Swim Until You Can't See Land by Catriona Child Read Free Book Online Page A

conventional.
    MR JACKSON:  So, Susan, you’re here about the job?
    MARIÈLE:  My name’s not Susan, it’s Marièle.
    MR JACKSON:  What sort of a name is that? I’m going to call     you Susan. Congratulations, Susan, you’ve got the job. Let’s get you started.
    MARIÈLE:  Now? But, I’m supposed to go to school. Mama    will wonder where I am.
    MR JACKSON:  No more school for you, Susan. You’re a working woman now.
    He led her to the shop counter, gave her an apron and left her to it. The apron was too long, trailed under her feet.  She felt like such a fool, the new girl in the oversized apron. If it hadn’t been for Arthur, she probably would have left then and there. But he stood her on a stool, pinned up her apron, told her if anyone gave her any trouble she was to let him know.
    She’d only been fifteen. How the time had flown.
    ‘ D’accord, Miss Downie, I expect you’re wondering why we asked you here.’
    ‘ Oui ,’ she nodded and took another drink of water. It was warm, must have been sitting out for a while. Had he been here all day? Seeing other girls before her?
    ‘ Merci pour les photos . They were very useful. You will of course get these back once we’re finished with them.’
    He picked up a few sheets of paper from the table. She tried to see what was written on them but the typeface was too small.
    ‘The letter you sent us. You spent a lot of your childhood in France?’
    ‘ Oui. Ma mère est Française . We visited my grandparents every summer until they passed away.’
    ‘I see. Are you fluent yourself?’
    ‘ Oui , my mother brought us up bilingual.’
    ‘Us?’
    ‘Mon frère et moi.’
    ‘Ah, yes, George.’
    She nodded. It was still hard to speak out loud about him. It felt strange hearing his name, they avoided using it at home. She hadn’t mentioned him in the letter – how did this man know?
    The letter looked official. It was stamped and signed. Besides, Father wouldn’t let her travel all that way on her own if he thought it was anything untoward. He walked her to the station for the overnight train, kissed her on the cheek and wished her good luck. She watched him from the train window as he walked away along the platform, leaning on his stick, limping on his bad leg. The whistle blew and he was obscured in a cloud of smoke as the train pulled out of the station.
    She read the letter again.
    An interview for what?
    You didn’t question things anymore, just went along with them. The war had changed everything.
    She folded the letter up, slipped it in its envelope and put it in her pocket. Ate the sandwich Mama made for her, washed it down with the Thermos of tea.
    Mr Thompson took out a handkerchief and blew his nose.
    ‘You have fond memories of France?’
    ‘Yes, very much so.’
    ‘And what do you think of the current situation?’
    ‘It makes me very sad. Mama’s glad Mémé and Grand-père didn’t live to see this.’
    ‘So you are sympathetic towards France in their current situation?’
    ‘ Oui, bien sûr , isn’t everyone?’
    ‘I should like to think so, but you’d be surprised.’
    She glanced around the room.
    No clock.
    How long had she been here? The blinds were closed, the only light came from a lamp in the corner.
    She looked out the train window, at her reflection in the dark glass. She’d never travelled so far on her own before. It was liberating. She was actually doing something.
    She opened the letter again.
    Friday 23 at 3pm
    But an interview for what?
    She didn’t even know how long the interview would last. An hour? Ten minutes?
    ‘You’ve travelled down from Scotland?’
    ‘ Oui , Aberdeen.’
    ‘We appreciate you coming all this way. Votre Français est très bon. No trace of a British accent. That’s what gives people away.’
    ‘Gives people away?’
    ‘Oui.’
    Mr Thompson scribbled on a sheet of paper. Was she saying the right things? She was tired, had barely dozed on the train. This was as strange an