The storm broke in the night, sweeping down from the mountains. Dry thunder and flashes of lightning forking across the whole valley. It felt as if the hut was shuddering on its rock. It felt as if any moment the lightning would strike a tree and send it crashing through the roof. Then the rain came, hailstones at first like lead shot on the tiles and then a torrent of water. It was impossible to sleep. The tiny hut seemed inadequate protection against nature raging outside one wooden door. Mireille pulled her blankets over her head. There was nothing to do except wait. Water gushed off the roof, and now the thunder and lightning were coming in unison. Flash-boom, flash-boom. The storm was right above her. She wasn’t scared but the experience was like a fairground ride, exhilarating but also sickening. She couldn’t relax. In the silences she was waiting for the next jolt to hurl her out of the sky.
The storm roared round the valley then grumbled back into the mountains only to return with a less violent but longer burst of temper. More rain. Less thunder. And she had almost forgotten what rain was like, but here it was, two streams on either side of the hut spurting over the edge of the rock.
Early morning, in the half light and half asleep she realised the rain had stopped. She put on her coat and looked out of the door. A wet misty morning, not unlike a canal morning, the world was sodden, but it wasn’t cold.
Water was still trickling past the hut, making patterns in the mud. The sun was rising over the mountains and it was the clearest she had ever seen them. In the distance above the mist of the valley they looked so near she felt she could touch them. The pink light of morning staining a bruised-looking sky. The storm had gone to the coast and she could see it, a grey volcano of cloud far away.
She walked through the gully to the Ferrou. She wanted to see if the storm had changed the water and it had. It was pouring out of the basin murky brown, iron red. The rock seemed to be bleeding into the pool. The water was more agitated than usual, turning in a spiral like a cauldron of soup. The Ferrou was a damp, dripping place. Sunless and eerie. It made her shudder. It seemed to be filled with the ghosts of a hundred dead people, all trapped there, all unable to leave.
She was dozing. Through the open door sunlight fell on to the stone floor. Somebody was calling her name. ‘Mireille! Mireille!’ She sat up in bed. She thought it was her mother calling her to get up for school. ‘Mireille! Mireille!’ But it was Jeanette. In her pyjamas she went outside and there was Jeanette by her car squawking like a magpie. When she saw Mireille waving to her she scrambled up the path. They met on the hut terrace, Jeanette puffing and blowing and Mireille in her nightwear but delighted to see her. Jeanette had a huge basket, which she hauled into the hut and put on the table. ‘Oh, it’s so steep! I’m not young like I used to be.’ She sat on the stool and fanned her cheeks. ‘What a storm! I was thinking all night, I’m sure she’s going to be killed. There were two people struck down, one farmer out by Rochas and a shepherd in the hills, it’s always happening. Thank the Blessed Lord you have been spared! We have not seen you for so long I said to Macon, I must go and see her myself. The Ferrou is a lonely place. You are all right, aren’t you?’
‘I didn’t sleep much,’ said Mireille.
‘Who could sleep? Mama was screaming, storms remind her of the war and when they shot Papa. Two branches came off a tree in the square and the dog hid in the cellar and we couldn’t find him. What a night! Now the dog’s got the runs and Mama’s in bed and I said to Macon, I bet a tree fell on that hut. There’s trees down in the forest all over the place.’
‘Thank you for being concerned,’ said Mireille. She stoked up the stove and put on the coffee pot.
Jeanette patted her dress and crossed her sturdy legs. ‘I’ve brought you some things. Nobody’s seen you for weeks.’ She pointed to the basket.
‘For me? Are you sure? Oh, how kind!’ Mireille looked inside. There was a quantity of fruit and vegetables, cuts of cold meats, two quiches, a bag of olives and a cassoulet in a pot. A baguette, some local cheese and a packet of coffee. It was like Christmas. ‘Oh, all for me? Jeanette, I was going to go shopping on Tuesday …’
‘Tuesday! There’s nothing to eat, I can see. What do you live off? Roots? Look at you, you’re so thin. Come on, eat!’ and she whipped up a hearty sandwich.
As Mireille was eating Jeanette put the food on the shelves. ‘Being a botanist doesn’t pay, you need another job, let me tell you, and one that puts meat in your pot. At least you keep this place tidy. Old Man Henri, he lived like a pig, but then what do you expect, he was a man …’ The coffee pot boiled and she poured it into the cups. Then she saw the pile of paper. ‘Ah, that’s why you’ve been alone … and I thought it was because you’ve been going mad …’ She looked through the papers thoughtfully as if she could understand what they said. ‘So thorough and not too much crossing out … what a great deal of writing … I have to admit I hardly ever write … won’t your magazine be pleased … they will surely pay you well for this and then you can eat like a queen … and dates too … an excellent survey …’
‘It’s a precious document,’ said Mireille, smiling, and took the journal off Jeanette and put it on her bed.
‘You have your father’s brains and that’s for sure. You have written a complete survey of all the flowers in the valley. It’s sure to be published. I shall tell everybody …’
‘You do that,’ said Mireille, laughing now.
They sat outside on the wooden bench Mireille had made and shared the meat and cheese. Jeanette kicked off her shoes and bared her legs to the sun. Mireille changed into her dress. The rain was evaporating from the grass and the trees, rising in a steam. Jeanette didn’t stop talking, the village, her mother, Old Man Henri, the price of meat in Lieux, the topics changing like the remnants of the clouds until there wasn’t anything left to talk about and the sky was a clear pure blue.
Two women sitting on a makeshift bench, staring at the sky and the view of the wooden hills across a quiet valley.
‘You could sit here for ever, couldn’t you?’ said Jeanette, yawning.
‘I sit here for hours sometimes,’ said Mireille.
‘In the end Old Man Henri wouldn’t come to the village at all. You must not be like that. Too much silence makes you mad. There’s an aioli next Monday. If it doesn’t rain it’ll be the best one yet. Madame Cabasson has already sold fifty tickets. Will you come? You must come. You must come with us. Whitsun Monday at the top of the Col de St Clair.’
‘Thank you,’ said Mireille. Jeanette got up to go. ‘And thank you for the food and thank you for everything.’ Mireille hugged her.
‘We mustn’t let you starve,’ said Jeanette, a bit embarrassed, as she collected her basket.
‘I nearly forgot. Here’re two letters for you. They arrived ages ago, but I haven’t seen you.’ She retrieved them from out of her bra. She gave them, crumpled and warm, to Mireille, and for once she wasn’t curious about their contents.
Sunday 29th May
A letter from Stephen and a letter from Gregor. Happy, chatty letters asking me the same thing. How are you and what are you going to do next?
I don’t want to answer them just yet.