The House with Blue Shutters by Lisa Hilton

anxiously proffered champagne. Camille Lesprats got roaring drunk, and everyone laughed about
     ‘Poire William’ when the
digestifs
went round.Mademoiselle Lafage’s friend Simone had purplish lipstick and a rather revealing apricot costume, she drank Papie Nadl’s eau
     de vie from a glass like a man instead of coyly dipping a sugar lump. Monsieur Larivière, who had given away the bride as
     well as performing the legal ceremony, proposed the toast, looking quite the thing in his sash. Then the bridegroom seated
     himself at the piano and played a soft, wandering piece whilst gazing at his red-faced wife, while all the guests respectfully
     pretended to listen.
    The benches were moved outside and the old ones sat down to watch the youngsters dance. Yves Contier settled himself on a
     chair in the shade, important with his accordion. Papie Nadl stepped forward with his violin, but instead of nodding at Yves
     to begin he raised his bow for silence. He spoke up in his high, reedy voice, ‘As we know,’ he began, coughed a little, ‘as
     we all know, Madame Boissière has made her home up at Aucordier’s for the past few years. William Aucordier has made a present
     for her. All by himself.’ The amiable quality of the quiet shifted a little. Oriane clenched her hands in the skirt of her
     dress.
    ‘Go on, William,’ said Papie.
    William got to his feet. There was a dribble of yellow crème patissière on his jaw. He reached out to Papie, his arms wide
     and anxious, as though to receive a child, and made a little squeak. Someone tittered, and Madame Boissière frowned. William
     took Papie’s violin, holding it delicately in his big raw hands, and settled it under his chin. He dipped his torso in an
     awkward bow. Then he arranged his fingers around the bow and began to play. He played softly at first, his eyes closed, a
     little tune that ran up and down the fret, then gathered itself,and dipped, and soared, mounting like a bird hopping from branch to branch, pausing, swooping back, rising higher and faster
     as his elbow sawed and he nodded forward into the music, pushing it on and tapping his foot until it ran under his hands like
     the river in winter, and then he curbed it, softening, ending on a long full note, dying away and holding them all there,
     spun for a moment a little above the dust of the square. The silence was new again. That was what was remembered of that day,
     that William Aucordier astonished everyone in the village when he played the violin for the first time in his blue shirt at
     the schoolmistress’s wedding.
    Oriane was breathless with happiness and surprise. Papie was beaming, though he had not been the only one to wipe a tear from
     his eye. ‘We had you there, eh?’ he asked everyone. ‘Oh, that’s a good one! We had you there!’ Cathérine said she had heard
     music coming from the cow barn for years, but she thought Papie must be playing to William to pass the time, although it did
     seem as if he was improving with all the practice. Everyone laughed and laughed, there was not a bad word to be said. Père
     Guillaume said it was an example. What Oriane remembered later was the rapid flutter of the light, how it danced in the dappling
     leaves of the chestnut trees, the same light the wind had pushed so cruelly around the eaves of Aucordier’s now gathered up
     so wonderfully in William’s music, how it spun between the pale massed bow strings, and how it cancelled out shame.

SUMMER HOLIDAYS
    Charlotte Glover was drawing a batch of pots from the kiln next morning when Richard Harvey appeared on his bicycle. It was
     already filthy hot, but August was the busiest season for the markets, and she was making a load of the thick, brightly coloured
     salad bowls that had really sold well last year. If they were popular again, she and Malcolm might be able to return home
     for Christmas. ‘Mum said, can you babysit tonight?’ asked Richard ungraciously, disgusted with the