Before I go. He didn't have to say it. The words were as clear as if he'd spoken aloud.

268.

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. .h.i.t 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. feRosa, too, was only mentioned in pa.s.sing. Jay began to think fethat his suspicions that day were unfounded. He had been,

After all, feverish and in pain. A delusion induced by wasp i

iVenom. 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 jj. 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 III 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 d.y.k.e, 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 270.

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,

r newcomers like him. Not Narcisse. She trusted both of

jhem to some extent. But to leave Rosa with either of them prould be impossible. People would find out. In the village,

othing could remain a secret for long.

y She considered a pension in Agen, a place where Rosa Ipight be left in safety for a while. But that, too, was IShngerous. The child was very young to be left alone. People llffould ask questions. And besides, the thought of Rosa so par away was like a pain in her chest. She needed to be close.

I? Only the Englishman remained. The location was ideal:

lar enough from the village for privacy, but close enough to ;fcer 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 gla.s.s 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.

271.

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 cafe was mournful in the rain, the terra.s.se 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 272.

to pa.s.s 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 p.r.o.ne to flooding.' She looked at him. T have to ask you for help,' she said reluctantly.

Jay thought it was an odd way of putting it. I have to ask you.

'Of course,' he said. 'Anything.'

: Marise sat down stiffly at the table. She was wearing Keans and a green jumper, which brought out the green in Ifcer eyes. She touched the typewriter keys tentatively. Jay jUaw that her nails were cut very short, and that there was jSstt under them.

'You don't have to say yes,' she said. 'It's just an idea I *Go on.'

'Do you write with this?' She touched the typewriter

asgain. 'Your books, I mean?'

1 Jay nodded. 'I always did have a retrogressive streak,' he .'admitted. 'Can't stand computers.'

She smiled. She looked tired, he noticed, her eyes strained and bruised-looking. For the first time, and with a feeling of surprise, he saw her as vulnerable.

'It's Rosa,' she said at last. 'I'm worried she might catch cold - fall ill - if she stays in the house. I wondered if you would perhaps find room for her in your farm for a few days. Only a few days,' she repeated. 'Until I can get the house back into shape. I'll pay you.' She pulled out a bundle 273.

of notes from the pocket of her jeans and pushed them across the table. 'She's a good girl. She wouldn't interfere with your work.'

'I don't want money,' said Jay.

'But I--'

'I'd be happy to take Rosa. You, too, if you like. I have plenty of room for both of you.' She looked at him with an air of bewilderment, as if in surprise that he had given in so easily.

'I can imagine the problems the flooding has caused,' he told her. "You're very welcome to use the farm for as long as you like. If you want to bring some clothes--'

'No,' she said quickly. 'I have too many things to do at home. But Rosa . . .' She swallowed. 'I would be very grateful. If you would.'

Rosa was exploring the room. Jay could see her looking at the pile of typed sheets he had arranged in a box on the end of his bed.

'Is this English?' she enquired curiously. 'Is this your English book?' Jay nodded. 'See if you can find some biscuits in the kitchen,' he told her. The chocolate will be ready soon.' Rosa scampered off through the doorway.

'Can I bring Clopette with me when I come?' she called from the kitchen.

"I don't see why not,' said Jay mildly.

From the other room Rosa gave a crow of triumph. Marise looked at her hands. Her face was careful and expressionless.

Outside the wind rattled the shutters.

'Perhaps you'd like that wine now,' Jay suggested.

55.AND THEN THERE WAS ONE. THE LAST OF JOE'S SPECIALS. NO.

more after that, not ever. As he reached for it in the rack he felt a sudden reluctance to open it, but it was already alive in his hand, black-corded Damson '76, releasing its scent as he touched it, effervescent. Joe made himself scarce, as he often did when Jay had company, but Jay could just see him, standing in the shadows beside the I kitchen door, the light from the table lamp gleaming on his I bald forehead. He was wearing a Grateful Dead T-shirt and holding his pit cap in his hand. His face was little more than a blur, but Jay knew he was smiling.

'I don't know if you'll like it,' said Jay, pouring the wine.

'It's a special kind of home-brew.' The purple scent was

;thick, almost cloying. To Jay it had an aftertaste which I reminded him of the sherbert fountains Gilly had enjoyed

so much. To Marise it was more like a jar of jam which has

remained sealed for too long and has become sugar. The ;*' taste was tannic, penetrating. It warmed her.

'It's strange,' she said through numbed lips. 'But I think I like it.' She sipped again, feeling the heat crawl down her throat and into her body. A scent like distilled sunlight filled the room. To Jay it felt suddenly right that they should drink it together, this last of Joe's bottles. Strange, too, that the taste, though peculiar, should be oddly pleasant. Maybe at last, as Joe had predicted, he was getting used to it.

"I've found the biscuits,' announced Rosa, appearing at the doorway with one in each hand. 'Can I go upstairs and look at my room?'

Jay nodded.

'You do that. I'll call you when the chocolate's ready.'

Marise looked at him. She knew she should feel wary, but instead there was a softness working through her, smoothing away all tension. She felt very young again, as if the scent of the strange wine had released something from her childhood. She remembered a party dress precisely the colour of the wine, a velvet party dress cut down from an old skirt of Memee's, a tune played on the piano, a night sky wide with stars. His eyes were exactly the same colour.

She felt as if she had known him for years.

'Marise,' said Jay quietly. 'You know you can talk to me.'

It was as if she had been dragging something heavy behind her for the past seven years and had only just realized it. It was as simple as that. You can talk to me. Joe's bottle was a hive of secrets, uncoiling like busy vines in the still air, peopling the shadows.

'There's nothing wrong with Rosa's hearing, is there?' It was barely a question. She shook her head. She forced the words out like bullets.

'It was a bad winter. She developed ear infections. There was a complication. She was deaf for six months. I took her to see specialists. There was an operation - very expensive.

I was told not to expect too much.' She drank a little more of Joe's wine. It was rough with sugar. There was a syrupy residue at the bottom of the gla.s.s which tasted like damson jelly. 'I paid for special lessons for her,' she continued. 'I learned sign language and continued to teach her myself.

There was another operation - even more expensive. Within two years ninety per cent of her hearing was restored.'

Jay nodded. 'But why the pretence? Why not simply--'

'Mireille.' Strange that this wine, which should have made her garrulous, should instead have made her terse.

'She's already tried to take her from me. All she has left of Tony, she says. I knew that if she once managed to get hold 276.

of Rosa I'd never get her back. I wanted to stop her. It was the only way I could think of. If she couldn't talk to her, if she thought she was damaged in some way . . .' She swallowed. "Mireille can't bear imperfection. Less than perfect doesn't interest her. That's why when Tony-'

She stopped abruptly.

She should not trust him, Marise thought to herself. The wine was drawing more out of her than she was prepared to give. Wine talks, and talk is dangerous. The last man she had trusted was dead. Everything she touched - the vines, Tony, Patrice - died. Easy enough to believe that it was .something she carried, pa.s.sing it on to everyone with whom she came into contact. But the wine was strong. It rocked her gently in a cradle of scents and memories. It teased out her secrets.

Trust me. The voice from the bottle snickered and crooned. Trust me.

' She poured another gla.s.sful and downed it recklessly.

,y 'I'll tell you,' she said.

277.

*I MET HIM WHEN I WAS TWENTY-ONE,' SHE BEGAN. 'HE WAS MUCH.

older than me. He was a day patient in the psychiatric ward in Nantes hospital, where I was a student nurse. His name was Patrice.'

He was tall and dark, like Jay. He spoke three languages.

He told her he was a lecturer at the Universite de Rennes.

He was divorced. He was funny and wry and wore his depression with style. There was a ladder of cuts up his right wrist from an unsuccessful suicide attempt. He drank. He'd taken drugs. She'd thought he was cured.

Marise did not look up as she spoke of him, but instead watched her hands climb up and down the stem of the winegla.s.s, as if playing a gla.s.s flute.

'At twenty-one you're so eager to find love that you see it in every stranger's face,' she said softly. 'And Patrice was a real stranger. I saw him several times outside the hospital. I slept with him once. That was enough.'

After that he changed almost instantly. As if a steel cage had come down over them, they were trapped together. He became possessive, not in the charming, slightly insecure way which had first attracted her, but in a cold, suspicious manner, which frightened her. He quarrelled with her constantly. He followed her to work and harangued her on the ward. He tried to make up for his rages with lavish presents, which frightened her even more. Finally, he broke into her flat one evening and tried to rape her at knifepoint.

That was it,' she remembered. 'I'd had enough. I played along for a while, then made an excuse to go to the bathroom.

He was full of plans. We were going to go away together to a place he knew in the country, where I'd be safe. That was what he said. Safe.' She shivered.

Marise locked herself in the bathroom and climbed out of the window onto the roof, using the fire escape to reach the street. But by the time the police arrived, Patrice was gone.

She changed the locks on her doors and secured the windows.

'But it didn't stop there. He would park his car outside the flat and watch me all the time. He would have things delivered to my door. Presents. Threats. Flowers.' He was persistent. Over weeks his hara.s.sment escalated. A funeral wreath, delivered to her workplace. The locks forced and the entire flat redecorated in black while she was at work.

A parcel of excrement, gift-wrapped in silver paper, on her birthday. Graffiti on her door. A mountain of unwanted ^mail-order items in her name: fetishwear, farm equipment,

orthopaedic supplies, erotic literature. Little by little her ^courage was eroded. The police were powerless to help. ^Without proof of physical harm, they would have had little 19/ith which to charge him. They called on the address IPatrice had given to the hospital, only to find it was that Df a timber yard outside Nantes. No-one there had even fceard of him.

' 'Finally I moved out,' she said. 'I left the flat and bought a ticket to Paris. I changed my name. I rented a little apart

ment in Rue de la Jonquiere, and I found a job in a clinic in jiMarne-la-Vallee. I thought I was safe.' ( It took him eight months to find her.

'He used my medical records,' explained Marise. 'He must have managed to talk someone at the hospital into giving them to him. He could be very persuasive. Very plausible.'

She moved again, changed her name again and dyed her hair. For six months she worked as a waitress in a bar in Avenue de Clichy before finding another nursing job. She 279.

tried to erase herself from all official doc.u.mentation. She allowed her medical insurance to lapse and did not transfer her records. She cancelled her credit card and paid all her bills in cash. This time it took Patrice almost a year to find her new address.

He had changed in a year. He had shaved his head and wore army surplus clothes. His siege of her flat had all the precision of a military campaign. There were no more practical jokes, no unwanted pizzas or begging notes.