Before I go. He didn’t have to say it. The words were as clear as if he’d spoken aloud.
53
STILL THE RAIN CONTINUED UNRELENTING. ODDLY, THE TEMPERATURE remained high and the wind was hot and unrefreshing. At night there were often storms, with lightning dancing on stilts across the horizon and ominous red lights in the sky. A church in Montauban was hit by lightning and burnt down. Since the incident with the wasps’ nest Jay wisely kept away from the river. In any case, it was dangerous, Marise told him. The banks, sharply eroded by the current, had a habit of slicing away into the slipstream. Easy to fall, to drown. Accidents happen. She did not mention Tony in their conversations. When Jay touched on the subject she shied away. Rosa, too, was only mentioned in passing. Jay began to think that his suspicions that day were unfounded. He had been, after all, feverish and in pain. A delusion induced by wasp venom. Why should Marise deceive him? Why should Rosa? In any case, Marise was preoccupied. The rain had ruined the maize, working wet fingers of rot into the ripening ears. The sunflowers were soft and heavy with water, their heads bowed or broken. But the vines were the biggest disaster. On 13 September the Tannes finally broke its banks and flooded the vineyard. The top end of the field suffered less because of the sharp incline, but the lower end was a foot below water. Other farmers suffered, too, but it was Marise, with her marshy pastures, who was the worst affected. Standing pools of rainwater surrounded the house. Two goats were lost in the flood water from the Tannes. She had to bring the remaining goats into the barn to avoid further damage to the ground, but the fodder was wet and unappetizing, the roof began to leak and the stores were suffering from damp.
She told no-one of her predicament. It was a habit with her, a matter of pride. Even Jay, who could see some of the damage, did not guess at the full extent. The house was in the hollow, below the vineyard. Water from the Tannes now stood around it like a lake. The kitchen was flooded. She used a broom to sweep the water from the flags. But it always returned. The cellar was knee-deep in water. The oak barrels had to be moved, one by one, to safety. The electricity generator, which was housed in one of the small outbuildings, short-circuited and failed. The rain continued unabated. Finally Marise contacted her builder in Agen. She ordered fifty thousand francs’ worth of drainage pipes, and asked for them to be delivered as soon as possible. She planned to use the existing drainage channels to install a system of piping, which would channel the water away from the house and back towards the marshes, where it would drain away naturally into the Tannes. A bank of earth, like a dyke, would be raised to give some protection to the farmhouse. But it would be difficult. The builder was unable to spare any of his workers until November – there was a big project to finish in Le Pinot – and she refused to enlist Clairmont’s help. Even if she asked, he would be unlikely to help her. And besides, she did not want him on her land. To call him in would be to admit defeat. She began the job herself, digging out channels while she waited for the delivery of pipes. It was a slow business, like digging war trenches. She told herself that it was indeed a war, herself against the rain, the land, the people. The thought cheered her a little. It was romantic.
On 15 September Marise took another decision. Until now Rosa had slept with Clopette, in her little room under the eaves of the house. But now, with no electricity and hardly any dry firewood, she had little choice. The child must leave.
The last time the Tannes flooded, Rosa contracted the infection which had left her deaf in both ears. She was three then, and there was no-one to whom Marise could send her. They had slept together in the room under the eaves for a whole winter, with the fire gouting black smoke and rain streaming down the panes. The child developed abscesses in both ears and screamed incessantly during the night. Nothing, not even penicillin, seemed to offer any relief. Never again, Marise told herself. This time Rosa must go away until the rain stopped, until the generator could be fixed, until the drainage could be put into place. This rain would not last for ever. Its end was already overdue. Even now, if the work could be completed, some of the crop might be salvaged.
There was no choice. Rosa must go away for a few days. But not to Mireille. Marise felt her heart tighten at the thought of Mireille. Who, then? No-one from the village. She did not trust any of them. Mireille spread the rumours, yes. But everyone listened. Well, maybe not everyone. Not Roux, or newcomers like him. Not Narcisse. She trusted both of them to some extent. But to leave Rosa with either of them would be impossible. People would find out. In the village, nothing could remain a secret for long.
She considered a pension in Agen, a place where Rosa might be left in safety for a while. But that, too, was dangerous. The child was very young to be left alone. People would ask questions. And besides, the thought of Rosa so far away was like a pain in her chest. She needed to be close.
Only the Englishman remained. The location was ideaclass="underline" far enough from the village for privacy, but close enough to her own farm for her to see Rosa every day. He could make up a room for Rosa in one of the old bedrooms. Marise remembered a blue room under the south gable, which must have been Tony’s, a child’s bed shaped like a boat, a blue glass ball which was a lamp. It would only be for a few days, maybe a week or two. She would pay him. It was the only solution.
54
SHE ARRIVED UNANNOUNCED ONE EVENING. JAY HADN’T SPOKEN to her for several days. In fact, he hadn’t really gone out, except to the village to buy bread. The café was mournful in the rain, the terrasse reverting to a road as the tables and chairs were taken in, rain dripping steadily from parasols bleached colourless by the weather. In Les Marauds the Tannes had begun to stink, hot foul waves rolling off the marshes towards the village. Even the gypsies moved on, taking their houseboats to calmer, sweeter waters. Arnauld was talking about calling in a weatherworker to solve the rain problem – there were still a few in this part of the country – and the idea met with less scorn than it would have a few weeks before. Narcisse scowled and shook his head and repeated that he had never seen anything like it. Nothing in living memory even came close.
It was nearly ten o’clock. Marise was wearing a yellow slicker. Rosa was standing behind her in her sky-blue mac and red boots. Rain silvered their faces. Behind them the sky was a dull orange, occasionally lit by the dim flare of distant lightning. Wind shook the trees.
‘What’s wrong?’ Their appearance surprised Jay so much that at first he didn’t even think to invite them in. ‘Has something happened?’
Marise shook her head.
‘Come in, please. You must be freezing.’ Jay cast an automatic glance behind him. The room was tidy enough to pass muster. Only a few empty coffee cups littered the table. He caught Marise looking curiously at his bed in the corner. Even after the roof had been fixed he’d never quite got round to moving it.
‘I’ll make you a drink,’ he suggested. ‘Here, take your coats off.’ He hung their slickers in the kitchen to drip and put on some water to boil. ‘Coffee? Chocolate? Wine?’
‘Some chocolate for Rosa, thank you,’ said Marise. ‘Our electricity is down. The generator shorted.’
‘Jesus.’
‘It doesn’t matter.’ Her voice was calm and businesslike. ‘I can fix it. We’ve had this kind of problem before. The marshland is very prone to flooding.’ She looked at him. ‘I have to ask you for help,’ she said reluctantly.
Jay thought it was an odd way of putting it. I have to ask you.