Page 2 of Resistance
Making her way towards the centre of the village, Maude nodded politely to the locals who too were heading for the service. It took only minutes to arrive and as she passed through the iron gates of the walled cemetery, the first face she sought was that of themaire, Gabriel. She couldn’t help herself, not anymore. The slight nod of his head told Maude he’d been watching for her too, as did the look in his eyes before he quickly turned away. Their affair, that began with a coming together of minds and shared interest, had evolved. Maude had no idea where it was heading but for now it was better like this, safer, avoiding scandal or distress. Gabriel was already positioned by the memorial and preparing for the service, his wife by his side. This observation irritated Maude immensely and the woman’s dour presence was something she resolved to firmly ignore for the remainder of the day.
Instead, Maude focused on the cenotaph. It was engraved with the names of the fallen from the village and surrounding areas and each would be read out during the service. The ritual was always the same, a sombre moment shared, a time to reflect, but since the passing of Dottie, Maude was ever more unsettled, disappointed in fact.
Even though she had not died for France, Dottie had taken her last breath in the country she had always secretly loved the most, in a little village that she could finally call home. But it was more than that. Maude’s brave and indomitable grandmother had once fought on this soil, almost two tumultuous years of risking her life every day, experiencing fear and heartbreak, love and loss.
Maude understood why Dottie’s name would never be called out, but it was the omission of her memory, her service and dedication to duty that rankled. And there was something else. Almost to the last, Dottie had fought for and believed in justice, righting a wrong, serving revenge stone cold, laying the past to rest. She’d solved a mystery that had rocked her and others to the core. This and one of her final acts, borne in some ways of retribution, brought her freedom and acceptance. It allowed her to come back home for good.
Dottie never believed in taking the path of least resistance and for most of her life, seemed to take great pleasure in doing the opposite, refusing to be tamed or trussed. For this reason, once Dottie had been laid to rest in the village graveyard by the side of her great love, Maude had decided that somehow, some way, her grandmother would be remembered, not just in her memoirs. With the help of Gabriel and after many months and hours together, time well spent in many ways, they gathered everything they needed. Now, with the blessing of the commune and after the service of remembrance, Maude’s tribute to her grandmother and her comrades would be revealed.
It was time. The Tricolor blew in the wind while the bugler played his sad lament. Gabriel began his speech, bringing the carved names back to life, if only in memory. And as they were remembered one by one, Maude touched the antique ring on her finger, and her heart swelled with pride for the young English girl who looked like a mouse but had the heart of a lion.
Placing a hand on her bag, Maude smiled. The book inside, written by an adoring granddaughter, told of an unassuming waitress who enlisted at the start of the war, then became an SOE operative, and after being dropped into France in the dead of night became a courier for the Historian Network, a trusted member of the Resistance, proud fighter with the Maquis and loyal supporter of the Free French.
Her family called her Dorothy ‘Dottie’ Tanner, the villagers knew her as Yvette Giroux, but in London, her code name was Nadine.
Dottie’s Party
London, 2005
Dottie sipped her gin and lemonade while silently thanking goodness that the birthday song and candle blowing palaver was over with. She wanted to relax, enjoy a quiet drink and a huge slice of chocolate cake.
The private room above their favourite Italian restaurant was teeming with guests, some of them Dottie didn’t know from Adam, others she vaguely recalled from weddings and funerals and various family endurance tests. Ragtag remnants of her life. Two step-children, one ex-husband who was pickled as usual, a sprinkling of cousins, God only knew how many times removed, neighbours, and her daughter’s churchy lot. Had she the patience, Dottie could have named them all because even though most days she couldn’t find her specs or her slippers, she clung on to her perspicacity, a word Dottie loved and was worth twenty-three points in Scrabble.
Still, Dottie had no idea why Jean, her daughter, had invited so many people and she bloody well hoped she was paying the bill because the birthday girl had no intention of doing so. A quiet celebration with friends was what Dottie had asked for. An evening of ‘Guess the Dubious Family Member’ was what she got. Dottie bloody hated her birthday and for a very good reason.
In a rare moment of humility Dottie thought,Bless Jean. Maybe she was being a churlish and ungrateful old biddy, after all, she was luckier than most. Not only that, her daughter meant well and did her best, despite being in a permanent state of fluster. For this reason, Dottie would be sure to thank Jean the next time she bustled byand, just to be on the safe side, appear to be suitably grateful for at least a month. Her daughter would no doubt ask a hundred times if Dottie had enjoyed her unsurprising eighty-fifth birthday bash because it was the same with everything – days out, Christmas, even bloody mealtimes when you were expected to rave about some under- or over-cooked faddy concoction.
Jean had always been a bit of an attention-seeker with a cloying need for praise and appreciation. Dottie had always found it very tiresome. In fact, Jean could be tiresome in general, not that mother would ever say that of daughter – out loud anyway. In return Jean openly blamed all her failures and foibles, the absence of an alcoholic father most of all, on her mother.
In some respects, Dottie accepted the blame, after all nobody was perfect, even her. But despite minor irritations she did love Jean and was grateful for her devotion, sometimes. This reminded Dottie not to let on that she had known all about the party. You didn’t need to be a spy to work it out and this was not a time for point scoring. Although Dottie thought she did deserve an accolade for looking astounded by the bloody annoying party poppers and the cries of ‘surprise’. Dottie was glad she’d had her wavy bob recoloured and styled, her Rita Hayworth red needed a bit of help these days. For an old trooper she scrubbed up quite well.
With a shake of the head, she noted that Jean was presently fulfilled in her role as hostess, carving up cake and wrapping it in pink serviettes, while her husband Ralph dutifully loaded them onto a tray.Good old Ralph, thought Dottie who smiled, then turned her attention from Mr Under-the-Thumb to someone infinitely more interesting who was seated by her side. It was her oldest, marvellously still alive (just like her) favourite and adored friend.
‘Konstantin, pour me some vodka. Now I’ve done my duty to Jean I feel like getting outrageously tipsy especially as I managed not to dribble all over the cake when I blew out the inferno. Thank God I plucked my whiskers.’
Dottie slid her glass containing the gin dregs to one side and watched as Konstantin poured a shot of clear liquid which she then raised in a Russian toast. ‘Nah zda rovh yeh.’
‘Cheers,’ replied Konstantin, raising his glass before downing the shot, ‘ands dnem rozhdeniya.’
This was their tradition, harking back to the days when they’d met and his first ever ‘happy birthday’ toast to Dottie, just like the bunch of wild flowers that lay on the table before them.
Dottie downed her shot and didn’t flicker as the vodka burned its path down her throat, then pushed her glass forward for a top-up, before quizzing Konstantin.
‘So, you old fox, what tricks have you been up to lately? I need you to tell me something thrilling and wicked and, of course, totally secret.’
At this Konstantin chuckled and pulled at the point of his gingery-white beard with one hand, meeting her misty green eyes in challenge, his similarly misty blue ones shielded by his spectacles. ‘Now, now, my little Zaya, you know the rules, ladies first.’
Dottie laughed out loud and tapped his hand. She loved to be called Zaya, little rabbit, it had for many, many years been Konstantin’s private term of endearment and one he’d given her in France when they first met.
‘Stop it right now… you know full well I have nothing of interest to tell you apart from who cheats at poker nights and steals books from the library, oh, but here’s something. I’m sure the chap who lives three doors down on the opposite side of our road, you know, the house with the permanently closed blinds and the big red door, well I’m convinced he pays for a prostitute twice a week.’ Dottie waited for a reaction then tutted when none was forthcoming.
‘I knew it. Unless he’s in the Cabinet or a minor royal, that will be of no interest to you whatsoever, will it? Now, come on, it’s your turn. Off you go.’
‘Ah, Zaya, you know me too well, but your information is duly noted. After all we never know who lives in our midst, do we?’
Dottie returned his wicked grin. ‘We certainly don’t but stop stalling, a trade is a trade.’
‘Well actually I do have something you might find of use, but I will expect great favours in return… as usual.’ The grey-haired Lenin lookalike raised a wispy eyebrow.
