CHAPTER 40
The talk in that class began after that next Christmas had passed. It was nothing that was immediately noticed by myself, but when one looks back to an earlier time the vision may often be clearer than it was at that initial moment. It was later that I saw, later in my years that I could place a marker on my calendar and say, yes, that was the instant, that was the beginning.

It was a growing distance, between the youngest of my charges and myself. I had grown to love the eyes of that group, their openness and wonder, but it was drifting, quitting their faces. There would be whispers as I entered, not the usual assault upon my hearing that is the sound of a class of infants before their teacher delivers them to silence and leads them to learning. It was another month before I saw the first stares from the older boys.

Christmas had been a delight, for my parents had made the journey from the sand and the edge of the mountains, and to my astonishment they had brought a friend in the aeroplane that had carried them from Perpignan to Carpiquet, and the big house was lit up with the laughter of my adopted grandmother, who had, naturally, to bring gifts of food and of the special saucissons in particular, made of the wild pig and of the fighting bull. We made that day a truly special one, because the Gilets and the Clermonts were invited. That was important, said Maman.

“Sophie, my sweet little one, the feast is one of a child, and it is for other children, not so? You are now a responsible professional woman. We must have at least one child to make the day more fitting”

Then she laughed, and smiled, and told me that however I grew, however I were to present myself, I was always and forever her child, her infant, her Empress of the universe. That was a moment I treasure still: she wrote again the story of Serge, his infancy, and made it Sophie’s.

Françoise Sophie made me smile, for that was what her mother called her when making an effort to be stern, which was not something my dear friend could ever perform with conviction and authority. The child had learnt some words, which seemed mostly to consist of “No!” and “Why?”, but we answered as best we could. Four generations came together for the grand meal, and it was as it should be. I put the same, beloved old shoes out for the Father to fill that night, and after the guests departed in deference to the age of a little girl, we sat as a family with drinks to occupy our hands and each other to sit against. Once again, it was the Christmas time that brought me sweetness, joy.

It was with sharp feelings of loss that we saw all three off once more, for their visit had reminded me of how very precious their love was, of how I had nearly remained cut adrift from it in my grief, what seemed then so very, very long before. Nevertheless, despite the tears that Maggie and I released, and that I am sure my brother only just managed to retain, they had to depart, and our own new lives had to continue.

Maggie was working through the next stages of her own staircase of academic qualifications, much as I was gaining my own via the school and Pascale, but I saw her face over the Christmas meal, and her eyes were for the smallest of our guests. I had embraced her as they left.

“Sophie, am I selfish? I would have the children, Rollo desires them, but, it is hard, I must study, I must…Rollo speaks of this, Papa too. They say we must rise above, each generation, rise above the last. My darling, he says that he will await the right time…”

The pink came to her face. In a whisper: “As long as he can do as much practice as possible”

Memories arose once more, of a night when two women had joined their men, became united. And once more, as it always did, I saw my blond in the eyes of my memory.

Once more to school, in the rain on my little blue scooter, and there was the writing, just where I would leave my vehicle, on the wall, in paint. It was one single word: homosexual. Not that actual word, but a slang word that meant the same, and worse. It was at the height of my eyes, so that as I stood to remove my casket it met my vision like a slap to my cheek.

I could not be sure if it was meant for me, but it was too high to be the writings of one of my youngest children. I found the caretaker as I entered the building, and reported it, and by the time I had finished for the day it had been removed.

The next day the writing said “Cocksucker”, and I now lost my doubts. Pascale was disturbed.

“Do you have enemies, my little one?”

It surely could not come to this. I told her of the history of Forgeron, his friends, of Benny.

“I suspect the little Tiffanie, she is his child. I do not know if he is still in any contact with her, Pascale, but if she has told him the name of her teacher, then perhaps he is in some way the instigator”

She shook her head. “That child’s father is in the prison at this moment, for a violent robbery in Rouen. I do not know if his child has gone there, as a visitor”

She smiled, and put her hand upon my arm. “Sophie, I must know these things of my charges. It is my job, no? I will enquire, but first we shall see if there is not a security method we can employ. After all, this is damage of a criminal nature to the fabric of the school. Go to your children; I will speak to the concierge and the secretary”

The children were still once more as I came in, with but a few whispers. I sought the eyes of young Tiffanie, and she did not disappoint me, looking away and blushing. I put on my brightest expression, my most cheerful mien, and made the class my own once more.

It was Georges, though, at the end, the little boy of questions and puzzlement, who sat longest as the others left for their next lesson. He it was who had the first of what would become a deluge of interrogation on the same theme.

“Mademoiselle…is it true? What they say, the girls?”

I lowered myself to speak more directly to his face. “Is what true, Georges?”

“That you change boys into girls?”

That was so very different from the question I had anticipated that I burst forth into laughter, which I then had to explain was not at the expense of the poor child.

“Georges, my sweet, nobody can change a boy into a girl, nor a girl into a boy. Are you a boy?”

“Yes, of course I am!”

“Am I a girl? A woman”

“But of course!”

“Can you become me, or me you?”

“That would be silly”

“Then how silly was that tale you brought me? Do you believe that there are hares that bring eggs made of chocolate?”

“No, they are brought from the shop by Papa! That’s a story for little children”

His contempt for infant credulity was evident in his face. I smiled. “Georges, that was another tale to entrap the ears of the smaller children. Besides, why would I ever wish to turn such a brave boy into a girl? Now, off you go”

I sent him after the others, my smile false but carefully secured to my lips as I watched him leave. Forgeron, you son of a whore, that was my thought, and it came with a wrench to my heart, that I did not have my gentle man to place Forgeron on his behind, where he belonged.

The whispering seemed to stop for a while, and I am certain it was because Georges asserted his declared maturity and belittled the little minds who still believed in the Easter hare or the Father Christmas, and for a month things were nearly as they were. There were hard little glances from that girl, but I repaid them with my own stares, and I had the hatred for her father to feed me. But, still, the moment came, and Pascale asked to speak to me.

“Sophie, I must talk privately, but I will say before anything else is uttered that you have my full support”

We entered a small classroom, empty for the moment, and she turned away, to look out of the window at some imaginary view.

“I knew this might come, my sweet girl, but it is still not a welcome thing. It is the first letter from one of the parents, I believe a friend of that Forgeron you spoke of. They wish you gone, as a Godless pervert, away from their child”