A Week in Paris Read Online Free
was on,’ Kitty said, relieved. ‘No one could travel to Paris then. Most of France was cut off when the Nazis occupied it in 1940. Like so much of Europe.’
Fay looked thoughtful then said, ‘So why did the city feel so familiar? Why?’
‘I don’t know, my love.’ But she did. She remembered all right. It was impossible to forget the things that had scarred her for a lifetime.
Some day she would have to explain everything to her daughter. There had been times she nearly had, when Fay had asked probing questions. But then Kitty would look into those trusting blue eyes and the words just wouldn’t come. She simply hadn’t been able to speak of the terrible things that had happened. She couldn’t have borne to see her daughter’s face fall, to have her turn away, to reject her.
One day she would have to tell her – but not yet, please God. Not yet.
Chapter 2
March 1961
London
Fay was humming to herself as she tripped up the dingy stairs to her flat, violin case in hand. The hum was a snatch of a song that had been haunting her all afternoon, very melancholy, very French, the sort sung by some waif on a street corner in a husky voice that caught at the heart. She couldn’t think where the tune had come from, it had just popped into her head and made itself at home. Perhaps it had something to do with the piece of news she’d received that morning.
It was the middle of March, sunny, with that clear light that made grimy old London look washed clean. On her way back from her rehearsal she’d noticed with pleasure the daffodils in Kensington Gardens opening into flower. The evenings were still chilly. She’d have a bath later if Lois hadn’t hogged all the hot water. First she’d grill some Welsh rarebit for supper.
If
her flatmate hadn’t finished off the cheese.
The flat was on the first floor of a cream-coloured building near Whiteleys department store in Bayswater and it had two principal advantages. Firstly, it was only a short step from here to the Albert Hall, where the orchestra Fay currently played for was based; secondly, the flat on the other side of their living-room wall was empty and the elderly man living above very deaf, so no one ever complained about her practising. Downstairs was
Jean-Paul’s
, a hairdressing salon, and Fay enjoyed catching glimpses of the clientele emerging with fashionable crops or elegant updos. Jean-Paul, who was a sweetie and had asked the girls to call him by his real name, which was Derek, said he couldn’t hear her violin over the noise of the dryers but wished he could, so there were no problems there either.
There had never been any question as to what Fay would do after she left school four years before. With rigorous coaching from Signor Bertelli and the determined support of her mother, she had secured a place at the Royal College of Music, from which she’d graduated six months ago. She played wherever she could get work but hoped that a permanent position with the West London Philharmonic Orchestra might open up soon. It was because one of the second violins had injured himself that she was practising with them at the moment.
On the landing, she stopped mid-hum, hearing the jangling tones of Cliff Richard and The Shadows, Lois’s passion of the moment. She opened the door of the flat to find her flatmate in housecoat and slippers, lounging on the sofa, fair hair in rollers, painting her fingernails Oyster White.
‘Hello, darling.’ Lois’s plummy tones rang above the music. ‘I’ll be out of your way in two shakes. Simon’s fetching me at half-past. How was your day?’
‘Lovely, thanks.’ Fay put down her instrument and shrugged off her coat, looping it over a hook. ‘What about you?’
‘Oh, mad as ever. Rescue that, will you?’ The Shadows had faded, to be succeeded by an irritating scratching sound. Fay went and lifted the stylus then stopped the turntable. The sudden silence was blissful.
Despite their different tastes in
Fay looked thoughtful then said, ‘So why did the city feel so familiar? Why?’
‘I don’t know, my love.’ But she did. She remembered all right. It was impossible to forget the things that had scarred her for a lifetime.
Some day she would have to explain everything to her daughter. There had been times she nearly had, when Fay had asked probing questions. But then Kitty would look into those trusting blue eyes and the words just wouldn’t come. She simply hadn’t been able to speak of the terrible things that had happened. She couldn’t have borne to see her daughter’s face fall, to have her turn away, to reject her.
One day she would have to tell her – but not yet, please God. Not yet.
Chapter 2
March 1961
London
Fay was humming to herself as she tripped up the dingy stairs to her flat, violin case in hand. The hum was a snatch of a song that had been haunting her all afternoon, very melancholy, very French, the sort sung by some waif on a street corner in a husky voice that caught at the heart. She couldn’t think where the tune had come from, it had just popped into her head and made itself at home. Perhaps it had something to do with the piece of news she’d received that morning.
It was the middle of March, sunny, with that clear light that made grimy old London look washed clean. On her way back from her rehearsal she’d noticed with pleasure the daffodils in Kensington Gardens opening into flower. The evenings were still chilly. She’d have a bath later if Lois hadn’t hogged all the hot water. First she’d grill some Welsh rarebit for supper.
If
her flatmate hadn’t finished off the cheese.
The flat was on the first floor of a cream-coloured building near Whiteleys department store in Bayswater and it had two principal advantages. Firstly, it was only a short step from here to the Albert Hall, where the orchestra Fay currently played for was based; secondly, the flat on the other side of their living-room wall was empty and the elderly man living above very deaf, so no one ever complained about her practising. Downstairs was
Jean-Paul’s
, a hairdressing salon, and Fay enjoyed catching glimpses of the clientele emerging with fashionable crops or elegant updos. Jean-Paul, who was a sweetie and had asked the girls to call him by his real name, which was Derek, said he couldn’t hear her violin over the noise of the dryers but wished he could, so there were no problems there either.
There had never been any question as to what Fay would do after she left school four years before. With rigorous coaching from Signor Bertelli and the determined support of her mother, she had secured a place at the Royal College of Music, from which she’d graduated six months ago. She played wherever she could get work but hoped that a permanent position with the West London Philharmonic Orchestra might open up soon. It was because one of the second violins had injured himself that she was practising with them at the moment.
On the landing, she stopped mid-hum, hearing the jangling tones of Cliff Richard and The Shadows, Lois’s passion of the moment. She opened the door of the flat to find her flatmate in housecoat and slippers, lounging on the sofa, fair hair in rollers, painting her fingernails Oyster White.
‘Hello, darling.’ Lois’s plummy tones rang above the music. ‘I’ll be out of your way in two shakes. Simon’s fetching me at half-past. How was your day?’
‘Lovely, thanks.’ Fay put down her instrument and shrugged off her coat, looping it over a hook. ‘What about you?’
‘Oh, mad as ever. Rescue that, will you?’ The Shadows had faded, to be succeeded by an irritating scratching sound. Fay went and lifted the stylus then stopped the turntable. The sudden silence was blissful.
Despite their different tastes in
Readers choose
Francine Prose
CG Cooper
Lisa Blackwood
J. A Melville, Bianca Eberle
Paul Reiser
Rev. W. Awdry
Elizabeth York
Bonnie Bryant
Asra Nomani
Linda I. Shands