Hester's Story Read Online Free PDF

turning over the stiff grey pages, that Estelle assembled an image of her mother. There were the photographs of her in various productions, dressed in a tutu and wearing a headdress of one kind and another. One of these, the best of all, was the picture Estelle took with her to England. Grand-mère put it into a frame and packed it among her clothes in the small suitcase she was taking with her. The photograph showed a pretty lady with her hair piled in an arrangement of waves on top of her head. She was dressed in a practice skirt and was leaning against a wickerwork skip, evidently backstage. A gauzy scarf was wound round her neck and she was smiling. On her feet she wore ballet shoes, and Estelle often wondered who had taken this photograph of her mother, who was obviously on her way to change her clothes after some rehearsal. She was smiling, and Estelle always imagined that the smile was directed at her even though she knew that this was impossible. She hadn’t even been born when the photograph was taken.
    Helen died of pneumonia at the age of twenty-seven. Estelle was only five but all her life she remembered the sadness she’d felt at the time in the way you remember a distant illness. As she grew older, the pain grew less sharp – not so much a wound anymore but like a hidden bruise, only painful when you prod it.
    When Papa announced that she was to be sent to England to stay with her mother’s cousin, it didn’t occur to Estelle to ask why. Henri did not consult his daughter, but she wouldn’t have expected it. You did as you were told, and Estelle wouldn’t have dared to object to anything her father had decided. Her grandmother spoke about the decision only once, as they were packing the child’s few belongings into a suitcase. Estelle was anxious about Antoinette, her doll.
    ‘I can take her, can’t I, Grand-mère ?’
    ‘Of course, my darling.’ She sat on the edge of Estelle’s bed, and took the little girl on to her lap. Her eyes were red. Since Helen had died, she had wept so much that this was their normal condition. She said, ‘I will write to you every week, Estelle, and you will ask Mrs Wellick to read my letters, won’t you? Then soon you’ll learn to write yourself, and we can correspond like two real friends, two ladies. That’ll be lovely, won’t it? Oh, but I’ll miss you so much, chérie , I will pray for your safety and happiness. And you won’t forget your French will you, Estelle? You won’t become entirely English?’
    Estelle shook her head. ‘If I stayed here, I could speak French all the time. Why can’t I stay? Why does Papa want to send me to England?’
    She had an idea of England in her mind because of what her mother had told her. There was fog there, and rain and white cliffs.
    ‘Because,’ said Grand-mère , ‘he wants you to be with someone nearer your own age. Your mother’s cousin has a daughter who’s only a little bit older than you. It’ll be company for you. I’m getting old, and your father is always busy with his work. And your mother would have been so happy to know you’re going to be educated in England. Of course it’s best …’
    Grand-mère ’s voice faded to nothing and she hugged Estelle to her so closely that the child could hardly breathe for a while. When she let her go, and started talking about Antoinette and how they were going to fit her into the suitcase so as not to crush her dress, Estelle could hear a sort of shaking in her voice and saw her eyes were full of tears. She was blinking a lot, to hold them back.
    *
    England, when she first saw it, was indeed a place with white cliffs. It seemed to her to be entirely grey – grey skies, grey sea, greyish buildings. They travelled to Yorkshire by train and she stared out of the window as the rain streaked across the glass in horizontal grey lines. When they reached the Wellick house, it was as though Estelle’s father disappeared almost before he arrived. One meal, a kiss and