It might have been predicted that things would come to a head but not on a Sunday morning, in broad daylight.
Tati, in her best black dress, was coming home along the canal, a little out of breath, as always when she had to walk anywhere. In one hand she held her missal, in the other her umbrella. She used it as a sunshade on parts of the route without shade, but at this point the shadows were almost cool under the chestnut trees that lined both sides of the canal. People cycled past her. Boys and girls were pedalling along, laughing. Tati was talking to herself. It was her habit.
But as she reached the lock, she stopped, with a sudden hardening of her expression. A hundred metres away, she could see the bridge and on the bridge two cows, her cows, blocking the way: a child was trying to turn them back.
To other people, this would signify nothing, just another feature of the landscape. But Tati had understood, and instead of continuing on her way, she crossed over the lock and walked straight up to the small house next to the brickyard.
Félicie, who had come home from Mass on her bicycle, had already changed her clothes and was playing with the baby near the doorway. She pushed herself up on her hands to see her aunt go past.
Tati, without a moment’s hesitation, without pausing, went into the kitchen and there, in front of her, just as she had expected, she found old Couderc, hat on head, seated in front of a large glass of wine. The table was covered with a checked oilcloth.
Near the fire, seated with her knees apart, Françoise was peeling potatoes, letting them fall one by one into a bucket.
The scene was as calm as a lake, or a village duckpond. But Tati shattered the peace, marching across the kitchen, and grabbing the old man by the shoulder, pulling up the sleeve of his jacket. She knew he couldn’t hear her words, but she spoke nonetheless:
‘Get out of here, you! I thought so! The minute my back was turned, they’d start their tricks.’
And Françoise, placid, vacant Françoise, dropped the potato peelings from her apron and went to stand in the middle of the room. Her black woollen stockings were visible under a skirt that was too short.
‘You’re the one who’s going to get out of here, my girl,’ she retorted, glancing anxiously through the curtains. Then, turning to the door:
‘Félicie, call your father.’
He was behind the house, digging a patch of earth that was always covered with yellowing leeks in the winter. He could be heard approaching in his clogs.
He shook them off on the threshold.
‘What’s all this? What’s it supposed to mean?’ Tati asked.
‘What it means, madam, is that my father will stay with us if he wants to, and you’re the one that’ll have to get out! Do you get it? Let her pass, Eugène.’
‘Oh, you want to keep the old fellow, do you? So that’s what all your whispering with Amélie was about. Perhaps the lawyer suggested you try it? We’ll soon see if Couderc …’
And she grasped the old man’s arm and started tugging. Françoise intervened.
‘I tell you he’s going to stay with us.’
‘And I tell you, you silly cow … Let go of me, can’t you!’
‘I’ll let go of you when you’re out of the house, you bitch.’
‘Oh, you …’
Making a sudden attack, Tati reached for her sister-in-law’s chignon, bringing her hair down.
‘Want to keep the old man, do you? Ah, you …’
‘Maman!’ cried Félicie, who had come to peer in at the doorway. ‘Maman!’
‘Oh you …’
And now Tati tugged as hard as she could.
Françoise crashed into a chair with her knee and called out:
‘Eugène … Come on! … Are you …’
Félicie was crying. The old man stood huddled against the wall. Eugène, frowning, was still hesitating to act.
When he did decide, it was to pick up the wine bottle standing on the table.
‘Let my wife go!’ he shouted, ‘Let my wife go or I’ll …’
Then, suddenly, the bottle smashed over Tati’s head and everyone froze, their movements suspended in mid-air.
Eugène stared down at the neck of the bottle still in his hand, with a stunned expression.
Tati herself had remained for a moment as if dumbstruck. When she put her hand to her head it came away red with blood, and she felt her legs start to give way.
She was not conscious of any pain, but her blood was flowing freely. It ran down her forehead to her eyes and nose, zigzagging round her mouth until it reached her chin.
‘Oh! Sit down!’ Françoise managed to stammer. ‘Wait! Félicie, Félicie, go and fetch someone! I don’t know! Proud of yourself, are you, Eugène? Going to keep on standing there like an idiot? Perhaps we should cut her hair? Tati! Tati!’
For Tati was fainting. She staggered on her feet. They managed to catch her as she fell and laid her down on the flagstones.
‘Félicie, where are you?’
Félicie, forgetting her baby outside in the grass, was running along the canal.
