“Kitty! What is it? What’s wrong?” Delphine’s arms were around her. She felt the warmth of her hands through the fabric of her shirt. Being hugged made the tears come faster.
“I . . . it’s . . .” The words wouldn’t come. It was as if a dam had broken inside her.
“Come on,” Delphine said. “Let’s get you back to the cabin.”
Martha was in the kitchen when Kitty stumbled through the door, guided by Delphine.
“Hi,” Martha called, without looking up. “I’m making coffee—want some?”
The chair scraped against the floor as Kitty sat down.
“Hey, what’s wrong?” Martha came across to the dining table, the Nescafé jar in her hand.
“She’s going to tell us, aren’t you, Kitty?” Delphine’s voice was soft and low. “And she might need something a little stronger to go with that coffee: I think there’s some of my cognac left in the cupboard.”
CHAPTER 12
Martha thought how different Kitty looked now from the girl she’d first glimpsed on the boat to France. The bold red lipstick and the feisty, defiant manner had masked a grief she couldn’t acknowledge—not even to herself.
“It was the photograph, I think,” Kitty was saying. “When he took it out and passed it to me, all I could think was that he was so lucky to have that image of his father—because I can hardly even remember my parents’ faces. And I hated myself for even thinking it: this poor kid had cycled halfway across Germany, searching for his mother and sister, and here I was, sitting feeling sorry for myself.” Her head dropped into her hands. “It made me feel so ashamed,” she murmured. “I should have done what he did. I should have come to Europe back in May, as soon as the fighting stopped. I probably could have got the money—if I’d really tried. But I didn’t have the guts to do it on my own.”
“You mustn’t blame yourself for that.” Delphine put her hand on Kitty’s shoulder. “You said you were just a child when you last saw your parents.”
Kitty raised her head, shrugging off Delphine’s hand. “I was the same age as Edek—twelve.”
“But to be on your own, in a foreign country . . .” Martha clicked her tongue against her teeth. “I can’t imagine how awful that must have been.”
“It was. Sometimes I think the reason why I can’t clearly remember what my parents looked like is because during that first year in England, just thinking of them made me cry. I used to try to remember things we did together—the happy times. But nothing came. It was as if all the pictures in my head had been erased and the only one left was of that moment, at the station in Vienna, when I saw them for the last time. And reliving it was so painful—I didn’t want to remember it.”
Martha nodded. She knew what that felt like: on the one hand, struggling to recapture memories, while on the other, trying to suppress them. She wondered if it would help Kitty to tell her that she had lost her own parents at a young age, that their wedding photograph, placed on her bedside table by Grandma Cecile, had caused her more sorrow than comfort. But she kept silent. It would be tactless to mention it—because for Kitty, there was no proof that her parents were dead, however likely it seemed.
“I felt like a ghost girl in England,” Kitty whispered. “It was as if I’d left part of myself behind in Vienna.”
“Who looked after you?” Delphine asked.
“When I arrived on the train, I went to a sort of camp,” Kitty replied. “Not like here—it was the sort of place British people went for their holidays. We lived in chalets. It was freezing cold because they were meant to be used in summer and it was December.” She reached for her mug of coffee, draining what was left. Then she took a sip of the cognac Delphine had put beside it. “People would come round choosing children. I was taken by a couple who were much older than my parents. I remember he was wearing a bowler hat. And she was very stern. They took me to live with them in London. They both went out to work. I was supposed to go to school, but I didn’t speak English and the other kids teased me for being foreign. My foster parents didn’t seem to care whether I went. I was basically a maid, hoovering and polishing and washing up, a young pair of legs for going shopping. I can’t ever remember them hugging me or giving me a kiss.” She shrugged. “Maybe they just weren’t the type of people who would do that—but I think it was probably that they didn’t like me.”