The Sacrifice Stone (2 page)

She almost didn’t take up the second post which the agency offered her. It sounded excruciatingly dull, the journey was inconvenient, and throughout the weekend before she was due to start work she’d had an appalling cold.

But she went. Family conditioning — you went to work unless you were on your deathbed — made sure of that.

For the first time, she was grateful for that family conditioning. The dull, inconvenient job had turned out to be the next step on the way to her all-but-forgotten dream: she had never looked back.

And now, she thought, turning the map over to see how far it was from the intersection of the motorways at Beaune to the next service area where they might stop for a coffee, now I’m on the very brink. The way has opened up, all the years of effort seem to be paying off, and I’m —

A large blue sign by the roadside said
Aire
de
Meursault
; under the writing were the symbols for petrol, lavatories, food and drink.

Joe said, ‘I’m dying for a pee. We’ll stop, shall we?’

‘I’m dying for a coffee and something to eat. Yes, let’s.’

The combination of her recent thoughts and the imminent prospect of hot strong coffee made her suddenly very happy: she reached out for Joe’s hand and gave it a squeeze. Smiling, he squeezed back.

*

They had two large cups of coffee each and a hot croissant, and went back to the car revitalized.

‘Nearly midday,’ Joe remarked.

‘Nearly one o’clock,’ she corrected. ‘You’ve forgotten to put your watch forward an hour.’

‘So I have.’

While he did so, she considered the idea she’d just had. Looked at from every angle, it still seemed sensible, especially as Joe was stifling a yawn.

‘You’ve been driving for hours,’ she said before she could change her mind. ‘You must be tired, even after two coffees. Why don’t I do a stint?’

‘You?’ Looking up from adjusting his watch, his expression was a mixture of amusement and incredulity.

‘Yes. Me.’

‘You’ve never driven on the continent!’

‘No, but it doesn’t look too demanding.’ Was that a mistake? she wondered. Perhaps I should have pandered to male vanity and said, Gosh, it’s clearly hugely difficult and you’ve done marvellously, Joe, I can only hope to do half as well.

Joe was frowning. ‘How long have you been driving?’

‘Twelve years.’ Two years longer than you, she could have pointed out; she’d passed her test a month after her seventeenth birthday, overtaking Joe, who had taken two unsuccessful attempts and then given up for six months.

‘You’d be insured,’ he muttered, ‘that’d be okay.’ He was still frowning, but she thought he might be about to give in.

‘Shall I drive for a few miles and see how I get on?’ she suggested. ‘There seem to be plenty of these “
Aire
” places, I can pull into one and we can change back if I can’t manage it.’ She had to grind out the words — Of course I’ll manage! she wanted to shout.

‘All right, then.’ Joe handed her the keys. ‘You’ll need to put the seat forward.’

I’ll need to put it
back
, she thought, doing so quickly while he was still making his way round to the passenger seat, I’ve got longer legs than you. And not all women drive with their chins pressed anxiously to the top of the steering wheel, some of us are quite relaxed about it.

It wasn’t easy, accelerating down the slip road into the now-heavy traffic when she wasn’t used to joining a motorway from the right and having to look over the other shoulder. Especially as Joe’s car seemed to have a particularly large blind spot exactly where she was trying to look.

‘Yes — no — go on — STOP!’ Joe shouted contradictorily.

Ignoring him, serenely she pulled out into the inside lane in her own time and at her own pace. For a few hundred yards she tucked in behind a Renault truck then, when the middle lane was clear, signalled, accelerated and moved out. She glanced down at the speedometer — 75 mph — and decided to settle for staying behind a Mercedes doing about the same.

‘Aren’t you going a bit fast?’ Joe said after a few minutes.

‘No, I don’t think so.’ She realized she’d sounded snappy. ‘But it’s your car. If you think I’m pushing it too hard, I’ll slow down.’

‘She can cruise at a good eighty!’

Wisely, Beth opted to stay at seventy-five.

‘Watch that Merc! What’s he doing?’ Joe said after a while, making her jump.

‘He’s driving steadily along in front of us minding his own business.’

‘Supposing he stops suddenly?’

‘I’m leaving a big enough gap to stop too. Anyway, it’s hardly likely, is it? People don’t just stop in the middle of a motorway.’

‘There’s the Chalon turn!’ he shouted.

Almost thrown into panic, she remembered in time they didn’t have to take it. ‘So it is.’ She wondered if he was doing it on purpose.

In case he had any more little surprises, she said, ‘Would you have a look at the map and see if you can work out how far it is to Lyons?’

‘Why?’

To give you something to do to get you off my back, was the honest answer. ‘Oh, someone told me the traffic could get very thick round Lyons, and I was wondering if we might aim to get the other side before we stop for our picnic lunch.’

For some time she heard him muttering as he totted up the distances between the markers. ‘Two hundred and sixteen miles.’

‘What
? I think you’ve made a mistake.’ Actually she knew he had: while he’d been bent over the map she’d seen a sign by the road saying Lyons was seventy-nine kilometres, which according to her maths was about fifty miles. She said, laughing, ‘You’ve probably added in a couple of road numbers.’

He’d gone huffy, she could tell by the way he suddenly seemed fascinated by something out of the passenger side window.

She was about to make some placatory remark, then decided not to. Damn it, why should I placate him because his maths is lousy and his map-reading so rudimentary that he can’t
see
it couldn’t possibly still be over two hundred miles to Lyons?

‘If you’re not going to talk,’ she said levelly, ‘I suggest we have some more of your Hungarian monks.’

*

It was well into the afternoon before they were the other side of Lyons — the traffic had indeed thickened — and after they’d eaten the sandwiches she’d brought from home, they spread Joe’s car-rug out on the grass and both had a sleep.

She woke to find him kneeling down beside her with a steaming cup of coffee. ‘I got us both one, from the shop,’ he said, grinning at her obvious pleasure. ‘A man has to keep his research assistant happy!’

‘Thanks, Joe. Just what I needed.’ She took a few sips, feeling the caffeine bump her into alertness. In the general bonhomie engendered by a good lunch and a snooze in the sun, she added, ‘And I’m looking forward very much to the research.’

‘You’ll be a wizz at taking notes.’ He glanced at her. ‘Dad was right, that shorthand course does come in useful.’

He winked at her, and she realized he was joking. Steady, Joe, she thought, it’s best not to joke about things like that.

Don’t be so touchy, she told herself as he took their empty cups over to a rubbish bin. Even if he’d been serious, it shouldn’t matter to me if my brother and my father still think a woman’s place is as a permanent assistant, that she must never aspire to the top slot. I knew Father was wrong, even then, and I’ve always been able to shrug off Joe’s disparaging remarks.

Her thoughts flew back to home, to the post she’d just left and to what awaited her when she got back.

Smiling, folding up the rug and getting back into the driver’s seat, she thought, if every man in the world agreed with Father, it wouldn’t matter
now
.

2

They reached Arles in the early evening. Both worn out — they had been driving hour-on, hour-off since the late lunch stop — it was, Beth felt, a tribute to both of them that they didn’t start yelling at each other when they couldn’t find the house.

One of Joe’s fellow students had an aunt with a house in Arles, and she had taken pity on her nephew’s friend and let it at a reduced rent. So reduced that, on enquiring how much Joe had paid in order to give him her share, Beth decided the house must be a bit of a tip. Driving round the narrow and confusing streets of the old part of Arles, trying to read French street names, she prepared herself for the worst.

Finally they saw a newsagent’s shop that was fortunately still open, and bought a street map.

‘There
it is!’ Beth shouted after they had pored over it for several minutes. ‘Place de la Redoute. Oh.’

‘What’s up?’

‘Nothing,’ she said brightly. It would be too depressing to tell him how disappointed she was that the Place de la Redoute, far from being tucked away intriguingly inside the old town, appeared to be right on one of the two huge modern boulevards to the south and east of it. Directing him through the light traffic, she wondered idly what a
redoute
was.

‘Boulevard des Lices ... that’s right ... Now, we have to turn left in a minute, it’s another big road called Boulevard Emile Combes ...
there
!’

Joe swung the car across the road, smiling with triumph. She didn’t like to tell him he’d just cut up a man on a bicycle; apart from being furiously angry, the man seemed to be perfectly all right. ‘Now it’s just up here on the left ... oh, dear.’

On the left was a forbidding city wall, unbroken except for a narrow flight of steps.

‘What now?’ Joe asked through gritted teeth.

She stared frantically at the map. ‘Go on,’ she said, hurriedly deciding. ‘There’s a way through the walls further up the road. Yes, that’s it — now go left ... keep on ... and it should be at the end.’

It was. A blue sign on the ancient wall said Place de la Redoute, and, answering another worry that had been growing in her mind, there was even a small car park. Joe backed into a space, and, switching off the engine, looked across at her, smiling broadly.

‘Now we just have to find the house,’ she said, smiling back.

‘It’s called La Maison Jaune,’ he said. ‘Not very original — Martin’s aunt must be a Van Gogh fan.’

‘Perhaps we’ll find his ear,’ she remarked.

‘That one, do you think? It’s certainly yellow.’

She looked where he was pointing. On the level above them, a spur of the old city wall apparently forming part of its boundary, was a low tile-roofed house made of yellow stone. On the end facing them was a colonnaded terrace, healthy-looking greenery rambling over and between the graceful arches.

She recalled how much rent they were paying. ‘It can’t be. It’s far too lovely.’

‘I bet it is.’ He was getting out of the car. ‘There aren’t any other yellow houses in the square.’

She followed him to the flight of steps leading up to the terrace. On the gate at the top it said, ‘La Maison Jaune’.

He had a set of keys in his hand. Swiftly he took the padlock off the gate, then ran up the remaining steps and unlocked the door. Turning on lights, she saw they were in a terracotta-tiled hall; on the telephone table was a note addressed to Joe.

‘It’s the right place, no doubt about it.’ She didn’t think there had been any need to tell her. ‘Martin’s aunt says welcome, linen’s in the cupboard on the landing, and there’s a restaurant round the corner if we arrive too late to shop.’

Suddenly hot food was what she wanted more than anything. Preferably accompanied by a bottle of wine. ‘What are we waiting for?’

‘Don’t you want to unpack?’

‘No. I want to eat.’

He laughed suddenly. ‘So do I. Come on!’

*

They unpacked no more than overnight necessities on arriving back: Beth had got her bottle of wine, and, when they’d finished a wonderfully filling meal of fish soup followed by an unidentified but delicious white sea fish with a mussel sauce, Joe threw caution to the winds and ordered a couple of brandies.

Trying to make up the beds, Beth decided that smooth sheets and nice hospital corners were beyond her: I’m too tired, she thought, and not entirely sober. I’ll do it properly in the morning.

Her room looked out to the back of the house; the old city wall ran along beneath her window. Joe called out, ‘Better close your shutters — I’ve just swatted a mozzie.’

She did so, although it seemed a shame to shut out all that beauty and atmosphere. We’ll get some of those electric things tomorrow, she thought as she lay down. And we could get a ...

Her mind was wandering. Almost asleep, she saw again the long miles of motorway, cars flashing by. The hills of Provence rose up ahead, and a brilliant sun beat down on a rocky hillside. Junipers cast deep shadow on the pale land.

The dream had begun.

*

The sunshine of her dreams greeted her in the morning. As she went through into the kitchen — also tiled with terracotta, bright blue crockery against pale yellow walls making a satisfying contrast — she noticed that the tiles under her bare feet felt warm where the sun fell on them.

There was coffee in the larder, but no milk except for a jar of creamer. She made herself a cup, taking it out on to the terrace.

The quiet peace of the house and the garden — which was informal, and slightly overgrown — seemed to settle round her: this, she thought as she sank into an old-fashioned wooden steamer chair, is going to be heaven. And to think I was expecting it to be a tip! Sorry, Martin’s auntie.

Half an hour later there was still no sign of Joe. She had a shower, finished unpacking her bag, made her bed with corners her mother would have approved, and brought in from the car Joe’s box of books, leaflets and notes; she couldn’t see his laptop computer, and decided he must have taken it into his room.

The next thing’s shopping, she thought. I’ll tell Joe I’m going out.

She knocked on his door, then banged, then went in. He seemed to be fast asleep, but, watching, she saw his eyelids twitch.

‘Aren’t you going to get up? It’s gone eleven.’

‘I’m so tired!’

She stifled the urge to say she was too, but it hadn’t stopped her doing the unpacking. ‘We need to go shopping.’

‘Money’s in my wallet.’

‘I’ve got money! I just wondered if you wanted to come too.’

He opened his eyes and gave her a winning smile. ‘Not much. Can’t you go?’

‘I suppose so, if I can find the shops.’

He muttered, ‘Great girl, my sister.’

‘But do get up, Joe! While I’m out, you could see to your books and things — I’ve brought the box in, but I just dumped it in the hall, and we’ll keep falling over it.’

‘Yes, fine. I’ll do it.’ He turned his back and pulled the sheet up over his head.

‘Okay, then. See you later.’

He grunted a reply.

*

She took the map with her, and asked the first passer-by to show her the way to
les
magasins
. The passer-by — an elderly man full of Gallic charm — took her by the arm and walked her the few hundred yards to a small supermarket, bowing in farewell and wishing her
bonne
journ
é
e
.

She spent some time wandering up and down the aisles, filling her trolley with bread, cheese, pate, eggs, tins of cassoulet, and the odd necessity such as washing powder, a couple of anti-mosquito gadgets and a pack of tablets to burn in them. Then, coming to the drinks section, she had to move everything to one end of the trolley to make room for wine, beers and a bottle of pastis.

Packing the lot into five incredibly heavy plastic bags, she wished she hadn’t been so profligate. Or, a better alternative, that she’d made Joe go with her.

By the time she had struggled back to La Maison Jaune, she was wishing it even more fervently. Pushing the door open, she called out, ‘Joe? Can you come and give me a hand, I’m —’ and fell over the box of books.

He was still asleep when she burst into his room, but not for long. ‘You lazy bugger!’ she said furiously. ‘You
said
you’d move that bloody box!’

‘I will, I will,’ he muttered.

‘It’s too late! I’ve just fallen over it, carrying all the shopping!’

‘Oh, dear.’ He sat up, rubbing his eyes. ‘Anything broken?’

‘No,’ she admitted.

‘That’s all right, then.’

‘Look at my knee!’ She bent her leg and pushed her knee under his nose. ‘It’ll be swollen as hell later!’

‘Beth, your language!’ he said mildly.

She’d had enough.

Moving away from his tousled bed, she stood in the doorway. ‘I’m going out,’ she said quietly. ‘I’ve done my share of work for today. You can unpack your books and put the shopping away while I’m out.’

‘What about lunch?’

She glared at him.

‘There’s plenty of food in the five bags spilling their contents all over the hall.’ She hesitated, knowing he really didn’t like swearing, but decided that at that moment she didn’t care. ‘Get your own sodding lunch.’

*

Outside in the square, she realized she’d forgotten the map. Since going back inside when she’d just stormed out would undoubtedly undermine the grand gesture, she decided she’d manage without it. If I get lost, she fumed, it’ll just serve him right.

She didn’t bother to work out the logic of that.

She turned left, and marched off parallel to the wall. I’m inside it here, she thought, if I go and look down — she went over and climbed up on to a step in the wall that made a viewpoint — I’ll see that road we turned off last night.

There it was, just below her.

So the old town must be behind me. I wonder if these ramparts go all the way round?

Ramparts, redoubts. Suddenly she realized what had evaded her the previous evening: Place de la Redoute must be Redoubt Square, and a redoubt, of course, was a fortification.

If I’d remembered that at the time, I’d have known the house was in the old town.

She wandered on, seeing few people, only an occasional car pushing past her in the narrow street. Up to her left, she spotted what looked like the rear of a church; in the absence of any better plan, she thought she might make her way round to the front and have a look inside.

She lost sight of it behind the jumbled buildings of the old town but, by bearing left and left again, soon found herself in a square, at the end of which was the church.

The door was closed, but opened when she lifted the latch. A young woman was arranging flowers, and she looked up and nodded to Beth. Nodding back, Beth moved across to the far wall and inspected the first of a series of little shrines set into it.

St Joseph, holding Jesus in his arms. Several worshippers had lit candles to him. She wondered irreverently if they were people who’d come adrift with DIY-ing the new bookshelves.

Stop it, she told herself. Just because I’m cross with Joe, there’s no need to take against the whole Christian world.

She walked slowly on. The church had a serene atmosphere, and she was calming down with every step. In front of the next shrine, someone had placed an arrangement of vine leaves and ripe corn; admiring its artistry, at first she didn’t take in the statue.

Then she looked up. The boy was young, only a child, with fair hair and, considering they were in southern France, improbably blue eyes. He had an expression of piety, somewhat marred by a crack in the stone across his throat that made him look like a cartoon Frankenstein’s monster, head sewn on to neck with ludicrously clumsy stitches ...

It wasn’t Frankenstein’s monster. And it wasn’t a crack across the neck, it was a deliberately painted gash.

The child had had his throat cut.

Although the statue was crude, with chocolate-box details and insipid pastel colours, the cut throat had a power to shock which made her knees shake and the sweat break out across her back.

There was a handwritten notice at the boy’s feet. Leaning forward, fighting the dizziness, she read it.

St
Theodore
d’Arles
.

Joe, Joe, she cried silently, I’ve found your boy!

Eyes returning to the child, she noticed he was pointing to the wound in his neck; remembering Joe’s story that the little saint could cure sore throats, she realized why. There were several ceramic plaques fixed to the wall behind the shrine, most bearing a simple ‘Merci’, sometimes with a date. The latest date was 1955: for a medieval superstition, the reputation of St Theodore’s legendary abilities had endured pretty well.

Still feeling slightly sick — and cross with herself for being so susceptible — she went to sit down in one of the pews. The young woman, who was now placing fresh votive candles in front of the shrines, glanced at her. I wonder if she wants me to go? Beth thought. Then: why on earth should she? I’m not doing her any harm — my scepticism can’t possibly show.