Geraldine's story
"Evil in the village"
Trifouillis les Oies is a very beautiful and calm village located in the middle of the Lot Department, which is probably the less inhabited region in France.
Winters are not too cold there, but quite rainy, the spring, summer and automn are just wonderful seasons with the heat in the middle of the summer and early spring features as from March and the most colourful rusty tones as from September.
To-day, the village is very calm : between 300 and 600 people live there, with a peak in the summer, mainly English, Dutch and Belgian tourists who come for the sun they are sure to catch there. Anyone, with or without a family knows they are going to rest in this old stone village, perched on the top of the hill with the Mairie standing opposite the church, the swiming pool, the baker and a few small shops.
But it hasn’t always been this idyllic place. If you can get hold of one of the elder ones still alive, you could ask them to tell you about the times when evil was in the village. It’s an old and frightening story. So if you’re sitting confortably, I’ll tell you about Trifouillis les Oies when the witch lived there !
Just after Worl War 2nd, everybody was silent. People only spoke to each other to say hello, nice day to-day or goodbye. The Resistance had left a lot of memories and noone was ready to forget how the population had been torn apart between the ones who, closing their eyes and ears had accepted Petain’s authority, and the others who wanted freedom, justice and above all weren’t inclined to give the Jews away.
So, the population was slowly healing from the very traumatic years spent together, with their fears, their food shortage, their compromissions and their secrets. Life was normalizing and peace and quietness seemed to be back again.
Then, in the automn of 1945 something weard occured ; an elderly skinny woman named Gabrielle settled in an old empty house in the middle of the village. Nobody knew where she came from nor how long she would be staying. She was small, with a very fair complexion, greyish long hair, small slitted brown eyes always moving from one side to the other and very thin lips and a hooked chin. She walked a bit crooked, with a long orange stick that she would wave around her when dogs or cats would approach. Quite soon, the children felt frightened at her sight and began callling her « Mrs. CHIN ». They would follow her at a distance when she went out for walks in the forest probably looking for wild bays, mushrooms or herbs. And back home in the village, would tell their parents where she had been.
And this intrusion in this convalescent village stirred up old rivalries amongst the inhabitants. Who was she really ? Where from ? Why did she come to Trifouillis les Oies ? Was she animated by a spirit of vengeance ? And if so, why ?
Some people said she had hidden in the woods during the war to escape deportation, others thought she had been pursued for some illegitimate action while others thought she could have been a resistant or a murderer or a mole or, or, or……
And so, unfortunetaly, a suscpicious atmosphere clamped the village once more. More frowning between the villagers, more questioning, more rejection… When will things calm down ?
Mr. Payrac, the Maire, decided to discretely investigate about « Mrs. Chin » before things became too rough in the village. He found out that her real name was « Madame Gabrielle Martin ». She was a widow, her husband having died during the war fighting the Germans in North Africa. That’s when she decided to volunteer as a nurse for the « Maquis » in Corrèze where she followed the Resistance members from one place to the other, giving first aid to the wounded and smuggling medicine and drugs for the victims. She had been wounded herself on one occasion when she was nursing a man injured during an attack on an act of sabotage on the railway line.
When the war ended, she was still in hospital, due to her bad leg. Then when she was able to walk again, she was let out. She had nowhere to go ! She didn’t want any honours or medals for the help she had given during the end of the war to the Resistance. So she walked out of the hospital without any idea of where she would go to and what she would do next… The atmosphere in France was deleterious…
She walked from one place to another, gathering food in the orchards, in the vegetable gardens, from hen houses and in the markets at closure. She stopped at night in religious houses, or when the weather was good enough in the wilderness of nature.
When she definitely got tired of wandering, she had lost a lot of weight and had turned into a very exhausted woman. One evening, when all was quiet in Trifouillis les Oies, she came accross this old abandonned house in which she decided to settle before winter came. She had noticed how the people hardly spoke to one another which gave her the stength to stop there for a while.
Mr. Payrac decided to keep all this information to himself wisely hoping that the adversity towards Mrs. Chin would turn into indifference. Which is what finally happened. People would just walk towards her turning their head away and the children found new games to play.
One morning, late November, Mr. Payrac who hadn’t seen her in a while, knocked at the door and, after a few knocks and no answer, walked in. There, on the table he found this note :
« It’s hard to be disliked and mocked, but even harder to be completely indifferent. I’ve had enough. Can’t take it any more ».
And walking to the back of the house, he found her dead body on the rudimentary bed that was the only piece of furniture in the room !
Paula's story
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Nevil’s family moved to the sunny south of France from the bitter cold of northwest England when Nevil was 6 years old. His parents threw themselves into their new country with enthusiasm, and Nevil and his younger brother and sisters grew up steeped in French culture, from the cuisine to the history, and of course, the language.
As Nevil grew older, he became particularly fascinated by the French obsession with food: the fresh ingredients, the rich sauces, the delicate flavors, as well as the French tendency to make every meal an occasion, a chance to gather family and friends around the table to eat and drink and talk well into the evening. He spent many hours in the family kitchen, crafting meals that his parents and siblings and neighbors raved about, and always asked for second helpings.
After a family holiday to Rome and Venice one summer, Nevil became captivated by Italian cuisine: the simple yet perfect salad of bufala mozzarella and fresh Caprese tomatoes drizzled with olive oil, the unpretentious richness of a perfect Bolognese sauce, the unadorned luxury of a plate of spaghetti Carbonara. And the pizza! Nevil had never tasted such pizza as he found in Rome. After his first bite of chorizo and onion pizza, slathered with cheese and a rich tomato and basil sauce, he wondered how the French could even get away with calling their skimpy version pizza.
He had found his mission in life. He bid his family a jaunty “arrivederci!” and moved to Naples, where he had won a spot in the age-old, prestigious pizza academy. And a year later, when he graduated, with honors, he knew he had to bring his knowledge and his craft home, to the French.
With a little help from his parents, he bought a broken-down van and worked day and night to outfit it as a mobile pizza truck. He installed a small but authentic wood-fired pizza oven, added two long-handled paddles, extra thick oven mitts, round pizza stones, ladles and pots. A panel running along the side of the van swung out and latched with a special hook on the roof, opening the whole side of the van to customers, who could peruse the hand-lettered menu on a board propped up on the counter. He found the freshest ingredients: local cheeses, tomatoes, chorizo, sausages, basil, pesto, eggs.
All that first spring, he drove from village to village in southern France. He would stay in each village a week or two at a time, and he was busy constantly. Often, his customers would beg him to stay longer, or to come back as soon as he could. He shared his recipes with anyone who asked, although he warned that without his custom-made pizza oven, their results would be, well, different. It was a happy life, making pizzas, ordering fresh ingredients from local merchants, talking to his contented customers.
Then one night, while he was anchored in the pretty central square in the village of Cassis, he had just cleaned his kitchen and taken his menu board inside when the winds began to pick up. He had just enough time to shut and lock his long panel before he realized it was the storied mistral of Provence come to call. All night, the van rattled and shook as the winds blew, with gusts reaching 65 kilometers per hour. The racket was deafening, but he was snug and safe inside. At last, the morning came, and with it a stillness that seemed almost too quiet after the raging winds of the night before. Nevil ventured outside to inspect the damage. Trees in the little village square were bent to the ground, flowered window boxes were scattered everywhere, the Tabac across the way had a broken window. Nevil walked around his van, and luckily, everything seemed in order, until he looked up, above the long side window where his customers stood to make their orders. His sign, which declared PIZZA in all capital letters, followed by the nickname his customers had given him, Nevil in the village, was missing! He searched the square and the side streets, until he finally stumbled upon the sign, leaning heavily against the side of the mairie’s office. It was still in one piece, and bits of leaves and tree branches were poking through all of his carefully crafted letters. And that’s when he noticed: all of the capital letters had blown away in the storm. All he was left with was a sign that proclaimed: evil in the village.
Patrice story
Anika ran. Her breath scored her throat, her shins hurt, but she ran. She nearly tripped on a rock, uprighted herself, flung her book bag across her back and ran.
Behind her she could hear the boys. It was now only boys, the girls had dropped off when the road became dirt, when their dresses would become dusty, their shoes scraped. But the boys never stopped until they got what they wanted.
She had been able to avoid them at school. Her papa brought her every morning and picked her up in the evening. She stayed inside at lunch -time, not near the teachers because they were just as bad, but inside where she would not draw their attention or their ire.
It had always been this way but when mama died it became worse. Mama was a force to be reckoned with, and she had something they wanted. The parents had kept their beasts in check when it came to Anika.
There were others that suffered the fists, the pinches, the name calling, beside Anika, but they learned to submit. To do as they were told, to let the others do as they pleased. Anika had never submitted, but in the year since mamma’s death the boys had become bigger boys with more than a beating in mind. Anika’s reserve, her otherness had made her a different target for the boys.
The cottage was meters away, the boys, yelping and howling, laughing and swearing slid when they hit the dirt, righted themselves amongst the tangle of arms and legs. They ran in a pack like dogs, salivating
Anika grabbed the fence post with her right hand and swung around it, using her weight to throw the gate open. Flying to the front door she burst into the cottage, and in one motion, turned, and slammed down the wood beam that barred the door at night.
She could feel her breath raking through her, her lungs dry and aching, but once in the cottage she could make a plan.
Anika threw her bag into the corner, climbed the stool in front of the stove and took down the shotgun. She broke the barrel to make sure it was loaded, though she knew it was always loaded. She backed into the corner, slid down until she was sitting on the floor, the shotgun over her knees, the barrel pointing at the door.
Her hands were shaking, the sweat running into her eyes, but now she was less afraid. They could get in another way if they thought about it, but they would not. They would pound on the door, throw mud, piss on the garden, but they were not thinkers – they were beasts, and beasts only acted.
In the pause between one breath and the next Anika heard the truck engine and began to weep. Papa was home. She pressed her back against the wall to help her stand and made her way to the front window, walking around the edge of the room, keeping her back against the wall. She peered through the bottom edge of curtain and saw papa leap the gate his powerful shoulders making it look easy. With his hands he grabbed the boys by the back of their necks. Without pausing he banged their heads together in one quick strong movement. The sound was so loud Anika could hear it inside the cottage. She put the shotgun on the floor and pulled the curtain wider.
She knew all the boys – the village was small and isolated, rare to visitors. The two boys slumped to the ground in a pile. Papa grabbed another by the back of his trousers and threw him over his shoulder. The boy landed at the base of the gate in a pile. The last two boys stood with their backs to the cottage their fists balled, crouching a little. But Anika knew they would back down.
Papa moved forward one foot in front of the other. He didn’t speak, he was not breathing hard, his shadow crept ahead as if to engulf the boys before he touched them. She saw their muscles tense. Papa moved toward them, unhurried, intent. The boys burst into movement as if at the sound of the gun at the start of a race. They bolted around papa – one to each side and without stopping for their dazed friends pushed through the gate, tearing down the road back toward the village. The other boys, on their hands and knees, shaking their heads began to crawl away – papa looked at them and turned toward the cottage.
Anika threw the door open and leapt onto her father, her arms around his neck, her face buried in his collar. He held her for a few moments, stroking her back, making shushing noises, comforting her. After a bit he put her down, guided her into the cottage, closing the door behind them. He made sure that she had not been hurt, praised her for thinking of the shotgun, for being brave.
And then they began to pack. They took only what they needed, what was necessary. Anika packed the photograph of her mother, the little teapot she used to brew her tea in, the shawl that draped the back of mamma’s chair by the fire. They loaded the truck. Papa built the fire and poured a line of kerosene from the stove to the door. He laid one end of the rope in the fire snaking the length along the floor to the puddle of kerosene.
In the rear view window Anika could see the darkening sky marked by the flames, masking the darkness that was the village. She turned forward to see the road unfurl before them.
Annemarie's story : Evil in theVillage?
There is peace in the village in the valley;
Children play, men and women working happily.
A bundle, damp and crushed, rests in the tailor's home.
The bale is opened, the cloth pulled out and shaken.
There are fleas in the village
Drops drift through the air…folk fall ill, folks are dying
Of chills and fever and buboes that are horrifying.
Is the sickness brought by rats or dogs
…Or is it a punishment from God?
There must be evil in the village.
The rector calls the congregation:
“We'll shut the church, we'll pray outside;
We'll close the boundaries
To spare the people far and wide.”
There's plague in the village.
Food is brought from neighbouring hamlets
And left beside the village limits.
Money soaked in vinegar is gently thrown
Within the hollows of the boundary stone.
There is lockdown in the village.
Liza Hancock wraps in shrouds
Six dead children and her late spouse.
The death toll rises; so many bodies placed in graves.
There is mourning in the village.
Through fourteen months two sixty lives are lost
Before the village outskirts again are crossed.
They'd saved the towns from plague contagion
And earned themselves an heroic reputation.
There was courage in that village.
The village of Eyam (forever known as the Plague village) in the Derbyshire Peak District put themselves into quarantine for 14 months to prevent the spread of the plague (1665-1666). 270 Eyam villagers out of a total population of 800 died; whole families were wiped out.
Jackie's story
Evil in the village
It was 6:30 am and I rose to prepare my lemon water, read the newspapers and get ready for the day. The dogs knew the routine staying in their beds until 7 am when I went downstairs for good. Breakfast, shower and out of the house by 8 – they strained on their leashes to be up the hill and sniff out the scents to see what the night had brought. I am half dragged up the hill, checking up on the hedge groves and the number of holes the woodpecker had bored during the night. There were the deer up on the hill grazing in peace as the sun rose. Turning right into the little wood and out of breath, I pause from time to time happy that my latest dog is a male and he pees everywhere allowing me to catch my breath from time to time.
As I reach the first plateau overlooking the village – I sometimes reflect on the first time I saw this house in this lovely part of Burgundy – it was the 15th property we had visited with the agent. Apart from its very low price due to it being so rundown, the enclosed courtyard and several levels appealed to my 23 year old self and new husband. How we bounded up and down the stairs – into the sloping garden admiring the lilac tree and the lovely view from the top of the garden. We immediately started planning. We lived in Paris at the time and this was a house for weekends, holidays and long holidays like in the summer. It was June, the cherry tree was blooming – there was no roof on part of the house, a garden with an old bread oven and the other part was collapsing slowly with abandon. But we loved it. Soon we started to find bowls of strawberries, a lettuce, a dish for lunch and some home made wine on our doorstep. Villages were ready with advice on pruning the roses, cutting ivy and growing carrots. I spoke zero French and it was difficult for me to communicate, but my neighbors were amazing taking the time to talk even when I couldn’t reply very quickly.
When my son Nicholas was born we arrived for a holiday when he was just one month old to find that my neighbor Danielle had decorated the one and only room where we all managed to sleep, eat and wash. She had put pink roses in old jam jars and had washed the old flagstones until they shone. She had prepared a babies basket with frilly pink lace and was surprised to see we had a baby boy. Soft lazy days and then when we acquired our very first dog named “Augustus” I took baby and dog on long walks down to the river and met various villagers on the way.
Now on my morning walks I look down on this beautiful village and am so grateful to have lived here for all of these years surrounded by kind hearts and wonderful hospitality.
All this to explain to you that there for sure is no evil in this village.
