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GILBERT
PARIS, 1943
His mother had taken a turn in the first week of the New Year. She’d battled a cold all through December, and hadn’t seemed to make much of a recovery. It appeared that her medication was no longer working the way it had the year before, and the fluid build-up on her lungs had got increasingly worse.
Doctor Cordeau had seemed sad when he delivered the news, looking up to Gilbert and Henri from where he knelt by her side. He shook his head, just once. ‘I think you will both need to prepare yourselves.’
Berthe closed her eyes, but not before they saw the track of tears fall into her pillow.
Gilbert knew she cried for them only, not for herself.
Henri got up to leave. His face was ashen.
‘Where are you going?’ cried Gilbert, shocked. ‘You can’t leave Maman now.’
Henri looked past him to the ceiling, his lip trembling and tears spooling from his eyes. ‘I’m sorry, I have to go, Gilbert.’
Gilbert’s heart ached. ‘Just a moment, then,’ he agreed. ‘We must be strong now, later we can…’ He meant fall apart, but he couldn’t finish the words, as he was choking on them. He knelt by the side of the bed, and wedged his fist into his mouth, and the sound that came out of him was wild.
There was a gasping sound from Henri, who barrelled past him and was out of the door in seconds, into the cold January night.
Doctor Cordeau’s eyes were full of pity. He came forward and clasped Gilbert’s shoulder. ‘Is there someone I can call – your neighbour, Madame Lambert, perhaps? Marianne?’
Gilbert struggled to speak. ‘No. Just… just Henri, see if you can find him.’
The doctor nodded. ‘I’ll bring him back.’
After he left, Gilbert went to pour himself a glass of whisky, which he downed neat. It was the first time he’d ever drunk hard liquor and it burned as it went down, but it helped, slightly. He blew his nose and went back to his mother’s bedside.
Now that the doctor had confirmed it, he could see it – what he’d pretended not to see – how close she was to the end. His mother’s beloved face was thin and pale, her lips bloodless. Every breath a wheeze. It was agony watching her struggle for breath. With his father gone, he and Henri would be orphans, they would be all the other had in the world.
He took a seat on her bed and reached for her hand. It was cold and he began to rub it gently in his.
‘That’s nice,’ she said. ‘Tell me about the roses,’ she added, closing her eyes. ‘In the Tuileries.’
He smiled through a veil of tears. It was a game that they’d started to play over the winter, as she got weaker, and it was getting harder for her to get out. They struggled to make their flat warm with the coal shortage too. At first, he used to read to her but then later he’d started to remind her of things she loved. Beautiful, summery things.
She closed her eyes, and he dashed away a tear, and began to describe her favourite part of the gardens. ‘The blush roses are as big as your hand, the smell is intoxicating, and when the wind blows, petals scatter all along the path.’
‘Where am I?’
‘You’re sitting on that little stone bench you love under the canopy of roses, you have a coffee in your hands from the café.’
‘Wine… it’s afternoon,’ she corrected, a slight grin on her face.
‘Oh, d’accord, it is the afternoon,’ he agreed. ‘The summer sun is warm, but not overbearing. Dozing by your feet is a cat.’
‘I… like… cats.’ She was slowing down slightly, each word a bit harder for her to get out, her breath wheezing a bit more.
He knew. Of course he knew.
‘Black… and… white,’ she said.
‘Don’t talk,’ he said, biting his lip to stop himself from howling again. She sighed and he continued. ‘It’s slightly fat. Yet distinguished, a gentleman of means,’ he added.
Her lips twitched in a smile. She liked that.
‘Its belly is full from the saucer of milk you brought it.’
