The Silent Hours Read Free Page B

things are different here.
    When Armistice Day comes it seems all the more poignant this year. Ticker tape has been tied to the lampposts: the red, white and blue triangles flutter in the breeze; tricolor flags are draped out of many first- and second-floor apartment windows. The vendors sell hot chocolate, candy floss on wooden sticks, croissants, nougat. A nearby boy is focused on devouring a fresh pain au chocolat , the insides of it smeared around his mouth. The cold November air makes my breath visible as I stamp my feet in an effort to try and warm them. My knee twinges, but I’m used to the sporadic pains and I’m distracted by the mood: it seems the whole of Limoges has come out to have a good time. With the Germans on the doorstep, it seems we will not forget who we are, that no one can dull the love a man has for his country.
    The celebrations are louder this year. People are singing ‘The Marseillaise’ and proclaiming victory to France. Bands play, people dance in the street, swapping stories, talking about their sons, fathers, sweethearts who are all away, ready to fight for the honour of France. The voices and the familiar melody blends, swirling about me as I stand for a moment longer on the street before returning home.
    An old man perched on a stool nearby, cigarette dangling from his mouth, taps one foot, bangs his walking stick on the cobbles in time. There is a girl, no more than twelve, leg in a brace, sitting and watching her friends as they dance an eightsome with boys in the village. One of their fathers has been forced to join in and he grimaces at me from over a shoulder as I smile at the group.
    The girl on the seat looks downcast, scuffing the toe of one shoe backwards and forwards on the ground as another tune starts up and she is left out once more. A couple of boys nearby point at her, one of them smirks and the girl grows redder as she tries to ignore their gestures. Toe back, forward, back, forward.
    I walk over to her, holding out my hand. ‘We’ll go slowly.’
    She looks up, shy and uncertain, and then grins at me, a face full of freckles and now two rows of white teeth. She takes my hand and we move to join the group. The steps are simple; even so we get it all hopelessly wrong but the girl seems happy; she shows me how her mother taught her to move in a triangle, one foot back, to the side and then the front, and we start to get the hang of things. A friend calls to her and she waves, jutting her chin out proudly. Another boy cuts in, asks her to join him, and I bow out. She looks at me, mouthing a thank-you.
    Returning to the safety of the pavement, I feel the familiar throb just above my knee. I rub at it absently – nearly missing her. A head of thick blonde hair, an olive-green coat …
    My arm reaches out and I find myself tapping her on the shoulder. ‘Excuse me.’
    The girl looks startled and then, when she recovers, an inquisitive expression replaces the surprise.
    ‘I …’
    ‘Can I help?’ she asks.
    ‘I, well, I saw you once before and I …’ My voice trails away into a whisper of jumbled words as my eyes explore her face. She has the smoothest skin: glowing. I’ve seen a photograph of Greta Garbo in a picture magazine and she has skin like this. Her wide eyes are an unusual shade of green, like a forest lake, flecked with brown; the left iris has a muddy dot, like a leaf disturbing the surface.
    Her smile falters a little as I struggle to say something, anything, coherently. The mood of the day has given me the confidence to approach her; now I’ve done it, I’m suddenly at a loss.
    ‘I thought …’What did I think, oh God, what did I think? ‘I thought you might like to dance,’ I say, pointing at the couples nearby who are dancing on the cobbled street as a man plays an accordion and sings in a wobbly tenor.
    The girl’s face lights up again as she glances across at them, then she crosses her arms and looks back at me. ‘I thought you only danced