After the service a child – Mathilde Arnauld – came up to me. Putting her hand in mine she whispered, smiling: `Will they bring chocolates for you too, Monsieur le Cure?’

'Will who bring chocolates?’ I asked, puzzled.

Impatiently: `But the bells, of course!' She gave a chuckle. `The flying bells!' `Oh, the bells. Of course.’

I was taken aback and for a moment did not know how to answer. She tugged at my soutane, insisting. `You know, the bells. Flying to Rome to see the Pope and bringing back chocolates.’ It has become an obsession. A one-word refrain, a whispered-shouted-chonls to every thought. I could not prevent my voice from rising in anger, crumpling her eager face into dismay and terror. I roared: `Why can no-one here think of anything but chocolates?’ and the child ran wailing across the square, the little shop with its gift wrapping window grinning at me in triumph as I called after her too late.

Tonight there will be the ceremonial burial of the Host in the sepulchre, the acting-out of the last moments of Our Lord by children of the parish, the lighting of the candles as the light fails. This is usually one of the most intense moments of the year for me, the moment at which they belong to me, my children, black-swathed and grave. But this year, will they be thinking of the Passion, of the solemnity of the Eucharist, or will their mouths be watering in anticipation? Her stories – flying bells and feasting – are pervasive, seductive. I try to infuse the sermon with our own seductions, but the dark glories of the Church cannot compare with her magic carpet rides.

I called on Armande Voizin this afternoon. It's her birthday, and the house was in commotion. Of course, I knew there was to be a kind of party, but never suspected anything like this. Caro mentioned it to the once or twice – she is reluctant to go, but hopes to use it as an opportunity to make peace with her mother once and for all – though I suspect even she does not anticipate the scale of the event. Vianne Rocher was in the kitchen, having spent most of the day preparing food. Josephine Muscat volunteered the cafe's kitchen as. a supplementary cooking area, for Armande's house is too small to cope with such lavish preparations, and when I arrived a whole phalanx of helpers were bringing dishes, pans and tureens from the cafe to Armande's house. A rich, winey smell came from the open window, and in spite of myself I found my mouth watering. Narcisse was working in the garden, fixing flowers onto a kind of trellis constructed between the house and the gate. The effect is startling: clematis, morning glory, lilac and seringa seem to trail down the wooden structure, forming a thatch of colour above, through which the sun filters gently. Armande was nowhere to be seen.

I turned away, unsettled by this excessive display. Typical of her to have chosen Good Friday for this celebration. The lavishness of it all – flowers, food, crates of champagne delivered at the door and packed with ice to keep it cool – is almost blasphemous, a mocking cry in the face of the sacrificed god. I must speak to her about it tomorrow. I was about to leave when I caught sight of Guillaume Duplessis standing beside the wall, stroking one of Armande's cats. He raised his hat politely.

`Helping, are you?’ I demanded.

Guillaume nodded. `I said I might give a hand,' he admitted. `There's still a lot of work to do before tonight.’

`I'm amazed you want to have anything to do with this,' I told him sharply. `Today of all days, too! Really, I think Armande's taking it too far this time. The expense, quite apart from the disrespect to the Church…’

Guillaume shrugged. `She's entitled to her little celebration,' he said mildly.

`She's more likely to kill herself with overeating,' I snapped tartly.

`I think she's old enough to do what she likes,' said Guillaume.

I eyed him disapprovingly. He has changed since he began his association with the Rocher woman. The look of mournful humility has gone from his face and there is something wilful, almost defiant, in its place.

`I don't like the way her family tries to run Armande's life for her,' he continued stubbornly.

I shrugged. `I'm surprised that you, of all people, can take her side in this,' I told him.

`Life's full, of surprises,' said Guillaume.

I wish it were.

36

Friday March 28 Good Friday

AT SOME POINT QUITE EARLY ON I FORGOT WHAT THE party was all about and began to enjoy myself. While Anouk played in Les Marauds, I orchestrated preparations for the largest and most lavish meal I had ever cooked, and became lost in succulent detail. I had three kitchens: my own large ovens at La Praline where I baked the cakes, the Cafe des Marauds up the road for the shellfish, and Armande's tiny kitchen for the soup, vegetables, sauces and garnishes. Josephine offered to lend Armande the extra cutlery and plates she might need, but Armande shook her head, smiling.

`That's all dealt with,' she replied. And so it was; early on Thursday morning a van arrived bearing the name of a large firm in Limoges and delivered two boxes of glass and silverware and one of fine china, all wrapped in shredded paper. The delivery man smiled as Armande signed the goods receipt.

`One of your granddaughters getting married, hein?’ he asked cheerily.

Armande gave a bright chuckle. `Could be,' she replied. `Could be.’

She spent Friday in high spirits, supposedly overseeing things but mostly getting underfoot. Like a mischievous child she had her fingers in sauces, peeped under dish covers and the lids of hot pans until finally I begged Guillaume to take her to the hairdresser in Agen for a couple of hours, if only to get her out of the way. When she returned she was transformed: hair smartly cropped and set under a rakish new hat, new gloves, new shoes. Shoes, gloves and hat were all the same shade of cherry red, Armande's favourite colour.

`I'm working upwards,' she informed me with satisfaction as she settled into her rocker to watch the proceedings. `By the end of the week I might have the courage to buy a whole red dress. Imagine me walking into church with it on. Wheee!'

`Get some rest,' I told her sternly. `You've a party to go to tonight. I don't want you falling asleep in the middle of dessert.’

`I won't,' she said, but accepted to doze for an hour in the late sun while I dressed the table and the others went home to rest and change for the evening. The dinner table is large, absurdly so for Armande's little room, and with a little care would seat us all. A heavy piece of black oak, it took four people to manoeuvre it out into Narcisse's newly built arbour where it stood beneath a canopy of foliage and flowers. The tablecloth is damask, with a fine lace border, and smells of the lavender in which she laid it after her marriage – a gift, never yet used, from her own grandmother. The plates from Limoges are white with a tiny border of yellow flowers running around the rim; glasses – three different kinds are crystal, nests of sunlight flicking rainbow flecks across the white cloth. A centrepiece of spring flowers from Narcisse, napkins folded neatly beside each plate. On each napkin, inscribed cards with the name of the guest: Armande Voizin, Vianne Rocker, Anouk Rocker, Caroline Clairmont, Georges Clairmont, Luc Clairmont, Guilaaurrie Duplessis, Josephine Bonnet, Julien Narcisse, Michel Roux, Blanche Demand, Cerisette Planpon.

For a moment I did not recognize the last two names, then I remembered Blanche and Zezette, still moored upriver and waiting. I realized that until now I had not known Roux's name, had assumed it to be a nickname, perhaps, for his red hair.

The guests began to arrive at eight. I left my kitchen at seven for a quick change and a shower, and when I returned the boat was already moored under the house, and the river people were arriving. Blanche in her red dirndl and a lace shirt, Zezette in an old black evening dress with her arms tattooed in henna and a ruby in.her eyebrow, Roux in clean jeans and a white T-shirt, all of them bringing presents with them, wrapped in scraps of gift paper or wallpaper or pieces of cloth. Then came Narcisse in his Sunday suit, then Guillaume, a yellow flower in his buttonhole, then the Clairmonts, resolutely cheery, Caro watching the river people with a wary eye but nevertheless prepared to enjoy herself if such a sacrifice was demanded. Over aperitifs, salted pinenuts and tiny biscuits we watched as Armande opened her presents: from Anouk a picture of a cat in a red envelope, from Blanche a jar of honey, Zezette sachets of lavender embroidered with the letter B – `I didn't have time to do one with your initial,' she explained with cheery unconcern, `but I promise I will next year' – from Roux a carved oak leaf, delicate as the real thing, with a cluster of acorns clinging to the stem, from Narcisse a big basket of fruit and flowers. More lavish gifts came from the Clairmonts; a scarf from Caro – not Hermes, I noticed, but silk nevertheless – and a silver flower vase, from Luc something shiny and red in an envelope of crinkly paper, which he hides from his mother as best he can beneath a pile of discarded wrapping-papers. Armande smirks and mouths at me – Wheeee! – behind her cupped hand. Josephine brings a small gold locket, smiles apologetically. `It's not new,' she says.