‘Yes.’
‘There’s no point fighting the memories even if they make you cry. They come whether you want them or not.’
‘Like shadows … But she isn’t dead yet.’
‘No,’ Jack said, ‘but you are preparing yourself emotionally for what is to come. It’s inevitable.’
‘I should have looked after her, instead of coming back to Devon.’
‘Don’t be so hard on yourself. She refused your help. When someone dies, everybody blames themselves.’
‘I had a dream last night. I was running and running but couldn’t get anywhere.’
‘I’ve had that one.’
‘What do you think it means?’
‘Maybe you’re trying to escape your mother’s death?’ he suggested.
‘I thought that, but I wonder if it really means … well I feel like I’ve got too many things going on my mind, and I can’t get away fromthem.’
‘You mean Hélène, don’t you, on top of what’s happening to Claudette?’
Florence sighed. ‘She hates me. My sister hates me.’
‘Has she said that?’
‘No.’
‘You’re projecting your fear onto her. While she’s nursing your mother, it’s probably all she’s got room for. Imagine how hard it must be for her. Just wait. You’ll get a chance to talk. Give her time.’
At the breakfast table they met Rosalie, who didn’t look as if she’d slept much either. But at least I do have Jack, Florence thought, while Rosalie is alone.
During the following days they all lived under a cloud of anxiety, tense and on edge, offering each other cautious smiles that quickly vanished behind lines of worry. Rosalie sat with her sister for hours, gently reminiscing when Claudette was awake, but most of the time she simply held her hand, or stroked her paper-thin skin. Florence came and went, as did Élise.
One day they all seemed to arrive in Claudette’s room at the exact same time, as if instinct had warned them it wouldn’t be long, the air in the room heavy, the atmosphere sombre and sad. Claudette’s breathing was irregular and seemed to stop for a few seconds. Florence froze. Could this be it? Then her mother’s mouth opened, and she caught a breath. Florence gently stroked her face, cool to the touch, the skin blotchy.
Hélène spoke softly, ‘It is all right to let go, Maman,’ she said.
Then Florence heard little Victoria singing to herselfas she lay in her cot in the bedroom she was sharing with Élise. Hélène usually slept on a sofa close to their mother’s bed.
In the silence of Claudette’s room, the words came again in the young child’s sweet halting voice.
Alouette, gentille alouette
Alouette, je te plumerai
It was a French song they all recognised. Claudette, who had looked as if she was sleeping, or even unconscious, opened her eyes, and Florence thought she heard her hum a couple of notes and smile in recognition. Then Claudette’s breath quickened just for a moment, the muscles of her face sagged, and she looked even paler, emptier, not like herself any more. That was it. She was gone. The final invisible thread that had held her to life had been severed. The moment when life had been there and then was not had finally happened.
Hélène checked Claudette’s pulse and then crossed herself.
Florence gasped but held on to her tears.
Élise, who had been standing by the window farthest from her mother’s bed, came across and placed Claudette’s hands crossed on her chest, then she kissed her forehead.
Hélène sat down on the sofa, head in her hands. Florence longed to comfort her, but Rosalie got there first and she held Hélène, who began to weep. They were such heart-wrenching sobs that, as if by mutual agreement, Élise and Florence left the room. Victoria called out for hermother anxiously so the two sisters got her up, gave her some warm milk, wrapped her up and then took her away from the grieving household for a walk up the hill.
They all wore their hats pulled down low, thick coats buttoned up tight, scarves wrapped around their faces, and heavy boots, but they still felt bitterly cold. Florence didn’t know if her eyes were watering because of the icy wind or if it was because she was crying.
