The French for Always Read Online Free PDF Page A

wheels of Gavin’s car, floated in the air above the drive. As she watched, rooted to the spot, it faded away, leaving only a shimmer of heat and the surreal sense that her life for the past eighteen months had been nothing but a magical illusion, one that had now disappeared in a puff of smoke.
    She pressed a hand against the carved cream stone of the château’s cavernous doorway, to steady herself and to reassure herself that something solid and tangible still remained. The sun-warmed blocks of limestone emanated a sense of peace, and history, and imperturbability. She thought of the hundreds of others who must have passed through this doorway down the centuries, and gathered strength from the thought that they would have lived out their own personal tragedies and triumphs within these ancient walls. Could she transform this disaster into a triumph of her own? Or would she have to beat a retreat, returning, defeated, to try to resurrect the tatters of her old life and her old business back in London?
    She rested her aching forehead against the stonework for a moment, craving the comfort of the building’s strong embrace, as a child craves the security of its parents’ arms, gathering strength from its solid presence. Then, on shaky legs, she made herself walk back to the cottage to go and find a broom and start cleaning up the mess.
    It looked as if it had snowed. A fine layer of plaster dust coated every surface in the single room that served as kitchen, dining and sitting room. Her footprints made tracks across the worn floor tiles as she went to inspect the damaged wall. The jagged ends of brittle laths, eaten away by woodworm over the years, framed the sizeable hole where the plasterwork had collapsed so explosively. Dustpan and brush in hand, Sara set to work, trying to focus on clearing up the wreckage of the wall rather than contemplating the wreckage of her life.
    Once she’d swept up the debris, she began to wipe off the remaining film of plaster dust. Mopping alongside what was left of the wall, she noticed that the hole had exposed a bundle of old rags, presumably packed in behind the wooden laths as a crude form of insulation when the wall had been plastered originally. She fetched a black bin bag and then took hold of a corner of the tatty material and tugged gingerly, trying not to let any more pieces of broken plaster fall onto the newly washed floor. Suddenly, with a slither of sleek fur and a sinuous undulation of its thin, rubbery tail, a mouse leapt from the rags and scuttled away under the kitchen units, making Sara screech in fright and revulsion.
    ‘It’s only a little mouse,’ she admonished herself, her voice loud in the silence. ‘Come on girl, get a grip.’ She picked up the metal wrench and hooked the end of it under the rags, lifting them out carefully in case any more rodents lurked in their grubby folds.
    The fabric appeared to be mostly old moth-eaten blankets, but one of the pieces was darker than the rest. She pinched the rough black worsted between thumb and forefinger to pull it from the tangle. Then, with another reflexive shudder of horror, she dropped it onto the floor. She could hardly believe her eyes. The whole day seemed to have turned into some surreal nightmare from which she feared she might never escape. Because there on the damp floor, like a dark ghost, lay a black military jacket. On one of its sleeves was sewn a badge in the form of an eagle with its powerful wings outstretched. And in its talons, clearly distinguishable, the silver threads glinting dully under their covering of dust, it gripped a laurel wreath encircling a stark, geometric form which made Sara gasp again: the unmistakeable outline of a Nazi swastika.
    Dizzily, as the blood rushed to her head, Sara reached out a hand to steady herself against the kitchen units, feeling as though the walls were collapsing in on her metaphorically now, as well as literally.
    She’d looked upon these buildings as her