Free The September Garden by Catherine Law Page A

still is the expert, Sylvie assured herself, even though she is hundreds of miles away across the sea.
    ‘I love it when we go foraging in the bocage beyond Montfleur,’ Sylvie mused. ‘We make a day of it. Just me and Maman . Adele packs us a picnic.’ She paused, as her happy memories cascaded through her like warm syrup. ‘ Maman always has an absolutely wonderful time.’
    Her aunt glanced at her with a ghost of a tear in her eye.
    ‘Well, then, let’s have a look round here,’ she announced heartily, bending to part the undergrowth at the base of a large beech trunk. ‘There were lots around this tree last year.’
    Sylvie squatted down to look, her own tears fogging her eyes, blinding her. ‘Look at these beauties, Auntie Moll.’
    Her aunt was at her side. ‘Oh, oh no, don’t touch that. Destroying angel. That one would definitely floor you. Steer well clear.’ Mollie paused and twitched her nose much in the way Beth would when she was on the scent. ‘Oh, but here, here now. Puffballs. This is better.’
    Mollie grasped a white bulbous stem, laid it in her basket and reached back to pull up its group of mates.
    ‘Now this will be lovely, fried up with some butter,’ she said, ‘with a dash of parsley and even a splash of wine. We’ll raid Uncle Marcus’s cellar. What a treat. We can have these tonight, with our steamed meat pudding. Oh now, Sylvie … No more tears.’
    A heavy, dank feeling wrapped itself around her as her aunt embraced her, crushing the coldness of the rubber jacket to her ribs, so her chill of loneliness reached deeper than ever before.
     
    In the dining room the small stack of coals hissed in the hearth, emitting a peculiar mineral scent. Sylvie, attempting her English homework at the table while the cold autumn evening fell quickly, decided that the warmth of the fire fell woefully short, not like Adele’s great roaring applewood blazes. The blackout was down, and the heavy curtains muffled sound, cloistering the room from the outside world. Opposite her, Nell was doing algebra, her hair brightened by the yellow glow of the oil lamp. She needs to grow up, thought Sylvie, sharpening her pencil. She needs to get over the Little Wooden Horse and read Jane Austen.
    Miss Hull, the English teacher who used the long hooked stick to ease open the classroom windows and also to bash the desks of those girls who did not come up to scratch, had recently pressed on Sylvie a tatty copy of Persuasion . She’d also singled her out in front of the whole class to praise her. Sylvie’s skin crawled and her eyes smarted at the thought of that particular ordeal.
    ‘B-plus for your English exercise. A for effort,’ Miss Hull had announced. ‘Girls, I want you all to look to Sylvie Orlande as an inspiration. Never forget how brave Mademoiselle is in these terrifying times.’ Miss Hull’s bright blue eyes in her weather-tanned face fixed on Sylvie. ‘I must say, Orlande, seeing how you have coped with your lessons here, the French education system must be very good indeed.’
    ‘Oh, yes, Miss Hull,’ she had replied, nervous in the face of such an onslaught of praise, ‘but Maman helps me at home.’
    Now, trudging through her homework in the Lednor Bottom dining room, the embrace of solitude was complete. She opened her exercise book and stared at the lessons. She struggled to keep her face composed, not wishing to reveal the pain hammering her insides. What was the use of good marks if she couldn’t chat with her mother and tell her all about them?
    ‘A letter has arrived for you, Sylvie.’ It was Uncle Marcus, making her jump. He had come in, in his slippered feet, and was looking over her shoulder. He drew an envelope out of his waistcoat pocket. ‘Your auntie and I took the liberty of opening it when it arrived this morning. We hope you don’t mind.’
    A rush of joy swept aside her pain. Her mother’s handwriting was beautiful, looped and pretty like notes on a sheet of