Church

The heat, and then the cold. The change – that’s what I remember most about the September we lived in France.

Every Sunday we would walk up to the church over parched fields and roads thick with dust that filled my shoes, my nose and my throat.

Against the sun, I tipped my straw hat right over my eyes. I saw the world as an unbearable road and dark straw pricked with stars. I walked to the rhythm of the bells, which called out clang-clong clang-clong without stopping until the priest was ready to begin. Even today, the sound of church bells makes me hurry to a bar or café.

The church porch was so cool and dark that I could never shake the feeling that I had somehow tumbled down a well. A kind lady, one of those ladies who is always organising sales and fetes for the benefit of something or other, would offer a cup of water to anyone who looked as if they had walked a long way – that was us, certainly, but our mother would refuse for all of us. She didn’t know who had used the cup before, you see.

After church, there was fruit. On the way home, we passed a shaded hut where a few plums and melons lay waiting for travellers – my parents dropped coins into an honesty box to pay the farmer for what they took, and my brother and I would have a plum each to eat as we walked. We liked the slightly unripe ones that left shreds of sour fruit on the stones. We would suck them, pretending that we were soldiers of the desert who must roll pebbles round our mouths to keep our tongues from drying out.

When we reached the gate, our mother would tell us to ‘spit out whatever it is you’ve been lolling around in your mouths. What will your great aunt think of you?’

Our great aunt was waiting for us in the courtyard garden with a jug of water and bottle of red wine, and she was thinking we were old enough to drink wine-and-water like the French children.