Page 72 of Resistance
‘It was taken on his twenty-first birthday, almost ten years before you met him. Doesn’t he look handsome? Here, I have another, taken at La Baule. I think this is more how you remember him. It was a family day out and Papa had borrowed my uncle’s camera.’ Béatrice passed the album over and placed it on Dottie’s knee then pointed to the young man on the beach, leaning against some rocks, legs outstretched and arms crossed, laying in his lap. The unruly mop of hair was untamed and fell upon his forehead above laughing eyes. Vincent was smiling into the camera; happy, carefree and alive.
Sliding out the photo Béatrice passed it to Dottie. ‘We will have copies made of any that you like. Look, here is one of me.’
Dottie flicked away her tears, glad of the diversion from Vincent’s face. There she was, that young woman who sashayed along the street, attracting admiring glances. Béatrice was a character that was for sure, a handful before the war, a liability during it, but she had such spirit back then, ajoie de vivrethat even Hitler couldn’t tame. In the photo she was leaning against the gate of the farm, her lips formed to a pout, her hair ironed into curls, her eyes full of mischief and as Dottie looked up, at the face of now Béatrice, her heart felt sad.
Not only had this beautiful young woman been plunged into a life of occupation, she had been terrorised and shamed, the legacy of which formed the rest of her life. Without even having to ask, Dottie knew why Béatrice had transformed herself into the dutiful wife and mother, devoted supplicant. The fight had left Béatrice the day they brought her brother’s body home. Resistance was futile, so she gave in and became the opposite of everything she’d once strove to avoid. Dottie hoped that the truth would set Béatrice free and for the remainder of her life, a little bit of thatjoie de vivre, her spirit of resistance, would return. Béatrice deserved that.
They continued to peruse the album for a while longer, laughing at the photos within, pointing and remembering some of the faded faces and places, a black-and-white homage to the past.
They had reached the last page when Béatrice looked up, wearing a startled expression. ‘I have just realised something.’
Dottie responded with a quizzical look but allowed her to continue.
‘I know you as Yvette, that’s how I have always thought of you, but it has suddenly occurred to me that this cannot be your real name… so please forgive me if you are upset in any way by my use of it.’
Dottie waved away Béatrice’s worries. ‘There is no need to apologise, in fact I am enjoying being twenty-four again, if only in our memories and I love my French name, and my code name too, I always have.’
Béatrice sighed and looked relieved. ‘I didn’t even know you had a code name, thank God. What was it, you can tell me now?’
‘Nadine. That’s how London knew it was me sending them messages.’
‘Mmm, I like it. But tell me, what is your real name? I must say I would have been confused if I’d had so many and my stupid young self would have definitely made a mistake.’
Dottie gave Béatrice a gentle nudge. ‘You must stop putting yourself down, from this moment on, I insist. Like I said, they were harsh, terrible times. You have punished yourself enough.’
Béatrice’s smile lit up her face that had colour in it at last, fewer lines, the tension easing. ‘All right, I will try. So what is it, your real name?’
‘Dorothy but everyone calls me Dottie.’
Béatrice was most perplexed by this. ‘Oh no, Dottie does not seem right at all. To me you are Yvette. Can I still call you that? It makes me feel warm inside.’ She touched her heart as she spoke.
At this Dottie laughed and mimicked the action. ‘You know something, Béatrice, in here I think I will always be Yvette, so it’s fine.’
The sound of the door handle turning, and the appearance of Arlette and Maude interrupted the laughter that filled the room. As more introductions were made, a thought crossed Dottie’s mind. After spending more than half of her life running away from the past, now she had returned it was bathing her in happiness. Slowly, step by step, she was wading through the sadness and hurt, making sense of it all.
There was another chapter of the story to be written down, and after Béatrice’s part was committed to Maude’s journal, the final scenes would have to be played out. In the meantime, Dottie wanted to wallow, walk in her own faded footsteps, and touch the hands of those who had survived, whose misty faces often appeared in her memory.
The man who invaded her dreams, well, he was gone forever but at least she had a photo, and until they met again, she would hold on tightly to the hands of his family. That would see her through, it was enough for now.
42
Vincent’s Letter
Renazé, 2005
There were six of them seated around the table in the boardroom, all of them awaiting themairewho, as Francine had sarcastically predicted, would want to make a grand entrance. She was correct. When the door opened and the receptionist-cum-secretary stood to one side for Monsieur Lasalle to enter, Martine, Béatrice, Dottie, Maude, Arlette and, grudgingly, Francine got to their feet while Polo remained in his wheelchair.
Dottie focused on the clay splattered cement sack that he was carrying like he’d baked a cake. She couldn’t see what was on it because it was covered by plastic and she thought it was kind that the builders had sought to protect it.
They had been drinking coffee on the lawn at Béatrice’s when Dottie took the call to say that the builders had uncovered Vincent’s bag, and they should come to themaire’s office at once. Dottie couldn’t believe that after all the hours Polo had actually waited there, he’d been at the dentist and had missed the big moment, such was Sod’s law. The foreman had delivered the bag to themaire’s immediately, the importance of the find lost on the builders, who wanted only to get on unhindered by treasure seekers.
Once he’d walked to the head of the table, Monsieur Lasalle looked at each of them one by one and said, ‘Are we ready?’ at which point Dottie saw the eye roll from Francine as they all muttered or nodded their agreement.
Carefully and respectfully, he removed the top layer and there it was, the leather poacher’s bag that Vincent always wore slung across his body. Dottie felt it, a tangible connection between her and the bag, a link to the past. The leather was faded to a murky grey, aged by damp and whatever rain had managed to trickle its way through and beneath layers and layers of brick rubble. It was covered in dust, the thick stitching eroded, the buckles rusted, but still firmly fastened since the last time Polo had touched it, sixty years ago.
‘Monsieur, Mesdames.’ Themairelooked from Polo to Dottie to Béatrice. ‘Would one of you like to open it, or shall I?’
The bag by rights belonged to Béatrice, but they had all agreed that the secret about Claude the traitor belonged to all of them and for now it should stay that way. The pact was made before Monsieur Lasalle had entered the room. It was a family secret, and the note from Vincent was from him to Yvette, they had agreed this also.
