Closing Aimée’s bedroom door, Claire returned to the sitting room, took a pen and paper from the bureau and wrote a letter to her sister Bess.
The tall, very slender Miss Brewster - glasses hanging around her neck on a gold chain - was the epitome of a schoolma’am. She arrived promptly at nine o’clock and Claire showed her into the sitting room. ‘I thought you could work on the dining table in here,’ Claire said, feeling as nervous as if it was her first day at a new school, not her eight-year-old daughter’s first day with a new teacher.
Miss Brewster nodded. ‘There’s ample room,’ she said, moving across to the table and putting her leather case on the nearest chair. She looked around the room.
‘Is there something else?’ Claire asked, nervously.
‘My pupil!’ Miss Brewster replied.
Aimée had enjoyed spending Saturday with Mitch’s father and step-mother but had eaten too many pancakes with maple syrup, resulting in her being sick. She was better, but a little quieter than usual on Sunday. Today, however, she was playing-up a sore stomach to avoid meeting her teacher. ‘Of course!’ Claire laughed. Miss Brewster kept a straight face. She obviously didn’t see the funny side of Claire forgetting her pupil. ‘I’ll go and fetch her. When she’s reading she gets lost in the story, and--’ Claire felt her cheeks flush with embarrassment and cut short the excuse for her daughter not being there. ‘I’ll get her.’
‘Aimée?’ Claire called, mounting the stairs. ‘Come on, darling, your teacher is here.’ Aimée was sitting on the windowsill gazing out. She wasn’t reading. ‘What’s the matter?’ Aimée shrugged. She swung one leg off the sill, bending the other leg at the knee until she was in a half standing half sitting position. ‘Come on, darling, Miss Brewster is very nice.’
‘Why can’t you teach me?’ Aimée said, in a sulk.
‘Because I am not a teacher.’ Aimée sighed, loudly, and jumped down.
‘I know it’s difficult for you. It is for me too, and Daddy, but we’ve got to make the best of it.’ Aimée picked up her exercise books and sauntered over to the door. Claire pushed a stray curl out of her daughter’s eyes. ‘Ready?’ Aimée nodded and followed her mother downstairs.
Aimée, being purposely uncooperative, stood in the doorway of the sitting room leaning on the door frame. ‘Aimée this is Miss Brewster. She is going to help you with your school works so you don’t get behind while you’re in Canada.’
Aimée looked at Miss Brewster who was taking books from a square leather bag. She didn’t speak. Claire scowled at her daughter and nodded in the direction of her teacher.
‘Good morning, Miss Brewster.’
‘Good morning, Aimée.’ Miss Brewster pretended not to have noticed Aimée’s petulance and plunged straight in with, ‘Would you help me find a book for you to read? I think it would be best if you told me where you’re up to with your reading, don’t you? The letter I had from your headmistress in England said you were bright for your age. Is that true?’ Aimée lifted and dropped her shoulders as if she didn’t know. Miss Brewster carried on, ‘I don’t want to give you anything that’s too difficult. Perhaps this book to start,’ she said, taking a book from her case that had ‘For six to seven-year-olds’ written on the front.
‘I’m almost nine,’ Aimée said, indignantly. She went to Miss Brewster and began looking through the pile of books.
‘Oh!’ The teacher feigned shock. ‘Well clearly that one won’t do, will it?’
‘I haven’t read this one,’ Aimée said, picking up a copy of Anne Of Green Gables by L M Montgomery.
‘Good choice, Aimée,’ Miss Brewster said. Claire saw a glint of pleasure in Aimée’s eyes and she exhaled with relief.
‘Simone?’ Mitch sighed. ‘Simone?’
Claire woke from a shallow sleep and opened her eyes. Mitch sat up and said again the name that she had heard him say in his sleep several times since they’d been in Canada. At first Claire thought the woman in his dreams might be a nurse at the hospital. If so, her husband had got to know her intimately in a very short time, judging by the way he said her name.
Claire had told Mitch he talked in his sleep. She’d also asked him about Simone. He had looked shocked and said he didn’t know anyone by that name. If he did know someone called Simone, and Claire was sure he did, he must have been lying. She closed her eyes. There was nothing she could say or do if he refused to talk about her.
‘Simone!’ he called again, suddenly, making Claire jump. ‘Forgive me. I’m sorry.’
Claire laid her hand on her husband’s arm to comfort him. He snatched it away. ‘Mitch… Alain?’ she whispered, lovingly, ‘go back to sleep.’
His head jerked. His eyes opened and darted around the room, settling on the door. ‘No, no, no! Come back.’ He looked down at Claire with surprise, as if he was seeing her for the first time. ‘Where is she? What have you done with her?’ he asked, his eyes flashing with anger, his voice accusing. Then his features softened and he broke down and wept. ‘Simone,’ he said again, ‘I am sorry.’
‘Alain?’ Claire said. ‘Mitch?’ She pushed herself up into a sitting position, put her arms around her husband and held him until his tears subsided.
With a violent shudder he caught his breath, his shoulders slumped, and he collapsed into Claire’s arms. ‘What the hell is going on?’ he cried.
‘You had a bad dream but it’s over now.’ Claire was mindful that, although his eyes had been open, he was actually asleep.
