‘No, but that was different.’
‘How? I don’t have to dodge bombs driving in Canada. Other than that it’s exactly the same, so sit back and enjoy the ride.’ Claire negotiated the car out of the carpark, past several badly parked vehicles and into the traffic on the three-lane freeway. ‘I didn’t like the way the professor spoke to you when he came to see you on the ward.’
‘He said he was trying to unlock my memory.’
‘And did he?’
‘He said he didn’t, but...’ Mitch closed his eyes and massaged his temples. ‘There was something... And it was important. But it’s gone. This is why Puel gets annoyed. He spends an hour of his valuable time with me, and afterwards I can’t remember what I said.’
‘An hour? You’ve been in there since two o’clock yesterday afternoon. Is that why he kept you in? Because he hoped you’d remember something?’
Mitch nodded half-heartedly. ‘I guess so.’
‘Okay, maybe that’s why he kept you in, but why did he put you in that ward?’
‘It was the nearest?’
Claire threw back her head and looked to the heavens. ‘I’m being serious, Mitch! The beds had leather restraints on them and the windows had bars across them. It wasn’t an ordinary hospital ward.’
‘I don’t know! Give me a break, will you? It’s frustrating for him that I can’t remember, but God knows it’s ten times worse for me.’
Claire bit her lip. ‘I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have asked.’
The first time Claire went with Mitch to the hospital, Professor Puel made it clear then that she was not to question him about his treatment. “It would be better if you don’t discuss your husband’s treatment at all.” Part of Claire was desperate to know what had happened to him in the years he was missing, the years he had spent in prison. And although part of her wanted to know who Simone was, a bigger part of her was frightened of finding out. She let the subject drop.
FOXDEN, ENGLAND
Christmas 1949
CHAPTER EIGHT
Aimée was quiet on the drive up to Foxden. It was unlike her daughter but Claire didn’t mind. The journey took every bit of her concentration. They had set off in what looked like an early morning mist that had become thicker in less built-up areas. As they left the suburbs of Oxford behind them they were met by patches of dense fog. It became heavier as they travelled north, suddenly lifting as quickly as it had fallen.
No sooner had the wipers cleared the windscreen and Claire had begun to relax than a blanket of fog descended again without warning. She turned on the wipers and they scraped across the windscreen. The fog had turned to freezing ice. Suddenly the rear lights of a large vehicle came into view and she slowed down again. Whatever it was, large car or lorry, it had come out of a side road and Claire was grateful for it. She followed the vehicle’s back lights at a distance, keeping their red glow in view.
‘Are we there yet, Mummy?’
‘No, sweetheart, not yet. We’re only halfway.’
Aimée sighed.
As they drove out of Northamptonshire and into Leicestershire the fog began to disperse. The lorry that Claire had been following turned off before the town of Market Harborough - and Claire, able to see clearly now, drove on.
‘Not long now, darling,’ she said to Aimée. Her daughter didn’t answer. She was asleep.
The drive to Foxden took another half an hour along the Lowarth Road, which was all bends. Relieved when the village of Woodcote came into view, Claire steered the car up Shaft Hill, turning off the main Lowarth road to Foxden. The lane was covered in snow. The car slid sideways and bumped the grass verge, waking Aimée up. ‘Are we there yet?’ she asked, sleepily.
‘Yes, darling,’ Claire said, with relief, ‘We’ve arrived.’
Claire parked next to her brother-in-law Frank’s car, in the carpark at the back of the hotel. The drive from Oxford had taken a couple of hours longer than usual because of the weather, which changed in an instant from dense fog to freezing rain. Thankful the journey was over, she exhaled loudly and rolled her shoulders. ‘Ready?’ she said, looking at her daughter. Aimée nodded, pushed the blanket from her legs, but made no attempt to move. ‘Come on, darling.’ Claire got out of the car. The air was damp. She shivered. It wasn’t as cold as it had been in Canada. Even in December, when the temperature was several degrees below zero, it wasn’t damp and misty. The cold didn’t seep into your bones as it seemed to do in rural England. No matter how much snow fell, or how cold it was, the air was dry and the sky seemed brighter.
She walked round the front of the car to the passenger door. ‘Let’s get out of the cold and into the warm,’ she said, helping her sleepy daughter out of the car.
By the time Claire had taken their cases from the boot, Bess, Frank and Nancy were crossing the courtyard. Aimée ran to Frank and he bent down and kissed her. She was too big to pick up - and far too grown up. She threw her arms around her Aunt Bess, and then taking her cousin Nancy by the hand, led the way to the hotel leaving the grownups to bring the luggage.
Frank promised to take the children to collect eggs, see the animals, and give carrots to the donkey on Christmas morning, before church, ‘But now,’ he told Aimée and Nancy,
