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Authors: Zillah Bethel
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disagreement, in a moment of hot-headed foolishness. Love in the middle of war? What could be worse?
âNot like this,â he murmured into her soft, silken hair.
âWhat do you mean?â She pulled away from him, her eyes glaring.
He kissed her gently but firmly on the forehead. âYou would regret it, my love, and so would I.â
âOh well .â She tore out of his grasp and made a great show of finding her coat, not even smiling (as she always did) when the cuckoo clock on the wall sprang into action for the eleven oâ clock, its yellow beak popping in and out. âI should like to go home now,â she announced coldly, fighting the tears of humiliation that prickled at the back of her eyes. âAs you say, Papa and Jacques rely on me.â
He walked her home, or rather, lagged a step behind as she marched silently through the cold empty streets, an occasional lamp throwing down a circle of light like a pool of moon glow or scrap of gold dust. He chattered on about this and that, knowing it would make no difference now. He asked himself if he could have behaved any differently but his principles and character told him he could not. Still he cursed himself for being so clumsy, so obtuse, for brushing her off like an insect, for not understanding. It was as if he got the impression of things rather than the things themselves. There they were walking along the Rue du Faubourg and yet he felt one step removed as if he were watching the process from afar. Sometimes he even composed a sentence about himself in the third person and the past tense â He walked down the Rue du Faubourg with a heavy heart â as if his real self had been and gone already and he was simply observing the clues left in his own wake. He was the Detective Claude 7 on the trail of his own self, so to speak. It worried him sometimes and he shook off the feeling of guilty indolence that often came with it and took her hand.
âI can never get used to the smell,â he remarked as they stepped into a pool of moon glow. âAnd petrol is so different from the blue tone of gas.â
âYes,â she replied, tight lipped and embarrassed, thinking that reality rarely matched her dreams. When he was away at the ramparts she imagined him almost a god and now here he was trotting along at her side like a lapdog, so eager to please, filling her with a sense of disdain.
âDo you miss your work?â he asked quite out of the blue as they stepped onto the Ramponneau. It had suddenly struck him that this could be the culprit, this could be the cause of her ennui, her moods, her excitability.
âNot really,â she sighed. Why ever should he think she missed greasing the heavy metal bread moulds, the flour stuck under her nails, the sickly sweet odour of yeast at the crack of dawn. âNo, not really. Iâd like some bread but I donât miss the work.â
âYou know I just want it to be perfect.â He stopped, forcing her to look at him. âI just want it to be perfect, Evie.â
âReally?â Her lip curled in scorn.
âYes, really. Believe it, Evie. Believe it. When we are marriedâ¦â
âYou assume too much,â she answered stiffly, wrapping her coat about her and moving on.
He knew that voice and face and shut up until they reached her door where he bade her a tense âsleep wellâ and left.
She stared angrily after him into the darkness then went inside.
Chapter eight
Aggie lay huge and suffering on the small white bed beneath the large wooden crucifix; and the baby lay swaddled in the bottom drawer of the antique tallboy which had on the front a carmine engraving of the immaculate conception. Aggie had succumbed to a fever, a fever that raged around her body like a caged animal, drumming at her temples and stampeding up and down her veins, and Bernadine had brought her into her own room the easier to attend her. She watched them both
âNot like this,â he murmured into her soft, silken hair.
âWhat do you mean?â She pulled away from him, her eyes glaring.
He kissed her gently but firmly on the forehead. âYou would regret it, my love, and so would I.â
âOh well .â She tore out of his grasp and made a great show of finding her coat, not even smiling (as she always did) when the cuckoo clock on the wall sprang into action for the eleven oâ clock, its yellow beak popping in and out. âI should like to go home now,â she announced coldly, fighting the tears of humiliation that prickled at the back of her eyes. âAs you say, Papa and Jacques rely on me.â
He walked her home, or rather, lagged a step behind as she marched silently through the cold empty streets, an occasional lamp throwing down a circle of light like a pool of moon glow or scrap of gold dust. He chattered on about this and that, knowing it would make no difference now. He asked himself if he could have behaved any differently but his principles and character told him he could not. Still he cursed himself for being so clumsy, so obtuse, for brushing her off like an insect, for not understanding. It was as if he got the impression of things rather than the things themselves. There they were walking along the Rue du Faubourg and yet he felt one step removed as if he were watching the process from afar. Sometimes he even composed a sentence about himself in the third person and the past tense â He walked down the Rue du Faubourg with a heavy heart â as if his real self had been and gone already and he was simply observing the clues left in his own wake. He was the Detective Claude 7 on the trail of his own self, so to speak. It worried him sometimes and he shook off the feeling of guilty indolence that often came with it and took her hand.
âI can never get used to the smell,â he remarked as they stepped into a pool of moon glow. âAnd petrol is so different from the blue tone of gas.â
âYes,â she replied, tight lipped and embarrassed, thinking that reality rarely matched her dreams. When he was away at the ramparts she imagined him almost a god and now here he was trotting along at her side like a lapdog, so eager to please, filling her with a sense of disdain.
âDo you miss your work?â he asked quite out of the blue as they stepped onto the Ramponneau. It had suddenly struck him that this could be the culprit, this could be the cause of her ennui, her moods, her excitability.
âNot really,â she sighed. Why ever should he think she missed greasing the heavy metal bread moulds, the flour stuck under her nails, the sickly sweet odour of yeast at the crack of dawn. âNo, not really. Iâd like some bread but I donât miss the work.â
âYou know I just want it to be perfect.â He stopped, forcing her to look at him. âI just want it to be perfect, Evie.â
âReally?â Her lip curled in scorn.
âYes, really. Believe it, Evie. Believe it. When we are marriedâ¦â
âYou assume too much,â she answered stiffly, wrapping her coat about her and moving on.
He knew that voice and face and shut up until they reached her door where he bade her a tense âsleep wellâ and left.
She stared angrily after him into the darkness then went inside.
Chapter eight
Aggie lay huge and suffering on the small white bed beneath the large wooden crucifix; and the baby lay swaddled in the bottom drawer of the antique tallboy which had on the front a carmine engraving of the immaculate conception. Aggie had succumbed to a fever, a fever that raged around her body like a caged animal, drumming at her temples and stampeding up and down her veins, and Bernadine had brought her into her own room the easier to attend her. She watched them both
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