The Cruellest Month (6 page)

‘You don’t have to believe it,’ Jeanne said. ‘Most people don’t.’ She smiled at Peter in a way he took to be patronizing. ‘Bread cast on the water,’ she said unexpectedly. ‘If we put angry energy out that’s what we’ll get back. It’s pretty simple.’

Peter looked around the gathering. Everyone was listening intently to this Jeanne woman, as though they believed this crap.

‘You mentioned balance,’ said Myrna.

‘That’s right. Nature is balance. Action and reaction. Life and death. Everything’s in balance. It makes sense that the old Hadley house is close to Three Pines. They balance each other.’

‘What do you mean?’ Madeleine asked.

‘She means the old Hadley house is the dark to our light,’ said Myrna.

‘Three Pines is a happy place because you let your sorrow go. But it doesn’t go far. Just up the hill,’ said Jeanne. ‘To the old Hadley house.’

Now Peter felt it. The skin on his arms contracted and his hairs stood on end. Everything he let go of had claw marks on it. And it made straight for the old Hadley house. It was full of their fear, their sorrow, their rage.

‘Why don’t we do a séance there?’ Monsieur Béliveau asked. Everyone turned slowly to stare at him, stunned, as though the fireplace had spoken and said a most unlikely thing.

‘I don’t know about that.’ Gabri shifted uneasily in his seat.

Instinctively they turned to Clara. Without asking for it she’d become the heart of their community. Small, middle-aged and getting a little plump, Clara was that rare combination: she was sensible and sensitive. Now she got up, grabbed a handful of cashews and what was left of her Scotch and walked to the window. Most of the lights were out around the village green. Three Pines was at rest. After a moment appreciating the peace her eyes traveled to that black hole above them. She stood for a couple of minutes, sipping and munching, and contemplating.

Was it possible the old Hadley house was full of their anger and sorrow? Was that why it attracted murderers? And ghosts?

‘I think we should do it,’ she said finally.

‘Oh, for God’s sake,’ said Peter.

Clara briefly glanced out the window again.

It was time to lay the wickedness to rest.

   SIX   

M
onsieur Béliveau opened the car door for Madeleine. ‘Are you sure I can’t drive you home?’

‘Oh, no, I’ll be fine. My nerves are calming down,’ she lied. Her heart was still racing and she was exhausted. ‘You’ve brought me safe and sound to my car. No bears.’

He took her hand. His felt like rice paper, dry and fragile, and yet his hold was firm. ‘They won’t hurt you. They’re only dangerous if you come between mother and cub. Be careful of that.’

‘I’ll mark it down. “Mustn’t anger bears.” Now you’re sure of that?’

Monsieur Béliveau laughed. Madeleine liked the sound. She liked the man. She wondered whether she should tell him her secret. It would be a relief. She opened her mouth but closed it again. There was still such sadness in him. Such kindness. She couldn’t take it away. Not yet.

‘Would you come in for a coffee? I’ll make sure it’s decaf.’

She released her hand from his light grip.

‘I must go, but I’ve had a lovely day,’ she said, leaning in to kiss his cheek.

‘Though no ghosts.’ He sounded almost regretful. And he was.

He watched her red tail lights head up du Moulin, past the old Hadley house and out of sight, then turned and walked to his front door. There was a small, almost imperceptible, bounce in his step. Some tiny thing had come alive in him. Something he was sure he’d buried with his wife.

Myrna shoved a few logs into her woodstove and shut the cast-iron door. Then she walked wearily across the loft, her slippered feet shuffling on
the old wooden floors, instinctively moving from one throw rug to another, as a swimmer might travel between islands, shutting lights as she went. The beamed and old brick loft slowly subsided into darkness, except the one light beside her large and welcoming bed. Myrna placed her mug of hot chocolate and plate of chocolate chip cookies on the old pine table and picked up her book. Ngaio Marsh. Myrna was re-reading the classics. Fortunately her used bookstore had no end of them. She was her own best customer. Well, she and Clara, who brought in most of the old mysteries. The hot water bottle warmed her feet and pulling the comforter up she started to read. Sipping on her chocolate and nibbling cookies she realized she’d been reading the same page for ten minutes.

Her mind was elsewhere. It was stuck in the darkness between the lights of Three Pines and the stars.

Odile placed the CD in the machine and slipped the headphones on.

She’d waited for this moment. For six days she longed for it, with increasing anxiety as the week wore on. Not that she didn’t enjoy her everyday life. In fact, she was amazed by how lucky she was. That Gilles should turn to her when his marriage soured still amazed her. She’d had a crush on him through high school. Had finally found the courage to invite him to the Sadie Hawkins dance, only to be turned down. But he hadn’t been cruel. Some boys were cruel, especially to girls like Odile. But not Gilles. He’d always been kind. Always smiled and said
bonjour
in the hallways, even when his friends could see.

Odile had adored him then and she adored him now.

But still, every week she longed for this moment. Every Friday night Gilles went to bed early and she went into their modest living room in St-Rémy.

She could hear the first notes of the first song and felt her shoulders sag, letting go of the tension. She could also feel her vigilance slip. The need to watch every word, every action. She closed her eyes and took a massive gulp of red wine as a drowning man might gulp air. The bottle was half empty already and Odile worried she’d run out before the magic happened. The transformation.

After a few minutes Odile was on her feet, her eyes closed, walking across a flower-festooned stage. In Oslo. It was Oslo, wasn’t it? Didn’t matter.

The distinguished audience, in tie and tails and evening gowns, was on its feet. Applauding. No. Weeping.

Odile stopped part way to acknowledge their cries. She placed her
hand on her breast and curtsied slightly in a gesture of immense modesty and dignity.

And then the king was presenting her with the silk sash. Tears in his eyes too.

‘It gives me great pleasure, Madame Montmagny, to present you with the Nobel Prize for Poetry.’

But tonight the wild applause didn’t move her, didn’t wash over her and protect her from the suspicion she’d been found out for the pathetic little thing she knew herself to be. From trying to fit into a world where everyone knew the code, except her.

But Odile knew one thing no one else did. Her little secret. All those people at the séance had been afraid of evil spirits, but she knew the monster was from not the next world, but this. And Odile Montmagny knew who it was.

Hazel seemed distracted when Madeleine arrived back.

‘Couldn’t sleep,’ said Hazel, pouring them a cup of tea. ‘Expect I’m excited about Sophie coming home.’

Madeleine stirred her tea and nodded. Hazel was always a little nervous when Sophie was coming home. It disrupted the quietude of their lives. Not that Sophie was a party animal, or even loud. No, it was something else. Some tension that suddenly appeared in their comfortable home.

‘I took poor Mrs Bellows a dinner.’

‘How’s she doing?’ Mad asked.

‘Better, but her back still aches.’

‘You know her husband and children should be doing that for her.’

‘But they don’t,’ said Hazel. She was sometimes surprised by a hard edge that appeared in Madeleine. It was almost as though she didn’t care about people.

‘You’re a good soul, Hazel. I hope she thanked you.’

‘I’ll get my reward in Heaven,’ Hazel said, bringing a dramatic arm to her brow. Madeleine laughed, as did Hazel. It was one of the many things Mad loved about Hazel. Not just her kindness, but her refusal to take herself too seriously.

‘We’re having another séance.’ Mad dipped her biscuit into the tea and got the soggy and sagging cookie into her mouth just in time. ‘Sunday night.’

‘Too many ghosts to deal with in one go? They had to take shifts?’

‘Too few. The psychic says the bistro’s too happy.’

‘Sure she didn’t say gay?’

‘It’s possible.’ Mad smiled. She knew Hazel and Gabri were good
friends and had worked on the Anglican Church Women together for years. ‘Still, no ghosts to be had. So we’re going to the old Hadley house.’

She watched Hazel over the rim of her teacup. Hazel’s eyes widened. After a moment she spoke.

‘Are you sure that’s wise?’

‘Have you been in here?’ Clara called from her studio.

Peter froze in the act of giving Lucy her goodnight dog biscuit. Lucy’s tail swished back and forth with increasing energy, her head tilted to the side, her eyes glued to the magical cookie as though desire alone could move objects. If that was the case the fridge door would be permanently open.

Clara poked her head out of her studio and looked at Peter. Though her face showed simple curiosity he felt accused. His mind raced but he knew he couldn’t lie to her. Not about this, anyway.

‘I went in while you were at the séance. Do you mind?’

‘Mind? I’m thrilled. Did you need something?’

Should he say he needed some Cadmium Yellow? A number four brush? A ruler?

‘Yes.’ He went over and put his long arm round her waist. ‘I needed to see your painting. I’m sorry. I should have waited until you were here and I should have asked.’

He waited to see her reaction. His heart sank. She was looking up at him, smiling.

‘You really wanted to see it? Peter, that’s wonderful.’

He shriveled.

‘Come back in.’ She took his hand and led him back to that thing in the center of the room. ‘Tell me what you think.’

She whisked the sheet off the easel and there it was again.

The most beautiful painting he’d ever seen.

It was so beautiful it hurt. Yes. That was it. The pain he felt came from outside himself. Not inside. No.

‘It’s astonishing, Clara.’ He took her hand and looked into her clear, blue eyes. ‘It’s the best thing you’ve done. I’m so proud of you.’

Clara’s mouth opened but no words came out. She’d waited all her artistic life for Peter to understand, to ‘get’, one of her works. To see more than paint on a canvas. To actually feel it. She knew she shouldn’t care so much. Knew it was a weakness. Knew her artist friends, including Peter, said you must create for yourself and not care what anyone thinks.

And she didn’t care about any one, just this one. She wanted the
man who shared her soul to also share her vision. At least once. Just once. And here it was. And, blessing of blessings, it was the one painting that mattered more than any other. The one she would be showing to the most important gallery owner in Quebec in just a few days now. The one she’d poured everything into.

‘But are the colors quite right?’ Peter leaned into the easel then stepped back, not looking at her. ‘Well, I’m sure they are. You know what you’re doing.’

He kissed her and whispered, ‘Congratulations,’ into her ear. Then he left.

Clara stepped back and stared at the canvas. Peter was one of the most respected and successful artists in Canada. Maybe he was right. The painting looked fine to her, but still…

‘What’re you doing?’ Olivier asked Gabri. It was the middle of the night and they were standing in their living room at the B. & B. Olivier had reached over and felt Gabri’s side of the bed cold. Now Olivier pulled the belt of his silk dressing gown tighter and through bleary eyes watched his partner.

Gabri, in rumpled pajama bottoms and slippers, was holding a croissant in his hand and seemed to be taking it for a walk round their living room.

‘I’m getting rid of any evil spirits that might have followed me home from the séance.’

‘With baked goods?’

‘Well, we didn’t have any hot cross buns, so this was the next best thing. Isn’t the crescent the symbol of Islam?’

Olivier was constantly surprised by Gabri. His unexpected depth and his profound silliness. Olivier shook his head and went back to bed, trusting that in the morning all the evil spirits and the croissants would be gone.