The Silent Hours by Cesca Major Read Free Book Online

dust spiralling to the ground. The men don’t break their talk. A soggy newspaper lies forgotten in the gutter. Someone has stepped on Pétain’s face.
    Up ahead I can see the library, imagine the figure waiting for me; then wonder briefly if she will be wearing her olive-green coat. She is always wearing it in my head. Perhaps it is too warm.
    By chance I saw her at the tram stop last week. She looked at me like she had been waiting for me, that same look, familiar, as if we have known each other for years. Her face lifted up to mine as we swapped news; I felt awkward, aware of the other people waiting, listening to my inane remarks. The tram trundled up the high street, quicker, I felt, than normal. I rushed the next sentence, felt lost in the sudden din of its noise. Beneath the rumble, the call of the conductor, someone ringing the bell, she asked me to meet her again.
    Today.
    As I approach the stairs leading up to the library entrance she emerges from another side street. A motorcar passes in front of her and she waits to cross the road. She is wearing a pale blue dress, her hair hanging in loose curls, held up by a single clip. She turns her head to check the street and then crosses, her mouth widening into a smile that warms my whole body.
    ‘You came,’ she says.

TRISTAN
    Our car is now at a complete stop and Maman tells us all to get out. Papa goes over and talks to one of the other drivers, whose car seems full to bursting with belongings: lampshades, bed sheets, books and clothes are all piled high. If he had a wife and children no one would know, as they’d be buried under all the items. He waves his arms around a lot and shakes his head at Papa. He offers to light a cigarette for Papa, who never normally smokes. Papa cups his hands around it, the light shows up his moustache, a thin angry line.
    Maman gives us all a macaroon and tells us to be patient. Eléonore is stretching her arms up like a ballerina, leaning one way and the next to ‘loosen her muscles’. People are looking at her. Luc is asleep again in the back seat. Dimitri is cleaning his glasses quietly next door to him, pinned by a leg. He shrugs at me helplessly. I wouldn’t let Luc sprawl all over me like that.
    We climb back into the car and continue on as the sun sets in front of us, leaving great streaks of pink and orange that give the people outside an unnaturally rosy glow and make the whole day even more dream-like. There is a girl, a little younger than me, about eight, dabbing at her mother’s face as they rest under a tree. There is another family all huddled onto a rug underneath an enormous umbrella, bags scattered about them, too tired to go on. An elderly man and woman are slowly pushing a trolley of books in front of them, one hand on the bar of the trolley and one hand in each other’s.
    It seems to me the whole of the city is on the road, not in their houses. One man is carrying a saucepan and a guitar. A woman is dragging her child on a sledge; another goes by with a wheelbarrow full of bags. An older boy walks quickly as the younger brother holds his hand, doing little, quick steps to keep up. The older boy looks over at our car as we pass. He’s about my age, I think. His reddish hair is combed into a neat side parting like he’s walking to church. He glares back at me. I look away, pretending to be looking at the sky. My face burns. Why can’t we be there yet?
    The minutes crawl by and our car is no quicker than anyone outside. I think we will never get there. It is getting dark now and Papa is talking to Maman about the needle that shows the petrol. Everybody on the road seems quieter in the night, or maybe I have just got used to the sound of boots and belongings dragging, the sighs of those walking. You can’t see them clearly any more but you know they are all out there, like a sea of ghouls walking alongside our car.
    If I really try to listen I can make out the artillery fire in the distance, a sort of echo.