The Silent Hours

by Cesca Major

  I see another girl, a redhead, pass him, head snapping back to take another look, and I feel a rush of pride. He is oblivious to the attention, nodding an acknowledgement to an elderly gentleman in the street, his brown eyes, edged with thick lashes, crinkling as he smiles.

  I sigh like I’m starring in my own romantic novel and feel warmth spread through me when he sees me and breaks into a grin.

  He removes his hat and leans down to kiss me on the cheek. ‘Have you been waiting long?’

  ‘No, not really. I’ve been pretending to read this.’ I hold up my book. ‘It’s terribly dull, so please distract me from it.’

  He laughs, turning it over to inspect the jacket cover. ‘Remind me never to borrow it from you. I’m desperate for a drink … you?’

  ‘Absolutely.’ I stand up, put the book in my bag, notice a patch on my cardigan, dart a hand to cover it.

  I know it’s shallow and silly to be so concerned with my fraying clothes but I want to dazzle him.

  He tucks my arm in his and I am unable to resist leaning into him, our bodies centimetres apart. His wide shoulders carry a heavy weight: I know he worries about his parents, the business, and I know he finds it hard being young, male and at home, unable to go to war.

  As I say something that makes him throw back his head I feel a rush, the start of an addiction. His teeth flash as he rocks appreciatively. Glowing, I feel there is a light inside me, starting in my stomach, bursting into the edges of my skin, heating my organs, and when it starts to sputter and go out, I want to say something else, prompt the reaction all over again. I want his hand to brush mine, want him to lean towards me conspiratorially, as if it is only us in the whole country, only two of us against the rest, and the light is sparked all over again.

  We push into the shop, waiting briefly to be seated, step back to let another couple leave. I adore the feel of the little café – the scattered tables, the assortment of chairs and the crockery with faded china patterns.

  We sit and I order almost immediately. Sebastien laughs at my enthusiasm.

  ‘They’re not going to run out of pastries,’ he states.

  I roll my eyes at him.

  Over Sebastien’s shoulder I notice two middle-aged men. One man is staring at us, brow furrowed. I make a mental note to be a little quieter. Something niggles at me, something familiar.

  The waitress brings us our drinks, a substitute for coffee, roasted chicory and grain, and a thin apple tartlet in a pool of cream. As I stir the mixture I briefly imagine I can smell real coffee. I open my mouth to share this thought with Sebastien.

  I am vaguely aware of a scrape of a chair and then the man from the table behind us is standing, looking down at Sebastien. He is towering over our table, a man who needs to duck before entering a room.

  ‘You’re Pierre’s son – at Maribanque,’ he states gruffly.

  Sebastien pushes his chair back and stands, ‘I am.’ He dabs at the side of his mouth with his napkin and then holds out his hand to the man.

  ‘Sebastien.’ He is clearly trying to place him too and, as I see the man look at the proffered hand, ignore it and shrug on his coat, it hits me.

  His thin moustache twitches. ‘I don’t bank there,’ he says, buttoning up his coat.

  ‘And I never will,’ mutters the other man who appears beside him, putting on his hat, his mouth nothing but a straight line on his face.

  A look passes across Sebastien’s face and I don’t know whether to stay sitting or stand too.

  ‘I’m sorry, do I know you?’ he asks.

  ‘No, we just know your type,’ the second man says, turning around before pulling on his coat. It is the mayor of the town.

  At this I stand. Sebastien says nothing, but one hand flies out as if to stop me, or protect me – I’m not sure which. His mouth is half-open in surprise. The waitress glances over at us all huddled around the small circular table. Other diners are curious too.

  The man continues. ‘We were just sitting there listening to you laugh with your lady friend here. How nice everything must be – your cosy little tryst, no matter that other young men are in prisoner of war camps or off fighting a war on your behalf.’

  Sebastien flinches, hurt in his eyes. I know he’d hate it if I said anything but I’m fizzing with rage; it’s bubbling to the surface, threatening to spill out. My hands clench into fists at my sides. How dare they? And then I can’t stop myself, because Sebastien is just taking it, standing there, allowing them to say these things.

  ‘You don’t know anything.’

  ‘Isabelle …’ Sebastien looks at me.

  ‘But …’

  ‘We should leave,’ he says. His shoulders sag and his brown eyes have lost all their sparkle.

  ‘No, no, please stay and continue to enjoy yourselves. You and your money-grabbing kind are used to living the high life, I imagine.’

  His kind?

  I take a step forward and the table wobbles, spilling the dirty liquid over the tablecloth. The waitress hurries over.

  The man leaves with a last look over his shoulder. ‘We’ll be sure to look out for you and your family.’

  Sebastien lowers himself slowly back into his chair. He looks at me wiping fruitlessly at the stain as the waitress fusses that I mustn’t worry. I can feel it in her voice, the need to try and reach out to us, to assure us she doesn’t think like that, and I want to hug her for it.

  Sebastien has lost all appetite, the tartlet abandoned. He is staring at his plate.

  ‘I’m sorry. I should have stopped him, it’s just … I … I’ve never …’

  I reach a hand across the table. He looks at it and after a pause, takes it in his own. I squeeze it.

  ‘Don’t think about it. Really. They are just vile people with their own problems.’

  ‘Their sons are probably fighting somewhere, or prisoners,’ he says generously.

  ‘A lot of sons are fighting somewhere and that doesn’t excuse it,’ I respond, knowing that Paul would have said the same to him.

  And it had been more than that. We both know it.

  ‘Shall we go?’

  I want to stay, to rally him out of this sudden black mood.

  ‘Of course. We can walk to the park, go and feed those fat ducks or …’

  He cuts me off. ‘I think I’ll go back to the office.’

  I nod quickly, feel my throat thicken, swallow. Ridiculous.

  Back along the street, Sebastien doesn’t say a word.

  ‘This is me,’ I say, pointing to the tram stop, knowing I probably have an age till it leaves for Oradour. ‘Thank you for the drink and the pastry.’ I falter, feeling cross with myself, cowardly, for not saying more.

  ‘I’ll be at the library on Thursday for lunch,’ I try.

  He nods, his mouth turning up a fraction.

  I should throw my arms around him. I should tell him the man is an ignorant fool and should be instantly forgotten. How can anyone think like that? I don’t know what to do though, so I pat his forearm and let him leave me.

  He walks slowly down the pavement, head bent down, one leg stiff, affecting his gait. As I turn to check the timetable I see the men again across the street. They too are watching Sebastien leave.

  ADELINE

  1952, St Cecilia nunnery, south-west France

  Sometimes I am captured in a memory so clear, punctuated by a warmth that flows through every sinew, making me feel for a moment that I can run out of this place, that I am still there and that it is all possible. And then it shimmers, flickers, twists.

  I see Vincent’s face, every feature perfectly recalled. He is sitting in the armchair in the small room we keep as a study, a book open in his lap, the reading lamp beside him casting an orange glow. The fire has long gone out, just feathery ashes. I close the door quietly behind me, move to the o
ther chair, picking up my tapestry as I pass him. A slight incline of his head in my direction, barely there but vital. He reaches out his hand, huge as I place mine in it. He squeezes it briefly and, without looking at me, starts to rumble with laughter at whatever it is he is reading. His face has new lines where it has creased and I can’t help but smile as I sit. His laughter ends and he looks up at me, his mouth turns up so slowly, and I feel wholly at peace as I settle back on a cushion.

  I wish I could see his face once more. I never said goodbye to him, I never said I was sorry. His face distorts, then fades, his mouth turns down, his eyes leave me. Too dark to read, I desperately try to catch them once more.

  He is only ever there for a moment.

  SEBASTIEN

  Isabelle has persuaded me out to her village to get some rest from banking, paperwork and, although she doesn’t say it, the melancholic mood of my father. Ever since the Jewish statute banning Jews from various positions, he seems half the man he used to be, stooped and weary. Ever since the men in the café, I suppose I have, too.

  We meet at the tram stop in the village and Isabelle looks furtively left and right before greeting me quietly.

  ‘I’m so glad you came. Follow me.’ Her voice is light, the words almost lost as she turns, walking a few steps ahead.

  Three young boys are behind the tram stop, two are kicking a football, the youngest, adorably blond and not part of the game, sucks his thumb, watching me through a thick fringe as I walk past him. I tip my hat at him and he removes the thumb to give me a big smile, showing uneven front teeth. The oldest boy – Tristan – blushes furiously as Isabelle calls out his name, mumbling a greeting and looking at me with narrowed eyes.

  Isabelle trips lightly across the street, delicately picking her way over the tram lines in her low-heeled shoes, her skirt swinging just below her knees; a thread has come loose at the hem. She wears her hair half pinned up, thick strands falling between her shoulder blades. Looking over her right shoulder she smiles briefly at me, a thin line between her eyebrows, before dropping down a side street and then into a small path to the left.

  Once there she slows, waiting for me, shadows making patterns on her skirt and cream cardigan. I squeeze myself by her side. The path itself is narrow and brambles poke out at various angles, breaking free of the hedge. I lower my head as we walk along, dodging the thin branches spattered with early buds. The air smells earthy and the ground beneath us is soft, tiny puddles of rainwater captured in the runnel of churned-up mud that runs down the middle of the path. A fly hums around my head and I swat at it uselessly.

  Isabelle seems less tense now: her shoulders lower a fraction, an easier smile lights her face, no glances around as we walk across the meadow. Long grass prickles my calves through my trousers, daisies are dotted around, dandelions form clusters and, beneath it all, the river moves effortlessly through.

  Shaking out a rug she lays it carefully on the grass and motions for me to sit. I feel creaky and awkward as I lower myself down. An insect skitters across the fabric making his escape. The grass beneath the rug tickles the hand that I rest on, uneven. The river narrows at this point and the water forces its way around larger stones in its path, dampening the slime-green edges and leaving the tops of the stones dry. Weeds and grasses grow in the cracks and some pink flowers have clumped on the bank beneath twisted tree roots that disappear into the stream. We seem almost hidden from the village here.

  Isabelle sits down; I crackle with nerves. There is colour in her cheeks, a peach blush as she looks off into the distance. I wonder if she feels it too. I realize this is the first time I have been truly alone with her.

  ‘No one comes here,’ Isabelle announces, as if confirming my thought. ‘Paul and I used to spend hours here in the summer, further down there.’ She points to a wooden bridge someway off. ‘It’s more popular, but I’ve always loved this spot.’

  I lean back on my elbows, watching the water flow making the reflections of the plants that drape over the edge quiver as it eddies.

  Shadows from clouds above darken the water in places and the river is a mix of browns and greens.

  Silent and peaceful I feel my muscles relax, feel the warmth of the sun, weak but there, through my clothing, and listen to the occasional chirrup of birds, the rustle of an animal and, all the time, the backdrop of the quiet trickle of the river as it continues to move past. Closing my eyes I breathe in deeply, holding the breath, my senses heightened, then release and open my eyes again. The fields beyond look like a vivid watercolour painting; my mother would love the view.

  Isabelle is watching me. She has kicked off her shoes, the suede heels lying abandoned on their sides, and her stockinged feet resting on the rug. I find myself fascinated by them, the gentle arch, the curl of her toes, the soft pink of her nails just visible beneath the flesh­coloured fabric.

  ‘Join me,’ she laughs, wiggling her toes and making me look up, a heat creeping up my neck.

  ‘I wouldn’t want to lower the tone,’ I tease, brushing one hand over the rug.

  ‘I’m glad someone is concerned with standards,’ she says, her face solemn, removing a flask from her basket. ‘Water?’ she offers. She hands me a small tin mug and pours from the flask.

  I sip the water, feeling the cool liquid run down my throat.

  ‘How is school?’ I ask.

  She nods eagerly. ‘I’m really enjoying it, every day is different. This term my classroom is decorated with poetry and pictures and I still adore their faces when they understand something for the first time. It’s magical, that moment.’

  ‘It always sounds much more exciting than the business of a bank.’

  ‘Ah, but not as lucrative.’ She laughs. ‘Now, wait here.’ She disappears somewhere behind me. ‘You’re not to follow,’ she calls over her shoulder, and I wait for her to re-emerge. When she does, I can’t help but laugh as she throws her stockings in a ball at her bag and makes her way over to the bank.

  ‘You know, you can be quite shocking, Mademoiselle Rochard,’ I say.

  ‘I do hope so,’ she sighs, gasping as she steps into the shallows.

  She takes another step to plant herself. The water forges past her calves, splitting and meeting again, as she stands there, her skin pale in the light, paler beneath the water. She dips her hands down into the water and trails her fingers along the surface.

  ‘Amazing.’ She looks back at me. ‘You have to,’ she says, no teasing in her voice.

  She is right, of course, and without a second thought I find myself removing my shoes, untying the laces hastily, pulling off my socks, rolling up my trousers, the hairs on my legs dark against my skin. Standing up, I walk over to the bank, place a toe into the water, my expression earning a laugh from Isabelle.

  ‘It’s colder than Alaska.’

  Stepping onto the flat pebbles I exhale in a rush. The shock of the water stings, as if cold jaws have clamped themselves around my feet. At that moment the sun is obscured by a cloud and the scene becomes muted, faded to dull green and muddy brown. Small goosebumps break out on my skin and I give an involuntary shiver.

  I soon get used to the feeling, wading out a little deeper, feeling the light tug of the current, enjoying the ripples I create moving in wide rings away from me, disrupting the darker parts of the water.

  Looking back towards Oradour, I place my hands on my hips and feel the sun emerge, warming my back like a hug from Mother when I was younger. The whole village can be seen above the line of trees: the tiled rooftops, backs of houses, windows left open to welcome this weather, washing hanging out in the gardens, and then the church, rising up at the end on my right. Its rectangular tower, topped with a spire, seems to act as a watch guard to the village. The stones look like they have been there for ever, solid in a shifting landscape. A pale trail of swallows in the sky beyond it dives en masse.

  ‘I want to invi
te you to meet my parents,’ I blurt, turning to catch her eye. I worry that this admission will scare her but I realize then, as I see her expression change, that I am the one that is afraid.

  She opens her eyes wide. The greens seem to reflect the mossy colour of the water below. ‘I would love that.’ She smiles, closing her eyes and lifting her throat so that the sun shines on her face. ‘I’d love that.’

  We spend the next hour on the bank, bait on a simple piece of string dropped into the water. I sneak glimpses of Isabelle over the book I am barely reading. Her long hair falls towards her lap in blonde waves, a small leaf caught in it; her arms are turning brown, small faint freckles sprinkled over warm skin.

  I will return and talk to my parents, finally. I know I want to be with her, like this, for the rest of my life.

  I look back towards the village. I can’t imagine a more peaceful place.

  ISABELLE

  Dear Paul,

  I’ve fallen in love.

  I wish I could see your face – see that disapproving look you get when I announce I’ve bought a new hat (‘How many hats does one girl need?’) or met a man. I have to share it here and miss the creasing of your brow … it’s not a hat, Paul – I have actually fallen in love!

  Honestly and truly I feel it deep within me. And don’t go saying it’s just indigestion or some such, or that it’s only because he’s handsome (he is, of course, but you know that can’t be all of it – Marcus Porcher is good looking and I find him so dull).

  You would like him. He is gentle – an optimist. He’s kind in infinitesimal ways and he’s thoughtful. He brings me things – of course, you’ll think he’s just buying his way into my affections, but I mean small things, like a strudel (you know I adore them; well, anything covered in pastry) and flowers he has picked or an article he has read that he thinks I will find interesting.