The Silent Hours Read Free

world becomes muted. Voices gone. Some of the soil brushes over my lips, my nostrils, breathing it in. The ground swallows me into its cool. The heat has gone, the raging heat has been extinguished and now there is a dampness seeping into my clothes as I try to be still.
    The peas hang above me, no sky beyond. A cloying smell, sickly. Maybe I will die like this.
    Sister Marguerite finds me bent over the ground and whispers to me to follow her. Some of the nuns are looking at me from across the lawn – a rake scraping, a bucket slopped. Sister Constance is frowning, mouth clamped into a line, as we walk past her.
    Pushing open the enormous door, we are back in the cool of the corridor, a smell of stone, history and dust, the air forcing me to wrap my cardigan around myself. My room is at the end, the square grille showing a brief, barred glimpse into my world.
    Sister Marguerite stops before we are there, outside the other door, the one I will not enter. Panels of wood are set into the wall: the doorway is a mere hole cut out of the stone; you have to duck to get inside the room. Enormous iron hinges wrap themselves across the planks.
    Through it is the small chapel: dark wooden pews, stained-glass windows above them, blinding glints in the little space of reds, oranges, and gilt. Candles dance in brackets. I will not go in again. I pull back sharply.
    ‘The others, they want …’ She pauses to take a breath, turns to me. ‘If you don’t start to attend services she will send you away. There is talk. Sister Constance feels you will be better served elsewhere.’ She looks over her shoulder, behind her. It is a touching gesture: she has pitted herself against them. ‘We could go in now, just you and I, and kneel at the altar.’
    I step backwards, shaking my head, like a horse refusing a jump. My chest rises and falls faster now and I can feel my eyes roll backwards as I resist.
    Sister Marguerite’s shoulders drop, her face falls; she soothes again. ‘Tomorrow perhaps,’ she lies, drawing me to my room.

SEBASTIEN
    I have lost her in the crowd. She was right there, just for a moment. I nearly walk straight into the man in front of me. My eyes scan the strangers moving around the street. Limoges at its busiest. Tipping my hat to the man, I apologize to him. The early morning commuters are swarming to their offices, men in suits and hats all flowing along with a purpose, peeling away into side streets, stepping onto the cobbles, the occasional tinkle of a shop door, a greeting, the smell of an automobile idling, engine running as a man steps out.
    My heart leaps as I see it: a flash of olive-green coat.
    The girl from the tram crosses to the other side of the road. I am late for my meeting but I don’t want to lose her again; I want to run after her, spin her round, ask her name. She is walking with purpose, her heels click-clacking on the pavement as she skirts other people in her path. I take half a step forward. Her long blonde hair bounces in time to her steps as she rounds a corner.
    Briefly looking back over my shoulder at the direction in which I should be going I falter, then I return to the blank space the girl occupied seconds previously. With a last look at the corner, I turn and break into a jog to our offices two blocks away, pushing through the revolving door, panting a little.
    Mademoiselle Fourie greets me at reception with a raised eyebrow and points at the stairs. ‘They’ll be waiting for you, monsieur.’
    ‘ Merci .’
    She rolls her eyes, smiling.
    Pausing briefly at the top of the stairs to straighten my tie and smooth down my jacket, I take a breath and walk into the conference room.
    Father and Monsieur Phane are standing at the end of the long, oval table hunched over a semi-circle of documents. The morning sun is bouncing off the table’s smooth mahogany surface, its rays showing the tiny dust particles that hang suspended in the air. A tray of cups, saucers and a cafetière lies at the