Daughters of War by Dinah Jefferies

Author:Dinah Jefferies [Jefferies, Dinah]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: HarperCollins Publishers
Published: 2021-07-14T17:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER 42

Victor was dead and nothing could ever be the same again. During the following days, the sisters lived in a kind of vacuum. Life had to be lived, but none of them knew how to do it. Hélène glanced at Élise, who was sitting in the kitchen staring out of the window. Her sister looked terrible, her cheeks sunken, her eyes haunted.

Hélène opened her mouth to speak but closed it again. She wanted to say Victor’s spirit would watch over Élise and that he would always live in her heart, but it was too soon. It was too raw, too visceral for words of comfort, no matter how well-meant or heartfelt. They would just sound crass, like empty platitudes. The loss had to be felt as deeply as the love had been. They came together; love and the possibility of loss. It was a part of life, even without a war.

‘Is there anything I can get you?’ she asked instead.

Élise shook her head.

Hélène didn’t know how she would face death herself; none of them knew. The execution had snatched Victor far too young, but he had stood proud and tall right to the bitter end. That kind of death could not distinguish between young and old and Victor’s father had even offered to go in his son’s place, but the Germans had laughed in his face.

Hélène made a mint tea and placed the cup in front of her sister. Then she patted her on the shoulder and went outside.

She had taken time off work again but, increasingly, with empty days on her hands, she found herself thinking about grief. Élise’s grief above all others. But Hélène also thought about the grief they all felt. And it made her remember her father’s early death. Absorbed in her own feeling of rage, had she even considered her mother’s grief? Claudette had neither cried nor displayed any outward expressions of sorrow. The girls witnessed no wringing of hands, no quivering lips, and no trembling chin. Her sleep did not appear affected nor her drinking habits. ‘Just one small sherry before supper, darling, and one glass of wine with the meal.’ That had always been her mantra and it didn’t change. She had not been afflicted with a loss of appetite, her make-up had remained flawless, her hair tidily chignoned, and her clothing immaculate. She wore high heels, as always, and a pencil skirt, neat blouse, plus earrings and a brooch. She had become so quintessentially English that Hélène felt Claudette was the one with an English mother and not their father.

She had warned them all, in a crisp unequivocal tone, that outward displays of emotion would not be tolerated, neither at home nor, even more crucially, at the funeral. Hélène had suppressed her heartbreak. She, above all of them, had adored their father; hardly surprising, so alike in looks and in temperament they’d been. Even when she was tiny, she’d loved nothing more than to curl up in his study pretending to be old enough to read while he worked.

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