Le Temps des Cerises by Zillah Bethel Page A

was left was a greasy wishbone. She had learnt to stand her ground, firm and resolute amidst the hysteria and commotion. Herrings were tempting, but not tempting enough to get her to budge.
    The desertion had caused quite a stir in the ranks: voices were raised, umbrellas flapped, soup tins rattled and banged like a collection of tambourines. What was the hold up? Why weren’t the shutters off? The sun must be halfway up the yard by now. Squabbles broke out up and down the line as women accused each other of taking the opportunity to get ahead of them in the queue.
    â€˜And you’re no better than you should be!’ Eveline heard a shrill voice cry out, presumably at the nun who was wandering up and down the line with a vacant air, begging for milk.
    â€˜Any milk, madame? I have spices to exchange: cayenne pepper and black, turmeric and cinnamon.’
    Most people looked straight ahead, pretending deaf and dumbness but it was so rare to see a nun walking up the line that Eveline met her eyes when she passed. She recognised her as a Sister from St Joseph’s. She looked like a statue of the Madonna with her chestnut curls escaping her veil, her huge brown eyes black ringed, soft white skin stretched tight about the bones of her face. Bernadine, for her part, had recognised Eveline Renan, the stonecutter’s daughter, and wondered as she always did how such a man could have fathered such a beautiful, fresh-faced girl then said a few Aves in repentance.
    â€˜Any milk, mademoiselle?’ the nun asked gently. ‘I have spices to exchange.’
    Eveline shook her head. ‘I have no milk, I’m afraid, but I will exchange if there is some today.’
    â€˜Thank you,’ smiled the nun and carried on up the line. Eveline stared after her, wondering why a nun should need milk so badly.
    At last the shutters were off and a shout went down the line.
    Peas!
    Carrots!
    Spuds!
    The words flew down the line like golden juggling balls or a magical incantation.
    Peas!
    Carrots!
    Spuds!
    And then to top it all, the word beef. Some yelled it, some whispered it in awe or disbelief.
    BEEF!
    BEEF?
    Beef!
    Beef?
    A frisson of excitement went through the women. Everybody’s thoughts were on beef: gravy, stews, broiled, roasted, jellies, sauces, horseradish cream, beef tea, beef suet… What a Christmas they would have! Those idiots who rushed off for a measly herring! And then, just as quickly, following the frisson of excitement came a frisson of fear. Would there be any beef left by the time they got there? And then the jostling began in earnest, the prodding, jabbing, poking… as women parried for position like jockeys. The high-heeled boots were doing some real damage to Eveline’s ankles and she wanted to turn round and smack the smartly dressed woman but she kept her patience. The one in front was solid as a rock, dogged and determined, not giving an inch but not taking an inch either. And then just as quickly the word came down the line.
    No beef. Beetroot!
    The woman in front turned her currant-bun face to Eveline. ‘No beef?’ she said incredulously. ‘But they said beef.’
    â€˜They lied,’ someone cackled drily.
    â€˜But they said beef. How can they be so wicked?’ asked the woman, looking quite disheartened.
    â€˜Yes,’ Eveline said gently. ‘I think there was a misunderstanding. They meant beetroot.’
    â€˜Beetroot?’ repeated the woman, nonplussed. ‘But they said beef.’ Her face crumpled up and she wept. ‘Auguste loves his beef so. It would have done his heart good.’ And she picked up her little straw basket and stumped off out of the queue, her cap wobbling in disbelief.
    â€˜Wait,’ cried Eveline. ‘There’s still soup… and carrots… and potatoes.’ But the woman didn’t turn back, she who had seemed as resolute as a rock had been knocked for six by an empty promise of beef.
    By the