Little Boy Lost by Marghanita Laski

Author:Marghanita Laski [Laski, Marghanita]
Language: deu
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781906462185
Publisher: Persephone Books Ltd
Published: 2011-12-14T06:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER EIGHT

Monday – continued

The Mother Superior was in her little crowded office, writing under a dim bare bulb. When Hilary came in she laid down her pen and lifted her tired eyes, saying with politeness that was clearly none the less genuine for having no warmth in it, ‘I thought you might like some coffee before you start back to your hotel. It is such a cold night.’

‘It’s very good of you,’ Hilary said, sitting down.

‘Not at all,’ said the nun. After a moment she added, ‘It is seldom that I am able to finish my work early enough to give myself the pleasure of receiving visitors,’ and Hilary knew that she was reassuring him, telling him that after to-night’s ceremonial visit he would be free to bring back the child and quietly depart.

The same fat nun came in with two large cups of coffee on a tray and set it down on the desk. ‘Thank you, Sister Thérèse,’ said the Mother Superior. ‘Has little Jean gone up to bed now?’

‘Yes, ma mère,’ said the old nun, ‘and so tired that I hardly knew what to do with him.’ In her voice was the oblique grudging reproach of the solicitous nanny.

‘It’s only from pleasure,’ said the Mother Superior placatingly. ‘You’ll find he’ll sleep it off, ma sœur,’ and Sister Thérèse muttered pessimistically, ‘Let us hope so,’ and withdrew.

The Mother Superior laughed gently, and then handed Hilary his coffee. ‘It’s not real coffee, I’m afraid,’ she apologised. ‘Real coffee is virtually unobtainable now.’

‘I wish I’d known,’ said Hilary with contrition, ashamed that he had not thought to bring such a simple welcome gift, and then he tasted the brew in his cup. Its nastiness so surprised him that he was quite unable to prevent his face twisting into an expression of unsuppressible disgust. He tried to apologise quickly, but the Mother Superior would have none of it. She said laughingly, ‘We are always told that the English make bad coffee, but I can see from your face that it is not as bad as this.’

‘No, indeed,’ said Hilary vehemently. ‘Madame –’ he remembered and corrected himself, ‘ma mère, is this really all that is available in France?’

‘Except on the Black Market,’ said the nun. ‘It is hard, is it not? The two things we French care most about are good bread and good coffee and we can have neither.’

This talk of food reminded Hilary of the little boy. Forgetting how much he had dreaded the Mother Superior raising the subject, he asked, ‘Do your children – do you get enough for your children to eat?’

‘No,’ said the Mother Superior, vehemently. ‘We do not. The authorities do the best they can for us, but in these days our unhappy country has little food to offer to those who must buy in the cheapest market.’

‘But aren’t there any special arrangements for children?’

‘Ah,’ said the Mother Superior, ‘I have heard of the admirable feeding of children in England, but we, monsieur, are not a disciplined people.

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