by Cesca Major
She laughs twice, quickly, eyes darting back to the crowd of people. Then a line forms on her forehead, the atmosphere shifts, becomes thicker. The music has slowed, couples have stepped closer, cheeks pressed against each other’s.
‘I’m sorry,’ she says, without explaining what for.
‘When can I see you again?’ I hear my voice, cutting across hers, and feel heat in my stomach as her eyes open, her smile widens and her whole face lifts. A forest lake, deep pools focused on me.
‘I, well …’
For the first time in our meeting she seems on the back foot, younger, pulling at a sleeve of her coat. The action makes me feel braver.
‘I’m sorry. I don’t want to make you awkward.’
‘You haven’t. I’m just not used to …’
A young boy in shorts jostles past, momentarily disturbing us, and I lose the rest of her sentence, replaced by a muttered apology.
I offer her an arm and steer her back from the street to stand under the striped awning of a shop. The window is piled high with dusty antiques, rolled-up rugs, a tea set Mother would love. A large mirror shows our cloudy image; Isabelle’s profile a blurred picture of blondes and green. I turn back to her. The speckled shade makes it harder to read her expression. It seems the sounds of the day have receded, are streaking past as we stand there.
‘I’ve seen you here before,’ I state, relishing her reaction, the flush of colour in her cheeks. ‘Do you work in Limoges?’ I ask.
She shakes her head. ‘Trying.’
‘No luck yet?’
‘There are just so many girls with the same idea.’
‘Well, you mustn’t give up hope.’
‘That’s what Paul said.’ She laughs. ‘God, I miss him.’
Paul?
‘He volunteered,’ she explains, mistaking my confusion.
I nod, my hand involuntarily forming a fist as a monster within me stamps around my head, the name ‘Paul’ thundering in his ears. Who is this Paul? I hate him instantly.
‘He’s wonderful,’ she gushes. ‘Just marvellous, so brave. He’s north somewhere, I’m not sure exactly where,’ she explains. ‘He already seems so much older.’
The music starts up again from the street, the beat fast, but I barely register the lightening mood. I look hopelessly over her head at other couples, bereft of all words now. This Paul has thrown me into a brooding silence. I see one woman nearby reaching up to place a light hand on the chest of her companion, a young man with a smattering of a beard, her hand hovering over his heart. Their faces are lit in the stark light of the day and I feel like I am watching from the depths. Their laughter jars, it’s mocking.
‘It doesn’t feel quite like war should, does it?’ Isabelle muses. ‘I do miss him.’
I step back as if someone has pushed me and, I know this is bad, but I wish for all kinds of horrible things to happen to this Paul. I see a quick flash, hear the sound – a long, low whistle, a groan, a punctured noise as a bullet lodges, a gasp from the man. Or a short, sharp burst, the ground exploding into dust, a body blown backwards. Something that might delay his return. Indefinitely.
I’m convinced I’m going to hell but when I look back at Isabelle’s expectant face, I wonder if it might be worth it.
‘The house is gloomy without him. I don’t have any other siblings,’ she goes on.
Siblings: my ears prick up. He’s a brother. The wonderful, brave, ridiculously dashing and fabulous Paul is a brother. I can almost feel the blood flooding back into my limbs, the ice melting. I can’t wait to pump his hand and hear all his glorious tales from the frontline. My heart swells with hope. The relief I feel is so palpable I find myself exhaling loudly.
As Isabelle turns her head to look back at the dancers in the street I trace her profile: the gentle slope of her neck, tiny strands of hair tickling the collar of her coat, the curve of her eyelashes.
This war is turning out better than I could have hoped.
ISABELLE
Darling Paul,
I met a man today. I saw a young girl looking so forlorn on the side of the pavement as all her friends danced and the boys nearby, all leers and spittle, pointed at her, forced her to feel different. And then I saw him walking to her, his left leg a little stiff, his gait affected. He’d noticed too, Paul, and there he was, a knight in shining armour, holding out his hand to the girl, her face so downcast and then the most enormous grin as she took it and they stepped into the street together. I felt jealous of her.
He steered her over to the group, careful not to go too quickly, getting all the steps wrong so that she could laugh at him and my heart just bloomed for this man. His brown eyes kind, his thick hair curling at the neck as if it couldn’t lie still, his arms assured as he gently helped her feel dainty, his wide frame obscuring my view of her so that I just got flashes of her chatter and smiles as she turned. I wanted to know him. Felt so curious, excited, when I wandered past, felt a genuine bolt of surprise when he stopped me (hoped he would, of course). That first look, Paul – I can’t tell you. He looked familiar, like we’d known each other in another time. It was strange. It was like nothing I’d ever felt before, like something had guided me there. I feel like he is important. I felt so bold, a brighter version of me as we spoke. There was something, an understanding of each other, a gentle calm in amongst the frantic mood of the day.
Oh, listen, I’m not going to post this letter, am I? I was never going to.
Anyway, it’s hopeless to tell you these absurd things when you can’t tease me about them …
ADELINE
1952, St Cecilia nunnery, south-west France
I have been given the basket to carry as Sister Marguerite sips from the flask she had the foresight to bring. It has turned into a scorching day: the sun, now full in the sky, briefly disappears behind another great puff of cloud that provides only seconds of relief from the blaze. The nunnery is a silhouette behind us, the grey walls dull against the brilliant yellows and greens of the fields, the thick stone now insignificant from this distance.
We are visiting a family on the outskirts of the village, eight of them in two bedrooms; the father, a farmer, recently lost a hand in an agricultural accident, and has been bed-bound for the past few months. We have brought them rich, orange carrots, courgettes and a whole load of muddied potatoes heaved up this morning by Sister Bernadette.
A child is playing in the garden as we approach the house, a small, dark-haired girl no more than five, who catches sight of us and instantly runs inside, her words lost to the wind. Sister Marguerite smiles at me, rattling off her name, as she can with every member of the village. She greets the mother – who has a tanned face and a dirty apron – at the door, and hushes her thanks for the generous offerings with a small smile, bending to talk directly to the little girl who has peeked out from behind her mother’s skirts.
The replies come in quiet monosyllables. She answers Marguerite but is staring at me, her gaze taking me in, a stranger. I avoid her eyes.
We step into the cottage, heads bent as we move through the doorway, the smell of damp earth and the cool darkness an instant refuge from the heat outside. Above the stove is a plucked, scraggy, trussed-up chicken; a couple of flies are picking at it. Our muddied carrots are put on the table, awaiting the knife. The girl is foraging in the basket as she stands on a small stool by the scrubbed wooden table. I feel the sides of my mouth turning upwards involuntarily. She notices and hops off the stool, diving behind her mother’s skirts once more.
A memory tugs at my mind and I feel the small kitchen fade away, snatches of a vision crowding in.
The girl clutches at her mother’s skirts in bewildered desperation, tugging at her as if she can provide answers, comfort, reassurance. Her mother is distracted, looking towards the door, trying to catch a glimpse over the heads of other people. The soldiers are carryi
ng something inside: she can see it. At my side someone whispers: fast, furious babble to soothe, the words lost in the noise that is everywhere, swirling about the room, rising in panic, punctuated only by short, sharp shots from outside the walls.
I know that I, too, am crying out that they mustn’t hurt them. They mustn’t hurt my boy.
I am ushered to a chair by the table, my eyes are unfocused – the carrots a blur of colour. I am made to sit down and drink water.
Recently it feels that all my memories are shuffling inwards, rattling at the door, refusing to stay hidden in the corners. Maybe it is the talk of moving me, the numbness lifting; or simply time marching on with no empathy, no pause to mark anything, just the steady tick tock of the seconds: the sun rising, a new day; its middle, no matter; its end.
And that day, played out in parts: a few moments repeated, or a minute new and clear.
The mother of the house is looking at me as if I have offended her – she wants us out of her home, everything about her posture shouts it. She tucks the hand of her youngest in hers, enveloping it. Sister Marguerite is making hasty goodbyes.
As we step back through the door the full midday sun dazzles me. The past is obliterated in the glare; the crowd, the shots, the soldiers – gone in a burst. It is as if I have stepped into another place, a heaven: objects and landscape are nothing but bright yellow, white shades, and, before my eyes adjust, before I can make out the fields, the fences, the cottage, I allow myself to think that I have arrived and it is over.
TRISTAN
‘We should have left earlier,’ Papa says for the millionth time. ‘Why didn’t we leave earlier? This is hopeless.’ He drums his fingers on the steering wheel. He looks enormous, all folded over in the driving seat.
‘How were we to know, David? We couldn’t really have known,’ Maman says.
We have hardly moved anywhere all day and I am all bunched up. Eléonore is staring out of the window at the thousands of people on the streets of Paris all carrying bags, boxes, children. Every now and again her ponytail twitches. We are in a jam, a never-ending queue of people.
Dimitri is watching too, then he turns to me. ‘How long till we leave Paris?’ he asks in a quiet voice, his eyes enormous behind his glasses.
I shrug. He’s ten, one year older than me, but he is always asking me questions.
Papa honks his horn and Maman snaps at us to be quiet so they can think.
Luc fell asleep in the first minute of being in the motorcar. He can sleep anywhere. My legs are scrunched in and the leather of the seats makes my clothes slip around. Luc’s head is angled funny and his blonde fringe lifts every time he breathes out. His mouth is slightly open, just wide enough that I can see his missing front tooth. Maybe I could stick my finger in there to wake him – anything to give us something to do.
I’ve only ever been out of Paris two times and once I was only a baby so I don’t remember it. Last time we went to the seaside to stay with an aunt. Now we are going to people called the Villiers. I’m not sure where they live and Papa doesn’t like lots of questions. I hope they live near the sea too, and that we are going to eat ice pops and build enormous sandcastles that you can throw yourselves on to before the tide comes in and washes them all away. This time I might dig a big hole as Arnette in my class told me that if you dug a hole deep enough, you’d be able to get to Australia. Arnette is quite clever and her father is a professor at the university so you can’t just dismiss her, even if she is a girl.
I would probably have to dig a long way; I imagine I’d have to get other people to help me. Eléonore would probably refuse because she hates getting sand in her hair or on her clothes, but Luc and Dimitri would be keen. It would be so exciting to be digging down into the wet, cold sand that smells of the sea, and see a pinprick of light below my feet. I would dig harder and faster until the pinprick of light was about the size of my yo-yo and the rays of the sun would beam through the gap and we’d see all sorts of animals and strange-looking plants and trees below us. I imagine myself arriving in Australia through my hole and being made King of the People with all of them prancing about me, giving me their gifts from the wilderness and making me overlord of the land. Maybe King Kong lived there. Years ago, I saw a poster of King Kong, outside a cinema in Montmartre, and he looked fearsome, just the kind of animal you would imagine living in Australia. We’d go hunting for him and—
There is a tap on the window just where my head is resting. I sit straight up and stare. It’s a witch at the window: her wrinkled face presses into the glass, mouthing words at me. Papa is staring ahead and Maman is hissing at me to ignore the woman, but I feel odd trying to do that when she is so close that I can see lines of powder in the wrinkles around her mouth. She taps again. I turn my head and talk to Dimitri but can’t think of anything to say, am just aware of her there on the other side of the glass. She stays there for what seems like for ever as I pretend-talk and will the car to move forward.
Eventually the woman gives up and we finally get moving, breaking off into various side streets. All the shutters of the buildings are closed. It seems to me the whole of the city is on the road, not in their houses. My back is aching and Luc’s woken up and wants another game but we are all bored of playing I Spy. He is useless at it. He keeps spying everyone in the car so, after the first round of ‘M’ (‘Is it Maman?’ – a nod from Luc), we soon worked it out.
We eat onion tartlets balanced on newspaper in our laps, and have grenadine with water from a flask Maman passes back. The tartlets are freshly baked and satisfactory but I prefer our normal hot meal. Maman says it’s impossible and Eléonore has told me to stop talking about it. I know Clarisse, our maid, packed up the silver earlier anyway, so we don’t have any cutlery even if we had been given something hot.
Packing up our house seemed to take for ever. I imagined we’d still be doing it when I was ten. Clarisse went back and forwards, back and forwards, cleaning every room for a week, with Maman pointing at the things she wanted put in newspaper. Papa was never home: when we were brought down in the evening to say goodnight, only Maman was there to kiss us.
We were only allowed one bag and one box of things so I had to choose carefully. Eléonore spent a whole day crying because Maman said she couldn’t bring Madame Delancy because she was too big and the china would break. I filled my box up full so Eléonore wouldn’t make me take her. She has enough dolls, anyway.
When we were finally ready we stood in the hallway in our hats and coats, even though it was much too warm outside. The doorway to the sitting room was open and it looked peculiar, like it was already lonely without us. The furniture, a lot of it very old (Papa once told me that his desk had belonged to a cousin of Louis XVI) was covered in great big white sheets. You couldn’t make out where the sofa ended and the leather armchair that Papa sat on in front of the fire began. The chandelier still twinkled in the half-empty room from the sunlight that poured through the windows. It will have stopped winking now we have left and the shutters are closed.
This thought makes me sad and I pinch Dimitri quickly so that his bottom lip wobbles. He doesn’t say anything as he knows Papa will get cross, so I grin at him. I can feel onion in my front teeth. He pushes his glasses up his nose and leans away from me. Luc is trying to stick a marble up his nose and Eléonore is talking to him in that gooey way she does, telling him not to. He rolls his eyes at me and I laugh. Papa catches my eye in the driving mirror and I quickly stop.
I wonder how long we will be in the car. I wonder if the answer is the same as last week.
We’d been in the kitchen when I’d asked.
‘We’ll be back soon,’ Maman had said, in a voice that didn’t sound certain to me.
‘When?’ I’d asked, turning my head. Clarisse had started crying at the oven.
‘Soon.’
‘We’ll be coming home in time for school, won’t we?’ checked
Eléonore.
‘Yes, we will. After a summer in the countryside.’ Maman looked at Clarisse as if she’d dropped the gravy dish again.
Clarisse kept crying. ‘Poor Paris,’ she muttered.
School hadn’t seemed that far away. Not that I much liked it. I pictured the face of Monsieur Hébert, the headmaster – all lines and wrinkles and bags. I’d visited his office one too many times in the past few months and my backside was still marked with the proof. A holiday in the countryside hadn’t seemed quite so bad then. I’d wanted Clarisse to stop crying.
I wonder now where Clarisse is staying as it seems the whole world is leaving Paris. She waved goodbye to us this morning from the top of our front steps, handkerchief in hand as the car turned out of sight at the end of the cobbled street.
I forgot to say goodbye.
‘How long will we be gone?’ I blurt from the back seat.
‘Tristan,’ Papa warns, his eye back in the driving mirror.
I can feel the others all waiting for the answer.
‘Not long, my darlings.’ Maman sighs, her head tilted to the right. She is wearing very big earrings that catch the light and make tiny white spots dance on the car ceiling. ‘It will be just like a holiday,’ she sing-songs.
I lean back in the leather and try to get comfortable. The air smells of petrol and onion. I feel my stomach turn. Maman and Papa sit in the front of the car in silence for a moment looking at each other.
This doesn’t feel like the start of a holiday.
SEBASTIEN
She emerges from the bakery, stepping out onto the pavement, her skirt briefly swirling up around her, showing off shapely legs. Her feet are encased in scarlet suede shoes. She is wearing a shirt that seems to nip in her tiny waist and her hair is pinned back into a low chignon. She looks like a movie star in this small town. She glances in my direction, her eyes widening a little in surprise when she sees me. Her face breaks into an easy smile and she crosses the street to join me. I raise my hat as she approaches, already unsure whether to kiss her on both cheeks or shake her hand, and feel both relief and a hint of disappointment when, instead of a cheek, she proffers a bag at me, to peer into.
