‘How do you spell “venison tart”?’
‘And “feasant”. Is that right?’
Arnaud struck a match and held it to the screwed-up balls of Nice Matin tucked beneath kindling sticks and logs expertly arranged in the iron base of his barbecue. The roaring as the flames began to spread was like the sound of someone beating a broad cymbal.
Jane was leaving for the mill. Mug of coffee in one hand, she was running late. She knew she should get going, but the buzz of activity in the kitchen and Arnaud’s blazing fire outside put a spell on her. The dead boar was prostrate on a bloodied cloth on the kitchen chopping block. Jane had never before been witness to the preparations for such an impressive roast. She slung her bag into the pantry and grabbed a chopping knife.
‘Fifteen minutes of dicing vegetables and then I’ll get on the road. I want to see this fellow launched.’
Arnaud stepped into the kitchen, his huge hands blackened from the fire-making. ‘Right,’ he said, slapping the pig on the haunch before downing a half-full glass of wine from the draining-board. It was not yet eight in the morning.
‘How much does it weigh?’ Jane wanted to know.
‘Sixty to seventy kilos. This lad’ll more than feed us all.’
Matty and Annie were already hard at work with the vegetable dicing, their fingers glistening and moist. The high-spirited mood was affecting all. The stuffing of the pig – a fully grown, hefty male, possibly three or four years old – required an entire vegetable garden, it seemed. Arnaud had slit the creature’s stomach before hanging it. Matty passed a heavy dish of tomatoes to Jane. ‘If you’re staying, get chopping. And then there’s the onions to do.’
Placed in dishes at the ready were swags of herbs from the garden, branches of bay leaves picked at dawn and scented with dew – a saline Mediterranean dew that blessed all that grew in those quarters – entire rose-tinted garlic bulbs and sufficient sacks of estate potatoes to sink a ship. Once the pig’s cavernous stomach had been upholstered with food, Arnaud, aided by his mother and sister, closed the flesh flaps and sewed them together with thread almost as thick as string. Then the hefty pig was slung over its slayer’s shoulder and hauled to the barbecue, where its trotters were attached securely, two by two, to the turning spit. Using swags of bay leaves, Matty sprinkled it lightly with last year’s olive oil. The new vintage was far too precious for the job of basting.
Jane watched the flames spread and then she set off for the mill to deliver the last cargo of the season, before the final shipment home of their liquid booty.
And party time.
3
Party time
Tired, scruffy, starving, Jane swung in through the gated entrance to Les Cigales and chugged up the cedar-banked driveway in third gear. Even from down the way, she caught the winking of multi-hued lanterns through the trees. The temperamental old truck had made it and she was safely home. The last pressing had been bounteous and the return of oil to olives had been exceptional. In three months, or a little later, the litres available for sale would inject a vital boost into the estate’s coffers. She was delighted, and a teeny bit proud. Tonight’s celebrations would be the icing on the cake. She might even make a speech, a short one. Or should she offer that opportunity to Annie? No, too soon to hand the limelight to her. So elated was she that she was considering escorting Clarisse from her bed to the party, perhaps for a quarter of an hour. She remained, after all, the estate’s mistress, even if her grasp was fading. Ironically Jane was beginning to feel sorry for her, a tiny bit affectionate towards her, aware now of the years of loneliness she had endured.
Jane had insisted that the Provençaux employed for the olive récolte invite their families to this celebratory repast not only because she wanted to honour the harvest but, more importantly, to offer the hand of friendship to their neighbours and others in the locality. She wanted the word spread that the proprietors of Les Cigales were approachable and that they could be counted upon as a vital thread within the community. It was time, long overdue, to quell the fires of gossip that she remembered from as far back as her first visit here with her father. Judgements and opinions that had been passed on to the younger generations. The superstitions, the resentments, Jane intended them to be brushed aside, for the slate to be wiped clean. She dreamed of sowing seeds, of breaking the spell of mistrust. This domain, which should have been handed on to Luc, needed to be spiritually and emotionally, as well as physically, rebuilt. Its perpetuation required the goodwill of the community, not their resentment. Jane wanted to return it to what it might have been when the Benedictine monks had built it and farmed here, a guiding light, a place of succour, an opportunity for fair employment. When she finally disappeared, she hoped that Annie and Patrick, who would inherit the title deeds if she had her way, would run the estate within an ambiance of harmony and wisdom.
In memory of Luc.
Jane locked the handbrake, hooted for the men to begin to unload the oil and tossed the keys to Arnaud, who would return the vehicle, once emptied, to School House. She bounded inside, up the stairs, and ran a bath, pouring in a good dose of lavender bath salts. Then she strode along the corridor to her mother-in-law’s room. Clarisse was lying with her eyes closed and for a moment Jane assumed she was sleeping and was about to close the door again.
‘It sounds like a fucking demonstration downstairs.’
‘We’re gearing up for the pickers’ party, Clarisse. The harvest is complete and the olives pressed. You’ll be pleased to hear we’ve had a good season. I’m going to get cleaned up and change.’
‘And what about me? I’m the owner here, remember? Or have you forgotten your place, Jane? Pushing me further into the corner day by day. Usurping my role.’
‘Do you want to join us for a little while? Come and say hello to everyone?’
‘I don’t think I need you to invite me.’ Her voice was reedy, the sentiment combative, but there was little punch behind it.
‘I’ll be back in ten minutes. Think about it. If you feel like it, you can tell me and I’ll help you get dressed.’
In her exuberance, Jane had overlooked the fact that Annie and Patrick would be present at the festivities. Patrick, surrounded by a gaggle of other vibrant children, moving about like tadpoles in water, might not catch Clarisse’s attention, but Annie surely would. Jane cursed her thoughtlessness. She should have discussed this with Annie first.
Damn it! She could hardly uninvite her mother-in-law now.
She hastily dragged on some clothes, too concerned to give her appearance due care, then sprayed herself with Chanel, and she was acceptable. She jogged along the corridor, returning for Clarisse, but when she swung round the open door, the covers were peeled back and the bed bare.
‘Clarisse? Shall I help you?’ Jane popped her head round the door of Clarisse’s bathroom. Medicine-cabinet door open. Pills spilled into the washbasin; caps off their containers. What concoction had she swallowed? She must have gone on alone. She hadn’t even dressed. Jane pelted back along the corridor and down the stairs. She stuck her head inside the open doors of one of the two larger drawing rooms, where Matty had lit fires in the unlikely event of rain. Matty was in the red room, on her haunches in a fine black velvet dress with buttons and lace collar, working with a pair of bellows to boost the flames.
‘You look terrific. Have you seen Clarisse?’
Matty frowned and shook her head. ‘Not in her room?’
‘Unfortunately not.’ Jane turned and ran to the other room across the hall. No one. Then she spotted that the door to the petit salon, the one she was using as a storeroom for Luc’s affairs, was wide open. The key was in the lock. Had she, during the harvest, forgotten to turn it and put the key into her bag where she had been keeping it? She stepped inside. Papers had been moved, shoved to the ground. A box fallen on its side. It looked looted. Was anything missing? There was such a wealth of material that it was impossible to gauge immediately what, if anything, had been rem
oved. She cursed her own negligence.
It must have been Clarisse. Who else? Jane turned on her heels, closed the door, pocketed the key and went through to the breakfast room. Empty. Noises from outside, voices. Corks drawn, popping. The party was getting under way. Jane deliberated. If she stepped out of doors now, she would find herself caught up among others in the flutter of the festive mood. She should make one last search for her mother-in-law first. The library. If she didn’t find her, she’d seek out Dr Beauchene, if he’d arrived for the party.
The library was still, books and empty chairs. Clarisse must be outside. In her nightdress? She’d catch a chill. Jane was getting alarmed. How could she have so misjudged this? Stupid of her to invite Clarisse before she was ready to accompany her.
But Matty would surely have found her by now.
Matty, surprisingly, was not in the kitchen, where the table was autumn-toned, groaning with luscious plates of vegetables: roast potatoes, grilled aubergines, a stuffed cabbage dish, earthenware bowls of her own tapenade. All to accompany the roasting pig. Succulent scents wafted in from the yard, the crisply browning beast on the spit. Outside there was firelight, candlelight, lanterns. The courtyard was dense with shadows, silhouettes holding glasses, convivial chatter, laughter. Monsieur le curé, the Catholic priest, was in conversation with the barber, who was in a suit, his wife at his side draped in a purple feather boa. Even his drinking chum, the mayor, had put in an appearance. Droves of villagers, guests. The invitations had been accepted. Jane’s heart swelled with pride. But where was Clarisse? So small and frail, it would be easy for her to disappear among the throng. Jane, at the kitchen steps, scanned the spectacle, hoping to spy her, or even the doctor. A neighbour pushed forward and wished her good evening. Jane accepted his greeting and engaged in a few words of conversation, ‘Yes, the harvest was très bonne,’ torn between politeness and concern. She spied Matty beside the spit with Arnaud. She was bending and rising, face flushed from the flames, basting the boar. Jane excused herself and pushed her way through the crush.
‘Where’s Annie?’ she called, as she approached mother and son.
‘In the stable dining room collecting more wine. What a turnout. I hope we have sufficient to feed everyone.’
‘Of course we have. Did you catch sight of Clarisse?’
Matty frowned. ‘Are you sure she’s not in her bed? She’s not down here.’
Jane didn’t wait to explain. A sickening prescience was taking hold. In her mind’s eye, she was picturing the room where Luc’s possessions were stored. She had worked out the item that was missing. Not that she had noted its absence when she was there, but an image was flashing, like a warning signal, in her mind, and it was alarming her.
She had to find Clarisse.
Clarisse was in her slippers and a short-sleeved nightdress, shivering with the chill. She was stumbling about the forecourt, past the palm trees, bouncing from parked car to parked car, her head pounding. Something heavy was weighing her down. A gun, her gun, Adrien’s Colt pistol. She’d thought she had misplaced it after keeping it hidden for all these years. Luc had confiscated it – he’d admitted as much – and forbidden her to go near a firearm ever again. She had seen it in the room with all the boxes, picked it up and taken it. Then, unable to face the congregation of people in the stables courtyard, she had slipped out by the front door. Lanterns everywhere. Flickering lights, blinding and confusing her. Raised voices, laughter. Parked cars surrounded her. She wove her way in and about them, her head swimming.
Long ago in Algeria, on hot summer nights, guests had gathered – evening after evening of dancing on the terraces surrounding their swimming-pool – when she was married. Her blissful life in Algeria. Before Luc was born. Days before the war. Days before the killings and massacres. Days before the birth of the OAS. Then there had been the black years, Adrien never at home. The bombings. She, terrified of the repercussions.
Finally, her escape. With Isa and Luc.
Where was Luc? Who were all these people? Guests. She must go and welcome them. She was the hostess. Was this her party?
‘Clarisse!’
Who was calling her? She recognized the voice. Isa – was it Isa? Isa, who had stuck by her, never betrayed her.
‘Clarisse, where are you?’
No, not Isa. Jane. Yes, Jane. This was her daughter-in-law’s party. Not hers or Luc’s. Jane was taking control of her property, moving herself in, sidling, gaining the upper hand. Where was Luc? He must put a stop to this. At once. Clarisse spun unsteadily on her slippered feet, almost losing her balance before tottering towards the rear, the south face of the house, following the direction of lights and music.
The sounds were deafening. Heavy percussion. Not sweet dancing notes. Voices raised. The courtyard was crushed with bodies. A troupe of excited children rose up from nowhere and raced past her. One, a big boy – was it Luc? – knocked against her shoulder, then another, sending her flying.
‘Luc! Luc, come back here!’
They barely noticed her. Sped off, gone. Clarisse had almost fallen over, a rag doll. She sucked in a breath. She was dizzy, heavy-headed, drugged, shuffling onwards towards a bank of backs and shoulders. Men and women animated by conversation, guffawing, holding glasses aloft. A figure, female, in sleek black trousers and shiny blouse was easing through the group, bearing two wine bottles, beaming, chattering. She was pouring wine – Clarisse’s wine, her estate label, Les Deux Soeurs – refilling glasses, chatting, sharing laughter as she socialized. Her face was lovely, lively, freckled, wholesome. Peter’s eyes.
Annabelle. It was Annabelle. She had no right to be here. What did she think she was doing?
Clarisse raised her hand to her brow, confused. It was heavy. Something metal gripped between her fingers. She had to think.
‘Clarisse! Clarisse!’
A voice from behind her. Not Annabelle’s. Heads turned at the sharply raised cry.
Jane hurried towards Clarisse but stopped short when she caught sight of the light glimmering on the nickel-plated pistol. She moved cautiously now. A voice from somewhere behind them warned, ‘She’s got a gun.’
‘It’s the witch.’
News spread, like a rolling wave, until those further towards the stable block by the barbecue had learned it. ‘The old woman, that old bag Madame Cambon, is here with a firearm.’
Arnaud, sweating and flushed from the fire’s heat and a couple of beers, raised himself from his haunches with the tightly sprung instincts of an animal that smells danger, blood. He stepped warily backwards and into the kitchen, snatching up his rifle from where it had stood since dawn. Still loaded. He pulled back the rifle’s hammer and retraced his way through the crowds, muzzle trained safely downwards. Trigger finger ready but clear of the trigger, he ploughed through the mass of people, head lowered, pressing forward, a bull ready to gore.
Matty raised her arm to stay him. He knew nothing. His mother followed him.
‘Arnaud, stay back,’ she called.
Panic, more frozen than in motion, was setting in among the guests.
Annie handed the wine bottles to a mystified onlooker. Still, she held her ground, uncertain.
Inching forward, Jane approached her mother-in-law.
Behind her, Annie drew towards the woman who was her mother. ‘Madame Cambon?’
Clarisse was perplexed. Two women closing in on her, one from her rear, the other ahead. These women were not her friends. Annabelle had never come near her throughout her sickness, and Jane was after the property. She lifted the Colt and trained it on Jane, both hands gripping it to keep it steady. It was years since she had pulled this trigger, since she had killed with it. The pressure of the wobbling firearm, the haunting memories were making her dizzy, nauseous. She had no control, her wrists weak.
Jane stood her ground, still as a post. ‘Give me the gun, Clarisse. It’s not loaded.’ She was bluffing. Jane had no clue as to whether or not the Colt had bullets in its chamber.<
br />
Annie was advancing on the woman she had never known, frail as a bird in a nightdress, preposterously waving a firearm at her half-sister. Jane’s attention shifted from her mother-in-law to Annie. Clarisse sensed it and swung about, gun still in her grip. Arnaud had broken through the wall of partymakers, followed by Matty. Others were closing in. Clarisse was still holding the gun at arm’s length, pointing it now at Annie. It was weighing her down. She was feeling faint.
Before she knew it, someone, Jane, was upon her. Matty gripped her son’s arm. A shot rang out, exploding into the night. A woman’s cry. People were gibbering and screaming, running like frightened hens. Clarisse hit the deck.
4
Regeneration
Clarisse passed away in the early days of December. Jane was at her mother-in-law’s bedside. At the end, the old woman seemed relaxed, eyes closed, lids flickering, as though she were a dog dreaming. She no longer recognized Jane, who sat reading or working alongside her, watching over her. She talked a great deal, streams of sentences, many incomprehensible. The subjects ranged from war to gunshots, the OAS, Isa, Annabelle. And, in the latter days, Luc. She called for Luc incessantly. She grew distressed. When Jane tried to pacify her, she gripped Jane’s fingers and held on, vice-like. She begged Luc not to make his film. She warned him of the repercussions. She repeated, ‘Adrien’, her husband’s name, over and over. Sometimes she seemed to be weeping. ‘It was necessary,’ she murmured.
Jane could follow precious little of the crazed monologue, even when the words were entire and coherent.
The Forgotten Summer Page 34