For an instant, though, CC hesitated and looked at the ball in her hands. It glowed and was warm to the touch. On it was painted a simple image. Three tall pine trees grouped together like a family, snow nestled on the bowing branches. Below it was written, in her mother’s hand, Noël.
CC leaned into the ball, losing herself in its peace and calm and light. But she must have looked too long. A banging on the door tore her away from the three pines and back to the horror in front of her.
‘What’s going on in there? Let us in,’ the man’s voice demanded from the other side of the door.
And CC had, though it was the last time she ever let anyone in, anywhere.
Crie walked by the Ritz, stopping to stare into the plush hotel. A doorman ignored her, not offering to let her in. She moved on slowly, her boots sodden with slush, her woolen mittens hanging off her hands, the caked snow dragging them to the ground.
She didn’t care. She trudged along the dark, snowy, congested streets, pedestrians bumping into her and giving her disgusted looks, as though fat children had spread their feelings like icing on slabs of cake, and swallowed them.
Still she walked, her feet freezing now. She’d left the house without proper winter boots, and when her father had vaguely suggested maybe she wanted something warmer she’d ignored him.
Like her mother ignored him. Like the world ignored him.
She ground to a stop in front of Monde de la musique. There was a poster of Britney Spears, dancing on a hot, steamy beach, her happy backup singers grinning and gyrating.
Crie stood before the window a long time, no longer feeling her feet or her hands. No longer feeling anything.
‘I beg your pardon?’ Clara asked.
‘Fuck the Pope,’ Kaye repeated, as clear as day. Mother Bea pretended she hadn’t heard and Émilie stepped slightly closer to her friend, as though positioning herself in case Kaye collapsed.
‘I’m ninety-two and I know everything,’ Kaye said. ‘Except one thing,’ she conceded.
There was another long silence. But curiosity had replaced embarrassment. Kaye, normally so taciturn and abrupt, was about to speak. The friends gathered closer.
‘My father was with the Expeditionary Force in the Great War.’ Of all the things they thought she might say, this wasn’t one of them. She was speaking softly now, her face relaxing and her eyes drifting off to stare at the books on the shelves. Kaye was time-traveling, something Mother Bea claimed to do while yogic flying, but had never achieved to this degree.
‘They’d formed a division especially for Catholics, mostly Irish like Daddy and Québecois, of course. He’d never talk about the war. They never did. And I never asked. Imagine that? Did he want me to, do you think?’ Kaye looked at Em, who was silent. ‘He told us only one thing about the war.’ Now she stopped. She looked around and her eyes fell on her fluffy knitted hat. She reached out and put it on, then looked at Em, expectantly. No one was breathing. They stared back, waiting to hear more.
‘For Christ’s sake, woman, tell us,’ Ruth rasped.
‘Oh, yes.’ Kaye seemed to notice them for the first time. ‘Daddy. At the Somme. Led by Rawlinson, you know. Fool of a man. I looked that much up. My father was up to his chest in muck and shit, horse and human. Food was infested with maggots. His skin was rotting, sores all over. His hair and teeth were falling out. They’d long since stopped fighting for king and country, and were now just fighting for each other. He loved his friends.’
Kaye looked at Em then over to Mother.
‘The boys were lining up, and told to fix bayonets.’
Everyone leaned forward slightly.
‘The last wave of boys had gone over a minute or so earlier and were mowed down. They could hear the screams and see the twitching body parts that had flown back into the trench. It was their turn, my father and his friends. They waited for the word. He knew he was going to die. He knew he had moments to live. He knew he could say one last thing. And do you know what those boys screamed as they went over the top?’
The world had stopped turning and had come down to this.
‘They crossed themselves and screamed, “Fuck the Pope.”’
As one the friends recoiled, as though wounded by the words, by the image. Kaye turned to Clara, her rheumy blue eyes searching.
‘Why?’
Clara wondered why Kaye thought she’d know. She didn’t. And she was wise enough to say nothing. Kaye dropped her head as though it suddenly weighed too much, the back of her thin neck forming a deep trench into her skull.
‘Time to go, dear. You must be tired.’ Em put a delicate hand on Kaye’s arm and Mother Bea took the other and the three elderly women walked slowly out of the bookstore. Heading home to Three Pines.