A Week in Paris (3 page)

‘Where else did you go?’

‘Notre Dame.’ To her dismay Kitty saw her daughter’s happy expression grow troubled. ‘Do you know,’ Fay said, ‘something peculiar happened to me there?’

‘What was that?’ Kitty held her breath.

‘I made an awful fool of myself. A bell started to strike. It was dreadfully loud and went on and on, and the noise frightened me. Miss Edwards had to calm me down. There was a boy . . .’ She stopped, because her mother was giving her such a worried look.

‘A bell?’ her mother frowned.

‘Yes,’ Fay said, a little hesitant. ‘It reminded me of something.’ She looked at her mother for a reaction.

‘And what did it remind you of?’ Those huge blue eyes, Kitty thought as she helped herself to greens. She felt a moth-like flutter inside, of fear. Had she looked as vulnerable as Fay at that age? She wanted to reach out and reassure her daughter, to fold her close and smooth her hair as she always had, but perhaps, in her seventeenth year, Fay was getting too old for that. There was, after all, a new maturity about her. The trip had been beneficial, she supposed, but Kitty hadn’t wanted her to go.

‘I know I’d never been to Paris,’ Fay said as she picked up her knife and fork, ‘but sometimes it felt as though I had. Don’t you find that odd?’

Kitty’s fear spread its wings and she placed a hand over her heart. ‘Very odd,’ she echoed. She then reached for her fork and took a mouthful of food, but despite the cheesy topping and the rich gravy, found it without real taste.

‘Perhaps it was in a previous life,’ Fay said. ‘Do you remember that book about reincarnation I found in the library? The people in it all said they were once someone famous and that can’t be right. Some had to be ordinary, a peasant or a street musician. I wonder if in my past life I lived in Paris?’

‘Not in the Revolution, I hope. That would have been a bit
too
exciting.’

Fay laughed and Kitty sipped some water, daring to relax. Her daughter had always been prone to these flights of fancy. She was still so young and innocent in many ways, her darling daughter. Kitty had tried to keep it that way, to give her a proper childhood. Girls grew up so quickly nowadays. They wore too much make-up and exuded a sort of knowingness. Take Fay’s friend Margaret.
Her
mother had her hands full there.

But don’t let Fay turn out like that
, please, she breathed,
not my dear little Fay
. Yet she had to face the fact that Fay was a young woman now. And pretty, too. She was developing a lovely figure, which even that awful gymslip couldn’t conceal.

No, Kitty hadn’t wanted Fay to go to Paris, she had to admit that. The girl was young for her year. Most of the others were already seventeen. The trip had only been for four nights, but Fay had never been on a school trip away before and, well, why did it have to be
Paris
?

In the end she hadn’t been able to resist Fay’s pleading. Margaret and Evelyn were going and that meant Fay simply
must
go or she wouldn’t have been able to
bear
it, so Kitty had given in and scraped together the money.

Fay would be all right, she had comforted herself. Margaret was a menace, self-centred, too aware of her fresh-faced good looks, but Evelyn was a nice girl, as you’d expect of a vicar’s daughter. So silly of Kitty to panic really. Of course Fay would come back safe. But when four days ago she’d watched the train depart it was as though the invisible cord that connected her to her daughter had been stretched to breaking point.

‘A bit of peace and quiet for us then,’ Evelyn’s gentle mother had sighed as the train disappeared into the distance.

‘That poor Miss Edwards. I hope our Marge behaves herself.’ Margaret’s handsome mother gave a sardonic little laugh. Five children, the woman had, and the youngest one not her husband’s, or so people said.

Kitty couldn’t speak for the lump of sadness in her throat.

She remembered how she’d left the two women and walked back to the bus stop, wrapping her arms round herself as though the spring breeze had turned cold. Fay’s departure had been like the past repeating itself. And the worst thing was that there’d be more of it from now on. Her precious only child would grow up and leave home. What would she do then? Why did it have to be this hard?

She knew why. Because of what had happened. The past was always with her, it simply would not lie down. It made her over-protective.

Fay’s next question broke upon her thoughts.

‘Seriously, Mummy, are you sure I’ve never been to Paris before? Not when I was little?’

For a moment Kitty was dumbfounded. Her instinct was to lie. She’d told so many lies, what harm would one more do? But those hadn’t been proper lies, she argued with herself, only white ones, the sort you tell to soothe someone you love. Her daughter’s limpid gaze implored her for an answer. She opened her mouth to say ‘no’, but Fay got there first.

‘I suppose we couldn’t have done. The war would have been on.’ She’d answered the question herself.

‘Yes, the war was on,’ Kitty said, relieved. ‘No one could travel to Paris then. Most of France was cut off when the Nazis occupied it in 1940. Like so much of Europe.’

Fay looked thoughtful then said, ‘So why did the city feel so familiar? Why?’

‘I don’t know, my love.’ But she did. She remembered all right. It was impossible to forget the things that had scarred her for a lifetime.

Some day she would have to explain everything to her daughter. There had been times she nearly had, when Fay had asked probing questions. But then Kitty would look into those trusting blue eyes and the words just wouldn’t come. She simply hadn’t been able to speak of the terrible things that had happened. She couldn’t have borne to see her daughter’s face fall, to have her turn away, to reject her.

One day she would have to tell her – but not yet, please God. Not yet.

March 1961

London

Fay was humming to herself as she tripped up the dingy stairs to her flat, violin case in hand. The hum was a snatch of a song that had been haunting her all afternoon, very melancholy, very French, the sort sung by some waif on a street corner in a husky voice that caught at the heart. She couldn’t think where the tune had come from, it had just popped into her head and made itself at home. Perhaps it had something to do with the piece of news she’d received that morning.

It was the middle of March, sunny, with that clear light that made grimy old London look washed clean. On her way back from her rehearsal she’d noticed with pleasure the daffodils in Kensington Gardens opening into flower. The evenings were still chilly. She’d have a bath later if Lois hadn’t hogged all the hot water. First she’d grill some Welsh rarebit for supper.
If
her flatmate hadn’t finished off the cheese.

The flat was on the first floor of a cream-coloured building near Whiteleys department store in Bayswater and it had two principal advantages. Firstly, it was only a short step from here to the Albert Hall, where the orchestra Fay currently played for was based; secondly, the flat on the other side of their living-room wall was empty and the elderly man living above very deaf, so no one ever complained about her practising. Downstairs was
Jean-Paul’s
, a hairdressing salon, and Fay enjoyed catching glimpses of the clientele emerging with fashionable crops or elegant updos. Jean-Paul, who was a sweetie and had asked the girls to call him by his real name, which was Derek, said he couldn’t hear her violin over the noise of the dryers but wished he could, so there were no problems there either.

There had never been any question as to what Fay would do after she left school four years before. With rigorous coaching from Signor Bertelli and the determined support of her mother, she had secured a place at the Royal College of Music, from which she’d graduated six months ago. She played wherever she could get work but hoped that a permanent position with the West London Philharmonic Orchestra might open up soon. It was because one of the second violins had injured himself that she was practising with them at the moment.

On the landing, she stopped mid-hum, hearing the jangling tones of Cliff Richard and The Shadows, Lois’s passion of the moment. She opened the door of the flat to find her flatmate in housecoat and slippers, lounging on the sofa, fair hair in rollers, painting her fingernails Oyster White.

‘Hello, darling.’ Lois’s plummy tones rang above the music. ‘I’ll be out of your way in two shakes. Simon’s fetching me at half-past. How was your day?’

‘Lovely, thanks.’ Fay put down her instrument and shrugged off her coat, looping it over a hook. ‘What about you?’

‘Oh, mad as ever. Rescue that, will you?’ The Shadows had faded, to be succeeded by an irritating scratching sound. Fay went and lifted the stylus then stopped the turntable. The sudden silence was blissful.

Despite their different tastes in music, it was hard to be annoyed with Lois, a bright, cheerful girl employed as a secretary in an advertising agency and currently dating one of the account managers. Fay had answered her newspaper ad for a flatmate a few months before and they’d taken to one another at once. She liked sharing with Lois because she was even-tempered and didn’t penny-pinch, and also because she was out most of the time. The downsides were few, but principally derived from Lois’s inability to do anything quietly at any time of day or night, and her somewhat erratic approach to housekeeping.

Fay started to say, ‘I had a bit of good news actually,’ but was too late. Lois had jumped up, blowing on her nails, and was flying to her room. ‘There are chocolate eclairs in the kitchen,’ she called behind her. ‘Help yourself,’ and bang went her bedroom door.

In the shabby kitchenette Fay explored the pantry and was relieved to find both bread and cheese for her rarebit. There was even a scraping of mustard left in the pot. An éclair would finish supper off nicely, she decided, as she lit the grill and laid a plate on the chipped Formica. Lois, who didn’t like cooking and often ate out, rarely bought proper food, only treats.

As she settled on the sofa with her supper, Lois, now dressed, emerged from her bedroom in a cloud of Worth’s
Je Reviens
and started to stuff the contents of one handbag into another. ‘Heck, I nearly forgot,’ she said, examining a scrap of paper. ‘Somebody left this downstairs by the phone.’

‘Thanks,’ Fay said, taking the paper. Written on it in spindly Biro was
Miss Knox to ring Mrs Gloria Ambler, Norwich 51423
. Her mother’s neighbour in Little Barton. Why would she be calling?

‘Anything wrong?’ asked Lois.

‘I hope not.’

Just then the doorbell rang. ‘Oh, lor’, that must be Simon!’ Lois said. ‘I’ll be right down!’ she called into the intercom and started shuffling into her shoes.

‘Lois,’ Fay said, swallowing a mouthful too quickly. ‘Listen. I’ll be away for a week in April. You’ll never guess. I’m going to Paris with the orchestra!’

‘Paris?’ Lois swung round, one arm in her coat. ‘You jammy devil! How did you wangle that?’

‘That second violin who’s hurt his wrist won’t be fit enough. It’ll be hard work, mind you, there are three concerts, but just think – a whole week in Paris!’

‘In the spring,’ breathed Lois, looking wistful. ‘Simon has never taken me further than Brighton.’

Fay couldn’t help smiling. It wasn’t often that Lois envied her.

The doorbell rang again, this time more urgently. ‘Coming!’ Lois sang into the intercom. In the doorway she turned dramatically and said, ‘Paris. You lucky, lucky thing,’ before going out, slamming the door behind her.

Fay grinned. She was delighted at this chance, but as she ate her supper, thinking about the trip, part of her was troubled. It was five years since her schoolgirl visit to Paris – how young and naïve she’d been then, as green as salad. Certain memories from that time lingered The strange feeling she’d had of déjà vu in Notre Dame, the shock of the bell tolling. And Adam. She still thought about him sometimes. A boy she’d met at sixteen and only talked to for part of an evening, but had liked very much. She’d never heard from him again, but then she hadn’t expected to.

Since she’d moved to London she’d been out with several men. One of them, a young solicitor whom she’d first met when a friend brought him to a concert, had, after a few months of them seeing one another, asked her to get engaged. Jim had been a charming, classically handsome man, if a little staid. She’d been rather flattered by his attention and found him good company, but when she considered the prospect of spending the rest of her life with him, it felt as though a heavy weight was pressing down on her. He talked about buying a house in Surrey and his ambition to be a partner of the firm, and the underlying assumption was that she would be a housewife and support him in all this. She couldn’t see how there would be room for her music. In fact, she couldn’t see herself at all in this picture of suburban bliss.

No man had really breached her reserve. Some found her aloof, though Jim seemed to have liked that about her. She had thought she loved him, but she can’t have loved him enough. She should have put him out of his misery earlier. In the end he’d got fed up with waiting and found somebody else. Fay had cried for a whole day then quickly recovered.

It was strange how her life was turning out differently to that of her old friends, Fay thought as she licked delicious cream from the chocolate éclair. She rarely saw Evelyn and Margaret now. Despite their talk about getting glamorous jobs in London, they had both been happy to stay in Norfolk. Evelyn had trained as a bank clerk, but had recently left work to become a farmer’s wife. Margaret had got herself into trouble at eighteen with a fresh-faced lad who sold insurance. He was no one special but she married him anyway, to her mother’s obvious relief. Now she was tired and shrill-voiced from running around after two lively small boys, and spoke of her husband as though he was a wayward third.

Fay knew that she needed more for herself than that. She wanted the kind of love her mother had had for her father, a deep, eternal love, and there was no sign of anything like that at the moment.