The Girl in the French Book

Chapitre 1: La Famille

French was after lunch on Tuesdays, which meant everyone arrived carrying the last traces of break with them. Chairs scraped against the linoleum floor, exercise books landed with soft thumps on desks, and someone at the back was still trying to finish a packet of crisps before Madame Lewis noticed.

Daniel liked French well enough, not because he was especially good at it. He mixed up bleu and vert, never remembered whether fenêtre was masculine or feminine, and his accent wandered mysteriously between Edinburgh and somewhere vaguely Italian.

Still, French had pictures.

The textbooks were old enough that the corners had turned furry with use. Their covers showed smiling teenagers in jumpers that hadn’t been fashionable for many years, and inside every chapter was illustrated with neat drawings of families doing impossibly ordinary things.

Making breakfast, going shopping, walking the dog.

Nobody in the class paid them much attention.

Madame Lewis tapped the page with the end of a ruler.

“Exercise six. In pairs, please. One of you is Sophie, the other is her mother.”

Groans.

“Do we have to read it out?”

“Yes.”

A chorus of theatrical sighs rippled across the room.

Daniel found himself opposite Emma, who shrugged before they even looked at the page.

“You be Sophie,” she said. “I’ll be Mum.”

He nodded, trying to look as though it made no difference.

The hand-drawn illustration filled half of the page. A girl about his own age stood in a cheerful kitchen, wearing a red jumper over a navy skirt. Her dark hair was tied back with a blue ribbon. Beside her, a smiling woman stirred something in a saucepan while sunlight slanted through the window.

The dialogue beneath it was only six lines.

“Bonjour, Maman.”

“Bonjour, Sophie. Tu as bien dormi?”

“Oui, merci.”

Simple enough.

Madame Lewis walked slowly between the rows while conversations bloomed around the room in hesitant French.

Daniel looked at the picture once more before beginning.

“Bonjour, Maman.”

The words came out more easily than he expected.

Emma answered, smiling because her French accent was terrible.

“Bonjour, Sophie...”

They continued through the dialogue, stumbling over pronunciations and laughing quietly when Emma accidentally turned petit déjeuner into something completely unrecognisable.

When they finished, Madame Lewis paused beside their desks.

“Very nice, both of you. Daniel, good expression.”

He felt himself blush.

“Merci,” he mumbled automatically, making Emma grin.

The lesson moved on: verbs, vocabulary, corrections.

The class copied ma mère, mon père, ma sœur, mon frère into their exercise books.

Daniel copied them too.

But every so often his eyes drifted back to the drawing on the page.

He wondered what colour the rest of the kitchen was.

The artist had only shown one wall. There must be another window somewhere behind Sophie. Perhaps the table was just out of sight. Perhaps there was a kettle beginning to whistle, or toast already waiting on a plate.

When the bell rang, everyone snapped their books shut with relief.

“Don’t forget your homework,” Madame Lewis called after them.

Daniel slid his textbook into the pile on the front desk.

Just before he let go, he opened it one last time.

Sophie was still smiling at her mother.

He wasn’t quite sure why he looked.

Only that, somehow, he wanted to remember the picture.