Christophe Pichon was still there. The blurry glow emanating from the gas lights in the dairy across La Place de la République made him look so handsome. Amelie sighed. She was in love. The October afternoon had turned into a chilly evening; it was 6.30 and almost dark. By the dim light of the dairy she watched the young man shuffle from foot to foot. The story of how his left foot had been broken when he was a lad, riding the greengrocer’s horse as a dare, was still a source of amusement in the town. ‘Pauvre Christophe,’ she said softly, ‘you need boots that fit properly and don’t hurt your feet. And when we’re married they won’t dare laugh at you.’
She knew that Christophe had been outside the dairy for almost an hour. She wondered who, or what, he was waiting for. At least she could see him and dream about standing next to him. She wriggled in her chair, willing her wasted legs to move. Soon Odille would come to put her to bed. Oh the indignities of it all! She closed her eyes and imagined Christophe carrying her downstairs and out into the world. He would take her to Lourdes, she just knew he would. When she was cured and able to walk he would marry her as soon as possible. They would always be happy together and never ignore each other as her parents did.
A shout from the other side of the square caught Amelie’s attention. M and Mme Fischer were arguing. They usually had a row after the second or third absinthe, but today they had at least four before the tension began to build. She knew that Raymond Fischer had come to the town as a young man, running away from something, or someone, in his native Alsace. His curious accent amused Amelie; she knew that behind his back the locals called him choucroute. She also knew they never dared call him that to his face, he had a bad temper and a short fuse, although the years and alcohol had slowed him down.
In the room above the milliner’s shop, Amelie picked up her sewing. Needlework was her escape, her link to the world beyond her window. She embroidered appliqués for the hats her parents sold and did a little work on commission. At the moment she was embroidering a velvet cape. It was difficult to hold the slippery material secure in the hoop without damaging the fabric. Slowly a profusion of exotic birds was transforming the edge of the cape. She picked up her work, but it was too dark to see properly. The parrot’s wing would have to wait until the morning.
Amelie could hear voices coming from the shop below. The words were muffled and indistinct but she gathered that Mme Gaudin was undecided about the inclusion of an ostrich feather in her new hat. Amelie strained her ears to catch more of the conversation. Mme Gaudin had seen in an illustrated paper, that peacock feathers were in vogue this year and she wanted to be up to date with the fashion. On the other hand she did not want to appear ostentatious in the endroit reculé of Forentan. Amelie was horrified to hear her home town referred to as a backwater, and she guessed her parents would be as well. But Mme Gaudin was a good customer, so there was nothing they could do except agree, suggest, agree and suggest.
Another shout from across the street caused Amelie to re-focus on the deteriorating situation outside the tabac. After several drinks they started arguing, inevitably about Clovis. Amelie vaguely recalled the red-haired infant son of Marie-Pierre Fischer. He had died of polio during the same outbreak that had killed many children and left her with legs that didn’t work. According to Odille, a young woman employed by her mother as a part-time nurse and carer, Clovis was born just two months after the Fischers’ wedding. Odille had said that although the child wasn’t his, Raymond Fischer had treated him as his own, doted on him and was heartbroken when he died. Odille reckoned that Marie-Pierre’s heart had broken as well, and that they had both drank so much to hide their pain.
Most evenings Amelie watched the altercations between the Fischers with a combination of horror and amusement, but tonight her attention was divided between the tabac and the dairy. Her eyes were fixed on the latter until it was too dark for her to see the angelic profile of her beloved. She vaguely wondered where Odille had got to; she wasn’t usually late. Below she heard her mother saying ‘Au revoir’ and ‘Merci beaucoup’ to Mme Gaudin. Then the sound of Maman trudging up the stairs. She saw Papa cross the street and hurry to the dairy. To her amazement he was soon in conversation with the adored Christophe.
Her concentration on the unusual sight of her father talking to the man she intended to marry was broken by shouting from the tabac. She saw Marie-Pierre pick up a chair and smack it across the head of the inebriated Raymond. Blood and invectives flowed across the square. Amelie did not know whether to watch the drama with the Fischers unfold or keep her eyes on Christophe and her father.
Her dilemma was solved when Maman came into her room. ‘Odille won’t be coming any more. I’ll have to care for you myself until we can find someone else.’ Amelie’s heart sank. Her mother was never gentle. More importantly, Odille was her source of information, a bridge to the world beyond her bedroom: news of events, gossip, even salacious titbits that had to be whispered when Maman was not around.
‘What’s the matter with Odille?’ she ventured.
Maman sniffed ‘No better than she ought to be.’ Amelie watched as her mother busied with preparations for bed. She could hear Maman muttering ‘catin’ and ‘prostituée.’
Amelie was none the wiser but didn’t want to upset her mother even more by asking questions.
As the autumn dusk turned rapidly to dark, a few more gas lights were lit. Amelie stayed glued to the window until the last possible moment. She wished with all her heart that she knew what Christophe and her father were talking about.
Her concentration on the two men was distracted by the sight of a horse and cart trundling around the square. From her vantage point Amelie could recognise all the locals and their horses, carts, bicycles, even the occasional automobile. But she’d never seen this before. She felt very sorry for the horse, it looked worn-out and dejected. Then she noticed what it was pulling, a sort of trailer with what looked like a wooden shed crazily fixed to the flat bed. Her first thought was that it must be a circus! How exciting, perhaps she could go to that and see the wild animals. Then she made out the faded words on the side of the cart. It was a travelling photographer. Quelle déception.
She turned her attention back to the scene outside the dairy. Christophe was hopping from one foot to the other; her father was punching his fist into the palm of his other hand. He always did this when he was arguing. Amelie considered that this did not bode well for Christophe; her father frequently argued and never conceded anything.
Meanwhile outside the tabac, the nightly charade of the Fischers had ended. Amelie watched the husband and wife making their way home with considerable difficulty. Raymond could hardly walk; the arms of his wife, strengthened by a lifetime of hard work, held him just about upright. She guessed, correctly, that the proprietor Bernard Lavoisier was telling them, as he told them almost every day, that they weren’t to come back, that their custom was not worth the fuss and that they would have to pay for the chair. In truth the chair was fine. Raymond’s head less so.
Amelie looked back towards the dairy just in time to see Christophe step back from her father and shake his head. Then he seemed to hesitate, turn and move towards the older man before reluctantly holding out his hand. The two men shook hands then turned away from each other. How she wished that she could have heard what they had been talking about.
At 7.25 Amelie was in bed with a bowl of hot chocolate placed carefully on the table beside her. Her mother had clearly resented the wiping, the washing, the holding, the lifting and the dressing. But Amelie closed her eyes and dreamed of the future, WALKING down the aisle with the man of her dreams.
In her room above her parents’ shop, Amelie drifted off to sleep. She wondered why her evening chocolate always tasted so much better than the insipid drink she had in the morning; one day she’d pluck up the courage to ask her mother. But for now she slept, dreaming of the day she would become Madame Pichon.
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About the author
Penny Rogers is the writing name of Penny Dale; she uses
the pseudonym to prevent any confusion with the marvellous writer and illustrator of children’s books who is also called Penny Dale.
Before retirement Penny was an academic librarian, and in this capacity edited and contributed to books on learning environments in universities. She also wrote and presented academic and technical papers on learning spaces, as well as development and training for staff in higher education library and information services.
These days Penny writes mostly short stories and flash fiction and enjoys trying out different styles and genres. She has stories in anthologies published by Bridge House,
Henshaw Press and the Dorset Writers Network. She is a regular contributor to CaféLit and has had stories published by Spillwords, Funny Pearls and in Bare Fiction and Writers 112
In her home town Penny facilitates a writing group that meets to offer mutual support and encouragement. She is also a member of a local poetry group and was on the
management team for SOUTH poetry magazine until it ceased publication in 2025.
When not writing, Penny enjoys knitting, preserving fruits and vegetables from her garden and visiting historic buildings. She is particularly fond of old churches and is
inspired by their history, architecture and continuing contribution to their communities. She is especially good at sitting in her beautiful garden, advising the gardener and planning her next story.
