Calm down, I told myself. So they have been away for one day. Maybe they are in a small village with no telegraph office. Maybe they are in an automobile that broke down miles from the nearest town. And at this very minute they are worrying about me arriving and finding nobody home. By tomorrow morning we’ll all be sitting around their fire, drinking Sid’s disgusting coffee, and laughing about this. Thus reassured I finished changing my son and went into the kitchen to look for something I could prepare for an evening meal. I was reluctant to go out just in case some message came from my friends, and I have to confess that I didn’t fancy going down all those stairs, out in the pouring rain, and then up again, with no buggy for Liam and no free hand to hold an umbrella.
There was plenty of butter and cheese in the larder, as well as potatoes, onions, and a few wilted carrots. I cooked the carrots and a potato and mashed them together with butter for Liam, then fried some potatoes and onions and drizzled melted cheese over them for me. After I had finished my meal I realized that I should write to Daniel. I had promised to write again as soon as I reached Paris. He would be worrying about us and want to know that I was safely with Sid and Gus. No need to tell him that I did not feel safe at this moment. I looked around and located Sid’s writing desk on a side table. As I opened it the first thing I saw was a postcard, showing a scene by the painter Monet, addressed to Miss Augusta Walcott, and on it were scribbled two words: Absolutely not! And it was signed, if I could read correctly, Reynold Bryce.
So they had made contact with Reynold Bryce although if this postcard was anything to judge by, it didn’t sound as if he had welcomed them in the way that they hoped. But it was posted three days ago, giving me proof that they had been here to receive it when it arrived. I turned it over in my hand, wondering what the “Absolutely not” referred to. Maybe they had been discussing a painting, maybe this was an academic debate they were carrying on by postcard and they were actually the best of friends. Still, one thing I knew now. Gus had met Reynold Bryce. If they didn’t turn up by tomorrow, at least I’d have one person I could go to.
Then I reminded myself that Gus had a cousin here too. He was a Walcott with money and influence. He’d know what to do if Sid and Gus were injured or in trouble. It shouldn’t be too difficult to locate him. I did have allies in the city after all. Thus comforted I decided to wait until tomorrow to write to Daniel. I got ready for bed, curled up into a ball between those cold sheets, and tried to sleep. But sleep did not come easily. Down below me the city was waking up. I heard singing, raucous laughter, shouts, a police whistle. This latter made my thoughts go to my husband. Was he safe? Would they make another attempt on his life? And how did you stop people who could throw a bomb into a carriage, or take a potshot at him as he walked down the street?
“I wish I were home,” I whispered to myself, but then I remembered. I had no home. The tears came then and I cried silently into my pillow.
Thirteen
I awoke to the loud cooing of pigeons, right outside my window. Bright stripes of sunlight were coming through the shutters onto my wall. As I opened the shutters pigeons flew off the balcony railing with the loud sound of flapping paper. I blinked in the strong sunlight, then put on my robe, went through to the living room, and opened the French doors onto the balcony. I saw that this was an attic of sorts with those French doors cut into the steep gray tile roof. Down below me the street was coming to life—a store owner unwinding the awning over his shop, a café proprietor putting out chairs on the narrow sidewalk, a boy going past on a bicycle carrying long sticks of bread, the greengrocer putting out a display of cabbages, small boys going off with schoolbags on their backs. The sounds echoed up from the narrow street—horses’ hoofs on cobbles as a dray made a delivery of wine barrels, a woman shouting in a harsh voice, the pigeons flapping again as they sought another place to land.
Then I leaned out and saw the view that Sid had been so proud of. In one direction the city sprawled out below us, its butter-yellow stone glowing in early morning sunlight, a morning mist hovering over the Seine River. I could see a large dome and maybe those twin towers were Notre-Dame? And when I looked up between the rooftops I could make out a large white building taking shape on the top of the hill. This was the new church Sid had written about. I must go and have a look for myself, I decided. The view would be spectacular.
I was already feeling better, sure that all would be explained and made right today. Sid and Gus would arrive, panting and laughing. “You’ll never guess Molly, Gus got a crazy idea to rent a motor and drive to Le Havre to surprise you only it was an awful old banger and it ran off the road in the middle of nowhere and we had to spend the night in a ditch.” Yes. That would be it. A perfectly reasonable explanation.
When I went back into my bedroom Liam was awake and playing happily with his own feet. He beamed when he saw me and tried to turn over and pull himself up, encumbered by his night-robes. I picked him up and took him to the window. The pigeons had resettled on the balcony and he clapped his hands in delight, causing them to flutter off again. I dressed us both then carried him cautiously down all those flights of stairs.
Madame Hetreau stepped out of her cubby immediately when she heard my footsteps. I wondered if she lurked there all day, waiting like a giant spider for her prey.