The Silent Hours Read Online Free PDF Page B

asked.
    ‘We’ll be back soon,’ Maman had said, in a voice that didn’t sound certain to me.
    ‘When?’ I’d asked, turning my head. Clarisse had started crying at the oven.
    ‘Soon.’
    ‘We’ll be coming home in time for school, won’t we?’ checked Eléonore.
    ‘Yes, we will. After a summer in the countryside.’ Maman looked at Clarisse as if she’d dropped the gravy dish again.
    Clarisse kept crying. ‘Poor Paris,’ she muttered.
    School hadn’t seemed that far away. Not that I much liked it. I pictured the face of Monsieur Hébert, the headmaster – all lines and wrinkles and bags. I’d visited his office one too many times in the past few months and my backside was still marked with the proof. A holiday in the countryside hadn’t seemed quite so bad then. I’d wanted Clarisse to stop crying.
    I wonder now where Clarisse is staying as it seems the whole world is leaving Paris. She waved goodbye to us this morning from the top of our front steps, handkerchief in hand as the car turned out of sight at the end of the cobbled street.
    I forgot to say goodbye.
    ‘How long will we be gone?’ I blurt from the back seat.
    ‘Tristan,’ Papa warns, his eye back in the driving mirror.
    I can feel the others all waiting for the answer.
    ‘Not long, my darlings.’ Maman sighs, her head tilted to the right. She is wearing very big earrings that catch the light and make tiny white spots dance on the car ceiling. ‘It will be just like a holiday,’ she sing-songs.
    I lean back in the leather and try to get comfortable. The air smells of petrol and onion. I feel my stomach turn. Maman and Papa sit in the front of the car in silence for a moment looking at each other.
    This doesn’t feel like the start of a holiday.

SEBASTIEN
    She emerges from the bakery, stepping out onto the pavement, her skirt briefly swirling up around her, showing off shapely legs. Her feet are encased in scarlet suede shoes. She is wearing a shirt that seems to nip in her tiny waist and her hair is pinned back into a low chignon. She looks like a movie star in this small town. She glances in my direction, her eyes widening a little in surprise when she sees me. Her face breaks into an easy smile and she crosses the street to join me. I raise my hat as she approaches, already unsure whether to kiss her on both cheeks or shake her hand, and feel both relief and a hint of disappointment when, instead of a cheek, she proffers a bag at me, to peer into.
    ‘Papa hates it when I eat in the street, but I’m starving,’ she explains, removing a latticed apple strudel entirely from the bag, tearing it in half and holding one out for me.
    It is like no time has passed since we stopped our conversation under the awning on Armistice Day; no olive coat, and the tip of her nose a little redder, but otherwise she is unchanged.
    ‘I wouldn’t want to deprive you.’
    ‘I can always get another one. Go on, they’re delicious.’
    I thank her, a huff of air as I breathe out. I stamp my feet but I haven’t felt cold since seeing her.
    Isabelle settles into a steady pace beside me, although I have no idea where I am going and know I should return to the office.
    ‘How did the job hunt go?’ I venture, trying not to spit pastry her way.
    Isabelle flaps a hand in front of her mouth, mid-mouthful.
    ‘Oh, dear, how unladylike!’ She swallows. ‘Well enough, thank you for remembering. I’ve been filing for a local solicitor these last few weeks, but I’m starting work as a teacher at the boys’ school in the village soon.’
    We have reached the black iron gates of the park at the north end of town. As I follow Isabelle through them a woman nearby looks at me, a frown on her face. I try to place her: her crinkled brow, set curls, simple string of pearls. Isabelle is waiting for an answer to a question she must have asked as I turn to face her. I try to pick up the thread. ‘I’m sorry, I was somewhere else,’ I bluster.
    ‘Oh, don’t