power of the Church – my influence over every single soul in the community – then she will know she has lost. Whatever her hopes, her ambitions. She will understand that she cannot stay. Cannot fight and hope to win.
I will stand triumphant.
14
Monday, February 24
Caroline Clairmont called just after mass. Her son was with her satchel slung across his shoulders, a tall boy with a pale, impassive face. She was carrying a bundle of yellow hand-lettered cards.
I smiled at them both. The shop was almost empty – I expect the first of my regulars at about nine, and it was eight-thirty. Only Anouk was sitting at the counter, a half-finished bowl of milk and a pain au chocolat in front of her. She shot a bright glance at the boy, waved the pastry in a vague gesture of greeting, and returned to her breakfast.
“Can I help you?”
Caroline looked around her with an expression of envy and disapproval. The boy stared straight in front of him, but I saw his eyes wanting to slide towards Anouk. He looked polite and sullen, his eyes bright and unreadable beneath an overlong fringe.
“Yes.” Her voice is light and falsely cheery, her smile as sharp and sweet as icing, setting the teeth on edge. “I’m distributing these”– she held up the stack of cards “and I wonder if you’d mind displaying one in your window.” She held it out. “Everyone else is putting them up,” she added, as if that might sway my decision.
I took the card. Black on yellow, in neat, bold capitals:
“Why do I need this?” I frowned, puzzled. “Why should I want to refuse to serve anyone?”
Caroline sent me a look of pity and contempt.
“Of course, you are new here,” she said with a sugared smile. “But we have had problems in the past. It’s just a precaution, anyway. I very much doubt you’ll get- a visit from Those People: But you may as well be safe as sorry, don’t you think?”
I still didn’t understand. “Sorry about what?”
“Well, the gypsies. The river people.” There was a note of impatience in her voice. “They’re back, and they’ll be wanting to”– she made a small, elegant moue of disgust “do whatever it is they do.”
“And?” I prompted gently.
“Well, we’ll have to show them we won’t stand for it!” Caroline was becoming flustered. “We’re going to have an agreement not to serve these people. Make them go back to wherever it is they came from.”
“Oh.” I considered what she was saying. “Can we refuse to serve them?” I enquired curiously. “If they have the money to spend, can we refuse?”
Impatiently: “Of course we can. Who’s to stop us?”
I thought for a moment, then handed back the yellow card. Caroline stared at me.
“You’re not going to do it?” Her voice rose half an octave, losing much of its well-bred intonation in the process.
I shrugged.
“It seems to me that if someone wants to spend their money here, it isn’t up to me to stop them,” I told her.
“But the community…” insisted Caroline. “Surely you don’t want people of that type – itinerants, thieves, Arabs for heaven’s sake”
Flutter-click snapshot of memory, scowling New York doormen, Paris ladies, Sacre-Coeur tourists, camera in hand, face averted to avoid seeing the beggar-girl with her too-short dress and too-long legs… Caroline Clairmont, for all her rural upbringing, knows the value of finding the right modiste. The discreet scarf she wears at her throat bears an Herms label, and her perfume is Coco de Chanel. My reply was sharper than I intended.
“It strikes me that the community should mind its own business,” I said tartly. “It isn’t up to me – or anybody – to decide how these people should live their lives.”
Caroline gave me a venomous look.
“Oh, well, if that’s how you feel”– turning superciliously towards the door – “then I won’t keep you from your business.” A slight emphasis upon the last word, a disdainful glance at the empty seats. “I just hope you don’t regret your decision, that’s all.”
“Why should I?”
She shrugged petulantly.
“Well, if there’s trouble, or anything.” From her tone I gathered the conversation was at an end. “These people can cause all kinds of trouble, you know. Drugs, violence…”
The sourness of her smile suggested that if there were any such trouble she would be pleased to see me the victim of it. The boy stared at me without comprehension. I smiled back.
“I saw your grandmother the other day,” I told him. “She told me a lot about you.”
The boy flushed and mumbled something unintelligible.
Caroline stiffened.
“I’d heard she was here,” she said. She forced a smile. “You really shouldn’t encourage my mother,” she added with counterfeit archness. “She’s quite bad enough already.”
“Oh, I found her most entertaining company,” I replied without taking my eyes off the boy. “Quite, refreshing. And very sharp.”
“For her age,” said Caroline.
“For any age,” I said.
“Well, I’m sure she seems so to a stranger,” said Caroline tightly. “But to her family…” She flashed me another of her cold smiles. “You have to understand that my mother is very old,” she explained. “Her mind isn’t what it used to be. Her grasp of reality-” She broke off with a nervous gesture. “I’m sure I don’t have to explain to you,” she said.
“No, you don’t,” I answered pleasantly. “It’s none of my business, after all.”
I saw her eyes narrow as she registered the barb. She may be bigoted, but she isn’t stupid.
“I mean…”
she floundered for a few moments. For a second I thought I saw a glint of humour in the boy’s eyes, though that might have been my imagination.
“I mean my mother doesn’t always know what’s best for her.” She was back in control again, her smile as lacquered as her hair. “This shop, for instance.”
I nodded encouragement.
“My mother is diabetic,” explained Caroline. “The doctor has warned her repeatedly to avoid sugar in her diet. She refuses to listen. She won’t accept treatment.” She glanced at her son with a kind of triumph. “Tell me, Madame Rocher, is that normal? Is that a normal way to behave?”
Her
