Peaches for Monsieur Le Curé by Joanne Harris Page A

Remember, I came to see Armande’s house.’
    Of course. I had forgotten. ‘It’s empty. It still belongs to the Clairmont boy. He didn’t want to sell it – but I don’t see him living there, either.’
    Vianne was looking thoughtful. ‘I wonder if he’d let us stay? Just for a few days, while we’re here? We’d look after the place, clean it up, tidy up the garden—’
    I shrugged. ‘Perhaps. But—’
    ‘Good,’ she said.
    Just like that. Decided. Almost as if she’d never been gone. I had to smile – and I am not a man who smiles easily or often.
    I said: ‘At least take a look at the house. For all you know, it’s falling down.’
    ‘It isn’t falling down,’ she said.
    I had no doubt that she was right. Luc Clairmont would never have let his grandmother’s house go to ruin. I surrendered to the inevitable.
    ‘She used to leave the door keys under a flowerpot in the yard. They’re probably still there,’ I said.
    I was not at all certain that I should be encouraging her to stay, but the thought of Vianne Rocher back in Lansquenet, even now, at this difficult time, seemed almost irresistible.
    Vianne herself seemed unsurprised. Perhaps her life is always like this; solutions to her troubles offering themselves like suitors for her favour. Mine is as painfully intricate as a ball of razor-wire, where movement in any direction may cut. I wonder whether I shall be cut during this little interlude. I think it very likely I shall.
    Vianne Rocher smiled at me.
    ‘Oh, and one more thing—’ she said.
    I sighed.
    ‘Do you like peaches?’

CHAPTER ELEVEN

    Sunday, 15th August
    LES MARAUDS. THAT’S where trouble starts. Les Marauds, where it all began. That’s where I first met Armande, walking by her little house. That’s where the trouble always starts; it’s where the river-rats moored their boats; where Anouk used to play with Pantoufle along the reedy banks of the Tannes. And it’s where Armande told me to go, if only I’d been thinking clearly.
    There used to be a peach tree growing up the side of my house. If you come in summertime, the fruit should be ripe and ready to pick .
    It was – an elderly peach tree, its limbs half calcified with age, its dagger-shaped leaves scorched by the sun. But she was right – the fruit was ripe. I picked three, still warm from the sun and downy as a baby’s head. I handed one to Anouk, then Rosette. Then I gave one to Reynaud.
    The scent of peaches was all around; a sleepy, end-of-summer scent that seemed to leave a glow in the air like a trace of sunset. Armande’s little house is on a rise, slightly apart from the rest of Les Marauds, and from this vantage point we could see down towards the river. There were lights along the boulevard; they shone on the water like fireflies. Already we could hear the quiet sounds of the evening: voices; sounds of pots and pans; children playing in back yards; crickets and frogs by the water’s edge as the birds fell silent.
    Anouk had found the back-door key where Armande had always left it; but the door was already unlocked, like so many doors in Lansquenet. The gas and electricity have both been cut off, but there’s Armande’s range if we want to cook, and a pile of logs at the back of the house. There’s linen in the cupboard and woollen blankets in lemon, rose, vanilla and blue. There’s a double bed in Armande’s room, a folding cot in the room upstairs and a sofa in the living room. I’ve stayed in worse places.
    ‘I really like it here,’ said Anouk.
    ‘Bam,’ agreed Rosette affably.
    ‘Then it’s settled,’ I told them. ‘We’ll stay the night, and talk to Luc in the morning.’
    Reynaud was still holding his peach, looking stiff and awkward. His sense of correctness is so pronounced that he would rather have slept in a ditch than use an empty house without the formal permission of the owner. As for the peaches, I had no doubt that by his standards they too were stolen, and he looked at me