Page 111 of Daughters of Paris

She rubbed at a smear of dirt on her trousers. ‘We had to hide in a garden. I need to wash and then go to sleep. Will you be alright tonight? In the morning I can look after the baby and you can get some sleep.’

‘That would be wonderful, but only if you don’t mind,’ Colette said, trying not to sound too eager.

‘I don’t mind at all.’

‘I do love her, you know. I didn’t realise it was possible to fall in so much love like that. I’d do anything to keep her safe.’

Fleur laughed. ‘I don’t think it’s that strange. I think you’re supposed to feel that way.’

‘Do you remember the little girl on the road out of Paris during the exodus? I was shocked at the way her mother asked us to take her but now I know why she did it. I hope they made it to safety.’

When Colette next woke it was morning. The baby was gone and the sky was light. Bleary eyed and sleep deprived, she lay for a few moments, not entirely sure the past nine months hadn’t been a dream. She discovered Fleur reading in the living room. The baby was lying on the rug with her legs and arms splayed out and a blanket covering her midriff. Fleur put a finger to her lips then mimed washing. Colette nodded and backed out of the room.

She sat in the cramped tub and washed off the blood and mucus, recalling that when she had given birth before, Edith had run her a warm bath and ensured she was well looked after. Lots of English puddings with boiled fruit and thick crème anglaise. She hadn’t realised at the time how privileged she had been. She joined Fleur in the living room with a gloomy expression.

‘It’s nineteen forty-three,’ Fleur said. ‘Let’s hope this year will be the last of the war. You look so sad. Want to tell me what’s wrong?’

‘I’m thinking about the other baby. I know it was the best thing for it, and for me, but I wish now there had been some other way,’ she explained. ‘I wonder if one day, when it is possible to communicate freely again, I might write to Edith and ask if she could find out what happened to the baby?’

Fleur squeezed her hand. ‘Would you like to see the child?’

Colette gripped the arm of the chair. ‘No. Wherever he or she is, they will have a family. No, it would be for myself. It is probably best left alone, but I’ll always wonder.’

She gazed down at the baby on the rug and was unprepared for the wash of love that bowled her over. ‘That baby belongs to whoever is raising it. This little girl is mine and always will be.’

‘Does she have a name yet?’ Fleur asked.

‘Not yet. I didn’t bother to make a list.’

‘Ah well, I’m sure you will think of something before she starts running across the room making a mess and you need to shout at her. I seem to recall our names being shouted often enough.’

Colette sat back and closed her eyes. The carefree years they had spent running around the garden seemed like another world. She didn’t dare hope her own daughter would be so lucky.

Chapter Thirty-One

March 1943

Fleur had fallen in love, completely and utterly, and the recipient did not care in the slightest. In fact, Fleur noted with some irony, it had been the case with Sébastien. Colette was the only person who mattered and his daughter was the same. Colette was the world and all it contained.

Nevertheless, Fleur treasured every moment she spent with the baby. Now the child was old enough to go for a few hours between feeds, three or four mornings a week she would take the girl out while Colette washed her hair and slept in peace for an hour or two. Often, she was accompanied by Laurent. One bright morning in late March they met at the banks of the river and walked along, watching the stallholders setting out their books.

Laurent had arrived late and unshaven. ‘I’m sorry, it was a very late night but never mind. The Germans will have woken up to discover that the railway lines ten miles to the west of the city are buckled beyond use.’

‘That’s wonderful. Well done.’ Fleur had played no part in this act of sabotage beyond carrying a copy of a magazine from Elouard to a woman in an office at themairieof the fourteenth arrondissement.

‘I also shan’t be able to stay long, I’m afraid,’ Laurent said. ‘I must meet someone in an hour. Let’s walk onto the island. There might be a breeze coming down the river. It’s going to be warm today I think.’

He offered Fleur an arm and they strolled side by side. The baby gurgled in the sling wrapped around Fleur, full of milk and content for an hour.

‘Does she have a name yet?’ Laurent asked.

‘No. And I am slightly worried about that,’ Fleur said. She stroked the baby’s hand. ‘What if Colette decides to give her up after all?’

‘Do you think she will?’

‘I didn’t, but I don’t know why she hasn’t named her.’

Laurent lifted the brim of the baby’s knitted hat and made kissing noises towards her. ‘It’s a pity she isn’t a racehorse or a pedigree dog because then there would be a long list to choose from.’

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