le village de Meyrueis, département de
la lozère
Madame Rose-Marie Longchamp paused
at the mirror in the hallway and tugged the collar of her pristine white blouse
straight. Satisfied it was perfectly placed, she smiled at her reflection. The
burgundy embroidery on each collar point perfectly complemented the sage green
of her linen jacket. Picking up her basket, she dropped in her purse and keys. At
the open front door, she breathed in the fresh, heady scent of the stocks in
the terracotta pots on each side of the small portico as the nearby river
rippled its way westward to become a minor tributary of the much more
impressive Tarn.
Her wicker pannier
over her right arm, she stepped out into the morning sunshine as she had done
for the last five-and-a-half decades. Collecting the bread and pâtisserie
for the weekend was always her first and most important chore on a Friday
morning. Today, even more so, as her daughter, granddaughter and the new
addition to the family, another girl, would be visiting on Saturday. A catch-up
with the baker and her regular dose of village gossip could not displace the
current radiant smile on her pale, round face.
As she crossed
the narrow stone bridge at the foot of the few steps beneath her front door,
she caught a glimpse of something out of the ordinary in her peripheral vision.
A hint of vibrant colour in the usually crystal-clear river water caused her to
stop and peer over the low parapet. A garish ribbon of vermillion streaked
across and between the stones on the riverbed. The scream that originated in
the pit of her stomach ripped through the still silence of the morning and
brought the baker running to his open shop doorway a few metres distant.
the village of meyrueis, lozère,
friday, august 2nd, 2019, 07.31
There will be more from the book next month. Watch this space.
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