A Week in Paris (6 page)

Fay borrowed from her mother’s wardrobe an ivory blouse, a black cardigan and an evening stole that Kitty wore to concerts. In London the next morning she dipped into her savings to buy a coat of sky blue, a pair of black patent court shoes, an evening dress and two skirts, an unusually fashionable choice for her. Then returning to the flat at lunchtime, laden with bags, she walked into Jean-Paul’s salon to ask for an appointment.

It was busy as usual, but to her surprise Derek said in his faux-French accent, ‘Give me ten minutes,
chérie
,’ and before she could change her mind, he whisked a gown round her shoulders and sat her in a chair with a magazine to look at.

When he was ready, she explained where she was going and, very tentatively, what she wanted. He nodded and stared hard at her face in the mirror, arranging her hair this way and that, frowning. Then without further ado he dampened her hair with a spray, took up his scissors and began to cut. She shut her eyes, unable to bear the sight of her dark brown locks falling to the floor, and listening to the confident snip snip snip.

‘
Voilà!
’ Derek said. She dared finally to look in the mirror and her eyes widened with astonishment.

‘
Très chic
, don’t you think?
Très gamine
.’ Derek pulled a frond across her cheek, ruffled the new fringe and beamed at her reflection. And indeed he had worked a miracle. With her hair shorn into a short wavy bob and layered to give it lightness, her eyes appeared even larger in her serious oval face.

‘Thank you, that’s wonderful,’ she breathed. Derek helped her out of her gown. ‘How much do I owe?’ She reached for her bag.

‘Don’t you worry about zat,’ Derek said, with a wave of his ringed hand, and when she argued he told her, ‘Do a little spying for me. Ze latest Paris styles, you know? Zat’ll be enough.’

‘You are so kind,’ Fay said.

‘It eez my playzhure. Give my love to Paree, won’t you?’

Upstairs, Lois was out. As Fay whisked about packing, she kept meeting her new self in the dressing-table mirror or the one on the bathroom cabinet. The transformation she saw made her feel different, braver.

On Sunday night, in her overheated hospital ward, Kitty lay awake and anxious, waiting for the sleeping pills to take effect. She hoped her daughter had found the canvas rucksack, that somehow she’d pick up the threads of the past that Kitty had cut, that now at last, Fay would learn the truth Kitty could never bring herself to tell. What would happen when she did, Kitty didn’t dare to imagine. That would be for her daughter to judge and decide.

She knew she should have spoken to Fay long ago about the secrets of the past, the things she’d suppressed. It was the heavy burden of them, and her untapped grief, that had made her ill. Fay was right, Kitty
hadn’t
been fair to her – but how did one tell a beloved daughter that because of her mother’s negligence, because Kitty had put her husband first, their little family had endured so much suffering? That, worst of all, her little girl had become the cause of the most terrible thing . . . No, she mustn’t think about that, she couldn’t bear it.

She’d done her best over the years to make up for all this: she’d put Fay first ever since. She must think of the good times they’d had together, but now Fay was old enough to know the truth. She must learn it. Well, maybe not everything. The Reverend Mother could be relied on to be discreet. She was one of the few who had not betrayed them, one of the few who would remember Eugene. Gene, her darling Gene, she thought drowsily. Tomorrow she would tell the doctor about him. Maybe she’d tell him the whole story. She needed to, in order to get better, she saw that now. At the thought her heart grew light.

When she finally slept, her dreams were of Paris. Paris in that glorious autumn of 1937, when she’d first met Eugene.

September 1937

Paris

Early one Tuesday morning in Paris’s Latin Quarter, Dr Eugene Knox was sitting outside a café in the Rue St Jacques reading the
Paris Herald Tribune
, when his attention was drawn by a slender young woman with a suitcase crossing the road towards him. There was something about her appearance that piqued his interest – the litheness of her walk, perhaps, or the determined set of her small head with its crop of dark curly hair. She had a round face with a serious expression, and large brown eyes, and her gaze rested on him for the briefest of moments, as though he was someone she thought she knew. After she’d passed on her way Eugene returned to his newspaper, but found that he could no longer concentrate.

Kitty Travers quickly forgot the burly, fresh-faced young man who’d stared at her so openly. Weary from her overnight journey, she was intent on finding St Cecilia’s Convent, which she knew to be somewhere in the maze of streets between Notre Dame and the Panthéon. In the end, she stopped an elderly gentleman to ask directions and he sent her down a narrow cobbled alley she’d failed to notice before, though she must have passed it twice already in her search. The alley displayed no name and hugged the wall of a church before opening out into a tiny tranquil square, empty but for several sparrows squabbling over a crust of bread. They flew off into a hedge as she crossed the square towards a broad mansion of crumbling yellow stone on the far side, which being the only building with an entrance must be the convent. Her heart lifted, for it looked so welcoming. Its brown-painted shutters were thrown open to the autumn light and in the paved garden a cherry tree with leaves flushed magenta and gold spread its branches wide.

As Kitty peered between the bars of a black wrought-iron gate, plucking up courage to enter, the front door of the convent opened and a young nun stepped out. She was carrying a large jug of water which she proceeded to upend over several pots of geraniums by the wall of the house. Kitty called out, ‘
Bonjour
’ as she turned to go back inside and, seeing her for the first time, the girl came down the path to meet her. Kitty, who expected nuns to be old and black-clad like crows, was taken by the youth and grace of this one. Her habit was black, yes, but its lawn collar was white, as was her coif, its starched edges curled up in a way that reminded Kitty of a ship in full sail.

‘
Je peux vous aider, mam’selle?
’ the girl asked in her light voice, viewing Kitty with interest as she opened the gate. The friendly sparkle of her deep-set eyes made Kitty warm to her. The girl wasn’t pretty, exactly, but her smile lit up her serene face in a way that made it so. She must be nineteen or twenty, the same age as herself.

‘
Je m’appelle Katherine Travers
,’ Kitty replied, trying to recall how to say in French that she was expected, but it appeared she didn’t need to.

‘
Ah, la petite Anglaise
,’ the young nun said with enthusiasm, and stepped aside to let her come in.

‘
Merci
,’ Kitty murmured, following the girl up the path. She wasn’t sure how to address a French nun.
Sister
, she supposed, though it seemed odd to call a stranger that when she had no real sister of her own. The fact that Uncle Pepper had arranged for her to stay in a Catholic convent at all when the family were staunch Anglicans was unnerving. It was actually the fault of her old headmaster’s wife who, being half-Parisian, had given her uncle all sorts of old-fashioned advice, most of it designed to protect well-brought-up English girls from predatory Frenchmen. Kitty was perfectly sure she could save herself, if need be.

Inside, she found herself in a sparsely furnished hall with bare floorboards and ochre walls.

‘My name is Sister Thérèse,’ the young nun said in French. ‘I’ll show you to your room.’ She insisted on taking Kitty’s case and went ahead of her up a graceful staircase to a gallery, then along a landing with doors on either side. She stopped and opened one towards the front of the building, and Kitty walked into a tiny bedroom, where she was pleased to see her trunk, which had been sent ahead. The room was bare but for a narrow bed, a chest of drawers with a shelf above, and a small wardrobe, all in dark-stained wood. A wooden crucifix on the wall above the bed was the sole ornament, a woven blue mat on the floor the only scrap of colour. Sister Thérèse explained where the bathroom was and left her to unpack, bidding her to come downstairs for something to eat when she was ready.

The room looked out over the garden with the cherry tree and Kitty stood at the open window for a while, watching a large white cat which was sitting licking its paws in the middle of the square whilst the sparrows chattered in consternation from the hedge. The church clock softly struck the half-hour and she thought how peaceful everything was after the noise of the streets. A few minutes ago she’d been a stranger, alone in Paris, full of doubts and trepidation about her new life, but already she was beginning to feel at home. An aroma of fresh-baked bread wafted up from below, reminding her she was hungry. She set about unfolding the clothes from her case, tucking her nightgown under the pillow, hanging her dresses in the wardrobe. The contents of the trunk she would see to later.

On the chest of drawers lay an envelope addressed to her in a florid hand that had recently become familiar to her. She opened it and read it quickly.
Monsieur Xavier Deschamps
, the writing in his over-formal English,
requests the pleasure of Miss Katherine Travers’ attendance at his apartment at eleven tomorrow morning for her first lesson
. Kitty knew where to go, since her uncle had shown her the street on a map and the headmaster’s wife had explained that it would be ten minutes’ walk away. She refolded the letter, pleased to have heard from the great man, but decided not to worry about the lesson until tomorrow. There was too much else to get used to today.

When she went downstairs, she followed the sounds of activity and found Sister Thérèse sweeping the floor of a room that must be the refectory, for it was set with four generous-sized tables, benches on either side. The girl told her to sit down and brought her warm bread wrapped in a napkin, a dish of butter, and a bowl filled with milky coffee.

‘Breakfast is at half-past seven, after Matins,’ she explained. She went on to say that luncheon was at twelve thirty for guests who wanted it, and supper at seven. She was a cheerful girl, and showed a shy interest in Kitty. In her hesitant French Kitty explained that her old piano teacher in London had recommended she come to Paris to study with the once-famous concert pianist Xavier Deschamps, who now taught for the Conservatoire, Paris’s famous music college.

In turn she asked polite questions about the convent. ‘How many nuns live here?’

‘There are thirteen, including myself
.
Mère Marie-François is our Mother Superior, and the curé is Père Paul. You will meet them soon, I am sure.’ Kitty gauged from Thérèse that she was the youngest, still a novice, and that most of the others were at work either in the convent somewhere or – here the girl waved a hand towards the alley – teaching at the church school nearby.

Kitty had finished breakfast and was brushing crumbs into the napkin when a woman of about sixty with a plain, calm face entered the room. Kitty rose politely, guessing who she was from her air of authority and the ornate wooden rosary she wore.

‘Reverend Mother,’ Sister Thérèse murmured, ‘this is the girl from England.’

The Reverend Mother inclined her head to Kitty and greeted her in a quiet but sonorous voice. ‘You are most welcome.’ She spoke good English. ‘Thérèse has been looking after you well, I trust? Are you feeling refreshed after your journey?’

‘Very well,’ and, ‘Yes, thank you,’ Kitty replied, feeling shy under the woman’s scrutiny, though she saw kindness in the aging face, a touch of amusement in the hooded eyes.

‘We are delighted to have
une jeune Anglaise
to stay, especially a pianist. Saint Cecilia, you must know, is the Patron Saint of Musicians! You have been shown your room? Good.’ They spoke for a while longer about Kitty’s journey and about Uncle Pepper, and then Mère Marie-François said, ‘My dear, if you have a moment, I should like to show you something you might find interesting.’

‘Of course,’ Kitty replied, wondering what it could be. She thanked Sister Thérèse for breakfast and followed the Reverend Mother out along a corridor to an oak door set in a stone arch which opened to reveal a short, dimly lit passage. When the nun opened the door at the far end, Kitty found herself in an ancient church of a modest size, but filled with light. She liked its quiet atmosphere, its round arches and stone-flagged floor. Most importantly, before her stood one of the loveliest grand pianos Kitty had ever seen. Its lid was open and the sun pouring in from the high windows reflected off the polished black surfaces.

‘It’s beautiful, isn’t it? We made it ready for you. The piano-tuner came last week.’ The Reverend Mother pulled out the stool for Kitty to sit on. The girl tried a few notes and was rewarded by a rich, mellifluous tone.

‘It was given to the church by a benefactress, but there has been no one to play it until now,’ the nun said wistfully. ‘Father Paul, who is the curé here, is of the same mind as me. You are free to play whenever you like between services. Dear Sister Clare is our organist, but she is old and her sight is poor. She plays the hymns from memory.’

‘Thank you,’ Kitty breathed, touching the beautiful carved music-rest. She was overwhelmed by this offer.

She explained that it had already been arranged that she should practise at the Conservatoire itself, where she would also attend classes in theory and composition, but the Conservatoire was some distance away, on the opposite bank of the Seine. It would be wonderful also to have this opportunity here.

‘Perhaps you’d play a little now,’ the woman said eagerly. ‘Bach, perhaps, I’ve always loved Bach.’ And so Kitty played a Gavotte that she remembered by heart, and the nun listened to the simple dance tune with closed eyes and an expression of rapturous concentration. The music seemed to fill the small building, making the air ring with happiness. It was such a beautiful instrument that she went on to play another piece from the same suite.