their ancestral home.
Mr Snellaert, who never missed an opportunity to speechify, assured us that when someone departed this earth he was subsumed into Eternity. The Incandescent Glory of God, he called it. A light so harsh that the wickedwould all cover their faces with their hands because they couldn’t stand the glare. Only the righteous would approach the Almighty with an open, steady gaze, and they were pretty thin on the ground.
‘I can think of some among our number who’ll be needing very dark glasses indeed,’ he had concluded, without looking at anyone in particular, although we all felt accused.
‘Another drop?’ offered Aunt Laura, bending over the table with the coffeepot in her hand. ‘Such a shame to let it go cold.’
Hélène nodded. The girl was growing restless, pushing her cup away and jiggling her knees.
‘Je me sens un peu fatiguée,’ I heard her say. ‘Can I go out into the garden?’
Hélène glanced at Aunt Laura.
‘Mais bien sûr,’ said Aunt in a honeyed tone. ‘But p’raps the young lady fancies taking a look around the shop. If she’s careful not to break anything, I mean.’
I could sense that Hélène Vuylsteke did not appreciate the afterthought.
‘Que pensez-vous, Isabeau?’ she asked. ‘The garden or the shop?’
The girl stood up. She folded the raincoat she had kept on her lap all this time, laid it on the seat of her chair and went out into the passage.
‘You run along and keep an eye on her, Joris,’ said Aunt.
I stalled for a bit, although I could tell by the nervous tic in her eyelid that she was eager to have a word with Hélène in private.
‘Joris!’ she repeated, with urgency in her voice.
I moved towards the door exasperatingly slowly.
‘What a slowcoach,’ I heard Hélène say as I stepped into the passage.
A sigh escaped from Aunt, which I did not know how to interpret. Her fingers drummed on the tabletop.
‘I’ve no idea what he’s thinking half the time,’ she said. ‘Sometimes it’s as if the lad lives in a glass box.’
‘What about his mother?’ Hélène asked.
‘I sent her a letter about the headstone. Her brother phoned …’ Their voices dropped.
I didn’t like it when people talked about me behind my back, and it was even worse when they spoke French, which I could more or less follow thanks to Mr Snellaert’s lessons but which made my mouth feel as dry as soft sand. It was worse than ever that afternoon, because as I reluctantly moved down the passage I could hear a high-pitched singsong coming from the shop.
Once my eyes became accustomed to the half-light I saw the girl prancing about in the middle of the shop.
‘Dolly, jamais je t’oublierai,’ she carolled, ‘Dolly, toujours je t’aimerai.’ She had taken a hairbrush from one of the baskets by the door and was holding it upright in front of her mouth.
She waved her free hand up and down in time to the melody, but now and then, when she lost track ofthe words and hummed uncertainly, it just hung in the air.
She stopped still in mid-performance, made a little bow towards the shop door and spun round. She was looking in my direction, but I wasn’t sure she could see me. Perhaps she just saw my silhouette.
She turned about to face the door again.
‘And now for one of my favourite chansons,’ she announced. ‘Quand le téléphone sonne sonne sonne.’
She seemed neither startled nor in the least embarrassed when I emerged from the gloom of the passage. I don’t know how old she was. Not much older than me, at any rate, perhaps even slightly younger. Girls older than me, I believed, had given up dreaming of stardom long ago, so I found it very odd to see someone like her, who had history running in her veins and the clink of chain mail following her around, pretending to be a pop star.
Perhaps she was still too young to sit at her mother’s dressing table and smear a still foreign femininity on her cheeks, the way the older girls at the
Mr Snellaert, who never missed an opportunity to speechify, assured us that when someone departed this earth he was subsumed into Eternity. The Incandescent Glory of God, he called it. A light so harsh that the wickedwould all cover their faces with their hands because they couldn’t stand the glare. Only the righteous would approach the Almighty with an open, steady gaze, and they were pretty thin on the ground.
‘I can think of some among our number who’ll be needing very dark glasses indeed,’ he had concluded, without looking at anyone in particular, although we all felt accused.
‘Another drop?’ offered Aunt Laura, bending over the table with the coffeepot in her hand. ‘Such a shame to let it go cold.’
Hélène nodded. The girl was growing restless, pushing her cup away and jiggling her knees.
‘Je me sens un peu fatiguée,’ I heard her say. ‘Can I go out into the garden?’
Hélène glanced at Aunt Laura.
‘Mais bien sûr,’ said Aunt in a honeyed tone. ‘But p’raps the young lady fancies taking a look around the shop. If she’s careful not to break anything, I mean.’
I could sense that Hélène Vuylsteke did not appreciate the afterthought.
‘Que pensez-vous, Isabeau?’ she asked. ‘The garden or the shop?’
The girl stood up. She folded the raincoat she had kept on her lap all this time, laid it on the seat of her chair and went out into the passage.
‘You run along and keep an eye on her, Joris,’ said Aunt.
I stalled for a bit, although I could tell by the nervous tic in her eyelid that she was eager to have a word with Hélène in private.
‘Joris!’ she repeated, with urgency in her voice.
I moved towards the door exasperatingly slowly.
‘What a slowcoach,’ I heard Hélène say as I stepped into the passage.
A sigh escaped from Aunt, which I did not know how to interpret. Her fingers drummed on the tabletop.
‘I’ve no idea what he’s thinking half the time,’ she said. ‘Sometimes it’s as if the lad lives in a glass box.’
‘What about his mother?’ Hélène asked.
‘I sent her a letter about the headstone. Her brother phoned …’ Their voices dropped.
I didn’t like it when people talked about me behind my back, and it was even worse when they spoke French, which I could more or less follow thanks to Mr Snellaert’s lessons but which made my mouth feel as dry as soft sand. It was worse than ever that afternoon, because as I reluctantly moved down the passage I could hear a high-pitched singsong coming from the shop.
Once my eyes became accustomed to the half-light I saw the girl prancing about in the middle of the shop.
‘Dolly, jamais je t’oublierai,’ she carolled, ‘Dolly, toujours je t’aimerai.’ She had taken a hairbrush from one of the baskets by the door and was holding it upright in front of her mouth.
She waved her free hand up and down in time to the melody, but now and then, when she lost track ofthe words and hummed uncertainly, it just hung in the air.
She stopped still in mid-performance, made a little bow towards the shop door and spun round. She was looking in my direction, but I wasn’t sure she could see me. Perhaps she just saw my silhouette.
She turned about to face the door again.
‘And now for one of my favourite chansons,’ she announced. ‘Quand le téléphone sonne sonne sonne.’
She seemed neither startled nor in the least embarrassed when I emerged from the gloom of the passage. I don’t know how old she was. Not much older than me, at any rate, perhaps even slightly younger. Girls older than me, I believed, had given up dreaming of stardom long ago, so I found it very odd to see someone like her, who had history running in her veins and the clink of chain mail following her around, pretending to be a pop star.
Perhaps she was still too young to sit at her mother’s dressing table and smear a still foreign femininity on her cheeks, the way the older girls at the
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