'OK. If that's what you want, I'll keep people away. I'll slow 187.

things down. What do I tell Kerry? She's been on the phone to me every other day, demanding to know what--'

'You definitely don't tell Kerry,' Jay told him urgently.

'She's the last person I want over here.'

'Oho,' said Nick.

'What do you mean?'

'Been doing a bit of cherchez la femme, have you?' He sounded amused. 'Checking out the talent?'

'No.'

'You sure?'

'Positive.'

It was true, he thought. He had hardly thought about Marise in weeks. Besides, the woman who first strode out across the pages of his book was a far cry from the recluse across the fields. It was her story he was interested in.

At Nick's insistence, he gave him Josephine's number in case he needed to pa.s.s on an urgent message. Again, Nick asked when he would be able to see the rest of the ma.n.u.script.

Jay couldn't tell him. He didn't even want to think about it. He already felt uncomfortable that Nick had shown it unfinished without his permission, even though he was only doing his job. He put down the phone to find that Josephine had already brought over a fresh pot of coffee to his table. Roux and Poitou were sitting there with Popotte, the postwoman. Jay knew a moment's complete disorientation. London had never seemed so far away before.

He came home as usual, across the fields. It had rained during the night and the path was slippery, the hedges dripping. He skirted the road and followed the river to the border of Marise's land, enjoying the silence and the rain- heavy trees. There was no sign of Marise in the vineyard.

Jay could see a small blur of smoke above the chimney of the other farm, but that was the only movement. Even the birds were silent. He was planning to cross the river at its narrowest, shallowest point, where Marise's land joined his. On either side there was a swell of banking topped by trees; a screen of fruit trees on her side and a messy tangle of hawthorn and elder on his. He noticed, as he pa.s.sed, that the red ribbons he had tied to the branches had gone blown away by the wind again, most likely. He would have to find a better way of securing them. The river flattened and shallowed out at that point, and when it rained the water spread out, making islands of the clumps of reeds and digging the red soil of the riverbank to make extravagant shapes, which the sun baked hard as clay. There were stepping stones at this crossing place, worn shiny by the river and the pa.s.sage of many feet, though only he pa.s.sed here now. At least, so he thought.

But when he reached the crossing place there was a girl squatting precariously by the riverbank, poking a stick at the silent water. At her side a small brown goat stared placidly. The movement he made alerted the child, and she stiffened. Eyes as bright and curious as the goat's fixed on him.

For a moment they stared at each other, she frozen to the spot, eyes wide; Jay transfixed with an overwhelming sense of deJ'd vu.

It was Gilly.

She was wearing an orange pullover and green trousers rolled up to her knees. Her discarded shoes lay a short distance away in the gra.s.s. To her side lay a red rucksack, its mouth gaping. The necklace of knotted red ribbons around her neck solved the mystery of what had been happening to Jay's talismans.

Looking at her more closely he could see now that she wasn't Gilly after all. The curly hair was more chestnut than red, and she was young, surely no more than eight or nine, but all the same, the resemblance was more than striking. She had the same vivid, freckled face, wide mouth, suspicious green eyes. She had the same way of looking, the same knee c.o.c.ked out at an angle. Not Gilly, no, but so like her that it caught at the heart. Jay understood that this must be Rosa.

189.

She fixed him with a long unsmiling stare, then grabbed for her shoes and fled. The goat shied nervously and danced across towards Jay, stopping briefly to chew at the straps of the abandoned rucksack. The girl moved as quickly as the goat, using her hands to pull herself up the slippery banking towards the fence.

'Wait!' Jay called after her. She ignored him. Quick as a weasel she was up the banking, only turning then to poke out her tongue at him in mute challenge.

'Wait!' Jay held out his hands to show her he meant no harm. 'It's all right. Don't run away.'

The girl stared at him, whether in curiosity or hostility he couldn't tell, her head slightly to one side, as if in concentration.

There was no way of knowing whether she had understood.

'h.e.l.lo, Rosa,' said Jay.

The child just stared.

'I'm Jay. I live over there.' He pointed to the farm, just visible behind the trees.

She was not looking directly at him, he noticed, but at something slightly to the left and down from where he was standing. Her posture was tense, ready to pounce. Jay felt in his pocket for something to give her - a sweet, perhaps, or a biscuit - but all he could find was his lighter. It was a Bic, made of cheap coloured plastic, and it shone in the sun.

'You can have this, if you like,' he suggested, holding it out across the water. The child did not react. Maybe she couldn't lip-read, he told himself.

On his side of the riverbank the goat bleated and b.u.t.ted gently against his legs. Rosa glanced at him, then at the goat, with a mixture of scorn and anxiety. He noticed her eyes kept moving back to the discarded rucksack, abandoned by the side of the river. He bent down and picked it up. The goat transferred its interest from Jay's legs to the sleeve of his shirt with unnerving rapidity. He held out the rucksack.

'Is this yours?'

On the far bank the girl took a step forwards.

'It's all right.' }ay spoke slowly, in case she coul^ read, and smiled. 'Look. I'll bring it over.' He made stepping stones, holding the heavy rucksack in hi The goat watched him with a cynical expression. Ha as he was with the rucksack his approach was cluij looked up to smile at the girl, lost his footing on slippery stone, skidded and almost fell. The goat, was following him curiously across the stones, nudg unexpectedly, and Jay took a blind step forwarc landed squarely in the swollen river.

Rosa and the goat watched in silence. Both seeme grinning.

'd.a.m.n.' Jay tried wading back to the bank. The: more current than he had expected, and he moved enly across the river stones, his boots skidding in th The rucksack seemed to be the only dry thing on his ]

Rosa grinned again.

The expression transformed her. It was a cu: sunny, sudden grin, her teeth very white in her d face. She laughed almost soundlessly, stamping he feet on the gra.s.s in a pantomime of mirth. Then she ^ again, picking up her shoes and clambering up the towards the orchard. The goat followed her, ni affectionately at a dangling shoelace. As they n the top, Rosa turned and waved, though whetht was a gesture of defiance or affection Jay could no When she had gone he realized he still had her rue On opening it he found inside a number of items child could treasure: a jar of snails, some pieces of river stones, string and a number of the red tali; carefully tied together with their ribbons to form a garland. Jay replaced all the treasures inside the ba; he hung the rucksack up on a gatepost close to the he the same place he had hung the dragon's head a fo earlier. He was sure Rosa would find it.

191.

I HAVEN'T SEEN HER FOR MONTHS,' SAID JOSEPHINE LATER IN THE.

cafe. 'Marise doesn't send her to school any more. It's a pity.

A little girl like that needs friends.' Jay nodded.

'She used to go to the village playgroup,' remembered Josephine. 'She must have been three, maybe a little younger.

She could still talk a little then, but I don't think she could hear anything.'

'Oh?' Jay was curious. 'I thought she was born deaf.'

Josephine shook her head. 'No. It was some kind of infection. It was the year Tony died. A bad winter. The river flooded again, and half of Marise's fields were underwater for three months. Plus there was that business with the police . . .'

Jay looked at her enquiringly.

'Oh yes. Ever since Tony died Mireille has been trying to pin the blame on Marise. There'd been some kind of a quarrel, she said. Tony would never have killed himself.

She tried to make out there was another man, or something, that together they'd conspired to murder Tony.' She shook her head, frowning. 'Mireille was half out of her mind,' she said. 'I think she would have said anything. Of course, it never came to that. The police came round, asked some questions, went away. I think they had the measure of Mireille by then. But she spent the next three or four years writing letters, campaigning, pet.i.tioning. Someone came round once or twice, that's all. But nothing came of it.

She's been spreading rumours that Marise keeps the child locked up in a back room, or something.'

'I don't think that's true.' The vivid, dappled child Jay had seen gave no impression of having ever been shut up in a back room.

Josephine shrugged. 'No, I don't think so either,' she said.

'But by that time the damage was done. Gangs of people gathering at the gate of the farm and across the river. Do- gooders, for the most part, harmless enough, but Marise wasn't to know that, holed up in her house, with torches burning outside and people letting off firecrackers and throwing stones at the shutters.' She shook her the time things settled down it was too late,' she e 'She was already convinced everyone was against then when Rosa disappeared . . .'

Josephine poured a measure of cognac into hei suppose she thought we were all in it. You can't h in a village, and everybody knew that Mireille 1 staying with her. The child was three then, ar thought they must have made it up between them s and Rosa was there for a visit. Of course, Caro ( knew otherwise, and so did a few others, Joline E was her best friend at the time, and Cussonnet tl But the rest of us ... well, no-one asked. People that after what had happened perhaps they ough their own business. And no-one really knew N course.'

'She doesn't make it easy,' observed Jay.

'Rosa was missing for about three days. Mir tried taking her out of the house once. The first i didn't last long. You could hear her screaming rij to Les Marauds. Whatever else was wrong with had a good pair of lungs. Nothing would make her not sweets, or presents, or fussing, or shouting.

tried - Caro, Joline, Toinette - but still the child stop screaming. Finally Mireille got worried and ( doctor. They put their heads together and took specialist in Agen. It just wasn't normal for a chilc to scream all the time. They thought she was distu]

perhaps she'd been mistreated in some way.' She Then Marise came to pick up Rosa from the playg]

found that the doctor and Mireille had taken hei instead. I've never seen anyone so angry. She folloi on her moped, but all she could find out was tha had taken Rosa to some kind of hospital. For tests, I don't know what they were trying to prove.'

She shrugged again. 'If she'd been anyone else i have counted on help from the village,' she said. 'B'

193.

-- never says a word unless she has to, never smiles -- I suppose people just minded their own business. That's all it was really; there was no malice in it. She wanted to be left alone, and that's what people did. Not that anyone really knew where Mireille had taken Rosa - except maybe Caro Clairmont. Oh, we heard all kinds of stories. But that was afterwards. How Marise stamped into Cussonnet's surgery with a shotgun and marched him out to the car. To hear people talking you'd think half of Lansquenet saw that. It's always the same, h.e.l.lI All I can say is, I wasn't there. And though Rosa was back at home before the end of that week, we never saw her in the village again - not in the school, or even at the firework display on the fourteenth of July, or the chocolate festival at Easter.' Josephine drained her coffee abruptly and wiped her hands on her ap.r.o.n. 'So that was that,' she concluded with an air of finality. That was the last we saw of Marise and Rosa. I see them from time to time - perhaps once a month or so - on the road to Agen or walking to Narcisse's nursery, or in the field across the river. But that's all. She hasn't forgiven the village for what happened after Tony's death, or for taking sides, or for turning a blind eye when Rosa disappeared. You can't tell her it was nothing to do with you; she won't believe it.'

Jay nodded. It was underslandable. 'It must be a lonely life for them,' he said. Thinking of Maggie and Gilly, of the way they always managed to make friends wherever they went, trading and fixing and doing odd jobs to make ends meet, always on the move, fielding insults and prejudice with the same cheery defiance. How different was this dour, suspicious woman from Joe's friends of Nether Edge.

And yet the child looked so very like Gilly. He checked for the rucksack on his way back to the farm, but, as he expected, il had already been removed. Only the dragon's hi'rid remained, still lolling its long crepe tongue, now embellished with ;i garland of fluttering red ribbons, which sat jauntily on the thick green mane. Coming closer,

ay noticed that the stump of a clay pipe had been carefully positioned between the dragon's teeth, from which a dandelion clock protruded. And as he pa.s.sed, hiding a grin, he was almost sure he saw something move in the hedge next to him, a brief flash of orange under the new green, and heard the impudent bleating of a goat in the distance.

195.

LATER, OVER HIS FAVOURITE GRAND CREME IN THE CAFE DES.

Marauds, he was listening with half an ear to Josephine as she told him the story of the village's first chocolate festival and the resistance with which it had been met by the church. The coffee was good, sprinkled with shavings of dark chocolate and with a cinnamon biscuit by the side of the cup. Narcisse was sitting opposite with his usual seed catalogue and a cofe-ca.s.sis. In the III afternoons the place was busier, but Jay noticed that the clientele still consisted mainly of old men, playing chess or cards and talking in their low rapid patois. In the evening it would be full of workers back from the fields and the farms. He wondered where the young people went at night.

'Not many young people stay here,' Josephine explained.

There isn't the work, unless you want to go into farming.

And most of the farms have been divided so often between all the family's sons that there isn't much of a livelihood left for anyone.'

'Always the sons,' said Jay. 'Never the daughters.'

'There aren't many women who'd want to run a farm in Lansquenet,' said Josephine, shrugging. 'And some of the growers and distributors don't like the idea of working for a woman.'

Jay gave a short laugh.

Josephine looked at him. 'You don't believe that?'

He shook his head. 'It's hard for me to understand,' he explained. 'In London--'

'This isn't London.' Josephine seemed amused. 'People hold close to their traditions here. The church. The family.

The land. That's why so many of the young people leave.

They want what they read about in their magazines. They want the cities, cars, clubs, shops. But there are always some who stay. And some who come back.'

She poured another cafe-creme and smiled. 'There was a time when I would have given anything to get out of Lansquenet,' she said. 'Once I even set off. Packed my bags and left home.'

'What happened?'

'I stopped on the way for a cup of hot chocolate.' She laughed. "And then I realized I couldn't leave. I'd never really wanted to in the first place.' She paused to pick up some empty gla.s.ses from a nearby table. 'When you've lived here long enough you'll understand. After a time, people find it hard to leave a place like Lansquenet. It isn't just a village. The houses aren't just places to live. Everything belongs to everybody. Everyone belongs to everyone else.

Even a single person can make a difference.'

He nodded. It was what had first attracted him to Pog Hill Lane. The comings and goings. The conversations over the wall. The exchange of recipes, of baskets of fruit and bottles of wine. The constant presence of other people.

While Joe was still there Pog Hill Lane stayed alive. Everything died with his departure. Suddenly he envied Josephine her life, her friends, her view over Les Marauds. Her memories.

'What about me?' he wondered. 'Will I make a difference?''Of course.'

He hadn't realized he had spoken aloud.

'Everyone knows about you, Jay. Everyone asks me about you. It takes a little time for someone to be accepted here.

People need to know if you're going to stay. They don't 197.

want to give themselves to someone who won't stay. And some of them are afraid.'

'Of what?'

'Change. It may seem ridiculous to you, but most of us like the village the way it is. We don't want to be like Montauban or Le Pinot. We don't want tourists pa.s.sing through, buying up the houses at high prices and leaving the place dead in the winter. Tourists are like a plague of wasps. They get everywhere. They eat everything. They'd clean us out in a year. There'd be nothing of us left but guest houses and games arcades. Lansquenet - the real Lansquenet -- would disappear.'

She shook her head. 'People are watching you, Jay. They see you so friendly with Caro and Georges Clairmont, and they think perhaps you and they . . .' She hesitated. Then they see Mireille Faizande going to visit you, and they think how perhaps you might be planning to buy the other farm, next year, when the lease expires.'

'Marise's farm? Why should I want to do that?' he asked, curious.

'Whoever owns it controls all the land down to the river.

The fast road to Toulouse is only a few kilometres away.

Easy enough to develop. To build. It's happened before, in other places.'

'Not here. Not me.' Jay looked at her evenly. 'I'm here to write, that's all. To finish my book. That's all I'm interested in.'

Josephine nodded, satisfied. 'I know. But you were asking so many questions about her. I thought perhaps--''No!'

Narcisse shot him a curious glance from behind his seed catalogue.