Living with Strangers Read Online Free PDF

I would miss her, that from the moment of leaving, all that was easy and familiar would be left far behind.
    *
    At the airport, I checked in and folded up the pushchair – a small lightweight one I’d bought for the trip. Recently opened, the airport was a celebration of French minimalist design. Facilities were minimal too and it was hard to find a seat while we waited. We wandered up and down the concourse until our flight was called, Chloé trotting next to me, stopping every few yards to examine the barrage of legs and luggage. This was only the second time I had ever flown; the return trip so long in the making, so long delayed.
    Whatever awaited me at home, however events would play out now, this journey needed to be. After all the petulant indecision, the pile upon pile of excuses, Molly’s letter had found its mark. She had finally made me stop and listen, though her words had yet to sink in.
    On the plane Chloé fell asleep, exhausted by sheer excitement. I lay her down on the empty seat next to me and fished around in my bag for the letter, reading it again for the hundredth time, in the vain hope that I had somehow misread its contents.

    10th March 1978
    Dear Madeleine
    Thank you for your letter, which arrived this morning. It’s good to know that you are well and that Chloé continues to thrive.
    You will no doubt be surprised to hear from me again so soon, having written recently for your birthday. At that time I was reluctant to mention the news that I now have to bring you, but we have been waiting for confirmation from the hospital. I have to let you know what is happening to your father so that you can decide what you wish to do.
    Two weeks ago, your Father was diagnosed with cancer – a virulent form that has already spread significantly. Unfortunately, any surgery would have little effect at this stage – there remain other forms of treatment but he is unwilling to endure the debilitating side effects when the outcome, we are told, will not be radically altered.
    As you can imagine, this news has been a great shock to us all and your father, already weakened by the illness over many months, is greatly distressed. He has asked me to write to you and to let you know.
    I also have to ask something of you. I have to ask whether you have any idea where Josef might be. He too has a right to know what is happening and I believe that your father would dearly love to see him again. If you can shed any light on this, we would greatly appreciate it.
    I am sorry that this letter bears so much that will be difficult for you. Sophie tells me that you have friends there and little Chloé will be a great source of strength, I’m sure.
    I will await your response. Meanwhile, I remain
    Yours affectionately,
    Molly

    The seatbelt sign lit up and I buckled Chloé, hot and sleepy, onto my lap. Her hair smelled faintly of our flat, a sweet reminder, in this transitional state circling Heathrow, of how far I had come – of how much had changed. Molly’s news hung suspended with me here between two countries, two worlds, and two homes.
    After landing we sat until the crush subsided, then waited interminably for the steward to retrieve the pushchair. Insisting I could manage, I fumbled with the catch, trying to open it with one hand, but in the doorway of the plane my bag slipped off my shoulder and the contents spilled out onto the floor. I scrabbled around picking up cups and tissues and nappies while the steward calmly unfolded the pushchair and strapped Chloé into it.
    By the time we reached the terminal, the queue for passports had subsided and my other bag, a case Antoine had lent me, rolled patiently alone round the carousel. I picked it off, found a trolley and headed for the exit, emerging into a wall of faces on the other side.
    This moment, with many others in the past week or two, I had tried to envisage, turning it over and over in my mind, unsuccessfully. I saw Paul long before he realised we were there;