Chapter 12
12
‘Are you OK, Mummy?’ Lili asked the following morning on the way to school.
Adeline looked down at her daughter’s face, tilted up towards her, brow furrowed with concern.
‘Yes, of course!’ she said brightly. ‘Why do you ask?’
Lili shrugged. ‘You aren’t talking.’
Adeline laughed. ‘You should be grateful for that!’ she joked. Then, ‘Sorry, I’m just thinking about a few things.’
‘Like the bookshop?’
‘Yes, like the bookshop.’ Or to be more precise, she thought, as she waved her little daughter off at the edge of the playground a few minutes later, the bookshop owner. She had been aching to ask Monique more about her past, ever since she’d spoken to Michel. What happened with her baby? Had she ever thought about tracing her? She longed to know what it was like for a mother in that situation – what it might be like for her birth mother if she was still out there somewhere. Monique had clearly been forced into having her baby adopted – and although her story would have taken place some time before Adeline’s own birth, it would be interesting to know how it had unfolded. Just to imagine, for a moment, what things might have been like for her own mother.
But how could she? It had been Michel who’d told her about Monique’s past; she wasn’t even sure if she was meant to know. Still, she had watched Monique since – wondered about whether the thought of her baby ever crossed her mind, or whether she’d been able to truly move on.
The morning air was warm, with a breeze that felt fresh and cleansing, and she slipped off her cardigan to let the air play on her bare arms for a moment as she made her way to the shop. She’d decided to go in early – there was nothing much to do at home and she wanted to avoid the cafe just in case Michel was there – the last thing she wanted to do was bump into him after his thunderous outburst yesterday. Monique had been subdued afterwards and Adeline had become angry at his ability to simply upset her and walk off.
But today, in the shop, everything was light. Monique was standing on a small stool, cleaning the windows with a vinegar solution that made the air smell tangy and, teamed with the aroma of some of the older paperbacks, reminded Adeline a little of the newspaper-wrapped fish and chips of her childhood.
‘ Bonjour ,’ she said. ‘ ?a va ?’
‘ Oui ,’ Monique smiled down at her from her slightly taller position. ‘You are early.’ Her smile seemed wide and genuine, and she had her usual happy air. Hopefully she’d recovered from whatever had occurred the day before.
‘Yes,’ Adeline gave a shrug. ‘It was a lovely day and I just found myself walking here after dropping Lili at school.’
Monique stepped down from her stool, spray bottle in hand. ‘Well, thank you. And actually, it could be a favour for me. Would it be OK for you to mind the shop while I pop to the pharmacie ?’
‘Of course!’ Adeline said. ‘I’ll keep the crowds at bay.’ She laughed, but Monique looked confused: ‘I think it will be quiet.’
‘Yes,’ Adeline acquiesced, embarrassed that her joke had fallen flat. After Monique tidied away the stool and exited into the street with a cheery wave, Adeline sat behind the counter, looking through the names on the paperbound books and the scribbled notes of orders on the notepad Monique kept for the purpose. It was hard to read Monique’s handwriting in some places and many of the titles she hadn’t heard of – she’d highlight any queries and wait until her boss came back before ordering something completely wrong.
She could make out the name Claude on one of the papers, and the thought of him made sadness well in her chest. He’d been in again yesterday, with his timid smile and anxious eyes. Monique had slipped him another book – a slim volume of poems – and he’d taken it gratefully. ‘We will find it, Claude,’ she’d said. ‘I promise.’
Adeline wondered what book Monique was going to try with him next. She liked the idea of bibliotherapy and – despite Monique’s allusions to magic and psychic insight – liked to think of what Monique did in this practical, ordinary way. But could it really be enough for Claude, who was clearly so steeped in grief he could barely move? Surely a trip to his doctor might do better for him? Perhaps she’d suggest it if he ever came in when Monique wasn’t around.
She did believe in the healing power of books, in the way that words could find places in the heart and soul that even medicine couldn’t always reach. But she was also practical – sometimes it took a little more science to get someone back on track .
When the bell jangled, she looked up to see a woman in jeans and a sweatshirt walking in, a large handbag over her shoulder and a shopping bag straining with vegetables in her hand. ‘Morning!’ the woman said in English.
Adeline had been speaking French with everyone but Lili for so long, the familiar greeting startled her a little. She replied, on autopilot, with a friendly ‘ Bonjour .’
The woman coloured. ‘Oh,’ she said. Then peered at her a little, walking forward. ‘ Desolée, j’ai pensé… j’ai pensé … I thought you were English,’ she finished, lapsing away from her attempt to speak French.
‘Oh, I am,’ Adeline replied. ‘Sorry. Force of habit.’
The woman grinned and stuck out a hand for a shake. Adeline’s hand met hers and she gave it a firm up and down. ‘Stacey.’ She wore her blonde hair tied in a scrappy ponytail, bits escaping to frame her face. Her complexion was red and rather blotchy, possibly from too much sun over the years, and she looked to be in her forties.
‘Adeline.’
Stacey nodded. ‘Pretty name.’
‘So do you live locally?’ Adeline asked.
‘Not far. In one of the hamlets. My youngest goes to the maternelle here, so I have a wander round sometimes after dropping her off.’ She held a bag of chocolate up. ‘Always get my fix of this stuff too from the patisserie. Have you tasted it yet?’
‘No. Well, only the pastries from there. Not the chocolate.’
‘You’re missing out. It’s divine. As is the guy who makes it!’
‘André?’
The woman shrugged. ‘The tall guy, you know. Good-looking.’
Adeline smiled. ‘That’s the one.’
‘Yep. His chocolate costs a fortune, but talk about tasty! ’
Adeline wasn’t sure if Stacey was alluding to André’s looks or the deliciousness of the chocolate, but decided to move the conversation on, either way. Michel had hopefully spoken to André by now, smoothed things over after her collision and rude departure. But thinking about how she’d barged into him always made her prickle with residual embarrassment.
‘Hey, you’ve gone red!’ Stacey seemed delighted. ‘Don’t fancy him, do you?’
‘Don’t be ridiculous!’ she said, perhaps a little too sharply.
Stacey looked at her knowingly. ‘Well, can’t say I blame you!’
‘I don’t… it’s not…’
But Stacey smiled at her, clearly convinced. It made more sense to change the subject.
‘So, are you looking for anything in particular?’
‘Just thought I’d have a browse. Don’t often come in here.’
‘Not a reader?’
‘Nah. It’s not that,’ Stacey said, looking furtive. ‘It’s just the other woman that’s normally here… Sometimes she gives me the creeps.’
Adeline found herself stiffen as her body went into defence mode. ‘The creeps?’
‘Ah, she’s nice enough. It’s just someone told me once that she used to do witchcraft. You know, spells and that. Fortune telling. I just…’ Stacey shuddered. ‘That sort of stuff gives me the chills.’ She grinned, as if to make light of her words. ‘I know lots of people believe in it,’ she added with a shrug.
Adeline laughed. ‘Oh, Monique’s lovely! Yes, maybe a little eccentric, but you definitely don’t need to worry about coming in. She’s not going to cast a spell on you.’
Stacey nodded and gave a self-conscious grin. ‘That’s good to know. I like bookshops, it’s just people talk and…’ She trailed off. Sh e picked up a book, almost at random, and thrust it at Adeline. ‘I’ll take this one.’
Adeline looked at it. It was a recent release from an American crime writer. ‘Oh, this is a great book,’ she said. ‘Had me up half the night afterwards though.’ She rang the purchase up on the till, then made change from a twenty euro note.
‘Thanks, love. And look,’ Stacey jotted a number on the back of her receipt and handed it back to Adeline. ‘Let me know if you want to grab a coffee sometime, see the lie of the land. It can be hard here, on your tod.’
‘Oh. Thank you.’ Adeline tucked the receipt into her pocket and smiled. ‘It’s really kind of you.’
Stacey shrugged. ‘People always say to integrate, and I do try. But it’s hard – always nice to have someone to talk to who gets it,’ she said. ‘Have a proper natter about things back home, that kind of thing.’
Adeline nodded. ‘Well, thanks.’
The bell rang to signal the door had opened and they both looked up to see Monique, carrying a paper bag with a green pharmacie logo on it. She looked at Stacey. ‘ Bonjour ,’ she said with a smile.
‘ Bonjour ,’ Stacey nodded. Her shoulders seemed to stiffen.
Adeline handed her the book she’d purchased. ‘There you go. Let me know if you enjoy it.’
‘Will do.’ Stacey turned and made her way to the door, giving Monique a rather wide berth, but smiling at her as if not wanting to cause offence.
Once she’d exited, Monique came over and set the pharmacie bag down on the stairs, then looked at Adeline quizzically. ‘She was a little strange, non ? I have not seen her here before.’
‘Oh, yes. She’s English. I think someone had told her I was here and she was curious,’ said Adeline with a shrug .
‘OK,’ Monique made to pick up her purchases and take them to the flat and then stopped. ‘But she seemed strange with me. She made a big circle to get around me, as if I was an elephant!’
Adeline laughed, then felt herself begin to go a little red. ‘She’s a bit… nervous, I think.’
‘Of me? But why?’
‘Perhaps…’ Adeline thought of Stacey’s stumbled attempt at French then felt Monique’s knowing eyes on her and realised that only the truth would do. ‘She heard some rumours about you. About you doing some magic and things like that.’
Monique shook her head. ‘Ah yes, because I am a witch.’ She rolled her eyes, then shook her head and laughed – such a joyful noise usually, but this time tinged with sadness. ‘Some people have no imagination,’ she said. ‘You are either a doctor with a medical diploma, or you are a witch. They cannot conceive of anything else. Anything in between. It is all black and white. And of course if you are a witch, then you must be dangerous, perhaps evil. They cannot imagine that some people use magic for good.’
‘People can be narrow-minded,’ Adeline said, feeling a little hypocritical.
‘ Oui . When I first arrived, I was so young. And people were suspicious of me. But I thought…’ Monique shrugged. ‘Ah, it does not matter.’
‘I honestly think she’s an exception. I haven’t heard anyone else say anything, I think perhaps it’s an old rumour – and maybe if she doesn’t mix much with local people she hasn’t been corrected.’
Monique fiddled with the paper bag in her hands, worrying its edges. ‘It is just the word “witch”. It makes me feel like an old woman on a broom,’ she said, half amused. ‘But why is it that people need to label everything? Non , I am not a doctor. I do not ride a broom like a witch. But I do use magic and I do heal people.’
Adeline felt a shiver, thinking about the strange charge she’d felt when Monique’s hand had rested on her shoulder the day before; the way in which the Dickinson poems seemed almost to have been written about her at times.
‘Ah, but not hocus-pocus, no cauldrons,’ Monique said, gathering the bag to her and smiling again. She looked, suddenly, more like her usual self. ‘Perhaps crystals. Maybe spells. A little intuition. Jars for luck and love and fortune. And stories of course. They are magic, non ? Poems.’
‘Yes. I suppose.’
‘Pah! There is no “suppose”. I gave you a book from a woman who is dead many years, yet you hear her voice. You feel what she feels. You sense it. There is a connection. What is that if it is not magic?’
Adeline felt a shiver of recognition.
‘Stories, they are human souls trapped in words. One soul calling to another, across pages, miles, sometimes centuries. And they tell us the thing we need to know more than anything. That we are not alone. That we can connect. Maybe the writer and the reader will never meet. Maybe the writer has been dead many years. But there is a voice saying “We have the same mind, the same thoughts. Do not worry. You are heard. You are understood.” It is this.’ Monique said, tapping her chest. ‘This is what heals us.’