The Remaining Voice Read Free Page A

groped for the edge of the bed and sat down. I was sure there was someone in the room with me. I heard them breathing – heard a whisper of air escape from between their lips and heard the wheeze of inhalation. Fearing someone was behind me, and not able to bring myself to turn round, I glanced in the dressing table mirror. There was no one there. So why did I feel as if someone was about to reach out to me – to press their hand on my shoulder, to caress my hair? I spun round. No, there was no one there. I was alone, yet still I heard the breathing. It was like the rasp of an elderly person just before they breathe their last. I listened, head cocked, my hands shaking, until the sound faded away. Eventually, all I could hear was the rain on the windowpane and the tick of a clock on the living room mantelpiece.
    *
    The inviting aroma of coffee and freshly baked patisseries hit me as soon as I pushed open the door to my great-aunt’s favourite cafe. I took a seat at the rear, all the better to watch the waitress at work and listen to the gossip from the other customers. I ordered coffee and a slice of tarte framboise. When the waitress brought them to me I offered up the photograph of Berthe and asked her if she had ever seen her. The waitress shook her head. She was only a part-timer, she explained. I would have to ask Eloise, the proprietor. She signalled behind her to the women in a white blouse and grey skirt, whose hair was all a tumble. Eloise gave the briefest of smiles and approached.
    “I trust all is well, Madam?”
    “Thank you, yes. I wonder, could you take a look at this picture for me. I believe you may have known her. She took tea here in the afternoon sometimes.”
    Eloise pursed her lips and looked long at the photograph. “No,” She shook her head. “Although…”
    “It was taken some time ago. It’s not very clear, I know.”
    “What was her name dear?”
    “Berthe Chalgrin.” I bit my lip. Perhaps this had been a wild goose chase. Perhaps Eloise would not remember her.
    “Oh Madam Chalgrin. Of course. I knew her. She would come in at eleven for a croissant and tea. Never came in the afternoon. Never drank coffee. She was as quiet as a mouse. I haven’t seen her in a while now.”
    “She died. I’m just going through her effects. I don’t know much about her. I thought perhaps you might be able to tell me something.”
    Eloise gave a half-hearted laugh. “Oh no. Not I. Madam Chalgrin never spoke to anyone. She would sit for a while and look out at the street. She would sip her tea slowly. I got the impression she was very… sad, yes. She was sad. Later on, when she got ill, her nurse would bring her in. They never said anything to each other.”
    “Would you know the nurse’s name?”
    “Ah… it was…. Genevieve. A good French name. She was a coloured woman. Polite. Died you say? Well, she’s out of her misery now isn’t she?” Eloise placed the photograph on the table next to my cup. “I’m sorry dear. I can’t tell you more.”
    I thanked her, and drank my coffee. I fingered the photograph on the table and whispered. “Who are you?”
    *
    Genevieve Carter was a large Jamaican woman who had come to the ‘mother country’ to better herself and found her training as a nurse in great demand. She welcomed me into the home of her new charge, that of a Mrs Grace, whispering: “She’s asleep right now dearie. Come on in. The agency told me you had a few questions. Take the weight off.”
    I sat on a chintz-covered settee in a living room that couldn’t be further removed from the sanitised environment Berthe had lived in, and realised that the tidying could not have been Genevieve’s doing, otherwise the house I was presently visiting would have been much the same.
    “I suppose you want to know something about Mrs Chalgrin,” said Genevieve, smiling kindly. She patted my hand as she sat down next to me. She was a large woman and the settee sagged under her weight. “She was