She had been a vital part of this family ever since my mother died. My father employed her as a housekeeper, but she was far more than that to us. She bound our wounds, made us sing the ‘Marseillaise’ and above all cradled us in a love we found nowhere else. But she had her own family of four strapping lads to care for, so after two o’clock each day the child-rearing duties fell on the reluctant shoulders of our father. Had we been bulls or horses, it would have been different. As it was we either ran wild, went hungry, or worked as field-hands till we dropped.

‘Bad times here,’ she muttered, ‘I’m glad you’ve come, Eloïse.’ Her rough hand tapped my cheek. ‘Poor little one.’

‘I’m fine.’

She nodded, prepared to take my word for it. ‘They need you.’

‘Where is André?’

‘In his room.’

‘How is he?’ I asked.

‘Do you mean does he hate you?’

I nodded.

‘He says little,’ she said. ‘He reads, great mountains of books on things I’ve never heard of.’ She paused and wiped her hands vigorously on her apron. ‘When the pain allows him to, that is.’

‘Does he have visitors?’

‘Some. Not often.’

‘Who are they?’

‘I don’t know.’ She stepped forward and lifted the empty coffee bowl from my hand. ‘Why don’t you go upstairs and ask him yourself?’

CHAPTER TEN

I tapped on André’s bedroom door but there was no answer. I waited two minutes, then tapped again. Still no answer, and I was suddenly worried for him. With barely a sound I opened his door a crack and peered in. He was there, lying in bed flat on his back, eyes closed, and I could not resist the temptation to enter the room.

I stood beside his bed, the light dim with the shutters half-closed. I studied his face on the pillow and saw it had changed. One cheekbone sat at a different angle and there was a thickness of tissue across the bridge of his long nose that hadn’t been there before, as well as scars zigzagging through one eyebrow and along his hairline. But that’s not what I mean. Something had gone from his face. Even in repose. Like in a room when the electricity is switched off and shadows are all you’re left with. I wanted to hold his hand in mine but it was tucked under the quilt where no one could touch it. His hair was longer, no trips to the barber, and his skin was paler, no sitting out in the afternoon sun. No life that he would call a life.