cupboard. Eva does not reply, but when I turn round, she is standing next to me.
I jump. “Oh you startled me,” I say, hand on my chest.
Eva pouts. “It sounds a bit implausible Mom. I mean, you see a ghost and you go chasing after some French crook… and this is not how you said you met Dad.”
“You have not heard the rest of it. You don’t know.”
“Uhuh,” Eva says, picking up a mug and heading back into the living room. I spoon coffee into the mugs and pour the hot water over the granules. I find myself slightly annoyed. I do not like feeling like this.
“You want milk with that?” I call out.
“No. I’m good,” she says.
I follow after her, my hands cupping the mug for warmth. These days, I have bad circulation.
“If you want we can leave it for tonight,” she says.
“There’s not much more.” I say. “Besides, I have something for you.”
I go upstairs. When I come back down I carry a small box with me. I set it on the table.
Eva eyes me cautiously. Sometimes there is friction between us – Mom and daughter stuff. I do not want to aggravate her, buy this is important.
“What’s that?” she says.
“It’s for you. It’s something I’ve kept from that time. But you cannot open it until I have finished.”
The box is tied with long-faded pink ribbon.
“It’s the letters isn’t it?”
I nod. Eva sips her coffee. I am pleased she has forsaken whiskey for caffeine.
“I find it harder and harder to fall asleep at night,” I say, and give a little laugh. “It is easier to nod off during the day. Usually after lunch.”
“Why are you drinking coffee then?”
I think she is humouring me.
“I need to stay awake. This is important.” I put my mug down next to the box. “You do believe me, don’t you? I might have been ill, but I’m not senile.”
“The thought never crossed my mind,” says Eva. “You do have an active imagination though Mom. All those stories when I was a kid, about fairies in the garden and princesses.”
“Well I seem to remember you liked them at the time. And look at you now. There can’t be anything much more unrealistic than some of those operatic stories. Everyone is always falling in love with a relative and killing themselves.”
Eva does not reply. I have annoyed her. It is high time she realised that her career is based on complete fantasy.
“What I’m telling you is true,” I say. “I’m not making any of it up. This is the proof.”
“Okay,” Eva says.
I pat her leg. “You’re a good girl.”
“Hmm.”
Chapter 11 - 1957
It was raining again so I took a taxi to Jacques Le Brun’s house. I was angry, but in many ways that was a good thing. I had always found that anger was a fuel for action. Laurent was a fool if he thought that his story about Truffaut and his crooked dealings were going to scare me off. I wanted to know what had happened between Berthe and the crook from Marseille. I wanted to know why she had gone to London.
I knocked on Jacques’ door and pulled my collar up, tapping my feet nervously on the flag-stone step. I glanced round to see if I had been followed. Rain had just started to dampen the sidewalk again and a woman pushing a pram hurried by, her head tucked down. I looked up at the first floor windows and then back out into the street. It beggared belief as to how a woman such as Berthe could be lured into a world of crime, but then, perhaps she had not known how Truffaut made his money. The man must have had some redeeming characteristics. Or perhaps it was that as a young widow she was vulnerable and needed a strong man to care for her. Something though, told me this was not the case. She must have loved her first husband to have married him in the first place. So what was she doing falling for man like Truffaut when she would have barely been out of her widow’s weeds? Or were things different for performers of her ilk?
The door opened slowly and Jacques peeped out. He looked sallow and had
I jump. “Oh you startled me,” I say, hand on my chest.
Eva pouts. “It sounds a bit implausible Mom. I mean, you see a ghost and you go chasing after some French crook… and this is not how you said you met Dad.”
“You have not heard the rest of it. You don’t know.”
“Uhuh,” Eva says, picking up a mug and heading back into the living room. I spoon coffee into the mugs and pour the hot water over the granules. I find myself slightly annoyed. I do not like feeling like this.
“You want milk with that?” I call out.
“No. I’m good,” she says.
I follow after her, my hands cupping the mug for warmth. These days, I have bad circulation.
“If you want we can leave it for tonight,” she says.
“There’s not much more.” I say. “Besides, I have something for you.”
I go upstairs. When I come back down I carry a small box with me. I set it on the table.
Eva eyes me cautiously. Sometimes there is friction between us – Mom and daughter stuff. I do not want to aggravate her, buy this is important.
“What’s that?” she says.
“It’s for you. It’s something I’ve kept from that time. But you cannot open it until I have finished.”
The box is tied with long-faded pink ribbon.
“It’s the letters isn’t it?”
I nod. Eva sips her coffee. I am pleased she has forsaken whiskey for caffeine.
“I find it harder and harder to fall asleep at night,” I say, and give a little laugh. “It is easier to nod off during the day. Usually after lunch.”
“Why are you drinking coffee then?”
I think she is humouring me.
“I need to stay awake. This is important.” I put my mug down next to the box. “You do believe me, don’t you? I might have been ill, but I’m not senile.”
“The thought never crossed my mind,” says Eva. “You do have an active imagination though Mom. All those stories when I was a kid, about fairies in the garden and princesses.”
“Well I seem to remember you liked them at the time. And look at you now. There can’t be anything much more unrealistic than some of those operatic stories. Everyone is always falling in love with a relative and killing themselves.”
Eva does not reply. I have annoyed her. It is high time she realised that her career is based on complete fantasy.
“What I’m telling you is true,” I say. “I’m not making any of it up. This is the proof.”
“Okay,” Eva says.
I pat her leg. “You’re a good girl.”
“Hmm.”
Chapter 11 - 1957
It was raining again so I took a taxi to Jacques Le Brun’s house. I was angry, but in many ways that was a good thing. I had always found that anger was a fuel for action. Laurent was a fool if he thought that his story about Truffaut and his crooked dealings were going to scare me off. I wanted to know what had happened between Berthe and the crook from Marseille. I wanted to know why she had gone to London.
I knocked on Jacques’ door and pulled my collar up, tapping my feet nervously on the flag-stone step. I glanced round to see if I had been followed. Rain had just started to dampen the sidewalk again and a woman pushing a pram hurried by, her head tucked down. I looked up at the first floor windows and then back out into the street. It beggared belief as to how a woman such as Berthe could be lured into a world of crime, but then, perhaps she had not known how Truffaut made his money. The man must have had some redeeming characteristics. Or perhaps it was that as a young widow she was vulnerable and needed a strong man to care for her. Something though, told me this was not the case. She must have loved her first husband to have married him in the first place. So what was she doing falling for man like Truffaut when she would have barely been out of her widow’s weeds? Or were things different for performers of her ilk?
The door opened slowly and Jacques peeped out. He looked sallow and had
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