A Week in Paris

by Hore, Rachel

  Kitty Travers quickly forgot the burly, fresh-faced young man who’d stared at her so openly. Weary from her overnight journey, she was intent on finding St Cecilia’s Convent, which she knew to be somewhere in the maze of streets between Notre Dame and the Panthéon. In the end, she stopped an elderly gentleman to ask directions and he sent her down a narrow cobbled alley she’d failed to notice before, though she must have passed it twice already in her search. The alley displayed no name and hugged the wall of a church before opening out into a tiny tranquil square, empty but for several sparrows squabbling over a crust of bread. They flew off into a hedge as she crossed the square towards a broad mansion of crumbling yellow stone on the far side, which being the only building with an entrance must be the convent. Her heart lifted, for it looked so welcoming. Its brown-painted shutters were thrown open to the autumn light and in the paved garden a cherry tree with leaves flushed magenta and gold spread its branches wide.

  As Kitty peered between the bars of a black wrought-iron gate, plucking up courage to enter, the front door of the convent opened and a young nun stepped out. She was carrying a large jug of water which she proceeded to upend over several pots of geraniums by the wall of the house. Kitty called out, ‘Bonjour’ as she turned to go back inside and, seeing her for the first time, the girl came down the path to meet her. Kitty, who expected nuns to be old and black-clad like crows, was taken by the youth and grace of this one. Her habit was black, yes, but its lawn collar was white, as was her coif, its starched edges curled up in a way that reminded Kitty of a ship in full sail.

  ‘Je peux vous aider, mam’selle?’ the girl asked in her light voice, viewing Kitty with interest as she opened the gate. The friendly sparkle of her deep-set eyes made Kitty warm to her. The girl wasn’t pretty, exactly, but her smile lit up her serene face in a way that made it so. She must be nineteen or twenty, the same age as herself.

  ‘Je m’appelle Katherine Travers,’ Kitty replied, trying to recall how to say in French that she was expected, but it appeared she didn’t need to.

  ‘Ah, la petite Anglaise,’ the young nun said with enthusiasm, and stepped aside to let her come in.

  ‘Merci,’ Kitty murmured, following the girl up the path. She wasn’t sure how to address a French nun. Sister, she supposed, though it seemed odd to call a stranger that when she had no real sister of her own. The fact that Uncle Pepper had arranged for her to stay in a Catholic convent at all when the family were staunch Anglicans was unnerving. It was actually the fault of her old headmaster’s wife who, being half-Parisian, had given her uncle all sorts of old-fashioned advice, most of it designed to protect well-brought-up English girls from predatory Frenchmen. Kitty was perfectly sure she could save herself, if need be.

  Inside, she found herself in a sparsely furnished hall with bare floorboards and ochre walls.

  ‘My name is Sister Thérèse,’ the young nun said in French. ‘I’ll show you to your room.’ She insisted on taking Kitty’s case and went ahead of her up a graceful staircase to a gallery, then along a landing with doors on either side. She stopped and opened one towards the front of the building, and Kitty walked into a tiny bedroom, where she was pleased to see her trunk, which had been sent ahead. The room was bare but for a narrow bed, a chest of drawers with a shelf above, and a small wardrobe, all in dark-stained wood. A wooden crucifix on the wall above the bed was the sole ornament, a woven blue mat on the floor the only scrap of colour. Sister Thérèse explained where the bathroom was and left her to unpack, bidding her to come downstairs for something to eat when she was ready.

  The room looked out over the garden with the cherry tree and Kitty stood at the open window for a while, watching a large white cat which was sitting licking its paws in the middle of the square whilst the sparrows chattered in consternation from the hedge. The church clock softly struck the half-hour and she thought how peaceful everything was after the noise of the streets. A few minutes ago she’d been a stranger, alone in Paris, full of doubts and trepidation about her new life, but already she was beginning to feel at home. An aroma of fresh-baked bread wafted up from below, reminding her she was hungry. She set about unfolding the clothes from her case, tucking her nightgown under the pillow, hanging her dresses in the wardrobe. The contents of the trunk she would see to later.

  On the chest of drawers lay an envelope addressed to her in a florid hand that had recently become familiar to her. She opened it and read it quickly. Monsieur Xavier Deschamps, the writing in his over-formal English, requests the pleasure of Miss Katherine Travers’ attendance at his apartment at eleven tomorrow morning for her first lesson. Kitty knew where to go, since her uncle had shown her the street on a map and the headmaster’s wife had explained that it would be ten minutes’ walk away. She refolded the letter, pleased to have heard from the great man, but decided not to worry about the lesson until tomorrow. There was too much else to get used to today.

  When she went downstairs, she followed the sounds of activity and found Sister Thérèse sweeping the floor of a room that must be the refectory, for it was set with four generous-sized tables, benches on either side. The girl told her to sit down and brought her warm bread wrapped in a napkin, a dish of butter, and a bowl filled with milky coffee.

  ‘Breakfast is at half-past seven, after Matins,’ she explained. She went on to say that luncheon was at twelve thirty for guests who wanted it, and supper at seven. She was a cheerful girl, and showed a shy interest in Kitty. In her hesitant French Kitty explained that her old piano teacher in London had recommended she come to Paris to study with the once-famous concert pianist Xavier Deschamps, who now taught for the Conservatoire, Paris’s famous music college.

  In turn she asked polite questions about the convent. ‘How many nuns live here?’

  ‘There are thirteen, including myself. Mère Marie-François is our Mother Superior, and the curé is Père Paul. You will meet them soon, I am sure.’ Kitty gauged from Thérèse that she was the youngest, still a novice, and that most of the others were at work either in the convent somewhere or – here the girl waved a hand towards the alley – teaching at the church school nearby.

  Kitty had finished breakfast and was brushing crumbs into the napkin when a woman of about sixty with a plain, calm face entered the room. Kitty rose politely, guessing who she was from her air of authority and the ornate wooden rosary she wore.

  ‘Reverend Mother,’ Sister Thérèse murmured, ‘this is the girl from England.’

  The Reverend Mother inclined her head to Kitty and greeted her in a quiet but sonorous voice. ‘You are most welcome.’ She spoke good English. ‘Thérèse has been looking after you well, I trust? Are you feeling refreshed after your journey?’

  ‘Very well,’ and, ‘Yes, thank you,’ Kitty replied, feeling shy under the woman’s scrutiny, though she saw kindness in the aging face, a touch of amusement in the hooded eyes.

  ‘We are delighted to have une jeune Anglaise to stay, especially a pianist. Saint Cecilia, you must know, is the Patron Saint of Musicians! You have been shown your room? Good.’ They spoke for a while longer about Kitty’s journey and about Uncle Pepper, and then Mère Marie-François said, ‘My dear, if you have a moment, I should like to show you something you might find interesting.’

  ‘Of course,’ Kitty replied, wondering what it could be. She thanked Sister Thérèse for breakfast and followed the Reverend Mother out along a corridor to an oak door set in a stone arch which opened to reveal a short, dimly lit passage. When the nun opened the door at the far end, Kitty found herself in an ancient church of a modest size, but filled with light. She liked its quiet atmosphere, its round arches and stone-flagged floor. Most importantly, before her stood one of the loveliest grand pianos Kitty had ever seen. Its lid was open and the sun pouring in from the high windows reflected off the polished black surfaces.

  ‘It’s beautiful, isn’t it? We made it ready for you. The piano-tuner came last week.’ The Reverend Mother pulled out the stool for K
itty to sit on. The girl tried a few notes and was rewarded by a rich, mellifluous tone.

  ‘It was given to the church by a benefactress, but there has been no one to play it until now,’ the nun said wistfully. ‘Father Paul, who is the curé here, is of the same mind as me. You are free to play whenever you like between services. Dear Sister Clare is our organist, but she is old and her sight is poor. She plays the hymns from memory.’

  ‘Thank you,’ Kitty breathed, touching the beautiful carved music-rest. She was overwhelmed by this offer.

  She explained that it had already been arranged that she should practise at the Conservatoire itself, where she would also attend classes in theory and composition, but the Conservatoire was some distance away, on the opposite bank of the Seine. It would be wonderful also to have this opportunity here.

  ‘Perhaps you’d play a little now,’ the woman said eagerly. ‘Bach, perhaps, I’ve always loved Bach.’ And so Kitty played a Gavotte that she remembered by heart, and the nun listened to the simple dance tune with closed eyes and an expression of rapturous concentration. The music seemed to fill the small building, making the air ring with happiness. It was such a beautiful instrument that she went on to play another piece from the same suite.

  Later, after they retraced their steps to the convent, Mère Marie-François made her excuses and went about her business. It was still only mid-morning, so Kitty fetched her coat and hat and went out to investigate her surroundings.

  It was a splendid day for early autumn, the air cool but still, and with the music in the church fresh in her mind Kitty felt a bubble of joy rise in her. The city seemed to shimmer in a pearly grey light. She wandered along the quays of the Seine, under the plane trees, past the stalls selling old books and prints, then considered sitting outside one of the many cafés to sip a cold drink and view the façade of Notre Dame. However, she decided against it. Her uncle, though generous in his ambitions for her, had old-fashioned ideas when it came to a monthly allowance and she didn’t know yet how much things might cost. It would also involve her speaking more French.

  She found a bench to sit on instead, which cost her nothing, and watched Parisian life go to and fro. There were impossibly chic ladies with toy dogs on leads, little girls dressed as fashion plates, their brothers in sailor suits, bent old women in black, equally dark expressions on their faces, sharp-suited office clerks, a studious young man with his nose in a book. A sinister-looking senior priest in full regalia hurried out of the cathedral and got into the back of a waiting car. When, however, a soldier in a short cape and a box-like cap tried to engage Kitty in conversation, she was forced to get up and walk away.

  Returning to the convent and finding no signs of lunch being underway, she retired to her room to lie down. She was exhausted, having slept little on the journey, not to speak of the emotional strain of leaving England to come alone to a strange foreign city. The crisp linen pillow beneath her cheek smelled comfortingly of lavender, reminding her of home.

  Kitty’s parents had both died soon after the Great War, when she was nearly three, too young to remember them clearly. They’d been sailing to India to start a new life, but had contracted typhoid on the voyage, died within hours of one another, and been buried at sea. By some miracle Kitty did not catch the disease, and on arrival in India had been taken back on the next available passage by a family who were returning to England. She’d been brought up in Hampshire, in sight of the sea, at first by her grandmother, who died suddenly when Kitty was six. After that, Uncle Pepper, Kitty’s mother’s much older brother (his real name was Anthony, the nickname Pepper conferred on him as a child for a reason everybody had forgotten) had made it his duty to become her guardian. The duty had become a pleasure when he realized that not only did she share his passion for classical music but that she also had a talent for the piano, which he became determined to nurture. There was a great affection between her uncle and herself, but he was a man of reserve – he had never married – and conducted their relationship with a grave formality and a high degree of protection.

  Dear Uncle Pepper, Kitty thought as she drifted into a doze. She wanted to do well for him here. The last thing she heard was the church clock beginning to strike. By the time it reached twelve she was fast asleep. She didn’t wake until Sister Thérèse knocked on her door after Vespers and summoned her to supper.

  At eleven the following morning, Kitty presented herself at the concierge’s desk of an imposing apartment block on the Boulevard St-Germain, near the Quai d’Orsay, and took the lift to the fourth floor. She was nervous. Though she had met Monsieur Deschamps once before, when he’d been on a visit to London and her teacher had arranged for her to play for him, now she was here she wondered if he would think he’d made a mistake agreeing to teach her. What would happen if she wasn’t good enough, after all?

  She thought of the copy of Debussy’s Clair de Lune in her music case and hoped it was the right choice. When he’d first written to her, Monsieur Deschamps had asked her to bring to the first lesson a piece of music that she loved – and she did love Debussy. His free-flowing and dreamlike compositions made her believe the composer had been eternally yearning for a happiness beyond his reach, and something in her heart responded to that. She also hoped M. Deschamps would look more kindly on her because she’d paid him the compliment of choosing a French composer.

  As it turned out, she need not have been alarmed. The plump little maid who answered the door showed her into a splendid drawing room decorated in Second Empire style. Here, M. Deschamps had just finished with his previous pupil, a sallow-skinned young man with a nervous, clever face and neatly cropped black hair, whom the teacher introduced as M. Ramond. The youth gave a nod of acknowledgement without meeting her eye, dropping a sheaf of music in the process, which Kitty helped pick up, whereupon he muttered a quick merci and fled the room.

  ‘A young man who is in an ’urry,’ M. Deschamps said in heavily accented English, his sad brown eyes twinkling, and she warmed to him all over again. He was tall and long-limbed, like a species of large bird. A heron, perhaps, or one of those comical Malibu storks she’d seen pictured in the National Geographic magazine in the dentist’s waiting room at home. Yes – a Malibu stork in an old-fashioned black suit and stiff-collared white shirt. He bowed low to her as though she were royalty and asked politely if she was well, and whether she liked her home at the convent, then moved straight to the business at hand.

  ‘What do you have to play for me?’ He gestured for her to sit on the stool, then flicked up his coat-tails as he took a wooden chair beside her.

  She brought the music from its bag and opened it out on the piano with shaking fingers, calming herself by silently counting down from five as her previous teacher had taught her. Then she began to play. She stumbled at first, but the music quickly cast its enchantment and she closed her eyes and allowed her fingers to take over. The room and M. Deschamps beside her, turning the pages, seemed far away. There was only the music. So it was a shock when her teacher’s voice broke in: ‘Stop, please.’

  She withdrew her fingers from the keys, wounded.

  ‘Start again,’ he said briskly, ‘and while you play, listen to the tune in the top line. See – here, and here – you go too quickly and do not allow it to sing. We will spend a little time on this, then I’ll find you some Mozart. Your left hand is not strong, but I have exercises for that.’ The hard work had begun.

  The time passed quickly and before she knew it, it was one o’clock and the maid was knocking at the door to call her master to luncheon.

  ‘Very well,’ he said to Kitty, consulting a pocket diary. ‘Thursday at the same time. And in the meantime, practise, practise, practise.’

  ‘I wondered . . . was I all right?’

  ‘All right? No, of course you were not all right. That is why you have come – to learn. Whether you succeed or not, Mademoiselle, is down to you. What you are made of. We will see. We will see.’

  He smiled i
n a kindly enough way, and with that she had to be content.

  Chapter 6

  April 1961

  Paris

  Lois had given Fay her Oyster White nail varnish for Paris, and Fay loved the way it gleamed on her fingers as she played her violin. It was Tuesday, the West London Philharmonic Orchestra’s first morning in the city, and they were rehearsing in an Art Deco concert hall, their base for the tour.

  At lunchtime they were set free with a stern warning from their conductor, Colin, to be back by seven for the concert that evening. Fay laid her precious old violin carefully in its case, the wood still warm and vibrant from hours of playing. The practice had gone well; she was alive with the pleasure of the music, the soaring theme of Schubert’s ‘Unfinished’ Symphony resounding in her mind.

  As she loosened the bow and wiped the violin strings, she was brought back to earth by a nasal voice saying, ‘What about you, Miss Knox?’ She looked up to see Frank Sowden, one of the older first violinists, his barrel chest thrust out importantly, as though compensating for his shortness. His sensuous lips, small bright eyes and greying goatish beard reminded her of a satyr. ‘Might we be graced with your company, young lady?’ She was used, now, to the pompous way in which he spoke. ‘A few of us are partaking of lunch at a restaurant on the Boulevard Haussmann.’ Perhaps he was being friendly, but it was disconcerting the way he didn’t quite meet her eye, his gaze instead sliding down her body.