Chapter Eight
A BORING BEGINNING
The next morning I awake to the sounds of Madame Duguay humming a tune in the kitchen.
I roll over to check the clock on the bedside table.
7:01.
Wow, I slept like...
I do the math in my head, counting backwards from the time I went to bed the night before. Pretty much right after our tea and cookies in the living room.
...fourteen hours!
“So this is jet lag...” I mutter, sliding back the covers and slipping into the slippers lent to me by Madame Duguay.
“Good morning! Did you sleep well?”
Madame Duguay greets me with a smile and a pinch on the cheek as I enter the kitchen, still bleary-eyed and feeling as though my head’s about to fall off my shoulders.
“You can sit there,” she says, pointing to a spot at the table.
I nod and dutifully trudge toward my chair.
“Can I get you something to drink, dear? Orange juice...tea?”
“Orange juice would be nice.”
Madame Duguay smiles and then turns her head every so slightly.
“ARMAND!”
The tall, willowy figure of Monsieur Duguay appears in the kitchen doorway.
“Go and fetch some orange juice from the cellar. Sarah would like some.”
He looks at me and I suddenly feel a need to explain myself.
“Oh, it’s okay. There’s no need to go and get it special...whatever’s in the fridge is fine...”
Madame Duguay rests her hands on her hips, a steak knife in one hand and a dish rag in the other. “Nonsense. You’re a guest and you shall have what you like for breakfast.” She turns on her heel and snaps her fingers at Armand. “Orange juice.”
The man nods obediently and with another glance in my direction (I can’t tell by his expression whether he’s annoyed or not at having to go and fetch me orange juice), he disappears through the doorway.
“You were out for quite awhile!” she exclaims, bustling around the kitchen, cracking eggs into a large bowl and chopping green onions on a large wooden cutting board.
“Yeah...”
I play casually with my fork, twirling it through my fingers, allowing my brain the opportunity to finish waking up.
“Troy and your Uncle Marty stayed up with us for quite awhile.”
“Oh?”
“Yes,” she says, smiling at me as she opens the fridge door. “And I heard quite a bit about you.”
Damn it, Uncle Marty!
“Oh...yeah?” I force a small laugh. “What did you hear?”
“Oh, only good things,” she says, seeing my expression. “Your uncle told me you have quite the knack for history. It runs in the family I suppose.”
I sigh with relief. If that’s the kind of thing he was busy telling her, then I have no need to worry. “Yeah...I like it. We’ve got a pretty good teacher - well at least this year we had a pretty good teacher. Last year...” I make a face, “not so much.”
Madame Duguay makes eye contact with me and nods with understanding as she returns to the counter with a thing of cream in her hand.
“Yes, a good teacher can make all the difference in the world,” she says.
I watch as she adds it to the eggs.
“Yeah.”
“Our Pierre, he had some difficulty learning English and one of his teachers - and this was in England too mind you - really went out of his way to help him.”
I nod. “How old was he when you guys moved to England?”
Madame Duguay smiles at the question as she returns the cream to the fridge. “Just a second, I have to think about that one...it’s been so long...”
“Good morning.”
The figure of Uncle Marty has appeared in the doorway and now he’s headed to the table, picking a grape from a bunch of grapes in a bowl.
“Well, good morning, Monsieur Rosenberg! And how did you sleep?”
Uncle Marty throws me a smile as he stretches his arms above his head and yawns like a walrus. “Like a baby, Madame Duguay. Like a baby.”
“We didn’t have orange juice, but I found - ”
Armand stops short as he encounters my uncle standing before him.
“Good morning, Armand.”
“Good morning, Martin. Did you sleep well?”
“I did, thank you. Madame Duguay just finished asking me in fact.”
“Ah, we tend to do that,” says Armand with a chuckle, setting a carton of what appears to be apple juice on the counter.
“We didn’t have any orange juice?” Madame Duguay asks, eyes on her husband as she wipes her knife on the dishrag.
“No. I thought we did...”
“Me too...” Madame Duguay turns and looks at me, her expression apologetic. “Apple juice okay?”
“Yes, of course. I’m not picky.”
Uncle Marty looks at me as though this is a lie, and I resolutely avoid his gaze.
“Would you like some coffee, Monsieur Rosenberg?” asks Armand, reaching into the cupboard and removing two coffee mugs.
“That would be nice.”
Uncle Marty takes a seat at the table as the sounds of my orange juice and Uncle Marty’s coffee being poured fill the kitchen.
“Here you are.”
“And here’s your coffee.”
“Thanks,” Uncle Marty and I say in unison as the two Duguay’s deposit our drinks on the table.
“You’re most welcome.”
“Good morning!”
Troy’s just entered the kitchen now and he strides confidently toward me and plops himself down in the empty chair beside me.
Guess he’s not mad at my anymore...
“And how did you sleep, Mr. Trottier?” asks Armand, the carafe in his hand as he offers some to Troy.
“Oh, no thanks,” says Troy with a wave of his hand. “I slept great. Thanks. Very comfy.”
“Comfy?” asks Madame Duguay, obviously perplexed by the word.
“Comfortable,” says Troy and at this Madame Duguay gives a nod of understanding.
“Oh, okay. Geez, this old lady’s starting to forget her English!”
“Rubbish,” says Uncle Marty. “Your English is quite extraordinary, Madame Duguay.”
I notice she turns a neat shade of red as she finishes cutting up the green onions and scrapes them into the fry pan on the stovetop. “Oh, you,” she chuckles. “Yes...” she sighs. “It’s been nine years since we left England...”
I ignore the rest of what she says as I realize this is also the time around which their son, Pierre, passed away. Curious as I am to know how he did, in fact, die, I’m too nervous to ask. Especially with Uncle Marty sitting right across the table.
“Oooohhh, whooooaaa,” Uncle Marty exclaims. “This is some strong coffee! I’d heard you French take your coffee strong, but this!”
Madame Duguay and her husband both laugh. “You didn’t put any cream in it?”
Uncle Marty shudders (presumably from the effect of the coffee) and shakes his head wearily. “No...I didn’t know there was any.”
Madame Duguay crosses the kitchen and comes over to the table, surveying it quickly and then looking disappointed. “I forgot to put some out! Pardon me. Let me get you some - and here, take this, you’ve dribbled a bit on your shirt,” she says, handing Uncle Marty a napkin as I’m forced to bite my lip to keep from laughing.