Peach (25 page)

Peach pushed Lais’s wheelchair through the arched cloisters of the Palaçio d’Aureville in Miami, swivelling her sister around to face the splashing, blue-tiled fountain guarded by sturdy stone lions—copies of those in the Court of the Lions at the Alhambra. “Look Lais,” she called, “do you remember when I was three and fell in and you had to rescue me?” The pond was shallow at the outer edge but the tiles were
slippery and Peach had slid all the way to the centre where it was quite deep. Lais’s eyes had been frightened when she fished her out. Peach laughed. “You were more scared than I was,” she said, “I only had time to be surprised, it all happened so suddenly.”

Kneeling beside her sister’s chair Peach searched her empty eyes for a response. Now that all the curves had melted away, Lais’s pretty face was gaunt, the cheekbones appeared too prominent and her wide mouth soft and vulnerable. Lais’s eyes seemed to look at the fountain but Peach couldn’t be sure. There was no glimmer of recognition, no smile. With a sigh Peach took her place behind the wheelchair once more, pushing Lais along the shaded paths. The green ocean sparkled in the strong Florida sunshine and a dozen little sailboats tacked across the horizon in the breeze. Closer inshore sunbronzed holidaymakers dived into the cool Atlantic surf. At the swimming pool Peach stopped to watch a boy climb the diving platform, balancing for a moment, arms outstretched, toes curled around the edge of the board, flexing his leg muscles before he dived. He cut through the still pool with barely a splash. There was a flash of his seal-sleek body under water a second before he broke the surface in a scatter of crystal drops.

“Perfect!” she called admiringly. “That was just perfect!” She pushed the wheelchair away from the pool, wishing that her sister could have seen him dive, that she could have sensed the physical pleasure of such a moment. With a sudden shock she realised that instead of as always facing front, Lais’s head was turned slightly to the left.
Lais must be looking at the pool!

Peach hunted eagerly through the closets in Lais’s room, tossing garments from the drawers as she searched for a bathing suit. Throwing the clothes back into the drawers she ran across the room to Lais. Her sister lay on the special
chaise-longue by the window leading on to the terrace, gazing at the view. Except, thought Peach angrily, you couldn’t
tell
if she even
saw
the view. “Lais,” she said, putting on her cheerful smile, “I have to go out. I’ll send Miz in to be with you.” Miz was Miss Z. (for Zena) Foley, Lais’s Scottish nurse/companion, though Miz always said when Peach was home from school there was no companioning needed. Peach had christened her Miz right away and it suited her small, wiry stature and the sharp personality that she used to protect Lais from the curiosity of the public—and also served to cover her infinite kindness.

“Do you think she even knows what I say, Miz?” asked Peach following her back into the bedroom and staring despairingly at Lais’s indifferent cameo profile.

“Maybe she does and maybe she doesn’t,” said Miz, briskly fluffing up the pillows behind Lais’s head, “but it’s my belief that you haven’t yet found out what she wants to hear. One day you’ll say the right thing and she’ll wake up again.”

“Like the sleeping princess in the story book,” said Peach, “when she was kissed by the handsome young prince.” But Ferdi hadn’t looked like the handsome young prince when he’d shot Kruger; his eyes had been cold and dead, and Lais had lain bleeding in her arms … And Ferdi had
never
come back to claim his princess again. He’d disappeared for ever.

The screen door slammed behind her as she ran down the steps and across the grounds to the hotel. The smart little shop had a selection of fashionable bathing suits and remembering how painfully thin Lais was, Peach picked out one that seemed pathetically small. But it was in Lais’s favourite sea green and it was sleek and pretty and meant for swimming, not decorating the poolside.

Out of breath from running, she hurtled back to the villa,
doors slamming behind her, grinning as she heard Gerard protest from his study.

“Look Lais,” she said, holding up the bathing suit. “We’re going swimming!”

Miz glared at her, scandalised. “What are you saying, Peach, you know the poor lady can’t swim?”

“Lais was the best swimmer in our family—apart from Grand-mère,” retorted Peach. “Miz, oh Miz, at the pool today we stopped to watch a boy diving and
Lais turned her head to watch!
I’m sure of it.”

Miz took the bathing suit from her quietly. “I dare say it was just the sun in her eyes. You know she doesn’t like that.”

Peach gazed at her, crestfallen. She had been so
sure
. She watched sadly as Miz tucked the sea-green bathing suit into the drawer. Then she walked silently to the door, turning to smile at Lais—just in case. Lais’s wheelchair waited beside the chaise-longue, its ugly steel bars, its huge wheels and stiff black leather screaming its function. Peach remembered her hated calliper. She had longed for it at least to be pretty. Well, even if they wouldn’t let her take Lais into the pool, there was something she could do for her. Lais would have a surprise waiting in the morning!

Gerard insisted that the family breakfasted together because it was the only time he could be sure of having them all in one place at the same time. It was remarkable, thought Amelie, pouring herself some coffee, how quickly Gerard had recovered physically from the ordeal of the forced labour camp, though she knew its memories would be with him for ever. Gerard hadn’t yet become strong enough to return to his architectural practice but lately she’d found him at the drawing board in his study, pouring over plans and occasionally sketching new ideas. Gerard was healing.
If only Lais were getting better too. It was hard to accept that Lais, her quicksilver extrovert daughter, could be this silent stranger for the rest of her life, dwelling in the solitary caverns of her mind, hiding from the world’s pain.

“Good morning, Maman.” Tiptoeing up behind her, Peach slid her arms around Amelie’s neck and kissed her. Amelie could smell the sea on her skin.

“Have you been swimming already?” Amelie laughed.

“Mmm,” Peach helped herself to papaya and melon from the sideboard. “I had a date at seven o’clock.”

“
A date?
You mean with
a boy?
” Amelie asked laughing.

“Of course, Maman. You don’t have
dates
with girls,” retorted Peach scornfully. “I met him yesterday at the hotel. He’s a terrific diver and he’s promised to help me.”

Amelie realised with a pang that Peach was growing up. She seemed so much older than just twelve. They had missed so many years together, and yet now Peach longed to go back to Europe. Gerard had put her off firmly. “When you’re fourteen we’ll talk about it,” he’d said, “meanwhile we would like to have you around.” But Amelie knew that Peach had her heart set on the school in Switzerland.

Peach lifted her face for a kiss as Gerard came in, newspaper under his arm.

“Where’s Lais?” he asked, surprised. Lais and the punctual Miz were always the first down, beating them all to the breakfast table.

“She’s late,” said Peach. “That’s probably because of my surprise.” It suddenly occurred to her that maybe Lais hadn’t liked it, but even
not
liking something was better than just nothing.

“Here we are then,” Miz pushed Lais to the table in her wheelchair.

“Why Peach,” gasped Amelie, “it’s wonderful!”

Peach had covered the metal bars of the wheelchair with
brightly coloured ribbons, winding them round and round and leaving streamers to dangle in the breeze. She had glued pale green satin from one of Amelie’s most luxurious Paris nightdresses over the backrest and she had tacked together a cushion of golden yellow lace. She’d dug into her mother’s jewellery box and pinned diamonds and emeralds on the corners of the chair and she’d padded the footrest with bright green velvet.

“It’s a throne, Lais,” said Peach excitedly. “A throne for you. You are the princess, you see.”

Amelie saw the love in Peach’s eyes as she spoke to her sister. And Lais’s eyes were bright too.
There were tears on her cheeks
 …

“Peach,” said Lais, her voice thin, and rough from long disuse. “Peach,” she said again, a little stronger this time. “Peach.”

“Motor City” was what they called it. And it was booming. Detroit’s plants were operating night and day to feed a postwar nation’s thirst for newer, bigger, glossier vehicles. The giant corporations, Ford, Chrysler, General Motors, US Auto, and the Great Lakes Motor Corporation, buzzed like queen bees at the centre of the sprawling city’s hive of activity, fuelled by a network of smaller factories and workshops producing machine tools, nuts, bolts, batteries, paint—anything and everything needed to feed the massive ever-rolling
assembly lines that churned out thousands of automobiles every year.

It had taken Noel two weeks to get there. Two weeks of walking, hitching, riding the rails along with bums and vagrants, two weeks of freezing November weather sleeping rough and trying not to feel hungry. He’d hit Detroit the previous night, riding the cab of an automobile delivery truck that was returning to the city empty of its load. The driver was young, twenty-five or so. He’d done a stint with the fifth Armoured Division and had been one of the first into Paris. He kept Noel awake—telling how great it had been, what the girls were like, how much brandy and champagne he’d drunk. It was great to be back though, just great. Noel’s eyelids were drooping with fatigue and the warmth was creeping back into his numb feet, but still he wondered who needed a place like Paris when there was Detroit? The truck-driver was great, though, he’d assessed Noel’s shabby shivering state quickly and after an hour he pulled in at a diner, bought them both eggs, bacon, hash-browns, rolls and about three gallons of steaming hot coffee. Noel hadn’t been able to keep his eyes open after that. He hadn’t eaten in two days and he had just twenty-five cents in his pocket that he had been keeping for emergencies. He dozed for a couple of hours, waking as the rhythm of the truck changed from the smooth onward roll of the highway to the stop and start of the city.

“You looking for a job?” the driver asked, waiting at a red light.

“You know of one?”

“The plants are real busy, but there’s a lot of guys after the jobs—all the veterans back on civvy street y’know. They get priority. You’d be better off trying one of the small places that make automotive parts for the big plants. I can tell you where to go.”

“No,” said Noel firmly. “
I want to go where they make the cars
.”

The driver glanced at him, surprised. “Listen kid, a job’s a job—a few bucks in your pocket at the end of the week’ll make you feel like a man whether you earned ’em making bolts or sticking the bolts in the car.”

“I want to work on the cars,” Noel repeated stubbornly.

The driver shrugged, “Okay, kid, it’s your life.”

Because he was driving for General Motors he dropped Noel there, and gave him directions to the gate nearest to the hiring office, wishing him luck. But Noel’s luck had run out. “Try again tomorrow,” the guy on the gate said. “Come earlier next time, kid.”

Noel spent the cold night huddled in a doorway near the plant. He was afraid to leave the area in case he’d be late at the hiring office next morning. City life came as a shock. The grinding squalor of the streets Noel wandered that dawn only replaced the flat, infinite wheatfields as a new symbol of loneliness in his mind.

There was no job the next day either. “Try Chrysler,” they told him, “maybe they’re hiring.” Noel felt weak, he wasn’t sure he’d be able to make it to Chrysler’s plant. With his last twenty-five cents he bought himself a doughnut from a street stand and a cardboard container of coffee that he piled with three spoons of sugar, devouring them standing in a doorway out of the icy wind. Then he began to walk. The hot sugared coffee and sweet doughnut gave him the spurt of energy he needed. Detroit awaited him.

He had been walking for what seemed hours. Dusk was closing in around the city and the sidewalks were hard under his worn sneakers. Noel stared down at his feet. The new high-tops that he’d prized were grey and stained. Lifting a foot he looked at the sole. Its ridged pattern was worn smooth and thin. Pushing both hands in the pockets of his
windcheater to keep them warm, he looked around him. There was no doubt about it, he was lost. Tall featureless buildings lined the quiet streets and lights burned in the empty windows of offices whose workers had long since departed for their comfortable suburban homes and a waiting wife and kids with a steak on the dinner plate and a bourbon or a beer to take away the winter’s chill. The freezing wind cut ferociously at Noel’s face, bringing tears to his eyes. Turning his back to its force, he stared down the empty street in despair. A car rolled along the road towards him, stopping at the light, and Noel looked up startled as the horn honked and a man leaned from the window.

“Hey kid, you lost?”

Noel shuffled his feet. “Yeah,” he mumbled, hanging his head, “sort of.”