A Week in Paris (15 page)

‘Yes, but I play the violin.’

‘I must try to come and hear you. And Kitty, she continues to play the piano, I hope?’

‘Yes. She teaches.’ It struck Fay then how rarely she heard her mother play for her own pleasure, and then she remembered the music for the Moonlight Sonata, on the piano at home. Perhaps she did play to herself sometimes, but when Fay wasn’t there. Or had she just never noticed?

‘To teach is good,’ Mme Ramond continued, ‘but she had such talent. It was a shame she could do so little with it.’ She paused before saying, ‘So, she has hidden away with you all these years and told you nothing.’

‘I never knew there was anything to tell. Well, I suppose I sensed that there was, but I didn’t actually know. I trusted my mother, madame. I still trust her. Why would she have lied to me?’

‘If she did, there would have been a good reason.’

‘But now I’m old enough to know the truth.’ What was true and what was not? The lovely house in Richmond with the rose bushes, the deer in Richmond Park – had it all been real? Or would that memory be taken away from her? And above all . . . She took a deep breath. ‘Madame Ramond, what happened to my father?’

‘Ah, your father.’ The woman relaxed. ‘There was a wonderful man. Never did you see two people so in love as he and your mother. I can at least start with that. I shall tell you how they met. It was, as you English say, a whirlwind courtship.’

Kitty and Gene were married in March 1938, five months after their first meeting and several days after Hitler’s troops marched into Austria, which naturally cast something of a pall over the celebrations.

They’d discussed at length whether the wedding should take place in Paris or Hampshire, but since their home was to be Paris and Uncle Pepper, to Kitty’s great delight, offered to make the journey to give her away, they decided that a small wedding under the ethereal gothic spire of the American Cathedral in Paris, with just a few friends in attendance, would be simplest. Gene’s parents in Atlanta had been invited, and his elder sister Sylvia, but his father was ill with a liver complaint, and his mother felt she needed to stay and nurse him. Sylvia was expecting her second child and unable to travel. A vague plan was concocted to visit America later in the year for Kitty to meet them all, but whether this would come to pass depended on Gene being allowed the time away from his work at the hospital. As a junior doctor his hours were long.

Uncle Pepper wired Kitty an extra sum of money, out of which she paid a dressmaker to sew a gown in soft white tulle trimmed with handmade lace. The rest was to be spent on the wedding breakfast: champagne and sandwiches at the George V Hotel. Gene was taking care of the honeymoon and the expenses incurred in setting up their new home.

Kitty was relieved that it was to be a low-key affair; she would have been nervous at the prospect of anything grander and, anyway, had neither the time nor the resources to arrange it. It was only a shame that Felicity, the one schoolfriend to whom she remained close, would be on board ship for South Africa, where she’d taken on a teaching job, so Kitty would not have a bridesmaid. But the nuns looked after her. On the day of the wedding there was a little ceremony at breakfast when Mère Marie-François presented Kitty with a book of prayers. Kitty had invited them, of course, but the Reverend Mother had explained that as a Catholic order they weren’t permitted to attend a Protestant wedding. Miss Dunne was going though, and she had promised to give the nuns a full account.

After breakfast, Thérèse helped Kitty to dress in her wedding clothes, watching with great interest as Kitty applied a little make-up to disguise how tired and pale she looked after a night sleepless from anticipation. The novice brushed Kitty’s hair and helped fix her veil, then drew back to study her with a curious expression on her face.

‘What is it?’ Kitty asked. ‘Is something not right?’

The girl shook her head. ‘You look so beautiful,’ she said. ‘But I think now there is not so much difference between us.’ She touched her own headdress and finally Kitty understood. Today she was to give herself to Gene. When her novitiate was complete later in the year, Sister Thérèse would become a bride of Christ. On an impulse Kitty stepped across and took both the girl’s hands in hers and they stood together for a moment as though nothing divided them. Then Thérèse’s lips curved in one of her serene smiles. ‘But we will both be happy, no?’

‘Yes,’ Kitty replied, smiling back at her. ‘We will be happy.’

Like it or not, Hitler’s expansionist policies and the alarming fate of Austria were the main topics of conversation at the reception. The latest rumour was that the new French government had addressed a letter of protest to Germany, only to be scorned for interfering in what the Third Reich called their ‘internal affairs’.

‘Once again everybody will stand aside and let the bullyboy help himself,’ Kitty slipping in amongst a group at the bar, was in time to hear blonde Milly Jenkins say. Milly, a journalist, was the type of energetic all-American girl who had the gumption to walk into any difficult situation and ask shrewd questions about it in English, French or German. She had recently visited Berlin incognito and had written up her experiences in the
Herald Tribune
. Kitty liked her immensely, whilst remaining a little in awe of her.

‘What else do you really expect?’ said Dr Poulon, a gynaecologist colleague of Gene’s whom Kitty had met once or twice before. He was a stocky Frenchman in his thirties with prematurely thinning hair and an affable manner. ‘Military action would be
une folie
now that Mussolini, Austria’s former protector, is allied with Germany. And since France did not lift a finger to defend the Rhineland two years ago, she will not send any forces to save Austria now.’

‘Maybe not fight,’ Milly conceded, ‘but if Britain and America together insisted . . .’

‘Gentlemen, ladies, please.’ Gene came across to join them, his good-natured face full of happiness. ‘No politics today. My wife and I,’ here he drew Kitty close, ‘have more important things we wish you to attend to.’

‘What can be more important than freedom?’ Milly protested.

‘Lighten up, sweetheart,’ Jack, her writer boyfriend, warned – only to be rewarded by one of Milly’s famous quelling looks.

‘Oh Gene, let them talk about what they will,’ said Kitty, who wanted everybody to be as content as she was today. She smiled up at Gene. It was rare to see him trussed up in a formal black suit. He was an open-necked-shirt kind of a man, unconcerned about appearance. That was part of why she loved him. She’d quickly discovered that he was more interested in what people were like inside rather than in what they wore.

‘While we still have the liberty,’ Milly snapped, unwilling to abandon her soapbox. ‘Unlike in Germany or Austria.’

‘That could never happen here, could it?’ Kitty said doubtfully. ‘Not in Paris.’ She had read Milly’s article about the fearful way people spoke in Berlin, guarded in their opinions, even in private, neighbour suspicious of neighbour.

‘Not in Paris,’ Jack echoed, and even Bertrand Poulon frowned and shook his head. Not in Paris, the most tolerant and sophisticated city in the world.

‘What happens if Czechoslovakia is next?’ Milly demanded, as though laying down a trump card. Czechoslovakia was the last democracy in Eastern and Southern Europe, and its existence depended on French support. ‘There would
have
to be war then.’ Everyone stared at her, silenced, contemplating the awful thought. What would the French government do if Hitler laid claim to the German-speaking area of Czechoslovakia? France was bound by treaty to go to her aid. No one liked to voice the gloomy answer.

At that moment a waiter came round with more champagne and they turned to him gratefully, holding out their glasses to be filled with golden bubbles. There wouldn’t be a war. They were in the most heavenly city on earth and they were young and this was a wedding of two lovely people with a wonderful future before them.

Later, there weren’t speeches as such, just Gene, with Kitty at his side, saying a few simple words about how beautiful she was and how happy she’d made him, and thanking everyone for coming, and Kitty blushing with pleasure and embarrassment, then everyone toasting their happiness.

Afterwards, Kitty glimpsed the tall, thin, unmistakably English figure of Uncle Pepper talking to Monsieur Deschamps and her fellow pupil Serge, and went over to join them. She was immensely pleased that her uncle had agreed to come, so rarely willing was he to travel these days. The question of Kitty’s studies had already been resolved. She would continue with her present regime. Nothing would change, in the short term anyway.

They spent a few minutes discussing the composer Maurice Ravel, whom Monsieur Deschamps had known well and who had died the previous year, then the teacher made his excuses and took his leave, and Serge found himself taken up by Miss Dunne and an elderly relation of Gene’s French grandmother.

Uncle Pepper drew Kitty aside and spoke to her unusually frankly. ‘I’m so relieved, my dear, that you’re happy and settled. He seems a good man, your Dr Knox. I like him, and I feel he’ll look after you. When you get to my time of life, you see, you begin to worry—’

‘Don’t say that, Uncle,’ Kitty cried. ‘You’ve years and years to live yet.’ He was only in his late fifties, but to her he had hardly aged. The silvering of his sleek, combed-back hair merely gave him a distinguished look. Always a man of middle-aged appearance, even when young, it was as though he’d finally grown into himself.

Uncle Pepper chuckled. ‘That may well be,’ he said, ‘but I’ll certainly sleep easier knowing I don’t have to worry about leaving you alone in the world again.’

Her uncle was not demonstrative, but now he reached out a hand to touch her cheek. ‘Bless you, Kitty, Elizabeth would have been proud of you. I still miss her, you know.’

And on impulse, Kitty, who could hardly remember her mother at all, leaned forward and kissed him gently on the cheek. While of a solitary disposition, his interests being of the mind, Uncle Pepper had done his best for his orphaned niece. He had encouraged her musical talent and in his quiet, dry way he loved her. She felt tremendous warmth towards him, but also a sadness that it was he who would be alone. Her life was here with her husband now. Paris, not England, would be her home.

‘We’ll come and see you often,’ she assured him. ‘And you will always be welcome to stay with us. I know how much you love Paris.’

‘I’ve always been happiest sitting before the fire at home and reading about it,’ Uncle Pepper said. ‘But since I’m forced to play the tourist for a few days, I’ve arranged to take in a little art in the company of your Miss Dunne.’

Kitty and Gene passed a wonderful week’s honeymoon in the South of France, in the shabby grandeur of an old hotel whose balconies hung with bougainvillaea. Golden sunshine fell through the trees, dappling the gardens with shadows. Lush bright flowers bloomed in pots on the terrace and their room overlooked a cobalt blue sea that was warm enough for swimming.

When each morning she awoke and found the large, comfortable presence of Gene gently snoring next to her, Kitty marvelled at the joy of being so close to another person. She adored the tender way he made love to her, gentle at first, but quickly stirred to passion as together they explored each other’s bodies and found what gave most pleasure. The nights were warm and as dark as velvet, and when their love-making was done they were lulled to sleep by the rhythm of the waves lapping on the beach.

Most days they rose too late for breakfast, but the hotel staff were indulgent and brought them coffee and croissants on the terrace. They talked about their new life together, their commitment to their respective work, their mutual desire for children. Gene had brought a camera along, and they took each other’s photograph under the trees. Later, when he showed her the results, Kitty thought she looked stiff and shy, but she loved the picture of Gene. He looked so relaxed and happy. It was the way she always wished to think of him.

When they returned to Paris, they moved into a furnished apartment on the sixth floor of a mansion block of pale ochre stone in St Germain-des-Prés. The street, which rejoiced in the name of Rue des Palmes des Martyrs, was a satisfying mix of neighbourhood shops and residential blocks. The windows in front had pretty wrought-iron juliet balconies. Behind was a paved courtyard with a gnarled old chestnut tree. When the windows were open in summer, they could hear swallows whistle as they swooped and dived in pursuit of insects. Sometimes a woman’s voice wafted up from the courtyard, crooning sad songs in a dusky voice.

The flat itself was modest in size, with a light-filled sitting room, a square kitchen and two bedrooms, Kitty’s and Gene’s looking out to the front. There was some difficulty in getting Gene’s wedding present to Kitty, an upright piano, up all the flights of stairs, but it was managed. She’d placed it in a small recess and in order to avoid disturbing the neighbours had laid a folded cloth over the strings inside to mute it when she played. It was made of walnut with beautiful markings, and with its carved legs and music-rest was really very pretty. Kitty bought Gene a gramophone so that they could start a record collection.

Despite having no more domestic skills between them than a pair of babies, as Milly succinctly put it, they found married life to be delightful. Most days, after Gene left for work, Kitty went to purchase the day’s supplies from the local shops, then continued to her piano lesson or to practise at the Conservatoire. Initially she tried playing at home, but they’d employed a motherly woman named Jeanette to clean two mornings a week and this made Kitty feel self-conscious. She found she concentrated better altogether if she went out.

Gene worked long hours as ever and was often home late in the evenings. Though she attempted simple meals on the stove for him, the meat was sometimes dried up by the time he got back or she’d burn the vegetables. On these occasions Gene would laugh, which made her cross, but then he’d apologize and they’d go out to a restaurant. Eventually she learned to choose recipes that were quick or wouldn’t spoil. At weekends, they’d see friends, visit a jazz club in Montmartre, or go to the cinema. The American trip was discussed again, but put off till Christmas. Gene could not spare the time. And so the summer slipped by.