Page 3 of The Strawberry Thief
The solicitor’s name is Ying-Ley Mak: an elegant young woman of Chinese extraction, whose perfect French and foreign name have already caused Michel and Michèle to exchange significant glances. Now they bristled indignantly, looking from priest to solicitor, solicitor to priest, in shock and growing agitation.
‘Strictly speaking, the land hasnotbeen left to Monsieur Roux,’ explained Mme Mak in her quiet voice. ‘He is simply the legal trustee of Rosette Rocher, to whom your father bequeathed the land, and who is still a minor.’
‘It’s criminal,’ said Michèle Montour. ‘There must have been undue influence.’
I pointed out that over the last five years, Roux had barely seen Narcisse, except perhaps to say hello. ‘Besides,’ I went on, ‘it isn’t as if your father left you out of his will. He has left you the farmhouse; his money; most of the farmland—’
‘Worthless,’ said Michel Montour, ‘without the adjacent woodland. Sixteen hectares of oakland, suitable for development – not to mention the mature timber, which has significant commercial value. Why would my father-in-law leave all that to a man he barely knows? What’s the story behind it? And how soon can this be overturned?’
Calmly, I explained that, as executor of Narcisse’s will, I was in no position to overturn anything.
‘But this isn’t right!’ said Michèle, her façade of gentility starting to crack. The accent she usually affects – an elongated Northern drawl – had reverted to its natural pattern of nasal inflexions and strident peaks. ‘This isn’t right! We’re hisfamily. We came here to look after him. We even joined hischurch, for God’s sake—’ She paused her tirade to fix me with a suspicious gaze. ‘You’re really trying to tell me,mon père, that this is the first you’ve heard of this? That he never even discussed it with you?’
I assured her that Narcisse had not, and, not for the first time, it occurred to me that he would have loved this scene of growing anarchy. He would have loved my discomfort, the anger of his relatives, and the polite incomprehension of Mme Mak, who hadn’t seen any of this coming.
‘He must have left documents,’ said Michèle. ‘Some kind of message to us, at least.’
Mme Mak said: ‘Your father left a document for the attention of Père Reynaud. He makes it clear in the accompanying letter that the document in question isonlyfor Père Reynaud, and no-one else.’
‘But it doesn’t make sense,’ wailed Michèle. ‘Why would Papa do this to us? To his own family?’
‘I’m very sorry,’ said Mme Mak. ‘I’m afraid I can’t discuss the details. Your father made his will very clear. The farm, except for the oak wood, to you. The shop in the village, also to you. The sixteen hectares of wood, along with any structures and contents, to be held in trust by Monsieur Roux, to pass to Mademoiselle Rocher on her twenty-first birthday.’
‘What contents?’ said Michèle Montour. ‘Are you saying there’s something more there? A structure? What kind of a structure?’
Mme Mak simply shook her head, and handed me a thick green folder, tied with pink legal tape, and labelled with my name, in ink, in the copperplate of another century.
‘This was left for you,’ she said. ‘My client was very insistent that you should read it to the end.’
But Michèle had not abandoned the fight. ‘My father would never have done this without some kind of undue influence. I demand to see that folder. You can’t refuse to show it to me!’
Mme Mak shook her head. ‘I’m sorry,Madame.Your father made it very clear that no-one but Monsieur le Curé—’
‘I don’t care!’ exclaimed Michèle. ‘My father was old. His mind was gone. He had no right to do this to us, his family, who loved him.’ She turned to me for support. ‘Mon père. We are not wealthy people. We have worked very hard to get where we are. We go to church. We pay our taxes. We have a son, whose special care costs us every penny we make. And now, just as the poor boy is coming into his inheritance – you understand that this isn’t for us, we’re only thinking of the boy—’
‘A son?’ I said. This was news to me. In the two years they had attended my church, I had never once heard either of them mention a son. I wanted to ask about the boy. What age was he? What were his needs? And why did his mother not use his name? But Michèle was in full flow, and could not be silenced so easily.
‘Who is this Roux person, anyway? What does he want? Why isn’t he here? What did my father mean byany structures and contents? Why would a man like my father leave sixteen hectares of land to a child?’ She took a deep and quivering breath. ‘And will someone please tell me: who thehellis Rosette Rocher?’
4
Wednesday, March 15
It was Reynaud who brought the news. Narcisse was gone. But I already knew.Someonehas been up to no good. Someone caused an Accident. And now he has left me his strawberry wood, and everyone’s discussing me.
They think I don’t understand, but I do. It’smywood. My very own. And no-one will sell it, cut it down, or try to keep me from going there. I will build a house for myself, among the ferns and brambles. I will live on hazelnuts, and sorrel, and wild strawberries. And no-one will disturb me there, or laugh at all the things I do, because the wood belongs to me, and no-one else will go there. Except Pilou, and only then on extra-special occasions. And maybe, if Anouk comes home—
I miss Anouk. Not as much as Maman does, but still, it feels wrong without her. There were always three of us, standing together against the world. Anouk stayed in Paris to go to school. But that was over two years ago. She ought to have been home by now. But Jean-Loup lives in Paris, and Anouk wants to stay with him. And Maman is different in little ways; and talks too loudly, and laughs too much, and worries if I’m out on my own, and sometimes cries to herself in the night. She never makes a sound. But I know. I can smell the scent of tears, and I can feel the pull of the wind tearing at the shutters.
BAM! That wind. It never stops. It smells of smoke and spices. It comes from everywhere at once: the hot south; the beckoning east; the brooding west; the misty north. It plays among the fallen leaves; it tugs at the red rags of my hair. Sometimes it is a monkey. Sometimes, a lady with lollipop shoes. But it’s never far away, and now it’s getting closer. If I called it, it would blow Anouk back to Lansquenet. If I called it she would come, and Maman would be happy again—
V’là l’bon vent, v’là l’joli vent
V’là l’bon vent, ma mie m’appelle—
But sometimes there are Accidents. That’s why I don’t call the wind. At least, not with my shadow-voice, the one that only tells the truth. And Maman doesn’t know how much I like to listen to the wind. She doesn’t hear it singing to me in a voice like summertime. She doesn’t know how much I want to call it in my shadow-voice, and how I have to scold it – BAM! – to bring it back under control.
Madame Clairmont thinks I have something called Tourette’s Syndrome. I’ve heard her mention it to Maman, especially on noisy days. But Narcisse always used to say: ‘Don’t label the child. She’s not a parcel.’ And Madame Clairmont would look cross, and make her lemon-face at him, and then Narcisse would wink at me, and smile, and say in a low, gruff voice that only I could hear: ‘Don’t pay any attention to her. She’s got a bad case of Busybody Syndrome. It could kill her any day.’
