I’d wondered how long it would take him to arrive.
He considered us for a time, smiling. A guarded smile, proprietary, benevolent; the lord of the manor welcomes inopportune guests. I could feel him very conscious of my wet and dirty overalls, my hair caught up in a red scarf, my bare feet in their dripping sandals.
“Good morning.” There was a rivulet of scummy water heading for his highly polished black shoe. I saw his eyes flick towards it and back towards me. “Francis Reynaud,” he said, discreetly sidestepping. “Cure of the parish.”
I laughed at that; I couldn’t help it.
“Oh, that’s it,” I said maliciously. “I thought you were with the carnival.”
Polite laughter; heh, heh, heh.
I held out a yellow plastic glove.
“Vianne Rocker. And the bombardier back there is my daughter Anouk.”
Sounds of soap explosions, and of Anouk fighting Pantoufle on the stairs. I could hear the priest waiting for details of Monsieur Rocker. So much easier to have everything on a piece of paper, everything official, avoid this uncomfortable, messy conversation.
“I suppose you are very busy this morning.”
I suddenly felt sorry for him, trying so hard, straining to make contact. Again the forced smile.
“Yes, we really need to get this place in order as soon as possible. It’s going to take time! But we wouldn’t have been at church this morning anyway, Monsieur le Curé. We don’t attend, you know.”
It was kindly meant, to show him where we stood, to reassure him; but he looked startled, almost insulted.
“I see.”
It was too direct. He would have liked us to dance a little, to circle each other like wary cats.
“But it’s very kind, of you to welcome us,” I continued brightly. “You might even be able to help us make a few friends here.”
He is a little like a cat himself, I notice; cold, light eyes which never hold the gaze, a restless watchfulness, studied, aloof.
“I’ll do anything I can.” He is indifferent now he knows we are not to be members of his flock. And yet his conscience pushes him to offer more than he is willing to give. “Have you anything in mind?”
“Well, we could do with some help here,” I suggested. “Not you, of course”– quickly, as he began to reply. “But perhaps you know someone who could do with the extra money? A plasterer, someone who might be able to help with the decorating?”
This was surely safe territory.
“I can’t think of anyone.” He is guarded, more so than anyone I have ever met. “But I’ll ask around.”
Perhaps he will. He knows his duty to the new arrival. But I know he will not find anyone. His is not, a nature which grants favours graciously. His eyes flicked warily to the pile of bread and salt by the door.
“For luck.” I smiled, but his face was stony. He skirted the little offering as if it offended him.
“Maman?” Anouk’s head appeared in the doorway, hair standing out in crazy spikes. “Pantoufle wants to play outside. Can we?”
I nodded.
“Stay in the garden.” I wiped a smudge of dirt from the bridge of her nose. “You look a complete urchin.” I saw her glance at the priest and caught her comical look just in time. “This is Monsieur Reynaud, Anouk. Why don’t you say hello?”
“Hello!” shouted Anouk on the way to the door. “Goodbye!”
A blur of yellow jumper and red overalls and she was gone, her feet skidding manically on the greasy tiles. Not for the first time, I was almost sure I saw Pantoufle disappearing in her wake, a darker smudge against the dark lintel.
