Free The September Garden by Catherine Law Page B

music. It took her straight back to the salon in Montfleur and Maman sitting at the secretaire in the corner writing elegant letters to Auntie Mollie and to all her friends. Sylvie ran her fingertip over the inked page as if to stroke her mother’s cheek. She imagined her father reading over her mother’s shoulder as she wrote, a heavy presence, preening his moustache. She drew a breath and read quickly, glancing at the last line above the love and kisses. Then she started again, slowly this time.
    ‘A trust fund?’ she said. ‘They’re transferring money for me? To Switzerland?’
    Nell asked if Sylvie was going to be rich.
    ‘See it as your Christmas present,’ said Uncle Marcus, pulling out a chair to sit down next to her. ‘The fund will be secure in a Swiss bank. Safe as houses, so they say. Your parents want to make sure that you have everything you need.’
    Everything I need? Sylvie thought. How will they know what I need?
    There was nothing in the letter from her father, although she could feel him there, like a stain upon the page.
    ‘As from now on we – Auntie Mollie and I – are to be your legal guardians.’
    Sylvie looked at her uncle. ‘ From now on? ’ she repeated. ‘What do you mean, “ From now on” ?’ 
    ‘They are being sensible, under the circumstances.’
    ‘But nothing’s happened yet,’ Nell butted in. ‘At school, they’re calling it the Phoney War. They said it would be over by Christmas, and it’s like it’s never even started.’
    ‘Nothing happening, you say?’ said Marcus. He unfolded The Times that he’d brought in with him and spread it on the table. ‘Let me have a bit of a read and I’ll see.’
    Sylvie neatly folded her mother’s letter in its envelope, and tasted the bitter length of the distance between them.
    ‘Miss Hull likes you, Sylvie,’ said Nell. ‘You’re the teacher’s pet.’
    ‘So?’ said Sylvie, filling her ink pen from the pot of Quink.
    ‘You know she’s a lizzie,’ Nell whispered across the table.
    ‘Now really, girls,’ Marcus said, folding the paper in half. ‘Nell, have more respect, I’m surprised at you. I really am. You’re sixteen now. Come Easter you’ll have taken your exams and left. I expect more from you.’
    ‘It’s not fair. Sylvie is leaving school at Christmas.’
    ‘That’s because I have a whole year on you.’ Sylvie wondered how much money she might be receiving. A drip of an idea spread over her mind, like the ink stains on Nell’s exercise books. An idea of being free, independent and alive. Away from her misery? Away from Lednor?
    Uncle Marcus said, ‘Now, listen to this. We’ve had our first casualty on the Western Front, a captain … What else …?’ he pondered. ‘The Fins are resisting the Soviets. Humiliating the Red Army. Canadian troops will soon begin arriving in Britain, to help us. That’s good. That’s because they are part of … what, Nell?’ 
    ‘The Empire . Oh Dad, I know that much.’
    ‘And … oh dear, this is not good.’ Marcus scanned a short piece of type on page three. ‘It says here, girls: “The Nazis are beginning to deport Jewish people from occupied lands.” “Resettling”, they say.’
    Sylvie lifted her head. ‘We have Jews next door to us back home. Maman talked about them in her letter.’ She unfolded it. ‘Where is it …? Ah yes: Our neighbours have asked us if we can help them come to England … asked your father for references … I suspect, as your papa is the gendarme, they think he can help … ’
    Nell sat up. ‘Do they have to leave, too? Mr and Mrs Androvsky? And Estella and Edmund?’
    Sylvie glanced at her uncle to see his face close down behind a mask of ill ease.
    Nell persisted, ‘But what would happen to their cabbages and carrots? And Mr Androvsky’s bike?’
    ‘Oh, do grow up, Nell, and behave,’ snapped Sylvie. ‘What are you going on about? Cabbages and carrots?’
    Her uncle interrupted, brightening with forced jollity.