Page 7 of Daughters of Paris

‘I shall miss you,’ Fleur said.

Colette suddenly pushed herself from her chair and flew across the room with her arms out to embrace Fleur. ‘Thank you. I need to know that I won’t be completely forgotten.’

Fleur noticed with dry amusement that Colette did not say she would miss Fleur, but then she looked into Colette’s eyes and saw they were gleaming bright with emotion, and she could no longer be angry or resentful. She eased into Colette’s embrace.

‘Plant some more strawberries for me, darling,’ Colette whispered in her ear. ‘In the Secret Garden. I’ll be back by summer when they will be ripe. We’ll eat them together.’

‘Of course.’ Fleur gave a small laugh. ‘Goodness me, Colette, you should be in the films being this dramatic.’

‘Yes I should,’ Colette said. ‘Or perhaps on stage. A showgirl doing high kicks and blowing kisses to the audience. I wonder if my parents would be proud of me then?’

‘I’m sure they are proud of you whatever you do,’ Fleur murmured.

It sounded hollow. She knew Delphine especially hoped for a marriage that would help Louis’ business expand or secure them entry into the cream of Paris society, preferably both. Gunther, the hopeful actor from a part of the continent that was now under German authority, was obviously not the son-in-law they had hoped for.

‘I will write to you and tell you everything that happens while you’re away. Your mother will give me your address, I’m sure.’

That afternoon, as Colette climbed into the back seat of Louis’ Traction Avant she waved to Fleur. ‘Remember to plant the strawberries and I’ll be back by the time they are ripe.’

Fleur dutifully planted the strawberries but Colette did not return. Nor did she respond to either of the letters Fleur wrote in the first three months of her absence. Delphine was reluctant to give Fleur the address but agreed that if Fleur kept her letter to one sheet of paper, she might slip it in with the letters she herself wrote to Colette.

‘It’s funny. I did not want you and my daughter to become close friends. I thought you might lead her into trouble,’ Delphine said. She looked Fleur up and down and Fleur knew she was comparing the two girls. ‘How wrong I was. Yes, I will post your letter, but don’t expect Colette to reply. She will have enough to keep her busy.’

Sure enough, a reply never came. Fleur wrote three more times but after that, she stopped. She tried not to resent the lack of communication too greatly, but it stung. After all, Colette was a reluctant writer at the best of times and was undoubtedly enjoying sights Fleur could only dream of. She had books to keep her company and was happy to retreat into the attic room, which Monsieur Nadon had kindly given her as a bedroom. The privacy was wonderful. No more sharing withTanteAgnes and listening to her aunt’s snores.

Even better, she found work four days a week in a small bookshop in the winding back streets of Montparnasse. It was a convoluted journey to get there, but she didn’t care. She caught the Metro at Porte Maillot to Bienvenüe. From there she would leave the wide, tree-lined boulevards and wind through the narrow streets until she reached the modest shop with its wood panelled front. The painted sign named the shop as Ramper et Frère Librarie. There was no sign of thefrèrefrom the sign and Fleur did not like to ask the remaining Monsieur Ramper what had happened to the absent brother.

Most of the shop contained conventional volumes but Monsieur Ramper had an unashamed passion forbandes dessinées, detective novels and science-fiction. Two shelves and one window display were given over to the illustrated exploits ofTif et Tondu, Tintinand the AmericanFlash Gordon.

Monsieur Ramper was an amusing employer, given to long monologues of a scurrilous nature, though on occasion he would lose his train of thought and grow grave.

‘I saw the Great War as a young man,ma puce, and I can taste it coming back.’

He smacked his lips as if tasting wine. Fleur eyed him anxiously, waiting for him to laugh and dismiss his words as a joke but he didn’t. He shook his head, ran his hand through his chestnut hair, and pushed it back from his temple.

‘The Anschluss in spring was the start, Fleur. It is not good. Austria apparently welcomed the Führer, but how true was that?’

He said no more about it, but his words planted a seed of apprehension in Fleur that lay dormant, waiting for the right opportunity to sprout. She did her best to ignore it.

With a thoughtful expression, Monsieur Ramper handed her an envelope of pay at the end of the third month she had worked there. He then poured her a cup of coffee – he insisted the only way to drink it was black and bitter – and patted her shoulder.

‘How often do you explore this neighbourhood? You are surrounded by artists, poets and writers. If you wish to be one of them you should go meet others.’

Fleur sipped her coffee before answering, trying not to let her distaste for it show but wishing she had a jug of hot milk to hand. ‘My aunt might not approve if I did. I had to argue long and hard to be allowed to work here at all.’

‘Then tomorrow tell your aunt that I need to keep you late to inventory the stock. Take an hour and walk around before returning home. See what you find.’

The following day, Fleur dressed in her best skirt and pressed her blouse carefully. She folded the Hermès scarf in her bag and once Monsieur Ramper closed the shop she carefully arranged it around her neck, combed her hair and walked from the bookshop to the Metro station a longer way round to normal. The route took her down the Rue Daguerre and through a square filled with horse-chestnut trees, which shaded cafés where groups of both sexes wrapped in heavy coats sat outside around tables. As she crossed a corner her ears were attacked by the most discordant sound she had ever heard.

It was a screeching saxophone, what might have been a clarinet, and definitely drums. There seem to be little rhythm and she wasn’t even sure if there was a melody. Still, it pulled to something inside her and she followed the sound to a café.The noise – Fleur could not in all honesty call it music – was coming from inside. The café was single fronted with a door to the right of the window with a ruby-red painted frame and a matching red awning extended over the front. The glass was slightly tinted but Fleur could see figures moving inside.

She read the name.

Café Morlaix.

This was exactly the sort of adventure she should report to Monsieur Ramper so she cautiously opened the door and stepped inside.

Chapter Three

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