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Authors: Natalie Meg Evans
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want blood for it.’
Alix put her hand to her cheek. ‘Javier pays his girls well and some of the richest women in Paris buy only from him.You should be proud he offered me work.’
‘Alix, Alix, have you any idea what it took to get you that jobat the telephone company? I went cap in hand to the Comte de Charembourg, begged him to ring the director of the company to make space for you.’
‘You saw the comte here, in Paris?’ Alix was confused. ‘Where did you see him? When?’
‘At his house in the 16 th . When I went to beg his help ingetting you a job, Mme la Comtesse keeping me on the step like a vagrant. Bitter medicine, drunk for your good.’
‘You should have told me he was here,’ Alix said stubbornly. ‘And I thought I got the job at the exchange on my own merits.’ The bubble on which she’d floated home burst. ‘You’re always so harsh, so buttoned-up. Why punish me for making the best of a life I didn’t ask for?’
When Mémégave no answer, Alix’s emotions rose. ‘My father would have been proud of me even if you aren’t. He always said I was an “original”.’
Mémé sat down, throwing her hands wide. ‘You were barely five years old when your father died. The longest talk you had with him was about which spoon to eat your porridge with.’ She gestured at the portrait of Mathilda. ‘They’re all dead. You have only me.’
Something snapped in Alix. She flung out of the room, shouting, ‘I bet my mother ran off to be a nurse to escape you.’
‘Aliki!’
Ignoring the pain in that cry, Alix ran out of the flat. She’d spend the rest of the day with Bonnet. But, after puffing upthe stairs of Abbesses, the
Métro
station of Butte Montmartre, she discovered her friend was otherwise engaged. He was in the square, part of amale group rolling knuckle jacks across a mat on the ground. A fold-out table was crammed with bottles and glasses.
‘Boys’ club,’ she muttered. ‘I’ll go and see Paul.’
But at the Quai d’Anjou, she found the
Katrijn
away from her mooring. She stared at the empty patch of water, a formless sorrow coming over her. Paul was always here when she needed him.
The old barge-woman Francine grinned downfrom her deck. ‘He’ll be back. He’s taken his sisters up the canal to visit his last living relation.’
‘He doesn’t have any relations, Francine.’
‘Oh, he does. A great-aunt at Bobigny who washed her hands of Sylvie le Gal years ago. Didn’t approve of naughty dancing.’ Francine waggled her flanks. ‘Paul’s hoping his girls will melt her tough, old heart so he can hide them there when the authoritiescome to get them. I just hope the fuel’s worth it; he had to borrow a can off me.’ Laughing at Alix’s glum expression, Francine beckoned. ‘Step up, take a glass of pastis with me.’
Alix didn’t really want to, but Francine’s toothless smile urged her aboard. Once there, one pastis turned into several. Alix finally wobbled off Francine’s boat as the light faded. Her cheek still smarted from Mémé’spalm, but the intervening hours had refashioned her anger. Mémé was getting old in a worldthat handed out no fresh starts to a seamstress with bent fingers. Mémé was scared of the future, of Germans, of everything.
But by the time she was crossing the square in front of St-Sulpice, feeling the vibration of its famous organ in the slabs beneath her feet, Alix had reached a decision. She wouldn’ttake the job with Javier. Not even for Paul’s sake, not even for Suzy’s. It was too loaded with risk, with expectation.
She’d help Paul in other ways, she vowed. She’d slave at the telephone exchange, take every night shift going. Turn into Mlle Boussac and become a supervisor. That man in the dependable suit could sweep her off to a neat suburb – though he’d have to take Mémé too.
That wasa good plan.
So why are you crying?
she demanded of herself.
Hope isn’t dead. It just feels that way
.
Chapter Six
She
Alix put her hand to her cheek. ‘Javier pays his girls well and some of the richest women in Paris buy only from him.You should be proud he offered me work.’
‘Alix, Alix, have you any idea what it took to get you that jobat the telephone company? I went cap in hand to the Comte de Charembourg, begged him to ring the director of the company to make space for you.’
‘You saw the comte here, in Paris?’ Alix was confused. ‘Where did you see him? When?’
‘At his house in the 16 th . When I went to beg his help ingetting you a job, Mme la Comtesse keeping me on the step like a vagrant. Bitter medicine, drunk for your good.’
‘You should have told me he was here,’ Alix said stubbornly. ‘And I thought I got the job at the exchange on my own merits.’ The bubble on which she’d floated home burst. ‘You’re always so harsh, so buttoned-up. Why punish me for making the best of a life I didn’t ask for?’
When Mémégave no answer, Alix’s emotions rose. ‘My father would have been proud of me even if you aren’t. He always said I was an “original”.’
Mémé sat down, throwing her hands wide. ‘You were barely five years old when your father died. The longest talk you had with him was about which spoon to eat your porridge with.’ She gestured at the portrait of Mathilda. ‘They’re all dead. You have only me.’
Something snapped in Alix. She flung out of the room, shouting, ‘I bet my mother ran off to be a nurse to escape you.’
‘Aliki!’
Ignoring the pain in that cry, Alix ran out of the flat. She’d spend the rest of the day with Bonnet. But, after puffing upthe stairs of Abbesses, the
Métro
station of Butte Montmartre, she discovered her friend was otherwise engaged. He was in the square, part of amale group rolling knuckle jacks across a mat on the ground. A fold-out table was crammed with bottles and glasses.
‘Boys’ club,’ she muttered. ‘I’ll go and see Paul.’
But at the Quai d’Anjou, she found the
Katrijn
away from her mooring. She stared at the empty patch of water, a formless sorrow coming over her. Paul was always here when she needed him.
The old barge-woman Francine grinned downfrom her deck. ‘He’ll be back. He’s taken his sisters up the canal to visit his last living relation.’
‘He doesn’t have any relations, Francine.’
‘Oh, he does. A great-aunt at Bobigny who washed her hands of Sylvie le Gal years ago. Didn’t approve of naughty dancing.’ Francine waggled her flanks. ‘Paul’s hoping his girls will melt her tough, old heart so he can hide them there when the authoritiescome to get them. I just hope the fuel’s worth it; he had to borrow a can off me.’ Laughing at Alix’s glum expression, Francine beckoned. ‘Step up, take a glass of pastis with me.’
Alix didn’t really want to, but Francine’s toothless smile urged her aboard. Once there, one pastis turned into several. Alix finally wobbled off Francine’s boat as the light faded. Her cheek still smarted from Mémé’spalm, but the intervening hours had refashioned her anger. Mémé was getting old in a worldthat handed out no fresh starts to a seamstress with bent fingers. Mémé was scared of the future, of Germans, of everything.
But by the time she was crossing the square in front of St-Sulpice, feeling the vibration of its famous organ in the slabs beneath her feet, Alix had reached a decision. She wouldn’ttake the job with Javier. Not even for Paul’s sake, not even for Suzy’s. It was too loaded with risk, with expectation.
She’d help Paul in other ways, she vowed. She’d slave at the telephone exchange, take every night shift going. Turn into Mlle Boussac and become a supervisor. That man in the dependable suit could sweep her off to a neat suburb – though he’d have to take Mémé too.
That wasa good plan.
So why are you crying?
she demanded of herself.
Hope isn’t dead. It just feels that way
.
Chapter Six
She
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