The Cruelest Month

‘Each winter’s frostbite and the bug



That greets the spring will leave its mark,



As well as sorrow on the mug



Of infant, youth and patriarch.’



Stunned silence fell.



– a really bad poet, Clara completed her thought.



Odile had spoken solemnly, as though the words conveyed something other than the talent of the poet.



‘I’ll look after you,’ said the man. Clara now knew who he was too. Odile’s boyfriend, Gilles Sandon.



‘Why do you really want to go, Gilles?’



‘Just for fun.’



‘Is it because she’ll be there?’



There was silence, except for Clara’s screaming legs.



‘He’ll be there too, you know,’ Odile pressed.



‘Who?’



‘You know who. Monsieur Béliveau,’ said Odile. ‘I have a bad feeling about this, Gilles.’



There was another pause, then Sandon spoke, his voice deep and flat as though making a huge effort to smother any emotion.



‘Don’t worry. I won’t kill him.’



Clara had forgotten all about her legs. Kill Monsieur Béliveau? Who’d even consider such a thing? The old grocer had never even short-changed anyone. What could Gilles Sandon possibly have against him?



She heard the two walk away and straightening up with some agony Clara stared after them, Odile pear-shaped and waddling slightly, Gilles a huge teddy bear of a man, his signature red beard visible even from behind.



Clara glanced at her sweaty hands clutching the wooden Easter eggs. The cheery colors had bled into her palms.



Suddenly the séance, which had seemed an amusing idea a few days ago when Gabri had put the notice up in the bistro announcing the arrival of the famous psychic, Madame Isadore Blavatsky, now felt different. Instead of happy anticipation Clara was filled with dread.



THREE



Madame Isadore Blavatsky wasn’t herself that night. In fact, she wasn’t Madame Isadore Blavatsky at all.



‘Please, call me Jeanne.’ The mousy woman stood in the middle of the back room at the bistro, holding out her hand. ‘Jeanne Chauvet.’



‘Bonjour, Madame Chauvet.’ Clara smiled and shook the limp hand. ‘Excusez-moi.’



‘Jeanne,’ the woman reminded her in a voice barely audible.



Clara stepped over to Gabri who was offering a platter of smoked salmon to his guests. The room was beginning to fill up, slightly. ‘Salmon?’ He thrust the plate at Clara.



‘Who is she?’ Clara asked.



‘Madame Blavatsky, the famous Hungarian psychic. Can’t you just feel her energy?’



Madeleine and Monsieur Béliveau waved. Clara waved back then glanced over at Jeanne who looked as though she’d faint if someone said boo. ‘I certainly feel something, young man, and it’s annoyed.’



Gabri Dubeau vacillated between delight at being called ‘young man’ and defensiveness.



‘That isn’t Madame Blavatsky. She doesn’t even pretend to be. Her name’s Jeanne someone-or-other,’ said Clara, absent-mindedly taking a piece of salmon and folding it onto a pumpernickel. ‘You promised us Madame Blavatsky.’



‘You don’t even know who Madame Blavatsky is.’



‘Well, I know who she isn’t.’ Clara nodded and smiled at the small, middle-aged woman standing slightly bewildered in the middle of the room.



‘And would you’ve come if you’d known she was the psychic?’ Gabri gestured with the plate toward Jeanne. A caper rolled off the end, to be lost on the rich oriental carpet.



Why do we never learn? Clara sighed to herself. Every time Gabri has a guest he organizes some outlandish event, like the time the poker champ came to stay and took all our money, or that singer who made even Ruth sound like Maria Callas. Still, horrible as these socials Gabri threw together turned out for the villagers, they must have been worse for the unsuspecting guests, roped into entertaining Three Pines when all they wanted was a quiet stay in the country.



She watched as Jeanne Chauvet gazed around the room, rubbed her hands on her polyester pants and smiled at the portrait above the roaring fireplace. Before Clara’s very eyes she seemed to disappear. It was actually quite a trick, though not one that spoke highly of her psychic abilities. Clara felt badly for her. Really, what was Gabri thinking?



‘What were you thinking?’



‘What do you mean? She’s a psychic. She told me when she booked in. True, she’s not Madame Blavatsky. Or from Hungary. But she does readings.’



‘Wait a minute.’ Clara was getting suspicious. ‘Does she even know you’d planned this evening?’