Cruelest Month

‘Duck? Really?’ said Olivier, sitting on the arm of Gabri’s wing chair and sipping cognac. ‘Duck? Do you think she’s been saying that all along?̵

‘And we just misheard?’ asked Myrna. ‘Duck off. Is that what she said to me the other day?’

‘Duck you?’ said Clara. ‘It’s possible. She is often in a fowl mood.’

Monsieur Béliveau laughed and looked over at Madeleine, pale and quiet beside him.

The fine April day had given way to a cold and damp night. It was getting on for midnight and they were the only ones in the bistro now.

‘What did she want?’ Peter asked.

‘Help with some duck eggs. Remember the ones we found by the pond this afternoon?’ said Clara, turning to Mad. ‘Are you all right?’

‘I’m fine.’ Madeleine smiled. ‘Just a little edgy.’

‘I’m sorry about that,’ said Jeanne. She sat on a hard chair slightly outside their circle. She’d reverted to her mousy self; all evidence of the strong, calm psychic had evaporated as soon as the lights had come on.

‘Oh, no, I’m sure it’s nothing to do with the séance,’ Madeleine assured her. ‘We had coffee after dinner and it must have had caffeine. It affects me that way.’

‘Mais, ce n’est pas possible,’ Monsieur Béliveau said. ‘I’m sure it was decaf.’ Though he was feeling a little edgy himself.

‘What’s the story with the eggs?’ asked Olivier, smoothing the crease on his immaculate corduroys.

‘Seems Ruth went to the pond after we’d left and picked them up,’ Clara explained.

‘Oh, no,’ said Mad.

‘Then the birds came back and wouldn’t sit on the nest,’ said Clara. ‘Just as you predicted. So Ruth took the eggs home.’

‘To eat?’ asked Myrna. ‘To hatch,’ said Gabri, who’d gone with Clara back to Ruth’s tiny house to see if they could help.

‘She didn’t sit on them, did she?’ Myrna asked, not sure if she was amused or repulsed by the image.

‘No, it was actually quite sweet. When we arrived the eggs were sitting on a soft flannel blanket in a basket. She’d put the whole lot in her oven on low.’

‘Good idea,’ said Peter. Like the rest, he’d have expected Ruth to devour, not save, them.

‘I don’t think she’s had that oven on in years. Keeps saying it takes too much energy,’ said Myrna.

‘Well, she has it on now,’ said Clara. ‘Trying to hatch the ducks. Those poor parents.’ She picked up her Scotch and glanced out the window to the darkness of the village green and imagined the parents sitting by the pond, at the spot where their young family had been, where their babies had sat in their little shells, trusting that Mom and Dad would keep them safe and warm. Ducks mate for life, Clara knew. That’s why duck hunting season was particularly cruel. Every now and then in the fall you’d see a lone duck, quacking. Calling. Waiting for its spouse. And for the rest of its life it would wait.

Were the duck parents waiting now? Waiting for their babies to return? Did ducks believe in miracles?

‘Still, it must have scared the crap out of all of you,’ Olivier laughed, imagining Ruth at the window.

‘Fortunately Clara here was on top of the spiritual crisis, repeating an ancient blessing,’ said Gabri.

‘More drinks, anyone?’ Clara asked.

‘Bless O Lord,’ Gabri began and the others joined in, ‘this food to our use, and ourselves to Thy service.’

Peter sputtered with laughter and felt Scotch dribble down his chin.

‘Let us be ever mindful of the needs of others.’ Peter looked her directly in her amused blue eyes.

‘Amen,’ they all said together, including Clara, who was herself laughing.

‘You said grace?’ Peter asked.

‘Well, I thought I might be seeing my dinner again.’

By now everyone was laughing and even staid and proper Monsieur Béliveau was letting out a rolling, deep guffaw and wiping his eyes.

‘Ruth’s appearance sure put paid to the séance,’ said Clara after she’d regained herself.

‘I don’t think we’d have been successful anyway,’ said Jeanne.

‘Why not?’ Peter asked, curious to hear her excuse.

‘I’m afraid this place is too happy,’ said Jeanne to Olivier. ‘I suspected as much as soon as I arrived.’

‘Damn,’ said Olivier. ‘That can’t be tolerated.’

‘Then why’d you do a séance?’ Peter persisted, certain he’d caught her out.

‘Well, it wasn’t exactly my idea. I’d planned to spend tonight here having the linguine primavera and reading old copies of Country Life. No mean spirits around.’

Jeanne looked directly at Peter, her smile fading.

‘Except one,’ said Monsieur Béliveau. Peter tore his eyes from Jeanne and looked at Béliveau, expecting to see the kindly grocer pointing a crooked Jacob Marley finger at him. But instead Monsieur Béliveau’s hawk-like profile stared out the window.

‘What do you mean?’ asked Jeanne, following his gaze but seeing only the warm lights of the village homes through the lace curtains and the old leaded glass.

‘Up there.’ Monsieur Béliveau jerked his head. ‘Beyond the village. You can’t see it now unless you know what to look for.’

Clara didn’t look. She knew what he was talking about and begged him, silently, to go no further.