Page 67 of The Strawberry Thief
He’s right, of course. There’s nothing wrong with being a freak. Freaks are extraordinary. That’s what we are, Yannick and me. We are extraordinary. Oh, and one more thing, Yannick.‘I want you to leave Rosette alone. No more talk about her wood. No more digging for treasure. Okay?’
The wind gives a rebellious moan. I silence it with a gesture. I draw a picture of Madame Montour giving Yannick a pot of honey. Then I turn the page. The voices stop. And in the lull that follows, I hear the sound of footsteps on the path, and someone comes into the clearing. It’s Reynaud. He looks terrible. I duck down by the side of the well and crawl into the bushes to hide. Reynaud doesn’t see me. I don’t think he sees anything.
What is he doing here? This ismywood. That makes him a trespasser. Priests are supposed to know better than that. Don’t they say:forgive us our trespasses? But there’s something wrong with Reynaud; his colours are wild and ugly and mad, and he’s talking to himself in a low voice a bit like my shadow-voice, in broken phrases that don’t make sense. I hearmon père, andconfession, andriver-rats, andJoséphine. Then he walks up to the well and looks inside, and whispers something. I don’t catch the words, but it sends the echoes from the well flying out like a cloud of moths.
I hope he didn’t make a wish. I’m afraid if he did, it might come true.
8
Friday, March 31
It was late in the afternoon, and I was making truffles. My back was turned, but I knew my daughter at once from the sound of her breathing.
‘Anouk.’
She was by the window, and her face was to the light. She has dyed her hair again – pink this time, like candyfloss – and although it suits her, I wonder why she needs to change its colour so often. She is, and always was, beautiful, her dark eyes like the edge of the sky. Her hair is candyfloss-curly and already growing dark at the roots. The pink makes her skin look paler; bleaches her of her nectarine glow. I sometimes wonder if she is trying to make herself different from me.
‘Maman.’ She hugs me clumsily; she feels as if she has lost weight. Anouk at nine was sturdy, puppyish and full of fun. Now she is like an armful of birds, delicate and ready to fly.
‘It’s good to see you.’
‘You, too.’
There’s something else that’s new, I see: a shimmy in her colours. Anouk was always easy to read, but as she grows older, her colours have changed; shifting, growing more complex. I want to ask about her news, but I know she will tell me in her own time.
‘Do you want some hot chocolate?’
She nods. She has not drunk hot chocolate more than three times since she was a child. So this means something important; perhaps even something unsettling. I know not to ask her about it just yet: let the chocolate do its work.
I pour the drink into Anouk’s cup, the one that no-one else uses. It smells of damp earth after the rain, and cardamom, and sandalwood, and fresh green tea scented with rose. She always liked the scent of rose, and now, though she seldom drinks it, I always include a splash of rosewater in the Chantilly topping.
She drinks in careful little sips, knowing the bitter drink’s potency. As the quiet air settles into a new shape around her, I send out tiny tendrils, a questioning of her colours; a lullaby murmur that croons to itself:
Try me. Tell me. Trust me.
She puts down the cup. From behind her I think I see a sudden quick flash of grey. Another reminder of childhood – I have not seen Pantoufle for years. It almost feels as if Anouk is seeking out a previous self, perhaps in the hope of finding a line of communication—
‘How’s Jean-Loup?’
She smiles at his name. ‘He’s fine.’ A pause. ‘He’s found a job.’
‘Already?’ Jean-Loup is still in his final year of study. He still has examinations to take. ‘What kind of job?’
Her eyes are bright. ‘It’s his dream job, working with a wildlife group. He sent them samples of his work, his photographs, his writing. They want him to fly out in July. He’s terribly excited.’
‘Fly out? Somewhere in Europe?’
She looks at me and shakes her head. ‘New Zealand. Then Australia.’
Australia?‘How long for?’
‘A year, to begin with. Then, if it works—’
A year. To begin with.‘And after that?’
She shrugged. ‘It depends. I don’t really know.’
My head is spinning. ‘It makes no sense. Surely there must be photographers in the southern hemisphere. And what about his condition? His heart?’
