Page 51 of Daughters of Paris

Colette sagged. ‘So as well as having to watch out for the German authorities, everyone is now suspicious of friends and neighbours. How have I managed to miss this happening?’

‘You don’t know that you don’t know something until you learn it.’ Fleur shrugged. ‘I need to go wash my hands. Those shelves haven’t been dusted for months and I’m filthy.’ She vanished behind a curtain.

Colette dropped her head, feeling stupid. She had been reading newspapers so how could she be so unaware of what was happening close to home? She stared at the desk. Fleur usually kept everything at home tidy but there was no order to the mess here. Fleur appeared once more, pinning a loose curl onto the back of her hair. Her mouth twisted.

‘I don’t know what I’m doing. Monsieur Ramper doesn’t seem to have kept any sort of records. Receipts were scribbled on bits of paper and put in a box. His ledgers make no sense. I don’t know where to start working out how much profit he has made in the last five years, if any.’

‘Would you like me to have a look?’ Colette offered, seizing upon one area she had an advantage over Fleur.

Fleur’s eyes gleamed. ‘Would you? That would be wonderful. You were always better with numbers than I was.’

‘I know. I offered to helpPapaback when the war started, but he turned me down.’ Her jaw tightened at the memory. ‘He didn’t want me to have to work. He said that wasn’t what he’d raised me for. It’s hard not to believe he just didn’t think I would be of any use.’

Fleur leaned beside her on the edge of the desk. ‘Oh, Colette, your father loves you.’

‘Oh yes, he loves me, but he thinks I am like my mother. Only good for being decorative while I wait for a husband. But if you want my help, I would be glad to provide it.’

‘I would. Come with me tomorrow. We can go for a walk in the sunshine and a drink at lunchtime. It isn’t far to the Café Morlaix from here and Sébastien is usually good for a free glass of wine. He keeps a special barrel for French customers that he doesn’t water down.’

‘That would be nice,’ Colette said as casually as she could manage.

Her scalp prickled and she suppressed a shiver, this time of an entirely different cause. She was not sure whether to attribute it to the thought of tackling the accounts, an afternoon in the sunshine, or seeing Sébastien again.

The following morning she dressed in what she considered an appropriate outfit for a working woman; a light wool skirt and a white cotton blouse printed with tiny cornflowers. She rolled her hair into a low bun at the nape of her neck and put on her sensible walking shoes.

Fleur was in the kitchen, reading a sheet of paper. She laughed when Colette appeared at the door to the kitchen, but it was kind.

‘You look very smart. It will go nicely with your silk hat.’

Colette pursed her lips. The item in question was a flamboyant creation that she had decorated with artificial flowers and a peacock feather.

‘I am not wearing that again. It feels wrong dressing like a fashion mannequin when many women in the food queues can barely afford to feed their children.’

The defiance through vibrant clothing had been fun at first but the Germans didn’t appear to notice or care what the French women wore to go shopping.

‘You not wearing a hat won’t change that,’ Fleur said.

‘No, but the Germans don’t care and it must look bad to the other women when their children are dressed in clothes that are too small. I don’t want anyone to think I am like that horrible woman who informed on her neighbour.’

Anyone, or one person in particular?

Sébastien had dismissed her as a silly rich girl. He hadn’t been the first, and undoubtedly wouldn’t be the last, but it had stung. If she might see him today, she wanted to prove she could be as serious-minded as Fleur.

‘What do you have there?’ she asked, trying to read the piece of paper in Fleur’s hand.

‘Nothing.’

Fleur shoved the page into a basket of carrots. Colette pulled it out. It was a leaflet, block printed by hand by the look of the smudges and uneven letters.

Statut des Juifs.

It proclaimed that since Jews were no longer allowed to own businesses, the public should boycott shops that had been forcibly taken from them.

‘Where did you find that? Do you think it is true?’ she asked.

‘It was pushed under the door of the concierge’sloge. Yes, it is true.’ Fleur gave her a long stare. ‘Why do you think Monsieur Ramper left? The glove shop round the corner from the bookshop had its windows smashed then boarded up. When it opened again the owner, Madame Boch, was gone.’

Colette digested the information. She held the paper between forefinger and thumb, feeling slightly soiled, as if the page itself were somehow responsible for the situation. ‘What is the point of writing this sort of thing?’

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