Peaches for Father Francis (9781101601259) by Harris Joanne

Author:Harris, Joanne
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Penguin USA
Published: 2012-09-05T00:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER FIVE

Tuesday, 24th August

Nothing stays secret for very long. not in lansquenet, any- way. I haven’t been out of my house for two days, but already the whispers have started. I can’t lay the blame on Joséphine, or even on Pilou. I know. It started this morning, when Charles Lévy came round again to complain about his missing cat.

Through the tiniest crack in the door, I told him that I was feeling unwell. But Charles Lévy was undeterred. Kneeling on the doorstep, he addressed me through the letter-box, his voice shaking with suppressed emotion.

‘It’s Henriette Moisson, père. She takes my Otto into her house. She feeds him, and she calls him Tati. Doesn’t that count as abduction, or false imprisonment, or something?’

I answered him from behind the door: ‘Don’t you think you’re taking all this a little too personally?’

‘The woman has stolen my cat, père. How else should I take it?’

I tried to explain. ‘She’s lonely, that’s all. Perhaps if you tried to talk to her—’

‘I have tried! She denies it! She says she hasn’t seen the cat. She claims she hasn’t seen him for days, but the whole of her cottage smells of fish—’

My head was aching. My bruised ribs hurt. I was in no mood for this.

‘Monsieur Lévy!’ I yelled through the door. ‘Did not the Good Lord tell us to love thy neighbour as thyself? Am I mistaken, or did he mean us instead to complain as much as we possibly can about our neighbours and, using the most flimsy of excuses, spread discord throughout the neighbourhood? Would Jesus have begrudged a lonely old woman the occasional use of his cat?’

There was a silence from outside. Then a voice came through the slot: ‘I’m sorry, mon père. I didn’t think.’

‘Ten Avés.’

‘Yes, mon père.’

After that, word quickly spread that Monsieur le Curé was taking confession through his letter-box. Gilles Dumarin came calling next, ostensibly to ask about a donation to the church flower fund, but in fact for advice about his mother. Then came Henriette Moisson, for absolution of a sin committed when I was not yet in embryo. Then Guillaume Duplessis, to ask me if I needed anything. Then Joline Drou, to report to Caro that something strange was going on. Then Caro herself, disdaining pretence, who flatly accused me (through the door) of having something to hide.

Sitting on the doormat, I said: ‘Caro. Go away. Please.’

‘Not until you tell me what’s going on,’ said Caro in a ringing voice. ‘Have you been drinking? Is that it?’

‘Of course not.’

‘Then open the door!’

When I refused to comply, she left, but returned this evening with Père Henri. I considered pretending to be out, but when Caro came to the window and started peering through the shutters, I knew that this time she would not give up.

I opened the door.

‘Good heavens, Francis!’

Yes, Henri. I know what it looks like. Most of the damage is superficial, of course, but even so, it is impressive. For a moment I found myself taking a certain enjoyment in their expressions of disbelief.

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