her teeth. ‘You murderer!’ she screamed. ‘You killed him. You killed Monsieur le lapin ! You just looked at him, and killed him! What did you do, what did you do? You killed him.’
‘No, no I didn’t,’ Nell countered.
Sylvie picked up the trug, scattering carrots, and hurled it at her. When Nell ducked and it hit the wall behind her, Sylvie lunged forward and smartly slapped her face.
‘Don’t come near me again. I don’t know why you came here. I don’t want you here. Get away, don’t even look at him. Look what you’ve done!’
Eyes watering, her cheek burning, Nell turned, bumping into Auntie Beth, who was followed by a panting Adele. Auntie Beth brushed past her and gathered Sylvie up in her arms, planting kisses all over her head.
‘Oh, ma chère, ma chère.’
Choking on her tears, her mouth pressed to her mother’s shoulder, Sylvie cried, ‘She killed him, she killed him!’
Auntie Beth swept her hands over her daughter’s forehead as if to iron out the agony. She looked over Sylvie’s head and gave Nell a dark stare. She gave her aquick and critical shake of her head. But all Nell could think of was how her mother never held her in that way, or in any way at all.
Nell watched from the landing window as Uncle Claude brought out the small wooden coffin containing the body of Monsieur le lapin , which he had spent a whole day making in Tatillon’s stable. Sylvie clung to her mother’s sleeve, wiping her tears, as the box – complete with dovetail joints – was placed in a hole dug behind the bean frames. Adele was standing to one side, looking bemused, while the dark heads of Estella and Edmund bobbed up and down above the high garden wall. Nell could see, from the landing window, that they did indeed have a ladder and were taking it in turns.
They saw her at the window and Nell excitedly exchanged their waves, bubbling with giggles. She put her palms above her head to indicate bunny ears but stopped abruptly when Adele sent a frozen glare up from the garden. Adele was trying not to laugh.
Within days, Uncle Claude bought Sylvie two new baby rabbits; they were duly installed in Ullis’s stable. At the quiet breakfast table the next morning, Nell sat alone with Sylvie, who was spreading thick butter over a chunk of bread.
Her cousin glanced slyly at her. ‘So, do you want to see my rabbits, then? Do you want to stroke them, cuddle them?’
‘Oh … yes. I do.’ Nell was confused and relieved. She brightened. ‘They’re babies still, aren’t they? Are they very sweet?’
Sylvie shrugged and sank her teeth into the bread.
The door opened and Auntie Beth came in arm in arm with Uncle Claude. They poured their coffee, opened their newspapers and ate in silence.
‘Maman,’ said Sylvie.
‘What is it?’
‘Maman, Nell wants to see the rabbits. She wants to hold them. She told me, she wants to pick them up and squeeze them.’
Auntie Beth’s newspaper crumpled with a crunching noise. ‘What? Oh, no. Not at all. No.’
Uncle Claude looked befuddled and bored, and snapped his paper to shield his face.
‘It won’t be safe for them, will it, Maman ? Nell is not safe with them,’ Sylvie insisted. ‘Isn’t that right, Maman ? Papa ? ’
But her parents had stopped listening to her and returned to their newspapers. Sylvie sank her little white teeth into the crust and chewed laboriously, fixing Nell with a hateful stare.
Nell’s morning cup of chocolate clattered back into its saucer. The cold feeling returned, fingers dragging at her stomach. She felt queasy, belittled and as unwelcome as the cuckoo in Lednor woods.
The weather in Normandy held throughout August and grew hotter, clinging to Nell’s limbs and the back of her neck with a sultry embrace. She circled Sylvie, kept out of her way. She rode the spare bike alone in the cool early morning through the village and out to the rolling, impossibly green fields where creamy-brown cows lumbered peacefully
‘No, no I didn’t,’ Nell countered.
Sylvie picked up the trug, scattering carrots, and hurled it at her. When Nell ducked and it hit the wall behind her, Sylvie lunged forward and smartly slapped her face.
‘Don’t come near me again. I don’t know why you came here. I don’t want you here. Get away, don’t even look at him. Look what you’ve done!’
Eyes watering, her cheek burning, Nell turned, bumping into Auntie Beth, who was followed by a panting Adele. Auntie Beth brushed past her and gathered Sylvie up in her arms, planting kisses all over her head.
‘Oh, ma chère, ma chère.’
Choking on her tears, her mouth pressed to her mother’s shoulder, Sylvie cried, ‘She killed him, she killed him!’
Auntie Beth swept her hands over her daughter’s forehead as if to iron out the agony. She looked over Sylvie’s head and gave Nell a dark stare. She gave her aquick and critical shake of her head. But all Nell could think of was how her mother never held her in that way, or in any way at all.
Nell watched from the landing window as Uncle Claude brought out the small wooden coffin containing the body of Monsieur le lapin , which he had spent a whole day making in Tatillon’s stable. Sylvie clung to her mother’s sleeve, wiping her tears, as the box – complete with dovetail joints – was placed in a hole dug behind the bean frames. Adele was standing to one side, looking bemused, while the dark heads of Estella and Edmund bobbed up and down above the high garden wall. Nell could see, from the landing window, that they did indeed have a ladder and were taking it in turns.
They saw her at the window and Nell excitedly exchanged their waves, bubbling with giggles. She put her palms above her head to indicate bunny ears but stopped abruptly when Adele sent a frozen glare up from the garden. Adele was trying not to laugh.
Within days, Uncle Claude bought Sylvie two new baby rabbits; they were duly installed in Ullis’s stable. At the quiet breakfast table the next morning, Nell sat alone with Sylvie, who was spreading thick butter over a chunk of bread.
Her cousin glanced slyly at her. ‘So, do you want to see my rabbits, then? Do you want to stroke them, cuddle them?’
‘Oh … yes. I do.’ Nell was confused and relieved. She brightened. ‘They’re babies still, aren’t they? Are they very sweet?’
Sylvie shrugged and sank her teeth into the bread.
The door opened and Auntie Beth came in arm in arm with Uncle Claude. They poured their coffee, opened their newspapers and ate in silence.
‘Maman,’ said Sylvie.
‘What is it?’
‘Maman, Nell wants to see the rabbits. She wants to hold them. She told me, she wants to pick them up and squeeze them.’
Auntie Beth’s newspaper crumpled with a crunching noise. ‘What? Oh, no. Not at all. No.’
Uncle Claude looked befuddled and bored, and snapped his paper to shield his face.
‘It won’t be safe for them, will it, Maman ? Nell is not safe with them,’ Sylvie insisted. ‘Isn’t that right, Maman ? Papa ? ’
But her parents had stopped listening to her and returned to their newspapers. Sylvie sank her little white teeth into the crust and chewed laboriously, fixing Nell with a hateful stare.
Nell’s morning cup of chocolate clattered back into its saucer. The cold feeling returned, fingers dragging at her stomach. She felt queasy, belittled and as unwelcome as the cuckoo in Lednor woods.
The weather in Normandy held throughout August and grew hotter, clinging to Nell’s limbs and the back of her neck with a sultry embrace. She circled Sylvie, kept out of her way. She rode the spare bike alone in the cool early morning through the village and out to the rolling, impossibly green fields where creamy-brown cows lumbered peacefully
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