The Silent Hours Read Free Page A

other end and I busy myself with it, grateful to be able to do something useful. I pour the coffee into the cups, the distinctive smell tempting the men to look up and acknowledge my presence formally.
    Monsieur Phane, a portly gentleman, comes over to pump my hand warmly. An antique watch hangs off the pocket of his waistcoat, which is starting to show signs of strain around the midriff. ‘Good to see you, Sebastien. You’re looking older, always older,’ he says, shaking his head ruefully.
    ‘Monsieur Phane.’ I shake his hand and then pass him a coffee.
    ‘I’ve told you a dozen times before, call me Jean-Paul! We’ve been going over the plans for this new branch in Couzeix, and Pierre here tells me he is sizing you up to take on the management,’ he says, sipping from his cup.
    ‘That seems to be the plan.’
    ‘Well, excellent, excellent! Good to know we have someone on the shop floor, so to speak, who can let us know what is going on and how the employees are working …’ He guffaws, almost spilling the boiling liquid down his front.
    ‘We’re not planning on spying on them, Jean-Paul,’ Father says.
    ‘Well, not all the time …’ Jean-Paul winks at me.
    Father joins us and there is a brief silence as we all enjoy the taste of the coffee. As I place my cup down, in the circular window beyond I can see the tops of the trees in the park: a mix of oranges and reds, the grass almost olive. I blink, returning to the room.
    Father is planning to open a new bank in a nearby town and he has hired an architect to come up with a modern design for the building, which is currently a disused garage.
    ‘Are the plans what you’d hoped?’ I ask.
    Jean-Paul’s whole face lifts, his brown eyes filling with reflections of the tiny lights from the chandelier above. ‘Incredible to think we’ll have another branch up and running within a year,’ he says.
    ‘This impending war, though …’ comments Father, shaking his head. ‘What they’ve been doing to the Jews in Germany. And we run a bank, Jean-Pa—’
    ‘Don’t start up again, Pierre,’ says Jean-Paul, cutting Father off with a tap of his cigarette case on the table. He raises his eyebrows at me. ‘It’s all doom and gloom around here, boy.’ He nods his head in the direction of Father. ‘Anyway,’ he continues, draining his coffee in one go, ‘I’ve got to get off. I’m sure Pierre will fill you in on our evil schemes. Until next time,’ he says, holding out his hand.
    I move across to scan my eyes down the pages on the table as Father shows him out of the room and closes the double doors behind him. He places his hand flat on the wood, pausing. He seems strained.
    ‘So, tell me about the plans for the new branch,’ I say, deliberately trying to distract him from gloomy thoughts.
    Father allows himself to be diverted, eyes creasing as he states: ‘It is going to be the most wonderfully modern building.’ He moves across the room in quick strides, a bounce back in his step. ‘The architect has come up with some ingenious designs.’
    The next couple of hours are spent sifting through the early plans, discussing the precise profile of the people we need to employ. Not for the first time I feel a warmth flood through me as we work on these plans, as we see his vision coming together.
    ‘What made you late this morning?’ he asks, when I’m about to leave the room. ‘You’re normally very prompt for these things.’
    ‘Just a beautiful day,’ I mumble, not turning around. ‘Just soaking up the sights, I suppose.’
    I can hear the smile in his voice. ‘Was she very pretty?’
    My mouth twitches as I turn the handle of the door. ‘Very,’ I reply, looking at him over my shoulder.
    He nods and returns to the business; he hunches over the documents once more, dwarfed by the enormous room, the mahogany table, the large oil paintings that hang on the walls. My father has made it, and no war can take that away.
    This is France,