The Silent Hours (21 page)

ISABELLE

My darling,

Please don’t despair, I can’t bear the idea that you are giving up on them. Someone is bound to know something and will help. It’s all the chaos of war, everything is so slow. Do have faith, they will be so happy you are in London. Itsounds as messy and loud as I imagine Paris to be and you caught up in it all. Youreally mustn’t doubt the decision. It is safer this way.

Can I share our news with you? Paul has returned. He walked straight into theshop as if it were four years ago and nothing much had changed. It was so strange Ican’t tell you. The whole camp was released because the Germans were going east. Ithink he’s still in shock. He looks impossibly old, I almost didn’t recognize him and he has a full beard and his eyes seem darker now than before. We are all so pleased to have him back with us. I know he doesn’t want to talk too much about things butthe village will heal him. Maman is so happy she could burst, she hums snatches of songs in the shop, our customers don’t know how to take it. It is wonderful.

Please let me know if I can do anything to help you. The rumours are that it will be over soon, the British are on their way, the Americans too, it really can’t be long now. I will pray for that day and keep writing to you in the meantime.

There are things I want to share with you, so desperately, but I want to seeyou in person, to be able to see the look in your eyes and feel your arms around mewhen you learn them. Please don’t blame me for concealing them.

Don’t give up hope,

Isabelle

ADELINE

1952, St Cecilia nunnery, south-west France

Frost coats the windowpane and the windows are cloudy with steamy cold. I dress quickly, staring at the grille on the door, freezing at a distant noise, a sneeze, some steps. They disappear off and I push my feet into my shoes, brush at my skirt as I catch my eye in the square of mirror above the washing bowl and jug. My eyes are red-rimmed, the deep lines around them made more prominent by lack of sleep. My thin lips have been chewed.

I put a hand to my throat. The woman in the mirror copies me. We pause, staring at each other.

Blinking once, I know I can’t procrastinate any more. I place a hand on the top of the chest of drawers, the smooth wood grounding me in the moment. I walk towards the door, pausing by it to listen. The hint of coffee and croissant wafts through the grille.

I open the door, looking to the left where, at the end of the corridor before it turns, another door awaits me. I don’t want to be seen, could not bear the look on Sister Marguerite’s face: hopeful.

It will be empty. I know there is no service at this time – the nuns are eating, having finished Prime a few minutes ago. I heard them leave in a long line, the gentle swish of their habits, cloth brushing stone, whispers from some, a small cough. Then the sounds of benches being scraped back in the distance, cutlery clinking.

I know I have to leave now, have been building towards this moment, promising myself it would be today.

Stepping into the corridor I feel myself wobble. Swallowing the fear I move in a straight line, eyes not leaving the door cut into the stone. I pass arched windows, the stained glass dulled by the weather beyond; in an alcove to my left, I can feel the chipped marble figure of Saint Bernadette watching me walk past. I wipe my hands on my skirt, my throat feeling like sand.

There were times when I wanted to attend services, when the church had been a sanctuary, lying watchful at the top of the village, when I would feel relief as I pushed open the heavy door, feel the coolness wash over me, slide into a pew, rub the rosary beads, familiar as they ran through my fingers.

Standing in front of the door now I swallow again, and place a hand on it. The iron handle is bolted into the wood, the deep oak panels weathered with age, rough to the touch. Gripping it, I pull and open the door. It swings into the corridor, a faint creak as the heavy hinges move.

Stepping over the threshold and ducking through it, I have made my choice.

The room is darker, smells closer and thicker than in the corridor. I turn and pull the door back; it thuds shut and I shiver with the sound. As I tentatively approach the bottom of the aisle, the chapel seems to be holding its breath, observing me, this small figure.

No one sits in the rows of wooden pews; the stained-glass windows turn the light into streaks of green and yellow that split the air like a rainbow. Behind the altar Jesus breaks bread with his disciples; the scene of the tableau is a relief carved out of wooden panels on the back wall. Sister Marguerite has read the familiar story to me many times. Candles stand ready to be lit in brackets on the wall, a lingering smell of smoke suggesting they were used that morning. In the lectern, the gilt-edged Bible lies open at the middle, awaiting a reader.

Sister Constance wants me to attend the services, but I can’t sit there and join them: so many other bodies around me, crammed into the pews on either side, filing in and down the aisle, their breath warming the air, the candles lit, their shadows quivering on the walls, the tightness in my chest as I sit trapped on either side by the black habits of the nuns, pale hands clasped in laps, a hundred rosary beads and mouths speaking familiar words. I can’t do it. Even alone in the chapel I feel the darkness of the corners inching towards me as I stand here, head now clogged with thoughts; my chest rising and falling to a quicker pace, I lose the sense of calm as my preparations melt away into the cracks of the dusty flagstones.

I am walking up the aisle with my family. Vincent is carrying Isabelle, her bony legs like matchsticks compared to his forearms, Paul scowling as I smooth his hair down once more, looking awkward in his shirt and tie, tugging on his collar, looking at the window high above the altar, clearly longing to be outside.

The first hymn rouses the building and Isabelle stands on the pew to my side, trying to follow the words in the book. The sermon is ponderous and the prayers come as a relief. Paul scuffs the floor with the toe of his shoe, practically shouting the ‘Amen’ a second too late. I look at him, my mouth set in a line, and he reaches for my hand.

We go to file out. I whisper a prayer, make the sign of the cross at the crucifix and place a hand on Paul’s shoulder to lead him out. Vincent follows, Isabelle resting on a shoulder, her eyes fluttering closed. We move down the aisle as a four, past the plaque, the names of the soldiers who died in the First World War listed on its surface. I walk past it without a thought.

I am walking up the aisle with my uncle. I am clutching his arm, staring at the wide figure at the end, feeling a hundred eyes on me. Overwhelmed I look away, past the faces. A cream ribbon on the end of one of the pews has come loose. The church is crammed with flowers and the air is warm with the scent of lavender and roses. My breath is thick beneath the veil, which gives everything a creamy wash. Vincent turns then, his eyes searching for me, and then I see his teeth as he breaks into a smile and I can’t help but giggle, nerves fluttering in my stomach as I approach him. The veil is lifted over my face and my uncle kisses me on both cheeks but all I am aware of is the reassuring shape on my other side as Vincent waits for me to turn to him.

Looking around at the chapel it is the now, the present, which seems to have become blurred – the images of the church in the village seem clearer, the faces that have often been in the background, faceless, now step forward, features sharper: her eyes no longer indistinct but green, there is a spot in an iris, a ringlet of blonde snaking over a shoulder; his enormous muddied hands rest on my arm, he is wearing a familiar checked work shirt; and then my boy, sandy hair sticking up, younger than I normally recall him.

My family.

They have found me in this place.

The room becomes darker around me as I focus on them: the walls blend with the floor, the smell of burning softens the edges. Then they are fading, and the corners of the room seem darker than night. I can feel my breath catch in my throat, try to control myself.

I close my eyes, refuse to be dragged under, picture the corridor beyond the chapel door, light flooding through the windows, the worn patches in the middle of the stones where so many nuns have made their way down the halls.

As I slow my breathing and open my eyes again, the room returns to normal: the candles wait to be lit, the wooden pews a rich brown, the stained glass glowing in the space. Things have righted and I allow myself a small smile. Turning to the crucifix ahead of me, I incline my head a fraction and leave.

Leaning back against the door in the corridor, my eyes adjusting to the brighter light – more pale blue and grey now that I am out – a sudden breeze forces me to wrap my arms around my body and I hurry back to my room, wondering if things have changed for me.

Wondering if I am ready now.

PAUL

Some nights I forget and I wait in the darkness to hear the ragged breathing, a distant cough, of another man. Then there is nothing but the quiet hum of insects in the night air, the gentle wafting breeze that lifts the bottoms of the curtains and for a moment makes my heart stop as a shadow crosses the opposite wall. I sit up quickly, a quick breath out, before I realize.

Father and I speak of his own war experiences and I feel like I have been given a key to a different man’s past. Men he fought alongside, men he rested up against, mud, rainwater filling their boots, the shudder of shells all around them, smeared photographs of girls with mild smiles, earnest eyes, passed around. Promises made. So many men.

I tell him of the others. The work, enforced monotony, our reckless attempts at sabotage, our utter helplessness, kept for months, then years. Some escapes. Mostly failed. I tell him about Rémi.

When we talk it is dark and I just hear the steady rumble of his replies, talk to the space, able to spill our secrets to the night without having to meet each other’s eyes and recognize our own fear there. I know that next door my nephew lies sleeping in this other world, untouched by the ugliness.

His brand-newness makes me think of the old me, the boy who left, so full of excitement, so naïve. He gives me hope that I can find that boy again, that this gentle village life can be mine again. I don’t want to venture further; I feel like I am truly home now.

Some nights I sleep, fully, no dreams, wrapped in the warmth of our small house, my family around me.

TRISTAN

Christmas is absolutely my favourite time of the year. Every Christmas Eve, Maman lays out a glass of sherry and a couple of macaroons and a carrot for the reindeer and we get into our pyjamas, say our prayers and hop into bed. I pray for an extra-large present in the morning, but don’t admit that to anyone as I know Maman would be angry with me. ‘Un-Christian,’ she would say.

I can never sleep for the excitement, and I am always convinced that I hear Père Noël tip-toeing around the house leaving goodies for everyone at the foot of their beds. Dimitri says it’s impossible that I could ever see him as he has to visit so many children in one evening and he worked out that Père Noël can stay for only 3. 2 milliseconds in each house and that isn’t even as long as a blink. He has to visit around a million billion thousand children in one night. Approximately. And he doesn’t even just visit the children in France – he goes all over the world. He probably won’t go to Germany this year though, because the children there have been really naughty.

Anyway, I’m not sure Dimitri has factored in the time-zone difference. We have been learning about this in Geography. Apparently in Australia it is daytime when it is night and summer when it is winter – most peculiar. I’m sure that Père Noël does stay a while, as the sherry and the macaroons have always been drunk and eaten, and he is magical so can probably stop time, or something like that.

I’m nervous that he might not come at all because there is a war on and a lot of things have stopped because of it. No one drives cars any more, although I know Père Noël has a sleigh with reindeer, so a lack of petrol won’t stop him. Maman has told me that he will still visit but might bring different types of things this Christmas because of these ‘trying times’. Hitler must be trying to win a war in Lapland too. And what with the fact that we’ve moved house twice, I’m really not sure Père Noël will be able to keep up – it makes
my
head spin and I am a part of this family. He has remembered for the last two years, so I sincerely hope he will this year too.

Papa has been reading to us by the fire, stories about an English king called Arthur and his Knights of the Round Table. My favourite is Sir Gawain and the opening part of the story where he beheads the Green Knight who then picks up his head from the floor and walks out! Eléonore only seems to like the sissy bits where they all fall in love, and squeals every time Papa mentions a duel. I imagine she sees herself shut up in a tower, waiting for a prince to come. I wouldn’t mind so much if she was; but I can’t really imagine who would want to travel all that far to free her. Oh dear, I think that was another ‘un-Christian’ thought. I hope Père Noël can’t listen to my thoughts like Jesus can.

Luc and I are playing snap. Eléonore has asked to join us and I have said yes – it is Christmas after all. It is a lively game and only hard when Eléonore or I have the matching cards as Luc is so slow, and often yells ‘SNAP!’ when he has turned over a different suit or number. Eléonore patiently explains the rules to him one more time and he looks at me over her shoulder and rolls his eyes. It makes me giggle and Eléonore gets in a strop and refuses to play with us any more and goes back to her book but that is fine by me. I win quickly after that, and Luc still continues to shout ‘SNAP!’ at all the wrong moments.

All this is interrupted by Papa dragging in the most enormous Christmas tree. Instantly the room smells of Christmas. I jump up to run and get the little men that I have made out of pine cones. Maman asks Claudette to help her. One special decoration is wrapped in a box with lining to stop it breaking, and I recognize it from Paris when Claudette pulls it out.

‘Careful. Tristan darling this one is made of glass and my own mother watched the man making it,’ Maman says, motioning for Claudette to pass it to me to hang. It is beautiful, all gold, like there are little lights dancing inside it.

We spend ages decorating the tree so it looks as if it is dripping in diamonds, like a film star. As Papa removes the final piece, the star for the top, from the box, we all gasp in unison. He reaches up to the top of the tree and places the star over the twig sticking up at the top. The six-pointed star completes the tree and we all stand back and admire our work.

I suddenly think of Samuel, the boy who never returned to my school. I wonder where he is this Christmas. The star twinkles in the light of the room. I beam at it and at my family as Papa sits down and plays carols in the soft light.