Ocean House

By Alastair Sharp

A small Moroccan girl from a large but impoverished family receives a quest from a barefoot holy man on a bridge in Casablanca. Find the Bird with Crooked Wings. Shaafia grows up never forgetting her quest. She journeys to Bordeaux for her studies as a translator and there the quest is fulfilled. A tiny physically handicapped Australian child na

• Language: English
• Publisher: Alastair Sharp
• Release date: Jan 24, 2022
• ISBN: 9781737171461

Alastair Sharp

Alastair Sharp is an Australian living in Bordeaux France and so his writing forms a bridge between those two very different worlds. A lifelong career in writing has drawn him inexorably towards the human pursuit of meaning in life. Although his novels are not explicitly spiritual in nature, his writing constantly alludes to the innate desire we all have, no matter how latent it might be, to know more about who we are and why we find ourselves where we are and doing what we do.

Book preview

Château des Mésanges

The delta-shaped land between the two great rivers that flow towards Bordeaux is called Entre Deux Mers, Between Two Seas in French. Its undulating green hills host endless waves of vineyards, monasteries, villages and châteaux. It has been that way in one form or another for two thousand years or more, grapevines and clusters of stone dwellings, both noble and humble.

Château des Mésanges was built some time in the fourteenth century as a defensive outpost during the Hundred Years War. Until the nineteenth century it remained in the hands of one family, the De Montrichards who skillfully changed sides politically over the centuries to ensure they survived and their château with them. Their long good fortune finally ran out when they incautiously invested in the company building the Panama Canal which went bankrupt, forcing the family to liquidate their assets.

The current occupants, the de Fortelle family, bought it in 1890. Like so many aristocratic dynasties, good fortune comes and goes in cycles. Although the earliest generations of the de Fortelle family were wealthy and prosperous, their descendants have been less fortunate and in recent years the building has begun to deteriorate, the extensive vineyard eventually being sub-leased to the vigneron next door and the châteaux occupants, as with so many old aristocratic French families, left to struggle in near penury.

The château has three wings, each built in a different century. The inner walls which date back to the original défence, were partially demolished to let in more light, some time in the early nineteenth century, when style surplanted defence, but in most respects the basic inner structure has remained much as it had been since each wing was built. The walls are more than a metre thick in places and still have slit openings for archers to defend the interior. The moats have long been drained and are now grassy ditches and flowerbeds, while the barbican defends nothing more than a handy storage place for firewood. The château dominates the highest knoll of rolling extensive grounds of woods and vines, famous in better times as a hunting ground for deer and wild boar. In its heyday, there were many hectares of red and white wine grapes, with dépendances, chais, barrel stores and cellars for wine production.

The family fortune precipitously plummeted in the unfortunate hands of Alphonse de Fortelle who had invested in a number of ventures, including several start-ups in Senegal which, one after the other, turned out to be fraudulent or quixotic. Whether a cause or outcome of his business failures, he had a serious drinking problem. He seemed to have placed certain moneys in locations where they could not be traced, and then he himself disappeared. Madame Thérèse de Fortelle, his wife, suffered in stolid silence and sought solace in the local Catholic convent. At the time, the local gossips were pretty certain that Alphonse had been spiriting money away in Lichtenstein or somewhere and had taken a mistress, a local girl who disappeared at the same time, to Argentina.

Their sons, Hugues and Théophile had witnessed this disintegration through their childhoods and then both had found a way to escape. Hugues, the older of the two, migrated to Australia, married an Australian girl in Sydney, had two children and started a financial business that became enormously successful. He would never set foot in France again. His younger brother took longer to leave and eventually found himself in Goa, India, where he was carried off on the back of a horse cart to an Ashram in which the Guru, an old woman, Swami Padmananda, told him to return to his «house of ghosts». She told him that the reincarnation of an ancient Indian sage, Ashtavakra, had been reborn and that he, Théophile, was destined to look after «her».

When Théophile returned to the Entre Deux Mers, there was nothing there but his Mother, who he found in deep distress. She had just heard that his older brother, Hugues, had drowned in the surf in Sydney along with his son Antoine. It was shortly after Théophile’s return that the widow of Hugues, Claire and her daughter Pia, arrived to visit France for the first time.

From then on the fortunes of the de Fortelles took a rapid and miraculous up- swing and Château des Mésanges experienced a radical reincarnation of its own.

A Shrine

Twelve months since the arrival of Claire de Fortelle and her daughter Pia, who died in a pool of blood in Lourdes before the statue of the Virgin Mary, Château des Mésanges has been completely renovated and has also become a site of pilgrimage.

The château’s total restoration, at enormous expense, was funded by the fortunes of Hugue’s Australian enterprise. The rotten floors and crumbling beams have all been replaced. The high slate roof with its two towers is waterproof. The forty rooms are soundly floored, centrally heated, equipped with ensuites and furnished in style. Solar panels provide the château’s energy while a much more potent spiritual energy infuses the residents.

While for the first seven years of her life, Pia de Fortelle had appeared to be severely handicapped with cerebral palsy, once she arrived in Entre deux Mers, she revealed her true ability and who she really was. Not only did she show herself to be the reincarnation of the ancient Indian sage Ashtavakra, as foretold by the Guru in India, but she also revealed an omniscience that utterly transformed those who met her.

Now the château serves as a shrine to the tiny but powerful, misshapen and ethereal child whose presence continued even after she had relinquished her damaged physical body. By her own request, revealed after her death, her body is buried in the resurrected cemetery behind the château chapel. Both grave and chapel now draw pilgrims from far and wide.

The confluence of souls drawn together in the presence of this gifted child has evolved into a community devoted to Pia and her mission of «Amour».

A shy and humble Moroccan girl, Shaafia Jilani, given a spiritual quest by a Sufi holy man when she was a child in Casablanca, becomes the means of communication for Pia, who she recognises as the goal of her quest. For Shaafia, Pia is the «Bird with Crooked Wings» she was told to search for. Although she could barely speak when she was alive, Pia used Shaafia to be her «voice» to communicate the kind of knowledge that transcends normal «knowing». That communication continued even after her body had been interred. There were others who could «hear» her from time to time, but Shaafia was the main vehicle of communication.

Just like Shaafia, the community in the château is drawn from those who have received a command. Although each has taken a different form, each command has been fulfilled by an encounter with Pia. Just as Théophile de Fortelle was sent home by the Guru in India to take care of the reincarnation of the saint, there were others.

Kate Dunlop only discovered her Australian aboriginal heritage as her grandmother was dying, but it prompted her to become a nurse and go out into the Australian desert to find it. There she joined a family group, deep in the desert and began to understand how they lived. Then the elders told her that her «spirit child» had been born in Sydney and she should return to find her. It was Pia.

The nuns of the convent near the château and the local priest quickly discovered what Pia could do. One after the other, she revealed to each that she knew who they were and what they had done. All of them came to be deeply devoted to her.

An American priest, who could not keep his vows, now serves as the host in the chapel. Prompted by Pia, he has been reunited with his child and the woman who gave birth to her. The child instantly recognised Pia, when she arrived, as they had known each other in a previous life.

Another American, Brad Purdue, a young postgraduate student of Indian Studies arrived too late to meet Pia in person, sent by the same Indian Guru, Swami Padmananda. Pia, through Shaafia, instructed him to write the book of Pia’s life. He returned to Goa and the book is being edited ready to publish.

Now the château houses a community of like-minded souls, drawn together by the love of Pia, their love for Pia and the love she taught them to share, «Amour».

Although it is mysterious to them all, they sense that they have been given a mission and piece by piece it begins to unfold.

Epiphany

January the sixth is Epiphany, and in France it is considered one of the three most high holy days in the Catholic church calendar. It commemorates the showing of the baby Jesus to the three wise men.

The convent «Le Nid des Oiseaux Serènes» always holds a celebration mass on that day, complete with a nativity installation.

Everyone from Château des Mésanges was invited to attend.

For breakfast that morning they all came to the kitchen dressed in their best.

Marie-Louise, who had renounced her vows as a nun to become a fulltime servant of Pia, had prepared a special breakfast and Jourdan, who Pia had rescued from prison, had baked the most important traditional dish for the day, the «Galette des Rois». As he brought two of them to the table, each one with a gold paper crown on the top, the redolent smell of warm pastry and orange flower filled the air.

«What is it?», squealed Berenice, Michael’s daughter, with her eyes wide open.

Marie-Louise looked to Théophile to explain.

«Today is the day the Magi came to see the baby Jesus.» He looked over at Angela. «Do you know what is Magi in English?»

«The three wise men,» she said. Angela, a student from South Africa, had been brought to the château when she had nowhere else to stay, and as she was studying to be a translator had become a valuable asset.

«Ah yes of course.»

Zena, who was holding her daughter Berenice in her lap, leaned over her. «You know this story?»

The child nodded. «They came on a camel and they gave presents.»

«Well done,» said Michael, stroking his child’s cheek. Then he looked up at Théophile.» So what does the cake represent?»

«The wise men had been told by an angel that a great king had been born. They followed the star to find the king. So, hidden in this brioche, it is not really a cake, there is what we call the «feve». It is a little statue. The word «feve» actually means a bean and in the original tradition that was what you found inside. I don’t know why but somewhere along the way the bean turned into a little statue. These days it could be anything, even a character from Disney, but it represents the king. When we get a slice of this galette, one of us will find the symbol of the king, the «feve», and whoever finds the «feve» will get to wear the crown. That person will be the king or maybe the queen for today.

«I wanna be the king», yelled Berenice.

«You will be, if you find the «feve»,» smiled Théophile.

The two galettes sat in the middle of the table and Berenice could barely contain herself.

Thérèse had watched all this with a warm smile, now she leaned forward and looked at Michael.

«Grace?» she said. By now this was one of the French words he recognised and he smiled back and stood.

«Dear Friends,» he began, giving space for Théophile to translate. «Here we are in the house of love, ordained by our beloved Pia. On this day, in which God revealed his most precious son to the wise men, let us express our joy and our gratitude, that we too have received just as precious a gift from God.«

There was a murmured «Amen.»

«Dear God,» he continued. «Thank you for the bounty that you have bestowed upon all of us in this house. May each of us become as full a representative of your love as you would wish. As we enjoy this most excellent breakfast, may its meaning be clear to each of us. Amen.»

Once Théophile had translated for the French speakers, his Mother, Marie-Louise and Jourdan, Thérèse nodded and in her best attempt at English, said: «Is very nice grace.»

There was coffee and tea, juice and fruit, cereals and pain grillé, but Berenice was only interested in one thing and she kept begging that they get to the galettes.

In all this, Shaafia sat quietly watching and listening. And yet at the same time she seemed to be far off somewhere, barely present. After a moment Claire leaned across and put her hand on Shaafia’s arm.

«Are you OK?», she asked gently.

It took some effort for Shaafia to respond, but she smiled and nodded.

Then she seemed to gather herself up and focus.

«After breakfast we must go to the chapel,» she said.

Instantly Marie-Louise came round the table.

«Qu’est-ce qui arrive?», she demanded, what’s happening? Whenever there was the slightest chance that Shaafia would reveal some kind of message from Pia, she was on the alert.

«After breakfast,» said Shaafia, and they could see she was making an extra effort to be present.

Finally they succumbed to the pleading of Berenice, and Jourdan began to cut the two galettes.

«What’s in it?», asked Claire.

Angela translated as Jourdan described the round puff pastry filled with creamy almond paste, all flavoured with orange flower and sprinkled with sugar.

«And of course the «feve»», he said. He then bent to the task of cutting slices and handed them round. There being two galettes, there would be two royal winners. The outcome made everyone cheer with delight except for Berenice who did not win.

Théophile was the first, as he plucked a soggy statue of a little bird from his mouth.

«Just as Pia has said!», laughed his wife. «You are the king.»

He dutifully put the cardboard crown on his head.

And then it was Claire who got the other one, another bird.

«And just as Swami Padmananda said,» smiled her husband. «You are the queen.»

They sat side by side as the royal couple for the day.

To everyone round the table it seemed incredibly appropriate, except for one small person. Berenice did her best to smile, but everyone could see how disappointed she was. Claire took off her crown and bent over to the child. «Would you like to be my princess?»

Through barely concealed tears she nodded, and Claire crowned the new princess who was instantly all smiles.

When breakfast was complete and everyone had congratulated Jourdan on his fine mastery of the galettes, they all headed for the chapel.

The candles had already been lit, as many of them had begun the day in the early morning with meditation, each in their own way.

Everyone filed in, Jourdan and Marie-Louise having taken off their aprons. Berenice settled onto her Mother’s lap, while her Father trimmed the candles. Shaafia sat very still in a corner, indrawn, as if she had almost left her body.

They all settled quietly.

Then very subtly the atmosphere in the room began to change. The electricity in the air became palpable. A ray of winter sun beamed across from the eastern window and bringing to life the mural of the birds on the opposite wall.

Shaafia looked up at the ray.

«Revelation,» she said quietly, in both languages.

The others waited.

«The Lady in Blue and White has come,» she said in French, and Angela took up the English translation.

«The Magi, the wise men journeyed so far, following a sign. So have all of you.»

There was a long silence which even Berenice had no desire to interrupt.

«They came looking for that which is true. Most everything in the world is an illusion, but only that which is true is eternal and unchanging. The wise ones have always looked for that.»

A stillness descended on the chapel, a suspension of time.

«Only love is true, nothing else. Amour.»

Marie-Louise softly chanted it to herself as she had begun to do very often. «Amour. Amour. Amour.»

Her soft voice lifted into the silent space and the others bathed in it.

«You, you are now wise.» Shaafia’s voice, speaking in French, was soft but very clear. « You have come to know that love. It has been revealed to you. This is why I came. Now you are wise enough to know what is true and that truth will radiate out from each of you. Little by little, heart by heart, you can bring great light to this world.»

«Does Pia say this?», whispered Marie-Louise.

Shaafia shook her head.

«The Lady in Blue and White.»

«The Holy Mother?»

«It is she.»

A deeper silence engulfed the chapel.

Finally a gust of wind brushed the trees outside the chapel windows and Shaafia looked up.

«That is the message.» she said.

Michael came forward and bowed deeply in front of the altar.

When he stood up, turning to face the room, he had tears in his eyes.

«We are incredibly blessed,» he said. «In all my life, I have wanted to have a direct interaction with the divine. Pia did that for me. Now that her work is complete, she has opened the door to a remarkable source of God’s love. The Holy Mother herself. In this little chapel, how fortunate we are. It is so rare, so rare.»

Thérèse nodded as Michael’s words were translated by Angela.

«We shall carry them to the convent today.» She looked lovingly at Shaafia.

«You will remember what she has told us?»

Shaafia smiled gently and shook her head.

«I cannot say.» she said. «The message may not be the same next time.»

Théophile said: «Brad needs to know what was said. I mean, maybe he could still put it in the book. It could be at the very end.»

Brad Purdue was the American student who Théophile had met when he first went to the Ashram of Padmananda in India. After the guru had sent Théophile back to his «house of ghosts» to take care of the reincarnation of Ashtavakra, a little later she had sent Brad there too. He had missed meeting Pia in person but she had made it clear that he was to be the scribe, the writer of the book about Pia and what she communicated and how it changed the lives of those who met her. Brad was now back in India working on preparing the book for publication.

With Angela as the note-taker, they all tried to remember, using both languages, as exactly as they could, what Shaafia had communicated. Shaafia herself said nothing, allowing the others to do the work. As it turned out the best memory was held by Marie-Louise. To her every word was treasure.

When they all agreed that the essence of the message had been captured, each of them bowed in reverence at the altar and then went off to get ready for Mass.

Théophile called India and found Brad hard at work in Chennai. «Listen to Love», the book about Pia, was in the final stages of editing. The editor was Indira Shetty the girl they had met in the Ashram of Padmananda.

«I tell you, man,» Brad said, «this girl is brilliant. It’s going to be a hell of a good book. She is sharp.»

When Théophile read the notes that had been made in the morning, Brad was ecstatic. «Oh, man. That was exactly what we were missing. It brings it all together. Like a final message about the way forward. She is telling us to get wise and go out and help others to get wise. I love it. Indira’s going to love it, too.»

Something about the way Brad said the name Indira gave Théophile a twinge of intuition.

«So you and Indira work well together?»

«Oh sure. She’s right on. Bossy as hell but smart.»

«You like her?»

«You betcha.»

Théophile smiled to himself.

«I am happy to hear that.»

The convent chapel had followed the tradition of removing all decorations before Epiphany except for the nativity. The small wooden manger held statuettes of the usual animals and shepherds, but where the crib would normally be in the centre, the nuns had placed a photo of Pia with her Mother.

It was a risky thing to do for a Catholic convent but the nuns were unanimous in their love for Pia. Every single one of them had been touched by her and for all of them, their vocations had been deeply transformed. It was not that any of them had renounced anything of their previous calling, except Marie-Louise, but instead that calling had been powerfully nurtured and reinforced.

As the congregation assembled, Marie-Louise whispered to Sister Geneviève, the Mother Superior, that the Holy Mother herself had come that morning and had given them a most wonderful message in honour of Epiphany.

«We must talk of this after Mass.» said Geneviève.

Father Lefait, who had weathered so much turmoil as he came to recognise who Pia was, now conducted the traditional Epiphany service. Angela provided a quiet translation for the English speakers. At the conclusion when it was time for Communion, Father Lefait smiled at the non-Catholics.

«We have come to that part of our ceremony that Pia has completely transformed for us. I would wish to continue in the practice that she inspired.» This meant that instead of the usual ingredients for communion, there was bread and wine. Father Lefait knew that every time he did this, he ran the very real risk of being discovered by the church but he was becoming more courageous as he went along. He was fairly certain that there was no-one in the chapel who would betray him.

As each one came forward to receive the bread and the wine, the organ played quietly in the background and the thinnest of winter suns shone a fine ray across the wall behind the altar highlighting the suspended body of the Christ on his cross.

As she came forward, taking only the bread, the very last to come, Shaafia gazed up at the figure. As she did, a small tear ran down her cheek. The priest noticed but said nothing. Then she turned and went back to her seat.

After the Mass, they all assembled in the big lounge of the convent for morning tea. Marie-Louise was on the edge of her chair itching to repeat the message from the early morning.

Sister Geneviève smiled at her as the tea was served. «We hear that on this holy day there has been a very holy communication.»

«Thanks to Shaafia.» said Marie-Louise.

Shaafia shyly smiled but said nothing.

Marie-Louise gave a breathless but accurate rendition of the message which was absorbed in devoted silence by all the nuns and Father Lefait.

Finally ending the long silence, «What is remarkable is that this is not from Pia,» said Sister Geneviève. She looked down at Shaafia sitting quietly as if she had no part to play. «Pia was not present?»

Shaafia shook her head. «Just the Lady in Blue and White.»

«It is a very powerful message.» said Father Lefait. «It is one to contemplate deeply. To make the comparison with the Magi is most powerful to me. It makes each of us aware that we too are like those wise men. Each of us searches to find what is the truth.»

Angela was doing her best to keep the anglophones up-to-date.

Michael then said: «To me there is an enormous challenge here. That if we are to begin to see ourselves as wise and that we have come to know that kind of love that Pia has taught us, then what do we do with that wisdom and that knowledge? That is our challenge.»

The whole room seemed to nod in acknowledgement.

At the end of the morning, as they were preparing to return to the château, Father Lefait came over to Shaafia.

«You have brought us an extraordinary gift for Epiphany.» he said.

She smiled shyly and nodded.

«Can I ask you something?» he said quietly.

She looked up into his face, perhaps guessing what he was about to ask.

«I couldn’t help but notice, in the chapel, that communion was very moving for you.»

She nodded.

«But communion is not part of Islam, is it?» Shaafia had taken the bread but not the wine.

«No.» she said quietly.

«Can I ask what moved you?»

«I looked up at the statue and I thought of the Mother who gave birth. Her son. He suffered so much.»

«Ah.» he said softly. «I see.»

Guests

In the cold January days that followed Epiphany, the château and the convent dropped back into their regular routines. The nuns, all rugged up against the wind and occasional wafts of snow, took it in turns to be on hand when visitors came to the château. Visitors came almost every day. Many had become regulars from the district, but others came from much further afield. Some came back in gratitude for what they had experienced in previous visits, and almost inevitably brought new people with them. Letters were often brought and accepted in the chapel and donations flowed freely.

At the same time the château had begun to turn itself into a proper auberge, with a website with photos and a structure of prices for overnight stays. Before any paying guests could be welcomed, there were endless bureaucratic steps in this process and it took the patience of Théophile and Claire to see it all through. For Thérèse it was beyond her understanding but she loved the activity and endlessly counted her blessings as she saw her totally restored château fill with joyful activity.

Marie-Louise and Jourdan made meals that nurtured everyone, every single time. Meal times were dynamic familial affairs as everyone shared what they were working on and what they were experiencing inside themselves.

Even though the vines lie dormant and still in the winter months, Vito Zagni, one of the senior partners in Hugue’s financial firm in Australia and Jacques the neighboring vigneron, had been in constant communication with Théophile as they created the new joint entity for the combined vineyards. Very often Théophile felt like he was a new trainee in an unfamiliar world, while the other two spoke with such authority, but in decision-making, they ensured he was included. While Vito was the authority on money matters and marketing, Jacques brought his family knowledge of the vines. Théophile was gradually getting used to accepting the large amounts of money involved, watching Vito investing in the new structure with gusto. So much of Théophile’s early life had seen an abject lack of money. Now he seemed to be operating in a world where money was not an issue, and it flowed easily.

In all this Shaafia remained quiet. She participated in the daily routines of the château and was often called upon to meet with visitors who had heard about who she was and the rôle that she had played for Pia. She would be attentive to their questions, open their letters and often felt herself able to recall something that Pia had said that seemed to be appropriate. More and more her own intuition seemed to lead her to the right answer for each one.

She was treated with great respect, sometimes bordering on adoration, which made her more than a little embarrassed. The nuns embraced her with a warm combination of sisterly love and deep admiration. They felt that she was one of them, precious and deserving of protection. However if a visitor became too insistent, the nuns would turn into firm gatekeepers.

Several weeks into January, Shaafia was delighted to receive a note from her previous teacher Madame Clae. It was Madame Clae who had encouraged Shaafia to come to Bordeaux from Morocco to study to become a translator. Madame Clae had returned to her native Bordeaux having had to retire from her Casablanca teaching job. She was now living with a cousin in the Bordeaux suburbs. Her little note hoped that Shaafia was doing well and gently asked if they could meet.

Once they had spoken on the phone, they arranged a day for Madame Clae to come for a visit.

On a crisp but sunny morning in late January, a tiny pale blue Renault Twingo roared its way up the drive and a very large lady of advanced years squeezed herself out of the driver’s seat. And there was Madame Clae. Shaafia ran to her and they hugged each other for a long moment.

«It is so good to see you!» exclaimed Madame Clae with tears in her eyes as she pulled back. Then she turned. «May I introduce my cousin Clara?»

Shaafia shook hands with the lady and gazed up into her face. A slight frown darkened Shaafia’s face as she looked at her, before she turned and invited them inside. As they walked across the forecourt past the barbican, Madame Clae gazed up at the highstone walls and the twin slated towers.

«It is a wonderful château. How lucky you are to live here.»

«Oh yes, Madame Clae, you cannot imagine how grateful I am to be here.» said Shaafia.

Her teacher laughed. «I think it is time that you tutoyer.» she said, inviting her ex-student to use the familar tu rather than the formal vous that Shaafia had always used out of respect. «Please call me Hélène.»

Shaafia smiled shyly and dipped her head. «Thank you Hélène.»

As they walked close to the chapel entrance, Sister Catherine emerged to welcome them.

Once Shaafia had introduced her guests, the nun invited them into the chapel. Hélène smiled and said: «When I married my husband in Morocco, I became a Muslim. I have not set foot inside a Christian church since then.»

«Even after that husband of yours walked out on you?», sneered her cousin.

It was clear that Madame Clae was used to her cousin’s way and she let it pass. Shaafia and the nun exchanged glances.

«But, I have to say», said Sister Catherine gently, «this is not really a Christian chapel. It is something much more interesting, in a way.»

«It is not?» asked Clara looking puzzled. «But you are a nun.»

«I am.» the sister smiled again. «I have also had the wonderful good fortune to have met Pia and she has changed my life and reinforced my vocation.»

«But you are still a nun, a Catholic nun.» Clara had stopped in her tracks, feeling uneasy.

«Because of Pia, I am more of a nun than I ever was.»

Very quietly Shaafia took Hélène’s arm. «Come and see this chapel. It is very peaceful.»

Hélène gratefully took the opportunity, holding on to Shaafia, and she let herself be led. Clara did not want to be left behind and hurried to catch up. Sister Catherine held the door open for her as she scuttled to catch up to her cousin.

When Shaafia and her teacher entered the chapel, Michael was there and he rose to meet them. Once again Shaafia did the introductions and then let Sister Catherine tell the story of the chapel, why it had been left in ruins for years, after the accidental death of a baby girl about to be baptised and how at Pia’s command, it had been resurrected.

Madame Clae had heard all about this from Shaafia, but it was new for Clara.

«Hélène has told me something of what has happened here.» she said. «But I find it hard to believe that some young handicapped child could do all these things that you say she did. It is not believable.»

Sister Catherine nodded. «I can imagine how strange it is to hear what has happened here, but trust me, I swear by the vows I took as a nun, what we tell you is the truth.»

«But you still live in a convent?» asked Clara.

«Of course. Our sisters take it in turns to be here to greet people. At all other times we are like regular nuns.»

«What does the church think of all this?»

Sister Catherine took a long look at her questioner before she replied.

«A nun follows her vocation. We live by faith.»

«Would you like to sit for a while?» asked Michael, deciding that he needed to move things along. Although he had not followed the conversation, he had felt the tone was not so friendly. He was doing his best to acquire some French, but he was not yet very confident.

Sister Catherine left them there and after a moment Michael followed her out. The three women took seats side by side at the back of the chapel. As soon as Shaafia closed her eyes, Hélène saw her and she did the same. Clara however stared around her, with something of a dark look in her eye. What kind of chapel was this that has a wheelchair in front of the altar? Why was there a statue of an Indian woman with four arms sitting on a tiger placed on the altar beside a scruffy-looking stuffed kangaroo? Clara stole a look at Shaafia, this small dark-skinned Moroccan girl who was supposed to be the medium for the handicapped child. Was she really? Or was this is all some kind of fake cult?

As if reading the thoughts, Shaafia opened her eyes and looked directly into Clara’s. The look was unblinking, penetrating and Clara could not hold it. Instead she stood up, ready to leave.

She looked down at her cousin and saw tears running down her cheeks.

«Hélène?» she said.

Madame Clae slowly opened her eyes and gazed up at her cousin.

«This is such a peaceful place.»

«You are crying.»

«It is true. I have not felt such peace in a very long time.» Then she smiled at Shaafia. «How lucky you are to live here.»

Shaafia smiled and then as she stood up, she invited them to come into the main lounge for morning coffee.

Clara ran her eyes round the chapel one more time as if she were taking inventory, to commit it to memory, then she followed the others out.

Théophile and Claire had gone off to Bordeaux on business errands, and Angela had gone back to the university to continue her studies as a translator. Berenice had come down with a cold so she and Zena were not there either. Michael smiled as Shaafia brought in her guests. A warm fire was blazing in the giant fireplace under the portraits of the De Fortelle ancestors and Thérèse stood in front of it, almost like an added symbol of the dynasty.

As Shaafia introduced her guests, Marie-Louise brought in a brand new and wonderfully silent tea trolley with fresh madeleines made by Jourdan. The old rickety trolley that had served limply for years had finally been replaced.

Once everyone had been served, Marie-Louise retired to the kitchen and they sat round the fire. Clara turned to Thérèse and asked about the history of the château. In the past, Thérese would have been reluctant to talk much about that because of the shameful deterioration that had taken place. Now however, sitting in the cosy warmth of a fully renovated and centrally heated château, she had no hesitation at all.

She proudly detailed the significant events that the château had seen over the centuries until she arrived at the great good fortune that had so recently descended.

Clara had let her talk uninterrupted for some time, but now she intervened.

«So your son, the one who I am sorry to hear had died in Australia, he was the one who made all the money for this renovation?»

«That is the case.» nodded Thérèse.

«And he was the father of this girl, the girl with the handicap that everyone seems to think is some kind of gifted medium?»

Thérèse studied her guest carefully before answering.

«Hugues was Pia’s father, yes.» and she said no more.

There was a strained silence in the air until Michael excused himself to go upstairs to take some madeleines to his daughter. He wasn’t able to follow the French conversation anyway. Once he had gone, Hélène felt she needed to make up for the intrusive questioning of her cousin.

«Madame de Fortelle,» she said, using the formal «vous» in addressing the doyenne of Château des Mésanges, «it is a most wonderful history that you have shared with us. And Shaafia has shared her own experience of being here which I find so enchanting. I have lived a very simple life as a teacher in Casablanca, teaching French and English. To see that one of my students has done so well and been made so welcome warms my heart.»

Shaafia smiled at her teacher.

«I am very grateful for everything that has happened here,» she said.

«But is it true?» asked Clara, who had been itching to redirect the conversation, «that somehow this child could communicate things and that you could interpret what she said?»

«It is true.» said Shaafia and felt no need to say anything more. She was very aware of what was churning away inside her guest.

« I find it hard to believe. Hélène has told me that you hear her thoughts in your head and you say them. Even after she died.»

«I was as surprised as anyone.» said Shaafia looking steadily at the lady. »I had never heard of such a thing before. But then it happened.»

Thérèse had watched this and decided she should say something. «This young girl has an amazing gift. I was the most sceptical of people, as a good Catholic would be, of such things, but she has proved beyond all doubts that what she says is the truth.»

«Do you hear her thoughts now?» asked Clara.

Shaafia shook her head.

«Would you be willing,» said Hélène suddenly standing up, «to show us through the château?»

Thérèse smiled warmly, most grateful for the tactful change of direction. «With pleasure.» she said.

As they climbed the newly secure and silent staircase, Thérèse proudly showed off the new ensuite bathrooms and the tasteful furniture that Claire had selected. The fact that Claire was an accomplished interior designer was a great pride for Thérèse, as she referred lovingly to her daughter-in-law’s obvious skills.

As they walked up to the next level, Hélène asked Shaafia if she was intending to go back to the university to finish her degree.

Shaafia shook her head.

«I don’t think so.» she said at