Page 71 of Resistance
Silence fell between them and Dottie watched as Béatrice bent her head and slowly turned the rings on her finger. When she looked up and spoke to Dottie there was softness in her voice, she sounded calm.
‘Thank you for telling me the truth, Yvette. It took great courage and cannot have been easy.’ She reached over and took Dottie’s hand in hers.
The response was simple and sincere. ‘As did yours, Béatrice.’
Both women allowed themselves a smile.
‘I forgive you, for Jörg. It was war and you were a soldier, as was he. I have no doubt that had his life been threatened by you, then we would not be having this conversation today.’
Dottie felt a great lump form in her throat so coughed gently in order to disperse it. ‘Thank you, Béatrice, that means a great deal. But I did not come here for forgiveness. I didn’t expect it for one moment nor feel I deserve it, although I did want to set the record straight.’
‘Well you have succeeded in your task and I think you have been incredibly honourable, not to mention brave. I expect you were prepared to face the monstrous Béatrice of the past, and all you found was a silly old grandmother haunted by secrets of her own.’
‘I was actually quite looking forward to sparring with young Béatrice again, you always did give everyone a run for their money, but I have to say, I think I prefer the mature version.’
Béatrice smiled. ‘And I was expecting a fiery redhead to come marching in and read me the riot act, so I too am relieved to see a calmer Yvette. We make quite a pair, don’t we? Fancy that.’
At this they both laughed. It was good to feel some of the tension leave the room. But there were still things they needed to discuss, and Dottie brought up one of them, Claude.
‘It rocked my world, you know, when Polo told me about Claude because I trusted him, we all did. So many things have clicked into place, like one of those impossible Japanese puzzles, and now a huge part of my life feels like a sham. I am sure that had I not spirited him away that night he would have stayed behind and caused even more mayhem. You and your family could have been interned. Either that or he would have carried on dangling you on a string, the vile creature that he is.’
‘Either scenario fills me with horror. But tell me, how do you know he is still alive, you seem very certain?’
‘Ah, well, this is what I mean about my life being a sham because the Claude that we knew then did very well after the war and took me under his wing, or so I thought. Now I suspect he was keeping me close, just in case I ever made contact with what remained of the Maquis. I think Claude was afraid that he would be identified because as you said, many of the Resistance wanted revenge and someone may have discovered who the traitor was.’
Béatrice was inquisitive. ‘So Claude, he is still your friend?’
Dottie nodded. ‘Yes, he is. All these years I have been proud to call him that and all the while he was duping me, again.’
‘What do you intend to do with this information? Can he be punished? Even now, when he is an old man?’
The answer to this was not going to be simple, mainly because Dottie hadn’t decided what her next step would be. ‘Oh yes, he can be punished, he will be punished, but I haven’t worked out the best way to go about it yet, so for now, I would like Polo’s secret to remain between us, and our families of course. The less people know the better and then I can use the element of surprise to our advantage.’
‘Like one last mission.’
Smiling, Dottie took Béatrice’s hand. ‘Yes, exactly. It will be our final mission to avenge our comrades. One way or another, the traitor will pay. But before that, I would like to spend some time with you and Polo, perhaps arrange a reunion for anyone from the old days… what do you think?’
Béatrice looked delighted and squeezed Dottie’s hands. ‘I think that is a wonderful idea and I will help. I know many of the families hereabouts and we can spread the word through the church, or perhaps we should go to the post office and tell them there, that usually does the trick.’ Béatrice winked and chuckled.
She was back, that cheeky young woman Dottie remembered so well, like the click of a shutter, transporting them back through time. It was this thought that gave rise to another. For a second Dottie held back, perhaps wary of disappointment or lacking the courage she required to look directly at the past. But she had come this far so she asked Béatrice a question.
‘I wonder, do you have a photo of Vincent? I have survived for so long on my memories of him and I know we didn’t take many in those days, but perhaps you have some of him as a child, anything really.’ Those damn tears were welling again so Dottie forced them away, chiding her lack of control.
‘Of course, I have some, not many like you say, and they are quite faded, but I will bring them at once. And I’ll ask Arlette to fetch more refreshments. Would like you to stay for lunch so that we may talk more? I feel like I never want to let you go.’
‘That’s exactly how I feel, Béatrice, and of course I will stay, but could I ask my granddaughter? She’s here with me and I would love you both to meet.’
‘Of course, please tell her to come at once. I cannot say how my heart has lifted. For the first time since I can’t remember, it feels like a feather. I shall go and find Arlette while you make your call. I will be back soon with the photos.’ With that, Béatrice gave Dottie’s hands another squeeze before she stood and hurried from the room.
Placing her palms on her cheeks in the hope of cooling them down, Dottie closed her eyes and smiled, relief flooding her body. After taking a moment to have a word with herself, she got on with ringing Maude and then waited patiently for Béatrice to return.
The breeze from the double doors brushed Dottie’s face as she took in the paintings on the wall, and after being thoroughly depressed by all of them she hoped that now she had exorcised the past, Béatrice might reconsider her choice of art. Really, there was only so much penance one could pay and she really didn’t deserve so many scenes of crucifixion, gutted fish and the all-knowing eyes of Mother Mary. Perhaps Maude might donate one of her oils, or failing that, they could go to IKEA and buy some jolly prints, anything was better than this.
She was dragged away from her critique by the return of Béatrice bearing a photo album, the sight of which made Dottie’s heart flutter.
‘Here I am, and I have told Arlette to listen for Maude and to bring her through as soon as she arrives.’ Positioning herself on the sofa, Béatrice opened the album and flicked over the pages until she found what she was looking for, then slid out a photograph before silently handing it to Dottie.
With an uncharacteristic trembling of the hand, Dottie looked upon the image of a smartly dressed young man seated, perhaps in a photographer’s studio. He sat bolt upright and wore a suit, the colour indistinguishable, with a white shirt under a waistcoat, his tie appeared too tight, or was it the collar that pinched his neck? Despite the unfamiliar garb, Dottie would have known the face anywhere, even with his unruly hair scraped back and held in place by barber’s wax. Vincent. The square set of his jaw and long, slightly bent to the side nose, deep, dark eyes meeting the challenge of the camera just as he met everything, with determination and, yes, a haughty look of pride. Dottie could not speak but her lips trembled, and she wondered how it was possible for your heart to break yet sing with joy all at once.
