jeudi
Thursday
Lily leaves her mum packing at the hotel and continues the short way along Rue de la Bastille to Apartment block 316-325.
Pascale waits outside, on the spot usually reserved by Madame Claude’s kitchen chair. She holds flowers. ‘How are you?’ she asks.
‘OK,’ Lily says. ‘Mademoiselle Chandris took breakfast with us at eight.’
‘Mireille is amazing,’ Pascale replies.
Madame Claude’s chair is visible through the glass. ‘Maman passed on more news about Didier to his grandmother,’ Pascale says. ‘ The boy is expected to make a good recovery. He’ll stay at his great aunt’s house on the Loire. Just until they need to recall him.’
‘Thank God,’ Lily says.
They cross the road side-by-side. Lily’s step lightens.
‘Marc-Olivier was allowed home,’ Pascale says. ‘Superficial injuries. He may be left with a scar or two.’
‘Monsieur et Madame Morneau will be relieved,’ Lily answers.
‘It will not be the end,’ Pascale says. ‘The police will prosecute if they have evidence of Marc’s participation.’
‘Do you think he was in on it?’
Pascale shakes her head. ‘I think it was close.’
Lily allows herself a furtive glance at the Bar Tabac. An elderly man sits at one of its pavement tables, his cup steaming against the backdrop of the boarded shop front.
‘The same for Luc and the others who were here on Monday?’ Lily asks.
‘Oui, ça dépend,’ Pascale replies.
‘It depends on the cctv evidence?’ Lily says.
‘For sure. And on Madame Claude’s statement of what she saw. For Thierry too.’
The girls slip through the Allée des Artisans and emerge in the more tranquil setting of a churchyard, with its trees bending to brush against their shoulders – its patterned landscape of stone and grass stretching out as far as Lily can see.
They step on a freshly cut area of lawn.
‘Whatever happens, Papa would be proud of Thierry’s spirit,’ Pascale says, stooping to lay the flowers on a grave. ‘Proud he is accepting help.’ Pascale runs her fingertips over the script on the gravestone.
Louis Philippe Martin
1971-2003
Vainqueur des Flammes
‘Victorious from the flames,’ Lily reads from the stone. ‘Is this the translation?’
‘Yes,’ Pascale replies. ‘Rising victorious. This is how we think of him.’
‘It’s beautiful,’ Lily says.
‘Jean and Papa rushed into the burning warehouse to look for Raymond Claude.’ Pascale runs her hand into her curls, her face appears strained. ‘Jean scoured the ground floor of the Le Maître d’Or building, Papa took the first floor. When Papa found Claude, drunk to the eyeballs, unable to stand, he hauled him out of a window. Claude lived. Papa didn’t have the strength to survive the smoke coming down.’
Tears sting the corners of Lily’s eyes. She wipes the moisture from her skin.
‘The dealer Devaux stumbled out of the building before anyone. He tried to run but he weighed himself down with a holdall. Jean shouted, taking aim,’ she said. ‘Devaux turned and shot first. Jean fired a warning shot at a silo. A moment later the flames from the burning warehouse caught hold of a gas canister. It exploded close to Devaux. Witnesses from the clothing factory verified.’
‘Then I understand.’ Lily hugs Pascale tight, feeling the tension in her friend’s body. ‘I’m so sorry,’ she whispers.
Pascale’s voice is hushed: ‘It is good for me to talk about it. Thierry struggles with understanding why Papa took the risk. We all do. Jean included. But life is about understanding the most complicated things.’
Lily nods into Pascale’s shoulder.
They amble, making a circuit of the graveyard and passing a man taking the heads from tired roses. He stretches his hand to his back in obvious relief, acknowledging them with a nod of his beret.
‘Monsieur Albert,’ Pascale says.
‘Bonjour Pascale,’ Monsieur Albert responds. ‘J’ai vu ta mère. Elle m’a dit que Thierry va mieux.’
‘Oui, Monsieur. Il va mieux. Chez nous.’
‘Grace à Dieu,’ Monsieur Albert says, making the sign of the cross with his gloved hand.
Does Thierry come to visit with you?’ Lily asks when they have passed by Monsieur Albert’s wheelbarrow.
‘No,’ Pascale replies. ‘He cannot face it. Not since the burial. It’s too much. Maman tells me when he comes here it will be his start.
For the first time, Lily sees joy casting colour across Pascale’s face. ‘Thierry is spending time with Jean, and Jean will work hard to make things right.’ Pascale says. ‘Jean is a good man despite what people say.’
‘He has a tough job.’
‘Oui. A tough outlook.’ Pascale halts as they pass the grave a second time. ‘He has been with the police for a long time.’
‘And you have grown up with it,’ Lily says. ‘You are brave. About everything.’
‘It’s how anyone would be,’ Pascale replies.
Madame Briac sits at the side of the monument with her glasses perched on top of her hair and a full face of make-up. She rises to brush her lips either side of Lily’s cheeks. ‘We may have to call you at home,’ she whispers.
‘Of course,’ Lily replies.
Another car arrives and parks in the Place Gilbert. Madame Briac pulls herself away to speak with Madame Morneau and Lily’s mum. The women converse in a mix of languages.
‘It’s sad we’re leaving early. I’m not certain South Bridingworth is prepared.’ Flora says, carrying her bag from one estate car to another.
‘We can talk as we travel. Mrs Kite will see to it that we can come back. She’s quick off the mark on these things.’ Lily tries hard not to give away her sarcasm.
‘Yeah, I wanna come back,’ Flora pipes up.
‘Another five minutes, girls,’ Lily’s mum calls.
‘To be honest, right now I’d like to see my parents,’ Flora says.
Lily smiles.
Camille runs from the boulangerie and thrusts a cellophane packet of brioches into Flora’s hands. ‘For the journey,’ she says. ‘I am taking some to Marc.’
‘Marc-Olivier will be all right, won’t he?’ Flora asks.
‘I don’t know,’ Camille replies. ‘Papa says he is certainly not blameless.’
Pascale says, ‘it is a pity.’
‘He is tough, and he will learn,’ Camille replies. ‘If he makes it to the army, I hope he will make a good soldier. If he doesn’t make it, he will find something else. We will support him.’
‘What about Thierry?’ Lily asks.
‘I expect he will go to college,’ Pascale replies. ‘He has his drumming.’ A grin rips across her face.
‘I hope Marc and Thierry will make up,’ Camille says. ‘Perhaps after the school concert they will think about playing together in the band one more time.’
‘Perhaps,’ Pascale says.
The cracked chime of the church bell fills the square, and prompts Madame Briac to approach.
‘You need to leave soon to get to the tunnel,’ she says. She enfolds Lily in a perfumed embrace. ‘You will take care, ma petite.’
‘I’ll text when I’m home,’ Lily says to Pascale.
‘I will beat you,’ Pascale replies.
‘Have you got my number?’ Camille asks.
‘I have it,’ Flora calls.
Intuitively, Madame Briac raises her head from the throng of activity.
Thierry and bass player Laurent approach, edging their way through the line of loosely parked cars alongside the Place Gilbert. Thierry has his left arm in a freshly tied sling.
Madame Briac does her best to maintain her composure as she clasps hold of him, without speaking.
Lily feels her mum’s eyes biting in the back of her head.
Laurent shares several words with Pascale.
; Thierry breaks away, not yet making eye contact with anyone else.
He collects Lily’s hand with his uninjured arm and shakes it.
‘I want to do the right thing,’ he says, dropping his head, as he had done at the bus stop. ‘I don’t know what I was thinking.’
‘It’s fine,’ she replies.
He tips his head back. His face blooms, his blue eyes flicker.
‘Tout est bien,’ he says.
fin
The Switch
Copyright 2011 Catherine Condie
About the author
Born in Cambridge, UK, Catherine Condie trained as a business linguist. Her first job was in corporate communications and public relations, where she progressed as an in-house writer and magazine editor in the science community, later working as a marketing consultant.
Catherine is also a singer/songwriter and guitarist with a catalogue of ballads and folk-pop, which she first performed in the Club Tent at the Cambridge Folk Festival at the age of 19.
Whirl of the Wheel
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Cover photography: World City Photos Free Pictures of Cities
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