Page 22 of The Strawberry Thief
‘It’s the oak wood,’ said Michèle. ‘It has been part of the property since before Narcisse was born. He had no business separating it from the rest of the farm – besides which, it decreases the value of the property, in terms of access, and—’
My smile was beginning to feel a little strained. ‘I’m sorry,’ I said. ‘But exactly what has this to do with me?’
Michèle gave me a sharp look. ‘I tried to get in touch with your – er – friend, Monsieur Roux, but he seemed reluctant to—’
I tried to imagine her trying to talk to Roux. Somehow I doubted she’d even managed to locate his boat. The river-folk are loyal: they cover for each other. Any sign of an official visitor, or any unwanted attention, and everyone conveniently forgets faces, names, and mooring locations.
‘Roux isn’t responsible for the decision, either,’ I said. ‘He was named as the trustee for my daughter, Rosette.’
I saw Michèle’s eyes flicker at the mention of Rosette. ‘Yes, well,’ she said. ‘I’m sure Rosette couldn’t care less about a piece of woodland. Maybe you could persuade her that it’s in her interest as well as ours to return it to the property.’
I heard an indignant little crowing sound from the stairs, and knew that Rosette was listening. ‘Narcisse wanted her to have the wood. It’s not up to me to persuade her of anything. If later, she decides to sell—’
‘That child!’ exclaimed Michèle. ‘How that can child decide anything?’ She stopped. Visibly composing herself, she went on: ‘We’re willing to compensate Rosette very generously. She can hardly have a use for the land, whereas if we were to develop—’ She stopped. ‘There are issues of access, parking,’ she said. ‘It would be far easier if we could develop the site properly, without having to go around the wood.’
‘I’m sorry, Michèle,’ I said, and shrugged. ‘I can’t do what you’re asking.’
Her chocolate had gone cold. I could see the skin forming on the surface of the cup and the rage rising up inside her.
‘Ten thousand for the land,’ she said, her lips almost rigid with contempt. ‘You won’t get a better offer, you know. Land isn’t what you’d call scarce around here.’
‘It’s not my land,’ I said. ‘It’s Rosette’s. And when she is twenty-one, she will be able to consider your offer.’
‘Five years!’ exclaimed Michèle furiously. ‘What’s going to happen in five years? Is she going to miraculously grow into a normal person?’ She saw my face, and lowered her voice, though she was still trembling with rage. ‘I’m sorry, Vianne, but it’s what everyone already knows. That child will never be normal. And ten thousand euros could go towards a fund for her – a fund for her care.’ Now Michèle Montour assumed a conspiratorial expression. ‘I know what it’s like, you know,’ she said. ‘God knows, I’ve seen it with my own son. And from all accounts, your Rosette—’
I interrupted her. ‘Thank you, Michèle. But you’ve heard my answer. And now, I’m afraid I must get to work. I have the shop to open.’ I picked up her untouched chocolate with its half-eaten biscuit. For a moment her eyes flicked to the cup, then to the kitchen curtain, which had begun to ripple as if blown by a sharp draught.
The wind. That’s all. The wind,I thought.
From the stairs, that sound again: a mocking, crowing call, like a bird – a jackdaw, perhaps – chattering at an enemy.
Michele opened her purse and began to look inside it for change. ‘You ought to consider my offer, Vianne. I only came out of courtesy. But I know Narcisse would never have left that land to your daughter if he was of sound mind. If I have to contest the will, so be it. Let’s see what happens.’
For a second I thought I saw Bam, squatting balefully by her feet. Then, with a bang, the door of the shop blew open. Michèle clapped her hand to her head to stop her hat from blowing away. The wind caught a handful of notes from her purse and scattered them over the wooden floor. Michèle gave an exasperated cry and went after the money, almost knocking over her chair.
‘Bam!’
I sent Rosette a warning glance. Her eyes were bright and challenging, like those of a small but ferocious wild animal.
Michèle had recovered the notes. Now she stood facing me, tight-lipped.
‘The chocolate’s on the house,’ I said.
Michèle made a dismissive sound. ‘You think your chocolate’s so special,’ she said. ‘I’ve had far better in Marseille.’
At this, a gust of wind from outside neatly removed Michèle’s little hat, and sent it flying into the square like a large insect – a beetle, perhaps – escaping into the turbulent air. She made a sound of annoyance and ran out to retrieve it. The door slammed hard on her heels.
Rosette was at the foot of the stairs, looking suspiciously innocent, drawing-pad in one hand. In it she had drawn Michèle as a predatory stork: standing on one skinny leg, handbag tucked under her wing; eyes bulging comically, as if at an elusive fish. The sketch was made up of just a few lines, and yet it managed to capture Michèle’s expression perfectly.
‘I told you, none of that,’ I said.
Rosette grinned and waggled her head.
‘I mean it. No more Accidents.’
Rosette shrugged.I don’t like her.
‘I don’t like her either, Rosette, but things like that …’ I tried to frame it in a way that I knew she’d understand. ‘We’re meant to be fitting in here, not drawing attention to ourselves.’
