over the back of a chair and sat down at the table feeling his beard. ‘Worst thing about a beard,’ he said, ‘it never dries properly.’ And at that moment Jo remembered where he’d seen the man before.
It was the last summer before Papa had gone off to the war and he’d been up in the high mountain pastures with Papa, the first time he’d been allowed to go. Three long months they had spent up there together in the hut, milking the sheep every morning, making the cheese, then milking the sheep again in the evening. It had been a summer of hard work and soaring happiness – a summer alone with Papa, a summer living close to the eagles. Most people walking in the mountains passed by with a ‘Good morning’, or perhaps a request to drink at the spring but only two had ever come into the hut. They had appeared early one morning, a man with a red beard, a little girl clutching his hand. She’d have been five or six years old maybe with red hair like his. They had stayed until noon watching the sheep being milked and the cheese being made. They sat side by side and silent on Papa’s bed and watched fascinated as the rennet was poured in, as they heated and stirred the milk in the cauldrons, as Papa gathered the curd in his hands and squeezed out the whey. Jo remembered their silence and the intense seriousness on the little girl’s face. They asked the way up to the Spanish border and went off. It was raining when they came back later that afternoon. They brought with them a bunch of flowers, pinks they were and wild pansies. Jo could see them now in her hand. ‘From Spain to you,’ said the little girl, ushered forward by her father; and the man with the beard told them how they had walked to the top of the mountain and looked into Spain and how their legs ached. Papa had given them towels to dry themselves off. ‘Never grow a beard young man,’ the man had told him as he wiped his face. ‘You can never get it dry.’ Jo remembered Papa thanking them rather awkwardly and saying that no one had ever given him flowers before. They were already leaving before they introduced themselves. ‘I’m Madame Horcada’s son-in-law,’ he said shaking Papa’s hand, ‘and this is my daughter, Anya.’
Watching them walk away down the mountain Papa had told him the story of Widow Horcada’s daughter – Florence she was called. Jo thought he remembered seeing her in church once when he was little but he couldn’t be sure. She’d gone off to Paris Papa told him, run off some said, and got herself married. No one knew who to because she’d never brought him back to Lescun. ‘So that was the husband,’ said Papa. ‘Well I never.’
‘Where’s Widow Horcada’s daughter?’ Jo had asked.
‘Dead,’ said Papa. ‘Dead in childbirth I heard, and that must be the child. Poor little mite.’ Papa had kept the dead flowers all summer long on the shelf above his bed but they never spoke of the visitors again.
‘Foolhardy,’ said Widow Horcada, putting the knitting down on her lap. ‘Plain foolhardy, that’s what it was. I just don’t understand what came over you, Benjamin. Stay as long as it takes I said. Do what you have to do and I’ll help you all I can. We agreed, didn’t we? You promised you’d go out only at night. You promised me, didn’t you? And what do you do? You go out for a walk in broad daylight. A walk! And what do you bring back? Not berries, not herbs, not mushrooms, but an orphan bear cub. I ask you Benjamin, haven’t we got troubles enough?’ She leaned forward in her chair, her crooked finger pointing. ‘And that boy you met, what happens now, eh? You tell me that. What happens when he runs home and tells them all down in the village? Well, I’ll tell you. Someone will put two and two together and they’ll know the old widow’s son-in-law is back. They don’t forget a face you know, especially not your face. They may be country folk, Benjamin, but they’re not stupid.’
The man left the table and crouched down in front of her taking both her hands in his. ‘Believe me, Grandmère,’ he said, ‘the boy won’t say anything. I can always tell an honest face.’ He smiled up at her. ‘I know I’m not all you wanted in a son-in-law but I tell you true, you’re all I could ever have wanted in a mother-in-law.’
‘Go on with you,’ she said trying to push him away, but he held on to her hands.
‘No I mean it. You’re brave and you’re good and I couldn’t have done any of it without you. You know that.’
‘I don’t know anything,’ she said, ‘not any more I don’t. Maybe you’re right about that boy, maybe he won’t say anything. Let’s just pray to God you’re right.’
‘Your God or mine?’ said the man laughing.
‘Why not both?’ the widow said, ‘just in case one of us is barking up the wrong tree.’ She reached out and touched his face. ‘You’re all I’ve got left now Benjamin, you and little Anya – if she’s still alive.’
‘Course she is,’ said the man. ‘How many times do I have to tell you?’
‘You’ve been telling me for two years now,’ said the widow.
‘Two years, ten years,’ he said, ‘however long it takes. She’ll come. And when she does we’ll be waiting for her just like I promised her. She knows where to come and she’ll be here, you’ll see. She could walk in here tonight.’
Widow Horcada sighed and looked up at the window. ‘It’s getting dark,’ she said, starting up from her chair, ‘I’d better see to the animals.’ And then she saw him.
Jo felt the logs give under his feet. He tried to hold on to the window ledge but his fingers were cold and would not grip as they should. For a fleeting moment he saw their faces staring up at him and then he was falling in an avalanche of logs that sent him tumbling down on to the cobbled stone of the yard. He kicked frantically and pushed the logs away. Then he was on his feet and running before he heard the back door open. He dared not turn round and look. For the second time that day Jo found himself running down the slopes, but this time there was a misty darkness to hide him and he could afford to stop from time to time to regain his breath. Rouf ran on ahead of him and was waiting for him on his sack by the front doorstep. Jo had to step over him to open the door. Rouf yawned hugely and put his head on his paws. Clearly for him it had been no more than an ordinary day.
For some weeks after this the village was diverted, its spirits lifted by stories of the great bear hunt, stories that eclipsed even the grim news of the war, of more German victories everywhere. They heard about the world outside through newspapers that few people believed because they were controlled by the Germans, but also through Radio London and what you heard there had to be believed. There was no consolation to be gleaned from either source, so they talked of the bear hunt to forget the war and for a time they could do so.
At school Jo had become quite the hero and that was not entirely to his liking. If Jo had learned one lesson at school it was that it was better to keep a low profile – that way you kept out of trouble. But now he was thrust suddenly into the limelight. He had admirers and therefore enemies too. Even his best friend, Laurent, seemed to look at him differently. Only Monsieur Audap, his teacher, was quite unimpressed by the whole thing. Strict as he was, severe even at times, Monsieur Audap was scrupulously fair, and was liked and respected for it. A retiring man, he said very little, but what he did say was always worth listening to.
The day after Armand Jollet put up the bearskin on the wall of his grocer’s shop for all the world to admire, Monsieur Audap spent the entire morning telling the children all about the mountain bears, about where they lived and how they lived. After hibernation, he said, in the Spring when their body fat was low and they had young to feed, then they would dare anything to find food enough to provide for themselves and for their cubs. Bears, he said, never came close to people unless they had to. They knew of their cruelty, of their voracious appetite for killing and of their greed. Bears, he said, were neither stupid nor suicidal. This one must have been starving to have risked such an attack. Almost certainly, said Monsieur Audap, she had cubs
