Page 28 of Vianne

September goes by like a schooner, with sails of summer lightning. Now October spreads its wings, and the weather has turned, growing cooler, and bringing with it an altered sky of pigeon-feather purple.

My work in Margot’s garden has proved unexpectedly fruitful.

And in spite of Emile’s prediction, Louis seems not to disapprove.

Now we have sage and rosemary, lavender and wild carrot, as well as a riotous tumble of orange and yellow nasturtiums. As well as the yellow Cyrano rose, I have discovered three other roses: Albertine ; Pleine de Grace ; and a flame-coloured rose called Margot – marked with a metal tag on the stem.

The bushes were all hidden and choked with brambles and morning glories, but after some clearing and pruning, I have managed to bring them back: there may even be a few late flowers by the end of the year.

In the kitchen I have almost reached the last of Margot’s recipes.

Only two main dishes remain – the one she calls Mon Cassoulet and Poulet à la Toulousaine .

So far I have learnt the recipes more or less in the order in which they appear in the book, skipping the ones that call for difficult regional ingredients.

This time I chose the chicken first, daunted, perhaps, by the time required to make the other recipe.

The Toulousain chicken looked easy compared to some of the things I’d already learnt; a simple roast, with olives and herbs and a stuffing of Toulouse sausage.

Louis’ double oven would easily take three chickens, I thought, and with some crushed potatoes tossed in oil, I thought it would please our customers.

‘I’ll make a paella tomorrow,’ I said. ‘I’ll use the leftover chicken in that.’

‘What, and poison everyone?’ Louis made a sound of impatience. ‘ Bonne Mère , and here I was thinking I’d taught you something. Today was supposed to be cassoulet. What happened?’

I told him. Louis gave a sniff. ‘People like the cassoulet,’ he said. ‘Next time, stick to the plan.’

I wonder what that plan might be. Louis does not speak of the future.

To him, tomorrow is enough. All his planning – and Marguerite’s – ended up in Saint-Pierre, in that concrete high-rise locals call La Cathédrale du Silence .

And yet, here I am, a ticking clock, three months into my pregnancy.

I wonder how I fit in his world. In six months’ time, where will I be?

Not here , says the October wind. We’ve already stayed here too long.

Margot’s book has given up almost all its secrets.

Once I have collected them all, I will leave without looking back.

Looking back is dangerous. Looking back, we sometimes see the shadows that we cast on the world.

That’s why we only move forward; that’s why we never stay in one place.

But this time is different. This time I can finally step out of my mother’s shadow.

Vianne, that village with my name, still calls to me from the south-west. That’s where my Anouk will be born; where the Man in Black cannot follow.

We will find a place to live – maybe a room above a café, or a little chambre d’h?te , with an elderly couple in charge – where I will work in the kitchen, or even open a shop of my own, selling hot chocolate and croissants.

No one will know us there. No one will connect us with Jeanne Rochas, or any of her aliases.

We will live quietly, humbly, without attracting attention.

And when the wind changes, we will stay inside and watch the falling leaves, and put on winter sweaters, and eat comforting food, and make hot drinks, and light bonfires against the shadows.

I see it so clearly now. I know it will happen.

I can smell the fallen leaves, the scent of smoke and petrichor.

And when the trees are green again, I’ll meet my little stranger.

But first, this cassoulet. The last of Margot’s recipes, and one that meant a lot to her.

After all she has given me, I mean to do her justice.

Louis, too: this is the dish that will open up his heart again, give him the chance to love, and be loved; give him back his future.

Margot never wanted him to spend his life in mourning.

She wanted him to understand that love is a thing that grows and grows, even as we give it away.

Cassoulet is a dish that needs to be started well in advance. Soak the haricot beans overnight – I found a giant jar of them at the back of a cupboard, still labelled in Margot’s handwriting. Haricots Lauragais , it says. ONLY for my cassoulet!

In spite of their humble origin, I know the beans are important.

Guy has taught me the difference between the various cacao beans: the Criollo, the Forastero and the rare, white Porcelana .

According to Margot, these Lauragais beans are equally rare: and for this dish, they must keep their shape throughout many hours of cooking.

Ordinary beans are too large, she says, and will break up during the process.

Only the very best Lauragais beans must go into her cassoulet.

Following her instructions, I put the beans in cold water to soak, and checked what else I needed.

The difficulty of this dish is the sheer time the cooking takes; three hours for the initial stage, then allow two hours to cool, and warm it again, very slowly, to allow the flavours to combine.

That meant I had to start early. I went to the butcher’s on the corner of Rue du Panier and explained what I was making.

‘Cassoulet tomorrow, hé ?’ The butcher is called André, and he, too, is one of our regulars. ‘Madame Martin made good cassoulet. She used her mother’s recipe.’

Over the past three months I have learnt that food is deeply personal.

Cassoulet, a dish that originated centuries ago in one of our poorest regions, has become an expression of the fiercest community pride.

Toulouse has its own special recipe, and so do Castelnaudary and Carcassonne.

But there exist a myriad of variants, like wild seeds that have found their home among the ruins of ancient times.

Each one represents a life, all but forgotten now except for this – this dish that is more than just nourishment, but a reminder of one who was loved.

‘You knew her?’ I said.

‘She had a shine.’

A shine . Isn’t that what Tonton had said?

I thought of the woman I’d glimpsed that day in the rising steam of the bouillabaisse.

Shining, yes; but troubled, too; racked with grief and longing.

The quote on her cassoulet recipe says: The most beautiful verses are the ones that are never finished.

Underneath, she has written: Change reminds us we’re alive. Only death never changes .

André frowned and scrutinized his display of cuts of meat. ‘Madame Martin was from Bergerac,’ he repeated. ‘That means no sausage, no mutton.’

I knew that already: the thick pork sausage is a Toulouse variant of cassoulet; the mutton, often combined with game, is Carcassone’s tradition. Marguerite’s recipe calls for salt pork, shoulder, rind, goose fat, duck confit. And love, of course; the ingredient that cannot be forgotten.

‘Louis always likes to make this dish around the first or second week in October. He says it’s the last dish she ever cooked. And the first thing she ever made for him when they were married.’

I sketched a little sign in the air, like pulling at a loosened thread.

But André needed no encouragement. He went on: ‘Must have been in ’73.

The year of the Watergate scandal. There was a song called Angélique that played all that month on the radio.

It was playing when I heard she’d died. She was only forty-one. ’

My mother was forty when she died. Or so she said.

In truth, I think she was older. We didn’t celebrate birthdays.

I’m not even sure when mine is – it used to vary between 3 April and sometime in September.

But forty-one – I can see Margot now, brown hair touched with tinsel.

Margot. She had so much to live for; so much love to send into the world.

It lives on in her recipes; recipes I mean to set free.

André wrapped my purchases and handed them to me in a paper bag. ‘Good luck, mademoiselle ,’ he said. ‘I hope you can make the dish your own.’

I thanked him. ‘Yes, I think I can.’