Free Peaches for Monsieur Le Curé by Joanne Harris Page B

and has replaced the village organist with Lucie Levalois playing guitar. The result is undoubtedly popular – we’ve never had so many people coming from other villages – but I wonder what you’d think of it, père , who always used to be so austere.
    The Bishop feels that, nowadays, worship should be more about fun than austerity. We have to draw in the young , he says – he himself is thirty-eight, seven years younger than I am, and he wears Nike trainers under his robe. Père Henri Lemaître is his protégé, and so, of course, can do no wrong. Hence his approval of Père Henri’s intention to modernize Saint-Jérôme’s, including display screens for his PowerPoint sermons, and plans to replace our old oak pews with something ‘more appropriate’. By this I suppose he means that oak goes badly with PowerPoint.
    But although I myself may deplore the loss, I will be in the minority. Caro Clairmont has been complaining for years about those pews, which are narrow and hard (Caro herself is neither). And of course, if they are taken out, her husband, Georges, will be the one to reclaim, restore and ultimately sell them, at an absurdly inflated price, in Bordeaux, to wealthy tourists looking to furnish their holiday homes with something nicely authentic.
    It’s hard not to get angry, père . I’ve given my life to Lansquenet. And for it all to be snatched away – and for such a reason—
    It all comes back to that blasted shop. That blasted chocolaterie . What is it about that place that attracts trouble? First it was Vianne Rocher – then, Bencharki’s sister. Now, even gutted and empty, it seems to be doing its best to provoke my downfall. The Bishop is certain, he tells me, that nothing links me to the fire. Hypocrite. You notice that he does not say that he believes in my innocence. What he says, very reasonably, is that, whatever the outcome of the investigation into my conduct, my position here has been compromised. Perhaps another parish, then, where my history is not known …
    Damn his condescension. I will not go quietly. I refuse to believe that, after everything I have done for this community, no one here has faith in me. There must be something I can do. A gesture to earn myself some goodwill among my people and those of Les Marauds. Trying to talk with them has not helped; but maybe action will plead my cause.
    Which is why this morning I decided to go back to Place Saint-Jérôme and do what I could to make amends. The shop is structurally sound: it requires little more than a thorough clean, some tiles on the roof, some replacement wood and plasterwork and a few coats of paint to make it like new. Or so I thought; I also believed that if others saw me helping out, some of them would lend a hand.
    Four hours later, I ached all over, and no one had even spoken to me. Poitou’s bakery is opposite; the Café des Marauds just down the road, and no one had even thought to bring me as much as a drink in this crushing heat. I began to understand, père , that this was my penance – not for the fire, but for my arrogance in believing that I could win back my flock with a show of humility.
    After lunch, the bakery closed; the sun-bleached square was silent. Only Saint-Jérôme’s tower offered some relief from the sun; as I dragged pieces of charred debris from inside the shop on to the kerb, I lingered awhile in its shadow, then took a drink from the fountain.
    ‘What are you doing?’ said a voice.
    I straightened up. Sweet Jesus. Of all the people I would rather not see – the Clairmont boy is no trouble, of course, but he’ll tell his mother, and I would have much preferred him to see me surrounded by friendly volunteers, cleaning up the Bencharki place, instead of exhausted, filthy and sore, surrounded by nothing but burnt wood.
    ‘Nothing much.’ I shot him a smile. ‘I thought we could show solidarity. You wouldn’t want a mother and child to come back to a place like this —’ I