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Gilbert looked at her in surprise. Perhaps she had guessed that it was one of his biggest concerns.
‘That might help actually.’
She grinned. ‘What’s with the tone of surprise? When am I ever wrong?’
He grinned. ‘Well, actually, when it comes to coriander…’
‘Ah, well on that we will agree to disagree. Do you think he’d be interested?’
‘Sure, I can ask. I’ll speak to him tonight.’
Berthe, Gilbert’s mother, was dead set against it.
She sat in her pink armchair in the living room, across from Madame Lambert, who was knitting in the blue one by the window. Lotte was making herself a cat out of yellow yarn, while Gilbert made it a pair of googly eyes out of card and Henri fashioned a walking lead out of discarded coloured wool. They were, as ever, the child’s loyal subjects.
‘I don’t think Henri is up to the task,’ said Berthe, taking a sip of the cheap chicory stuff that was used to replace coffee, then wincing. It was horrible.
‘What do you mean by that!’ shouted Henri, standing up.
She raised a brow. ‘Well, that— just look at your response, you can’t control your temper at all.’
‘Yes, I can!’
Even Madame Lambert had to purse her lips so as not to smile. Henri appeared to get the hint, saying in calmer tones. ‘I can, Maman.’
Berthe looked unconvinced. ‘Can you? Can you stop yourself from telling the Germans what you really think, or resist holding out a leg to trip one of them as you did just the other week when we went to the market?’
He breathed in a deep sigh. ‘That was two months ago, when I was twelve.’
Berthe snorted. ‘So you’re saying you’re all grown up now?’
‘No, but I’m not stupid enough to try that in a room full of senior officers.’
No one said anything.
His eyes bulged. ‘You think I’m really that stupid?’ he said, sounding affronted.
‘You did threaten to knock them off their bicycles,’ pointed out Madame Lambert.
‘And you did want to put soap on the steps so they fell down,’ said Lotte, helpfully.
Henri sighed. ‘Again, all things I said, but didn’t do, see? Besides, Maman, we could do with the extra wages. Your medicine alone isn’t exactly cheap.’ Busch and his men might have helped to get them the doctor but the treatment wasn’t free.
‘He has a point there,’ said Gilbert, who felt privately that perhaps Henri was growing up, albeit slightly.
Berthe was unmoved. She looked at Henri and shook her head. ‘You’re too young, it would be too much to ask of you – to be around the Germans all day and not say anything, I just don’t think you’d be up to it.’
Gilbert looked at his mother and then saw something else. Calculation. Ah, so this was psychology, he thought, and pursed his lips so as not to smile. Later she would whisper to Gilbert that it would only work if Henri thought it was his own idea.
Henri appeared insulted. ‘I would!’
‘Mmh,’ she said. ‘I will think about it.’
Marianne was right: keeping busy was good for Henri, who had managed to wear down Berthe until she reluctantly agreed to let him work at the restaurant so long as he behaved himself. It had been ages since Gilbert had seen his little brother laugh, and within hours of his first day working with Marianne, he’d come into the kitchen to find him chortling. The pair of them already seemed to have some private joke that involved singing along to Edith Piaf with a bad German accent. Soon he couldn’t help but join in, the three of them howling with laughter.
When Busch entered, Gilbert and Marianne stopped laughing immediately. Henri carried on with his impression, and then laughed when he noticed Busch.
‘Are you mocking my singing?’ he said. His tone was genial but the room grew quiet and Gilbert’s stomach flipped.
