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voice, ‘and I must say I am not impressed.’
    ‘What complaint?’ She ran over all the things she’d done that her father could reasonably object to.
    ‘It concerns Daniel Giraud. Apparently you pulled a knifeon him the day before yesterday. What on earth were you doing with a knife?’
    She felt herself grow hot. The little sod hadn’t wasted any time snitching. She tucked her hair behind her ears. ‘That is not what happened. He had the knife. Look, I’ve still got the cut on my cheek! It wasn’t me.’
    ‘He is a small boy, timid too.’
    ‘He may seem that way –’
    She was cut short by her father’s voice. ‘I will not have my daughter behaving like a ruffian. You must write a letter of apology.’
    ‘They were bullying Yvette. The boy’s a racist, like his father.’
    ‘Nevertheless, it is what you will do,’ her father said. ‘His father may be racist but he is the new chief of police, and this would have gone further had he not been an acquaintance of mine.’
    He pointed outside. ‘The best thing you can do with a knife is to cut the throats of those wretched birds.’
    He turned on his heels and went back into his office.
    She listened to the sounds of the world through the open window after he’d gone, then a little later she heard him showing his visitor out before going round to the back garden. His footsteps grew loud, and then they faded, so she tagged after him and saw he was sitting on a bench overlooking the pond, now covered in blossoms. Their sweet scent drifted over but he was holding his head in his hands, oblivious. He looked up, snapped off a rose from a nearby bush, sniffed it, then threw it on the path where he ground it down with his heel.
    Despite their differences, and his increasingly short fuse, she knew he was worried about the unrest in the country. He didn’t care to call it a war, though it was common knowledge that, not so very far beyond the city of Hanoi, battles were being fought and lost.
    The flying insects were out in force now and the garden was in constant motion with a breeze rustling the leaves. She watched the wide branches of the pipal tree blowing sideways and the birds flying about in the area overlooking the ponds. A light mist wafted over the water as she picked a few wild daisies and then chatted to the gardener in Vietnamese while he watered the hedge of hydrangeas.
    When her father noticed her he beckoned her over and moved to leave space for her beside him on the bench.
    ‘I’m sorry I was brusque. I’m glad you’ve decided to take on the shop.’
    ‘And I’m sorry to be ungrateful.’ She paused. ‘Papa, can I ask you something?’
    ‘Of course.’
    ‘Is it true the Vietminh are creeping closer to Hanoi?’
    He stared at her. ‘Why would you say that?’
    ‘Because of the rumours. Lisa heard something about a bomb in the ancient quarter. And you’ve been so preoccupied, I thought it might be that.’
    ‘It’s nonsense. And even if the Vietminh do win the support of some rural villages, they will never beat the French army.’ He drew a newspaper from his jacket pocket. ‘See, no bomb.’
    Nicole read the headlines. True enough, the bombing was denied, but she read that a French official had been assassinated by a Vietminh hiding in a bamboo grove.
    She pointed at it. ‘What about this assassination?’
    ‘Unfortunate, but the fighting is far away in the paddy fields and mountains. It’s the peasants who are suffering.’
    ‘Do you hate the Vietnamese?’
    Her father looked taken aback. ‘Of course not. Your mother was Vietnamese. But we French have made the country what it is today. Us alone. And only we can rule it properly. Now I must be off. I have a late meeting with Mark Jenson.’
    ‘He’s nice, isn’t he?’
    Her father frowned. ‘Best not to get too close to him, Nicole.’
    ‘Why not? He’s just a silk trader.’
    Her father didn’t reply.
    ‘I’ll start tomorrow at the shop, if that’s all right. Give it a