. No, he says his name is Modeste! ‘We have reached out for you, Tib and I. Tib felt your need for Siri and he reached for you. And we need you because . . . well, you'll see why we need you.' He puts a hand on my shoulder. ‘Come, we have shelter for you here.'

I look round. ‘Where are we?'

The boy answers. ‘We are here on the great river some distance from the town of Good Fortune, where my father is Governor of the city.' He squeezes my hand. ‘We must get some clothes for you, or the good Cesseroneans will take you for a madwoman, as I did when I first saw you.' Misou peeps out of my sleeve and barks and Tib quickly withdraws his hand. ‘Modeste! The lady has a rat! How strange is that?'

I clutch Misou closer. ‘This is Misou and he's no rat. He's a dog. I am minding him for my friend.'

This dream is getting stranger. Here am I, standing like Dorothy on some yellow brick road of my own making, clutching a little dog in my arms and talking rationally to two people in another time, another place.

Tib smiles. ‘Just accept it all, Florence! Come on! We have work to do!'

I'm not kidding you. When I wake up in the morning I'm in the same dream. Honestly. Here I am lying on some kind of palliasse on a slatted platform in the corner of this little hut that's not much more than a lean-to against a bank. There are two other palliasses, both now empty. I feel my arms and legs and am relieved that I am still wearing Billy's tee shirt and Mae's pantaloons.

I scratch my neck and my left thigh. I've definitely been bitten. I put my hand up to my head and my hair is matted and itchy. I swing my legs over the edge of the platform and see clothes have been left out for me. They're just like those Louis – no, Modeste – and Tib were wearing yesterday at the Pentecostal procession: long tunic, rope belt, pointed hood joined to a round collar. I pull them to my face to smell them, expecting them to be rank, but they smell of new-mown grass and honeysuckle. Not terrible at all.

Modeste sticks his head through the rush curtain that serves as a door. That same smile, that same shaft of hair pushed to one side, those same pale blue eyes. That same dimple on the left cheek. ‘Starr! Awake now! I fear ablutions are merely the river.'

‘Ablutions! Crikey!'

‘That done,' he went on,‘I have a comb for that hair.'

I put my hand up to the tangled mess of my hair. ‘Crikey!' I say. I'm not very original in my surprise.

‘As you say.' His grin broadens. ‘Crikey!'

So, after my . . . er . . .
ablutions
I find myself sitting on the ground between his knees while he picks the twigs and flowers out of my hair and begins to work his way through it with a comb carved out of a strip of wood.