The Mahé Circle by Georges Simenon; Translated by Siân Reynolds

Péchade was on his rounds.
    â€˜Tell him we’re back, and I’ll phone him presently.’
    The houses were grey, the roofs of black slate, it was impossible to imagine that in another place there were houses painted in pastel shades, pink or light blue, or pale green, like women’s dresses. Here in Saint-Hilaire, people would find
shocking the idea that men might walk about barefoot in espadrilles, their shirts open-necked to show their sunburnt chests, while the women, mothers even, paraded in shorts, with their children, heading for Silver Beach where they would spend their day stretched out on the sand. You often
saw women lying on their fronts, pulling their bathing costumes down so far that the soft white shape of their breasts was visible.
    His mother’s breast …
    His heart beat faster as the house came into view, he looked up at all the windows, which were open, but it was in the garden that he caught sight of the familiar silhouette, under a large black straw hat. His mother was stripping beans. It had
rained, because the earth looked dark and the sun was a washed-out yellow after the rain. She was looking in astonishment at the car, which she did not at first recognize, then she saw him, jumping out, pushing past the gate and running clumsily towards her.
    â€˜François!’ she said, in the tone of voice she used when she had something to reproach him with.
    â€˜Mother!’
    He had sworn not to cry, to stay calm, to make light of things, but he lost control, his heart was bursting, he didn’t wait to lead his mother inside the house, but embraced her awkwardly, repeating:
    â€˜Mother!’
    He swallowed his saliva.
    â€˜What is it? What’s happened?’
    How could he explain it to her? It went well beyond the cancer. Just yesterday, yes, yesterday morning, he had been lying in bed, naked, sweating, full of lustful thoughts behind the baking-hot shutters.
    Well! That was all over now. Here he was, back home. He was amazed, in this little garden, to find he had become taller, stronger, more solid. He would soon put on his breeches and his boots. His nostrils could already detect the slightly
old-fashioned smell of the house.
    â€˜I know, Péchade wrote to you. When I expressly forbade him to. All this fuss about nothing. And the children! You’ve brought the children back! And poor Alfred, who was so glad to be spending a month in Porquerolles!’
    The others had spilled out of the car. The children kissed their grandmother. Mariette was already unloading the lighter pieces of luggage and opening the door of the kitchen, where the gas was lit and the kettle singing.
    â€˜Yes, I’m sure it’s nothing, mother, but the best thing is to go and see Charbonneau. And then we’ll all feel better.’
    â€˜If I’d known …’
    He went upstairs to change his clothes and stood still a moment staring at his socks, from which a trail of fine sand
fell. He could hear doors being opened and windows closed. He went into his surgery and
asked for Charbonneau’s number.
    â€˜Yes, professor … Tomorrow morning? Yes … Many thanks. So we’ll set off this evening, I expect, and spend the night in Poitiers.’
    Charbonneau was due to go on holiday himself the next morning at nine o’clock. Because Mahé had been a pupil of his, he agreed to see him before leaving.
    His mother had not been away from the house in years. They heard her coming and going for hours, terrified of the trip, and giving fussy instructions to Mariette, to her daughter-in-law and to old Guérin, who looked after the garden.
    â€˜If only I’d known,’ she kept on saying. ‘Turning everything upside down like this, it’s as bad as moving house!’
    Finally, at five o’clock, she was seated in the car, alongside her son.
    â€˜Why didn’t you ever tell me you were in pain?’
    â€˜Because we women are