‘You don’t see your parents?’
She shook her head. ‘Dad basically disowned me when I decided to leave the farm and go to university. He wanted me to stay and work until I could be married off to some other farmer’s son.’ She rolled her eyes. ‘Mum backed me, but doesn’t like to admit it in front of him. So I don’t see her either.’
‘I’m so sorry.’
She shrugged. ‘Anyway, enough of that.’ She grabbed Sylvia’s arm. ‘Thank you so much for coming tonight and helping us out. I’ll see you back here tomorrow, okay?’
JUNE 2016 Montreux, Switzerland
JESS
Over the course of the week following my library trip, I snatch moments whenever I can to call the many incarnations of the names on my list, hoping they speak enough English to point me in the right direction. There are several Fabienne Aebischers, but none of them have heard of the Mouvement des Femmes Lausannoises. Marie Rochat in Neuchâtel is too young, and Marie Rochat in Geneva speaks no English and hangs up on me after I’ve reeled off a few pre-prepared phrases in French and not understood her responses.
It’s hardly watertight research, this.
But then I call a Nina Favre, listed as living in Lausanne, and I think it surprises her as much as me when I bring up the MFL and she says, ‘Yes, yes I know it.’
With my heart pumping in overdrive, I ask if she would be happy to meet with me, and suddenly I’m writing down her address and accepting an invitation to go round next Wednesday afternoon when the kids are at their next tennis lesson. It’s a start, a step forward in my search, and I immediately message Maggie for reassurance.
Am I doing the right thing?
Her reply comes back almost instantly: Yes, darling. Just go for it. And remember, I’m always here for you, whatever you find out.
A second message arrives a moment later: I’m taking your father to dinner next week and I’m going to sort him out, so don’t worry.
I smile, picturing the two of them together. Maggie’s always been there for Dad, as much as she was for Mum, usually acting as mediator when their relationship blew a fuse, ushering them towards reconciliation like a mother hen shepherding her chicks. And she’s always been there for me too, even more so since Mum died.
My surrogate daughter, she calls me.
I’ve never understood why Maggie didn’t marry and have kids of her own, but she swears she prefers it that way. I’m far too set in my ways to live with anyone. I guess everyone’s life is a bit of a mystery, not just mine.
* * *
I know it’s going to feel a long wait until my visit to see Nina Favre next week, so I try to push thoughts of my search aside and focus on the job. I build some structure into my time with the children, making sure we have some sort of outing each day as well as a couple of hours of more formal learning at home. Léa and Luca are bright kids, and it pleases me to see them responding to my teaching, to hear them use words and phrases I’ve taught them. In those moments it reminds me that I was a good teacher. I am a good teacher, but like everything else good in my life, that feeling has eroded away in recent months. Each day I’m here, it bobs up to the surface when I’m alone with the kids, but sinks back down when I see Julia in her suit and lipstick, her laptop bag slung over her shoulder as she downs a coffee and heads for the door every morning. I never wanted a career like hers, and I’ve always felt that teaching children is one of the most valuable professions there is, so it’s strange to feel so small when she wishes us a good day and rushes away to catch her train.
I wonder if she looks at me and feels big.
Perhaps, I think later, it’s that feeling that makes me do it. It’s the afternoon, and Léa and Luca are playing a word game I created, when I leave them and head down the hall to the toilet in the main bathroom. As I do, I pass Julia and Michel’s bedroom door, which is open a crack, and the glimpse I get of the room inside stops me in my tracks.
My pulse quickens a notch.
I shouldn’t. I don’t know why I want to.
I glance back into the hallway, but no one’s there. I can hear the kids in the lounge, arguing over something trivial. I push open the door, making a mental note of the size of the gap, so I can leave it just so.
The room is big, dominated by a king-size bed in the middle. There’s an armchair in one corner with a jacket draped over it, mirrored wardrobes down one side and a door to what I imagine is an en-suite bathroom on the opposite side. My gaze settles on an antique wooden dressing table covered in perfumes, make-up and hair products. Strands of Julia’s dark hair are caught in a hairbrush. I pick up a perfume bottle and smell her familiar scent. I run my fingers over a necklace of delicate glass beads strung over the corner of the mirror and wonder if Michel bought it for her and why. An anniversary? A holiday gift? Just because?
I slide open the wardrobe door and see her clothes hanging on the rail. I flick through a few hangers. A silk dress. A linen skirt. Several blouses from shops I didn’t think anyone actually bought stuff in. Hermès. Chanel. The labels remind me of that copycat Diane von Furstenburg dress from the seventies that Mum passed on to me a few years back. A classic style that she encouraged me to wear, but that I always felt wasn’t quite right on me. I pick out a bright pink silk top and hold it up against myself in the mirrored door. The colour doesn’t suit me at all. I look washed out. Not like Julia with her flawless olive skin and mahogany hair. I feel a sudden irrational urge to rip the shirt to shreds.
‘Jess!’
My heart jumps into my mouth. What am I doing? I put the shirt back, look around quickly and judge that nothing is out of its place, and then hurry towards the door.
‘Coming!’ I call back and dash out of the room, making sure to leave the door ajar as before. I know, without quite understanding why, that I’ll go in there again some time.
* * *
Julia doesn’t come home when she’s meant to, so when the afternoon progresses to dinnertime and then bedtime for the kids, I offer to read Léa a story and tuck her in. She nods but doesn’t smile back.
‘That would be great, Jess, merci,’ Michel says. He put Luca to bed an hour ago. It’s the third night since I arrived that Julia’s worked late. Léa’s asked five times when she’ll be home, and all Michel could do was shake his head.
‘Bientôt, chérie.’ Soon. It’s a refrain I remember from my childhood. Such were my parents’ jobs that rarely were they both at home in the evening, one of them inevitably caught up in a breaking story or a tight deadline or a source meeting that just couldn’t wait. Part of me was always in awe of their stellar careers, the other part of me wished they’d just be home for dinner. But they did their best to take it in turns, at least.
Léa’s bedroom is every little girl’s fantasy. It has cream walls with hot pink and lime green painted wardrobes and a lampshade with cut-out stars that project a mini milky way onto the walls. A purple velvet chair sits in one corner between a crammed bookshelf and a small desk. Her bed has a fuchsia duvet cover and is lined along the far edge by a menagerie of stuffed toys.
‘Who’s this?’ I say, stroking the plush fur of a large St Bernard.
‘Barry.’ Léa gets under the covers and pulls him into a hug.
‘Are you okay? Ça va chérie?’ I offer my badly accented French in an attempt to make her smile, and she does, briefly.
She nods and picks up a book, the first Harry Potter, one of several that Julia got in English for me to read to the children. She hands it to me. ‘Please read.’
I settle next to her on the bed and she nestles into me. The clean, warm scent of her hair is comforting and I stroke it as I read. I wonder what Julia’s doing now, what project is keeping her from this moment, and I feel a sudden flash of rage towards her, with her high-powered job and her wardrobe stuffed full of designer labels. Because I know that no bumper salary or career ambitions or taste for expensive clothes would keep me from having moments like these with my own child if I had one.
&
nbsp; I give Léa a squeeze. It’s lucky she’s got me to read to her, I think, before my conscience slaps me down.
She’s not yours. Don’t get too attached. But I know it’s already too late for that.
MARCH 1976 Lausanne/Bern, Switzerland
SYLVIA
She spent the night in bursts of restless sleep and wakefulness, images of angry red slogans and steam rising from the fondue pot and Daniel’s bitter smile merging into some strange triptych in her mind. The next morning she ditched the suit for a pair of flared jeans, a turtle neck and a purple bobble hat her mother had crocheted for her, and arrived back at the flat at 9am when Evelyne and the girls – and Daniel, she was surprised to see – were loading banners into a battered old van.
‘Right, everybody in!’ Evelyne said.
‘Wait!’ Nina tugged her arm. ‘This is an important day in the life of the MFL. We need a photo. Here,’ she thrust a camera at Daniel. ‘You take it.’
They lined up in front of the building, insisting that Sylvia be included, and smiled as Daniel snapped a couple of shots, his expression impenetrable behind the camera.
There was a boisterous atmosphere in the van on the way, and when they arrived in the Swiss capital, Sylvia could tell they were all desperate to get out and march. They parked near the train station and Sylvia took her share of the equipment from the van, slung her bag over her shoulder and followed the others into Bern’s Old Town. They’d passed the famed Röstigraben linguistic border somewhere near Fribourg, and here felt like another country entirely, even though they were only forty or so miles away from Lausanne. All the street signs were in German, and the architecture was darker and more austere than Lausanne’s pastel shutters and wrought-iron balconies. Here, the centuries-old stone houses had tiny attic windows, umber roof tiles and gargoyles. Trolley buses rattled up and down worn cobbles, while on each side of the street covered walkways protected pedestrians from the light snow that was falling languorously from the grey sky. Sylvia adjusted her hat over her ears and looked up, feeling the snowflakes on her face with an unexpected sense of joy.
Soon, the street opened out into a large rectangular space lined with cafes. They turned right and reached another square dominated by the Swiss parliament, an imposing building with columns on its facade and a domed roof. On one side of the square, a small stage had been set up, decorated with banners. People were milling about, some holding signs, others just standing in small groups talking and laughing. There was a visceral hum in the air, a collective energy building up as everyone waited for something to happen.
Mon corps, mon choix! she read on one banner. ‘My body, my choice!’ Avortement – oui! said another. ‘Abortion – yes!’
The words hit Sylvia like a punch in the stomach. The wine, the fondue, the music, the sights and sounds of a new country… It had been all too easy to put aside what she knew, with increasing certainty, was happening to her. Seeing the signs here, she knew she was lucky to at least have some choice in the matter. But she wished someone could just tell her which choice was the right one.
Evelyne and her friends were greeted by another group of women and a round of three-kisses began, a ritual that could take some time, Sylvia felt. She found herself standing alone with Daniel.
‘Evelyne must be pleased to have a brother who supports her in this.’
He looked at the ground when she spoke. ‘It’s no big deal.’
She stared at him, willing him to meet her eyes. Was he shy? Or just naturally surly?
‘Oh, it is,’ she said. She looked out over the crowds gathering in the square. ‘It’s a huge deal to have men supporting women because we’ll never get true equality unless men agree it’s important too.’
He didn’t respond, and they stood in silence for a minute, Daniel scuffing his feet on the floor. She thought of Maggie’s father, who never wanted her to go to art school and instead pulled strings with an acquaintance to get her a job as a bank clerk so she could make some pocket money and hopefully meet a respectable moneyed man to marry. But Maggie had only endured three months at the bank before quitting and spending her last month’s salary on a ticket to Thailand where she passed another three months backpacking, drawing by day and partying by night. Sylvia remembered her friend arriving home with her hair in corn rows, a suitcase full of tie-dyed skirts and a portfolio of sketches and paintings that got her into art school later that year. But Sylvia knew how much it pained Maggie that her father still hadn’t forgiven her.
‘I just think everyone should be free to do whatever the hell they want in life,’ Daniel said.
Sylvia turned, cocked her head. ‘Are you free?’ She said it as a reflex, and then immediately regretted saying it out loud. ‘Forget it, it’s none of my business.’
He finally turned to look at her and she saw something soften in his eyes, the hint of a smile at the corner of his mouth. ‘Evelyne never was any good at keeping her mouth shut,’ he said.
She received no more answer than that because at that moment a woman in a woolly hat and long coat started speaking on the stage, a microphone projecting her voice across the large space so it echoed off the parliament building’s facade. Soon the square had taken on the charged atmosphere of a festival as people cheered at her speech, brandishing their placards and shouting rally chants in French and German.
Equality for women! Our bodies belong to us! Liberation means revolution!
Sylvia took her camera out of her bag and began snapping, slipping amongst the crowd until she’d soon lost Evelyne, Daniel and the others altogether.
* * *
Half an hour later, the opening speeches over, the demonstrators began to march out of the square and through the streets of Bern. Chanting and singing as they walked, the trail of people moved up the middle of a cobbled street named Marktgasse, past a stone fountain topped with a curious figure in red and gold. In the distance, Sylvia could see the pointed form of a clock tower; she assumed this was the medieval Zytglogge, displaying an astronomical clock she’d read dated from the sixteenth century. She was suddenly struck by the incongruity of a march for women’s rights taking place amid streets built so long ago. How were they expected to bring change to the modern world when they had so much history to shrug off?
Stashing her camera in her bag, she began to talk to demonstrators – in English and French mostly, plus a mix of very basic German and sign language – about their motives, their hopes, the experiences that had brought them here. She spoke to university students demanding a different future to their mothers, women in their sixties reinvigorated by finally getting the vote, and single women demanding the right to live their lives as they wanted, not as expectation prescribed. There was Sarah, the young wife marching in defiance of her new husband, who had demanded she resign from the job she loved; Mathilde, who’d had an illegal abortion two years ago and nearly died; and Hanna, a striking 25-year-old who was placed in a reform school at the age of sixteen for having the temerity to fall in love with the wrong sort of boy.
‘When I got out of that hell hole,’ she told Sylvia, ‘I vowed never to let anyone dictate my life again.’
She wrote down their words and photographed their passionate faces, seeing the determination and cautious hope in their eyes, the fire that had ignited from being told they must behave in a certain way simply because they were women.
‘Take my picture,’ Hanna said, grabbing Sylvia’s arm. ‘Put it in your newspaper and tell the world what we are fighting for.’
As Sylvia continued to walk, talk and photograph, she saw her feature taking shape; she knew whose stories she would highlight, whose words she would quote, which picture she hoped would turn out well enough to use. Powered by the crowd’s energy and her own adrenaline, she felt hyper-alert, as though on a high from a drug she couldn’t find anywhere else but here – and she understood in that moment that she loved it, this drug. She loved being right in the middle of something important, experiencing history in-the-making.
She loved talking to these women leading such different lives to hers, and yet seeing herself reflected in their passion, in their basic need for freedom, for escape from society’s constraints, for control over their own bodies. But most of all she loved being in a position to tell their story. This job was what made her happiest. It was what she was made to do. And she knew she just couldn’t give it up.
JUNE 2016 Lausanne, Switzerland
JESS
On Wednesday, I drop the kids at the sports centre in Lausanne for their tennis lesson and drive on up the hill until I reach Sallaz. On the phone, Nina described this area as ‘the Bronx’, but it’s far from that, just not as pretty as the old town centre or the manicured lakeside. Rows of fairly new but unimaginative apartment blocks sit on both sides of the main road. They are so identikit that I have trouble finding the right one, but after ten minutes of driving up and down I find block eighteen and park up on the road outside.
‘Bienvenue. I do not know what I can tell you, but you are welcome.’
Nina Favre ushers me in. Probably in her late sixties, she’s stylishly dressed in a cream shirt and navy trousers, a red scarf tied around her neck. Dark hair cut into a sleek bob skims her shoulders. Her smile is wide and there’s a warmth in her face that makes me like her immediately.
I slip my shoes off at the apartment door and attempt to avoid the little yappy dog that barks in excitement.
The Other Daughter Page 6
