Page 26 of The Dressmaker's Gift
She spotted them down by the boat, her father’s tall figure lifting empty creels from the stack on the quayside and passing them down to Marc on the deck. She was about to run to them when Fréd put out a hand to stop her. ‘Wait,’ he said quietly.
Out towards the end of the harbour wall, a crude concrete blockhouse had been built and a German sentry stood on top of its flat roof. Fortunately, his back was to them as he scanned the iron-grey sea for ships through a pair of binoculars. From the dark slits that were the eyes of the blockhouse, protruded the barrels of two machine guns. One pointed seawards, but the other was trained on the little harbour and on the men who worked on their boats there. Beyond the blockhouse, just before the little lighthouse at the end of the seawall that marked the entrance to the harbour for the fishing fleet as they returned home on dark nights, an anti-aircraft gun pointed to the sky, taunted by the jeering seabirds that wheeled above it.
The sight of her father and brother working beneath the threatening presence of the machine gun, which was trained upon them from the blockhouse, shocked Claire to the core. A gasp escaped her as Fréd pulled her back around the corner into the shelter of the lane. He put a finger to his lips, cautioning her to keep quiet.
‘We can’t go to them now, Claire, not with that German sentry on duty. We’d only draw attention to ourselves and that’s the last thing we want to do. Even with your excuse of coming home to see your family, they’ll be on the lookout for any new arrivals, for anything out of the ordinary. We’ll have to hide until darkness falls.’
Claire nodded, realising that he was right, even though the urge to run to her father and put herself between him and the sights of that gun turret was strong. She glanced around, then seized his hand. ‘Come on,’ she said. ‘We can get into the alleyway behind the house. The back door is never locked. We’ll be able to wait for them inside.’ She led him to a tiny gap in the wall on one side of the lane which opened on to a narrow, sandy path running between the back-to-back gardens of the fishermen’s cottages, each with its own outhouse. She pushed open the gate in a peeling picket fence and picked her way past the little patch of vegetables – neat rows of plaited leek leaves and feathery carrot tops – that had been cultivated in the sandy soil of the garden. She turned the handle of the back door and, with a smile of triumph at Fréd, pushed her way inside.
Her heart thumped at the sight of her family home. The rooms seemed smaller, somehow, and yet they were filled with artefacts that reminded her of her mother – the yellowing lace cloth on the sideboard where a few pieces of china were displayed, painted with a bright Breton design of leaves and flowers – and of her father, too. His chair by the fireplace sagged with the weight of his tired body, returned from the sea. She picked up an unravelling ball of twine which sat on the shelf alongside the chair and absent-mindedly rewound it, tucking the end in neatly and replacing it next to his seat.
In the kitchen, the stove had been damped down for the day while the men were out on the boat. Taking comfort from the feeling of being home again after so long, and from the familiarity of actions which had been a part of her daily life from as far back as she could recall, she riddled the embers and coaxed the fire back into life, then set a pan of water on the top to heat. ‘We could probably both do with a wash after that journey.’ She smiled. ‘And then we’ll see what there is for supper. Papa and Marc will be hungry when they get in. I doubt they’ll be long.’
Even though dusk was falling now, Claire didn’t light a lamp, nor did she draw the blackout curtains across the low, salt-scoured windows. The wind from the sea made the boats in the harbour jostle and nudge one another with the promise of a fresh breeze at dawn, when they would head out beyond the harbour walls once again to plough their way through the waves.
At last she heard them coming up the path and then stamping their boots on the rough seagrass matting at the front door to remove the sand. She waited for the door to open and then close behind them, making sure they were safely inside and hidden from view before going to meet them. In the darkening cottage, it took a few moments for her father to register that the figure standing before him in the hallway was Claire. Without a word, she held out her arms to him. And then he stepped up to her and buried his face in her hair as he wept.
She hugged him tightly, pressing her face into his chest, overwhelmed by the simultaneous strength and the fragility of this man – her father – who had lost his wife and one of his sons and had seen the remainder of his family torn apart by the war. Beneath the rough wool of his fisherman’s sweater, she felt his body heave with silent sobs, and her tears mingled with his as she kissed his cheek.
While their supper simmered on the stove, Claire asked for news of Jean-Paul and Théo. But her father just shook his head sorrowfully. ‘There’s been no word for months now. We just have to hope that they are together and that they are keeping their spirits up. They’d be proud to know that their little sister is playing her part in getting this war finished so that they can come home to us.’ Despite the warmth of his words, offering hope, it seemed to Claire that a darkness shadowed his eyes, betraying his anxiety.
Later, over hearty bowls of fish stew, Marc, Claire and Fréd talked about the war and about their experiences, while Claire’s father, who had always been a man of few words, watched his daughter’s face with an expression of bewildered wonder at having her back in the family home so unexpectedly.
Marc checked his watch. ‘It’s time for the broadcast, Papa.’ He got up from the table and crossed to where a wireless set sat in the corner of the room. It took a few seconds to warm up, but then the crackle of static cleared and the sound of a German propaganda station filled the cramped room. Very carefully, Marc adjusted the dials, turning down the volume and retuning the set. There was a snatch of dance music and then it stopped. After a brief silence a voice said, ‘Ici Londres! Les Français parlent aux Français...’
And then the distinctive opening bars of Beethoven’s Fifth Symphony played: three short notes followed by one more, stronger and more sustained. Claire looked at Marc in surprise. He held a finger to his lips.
Fréd leaned close to her, to explain. ‘It’s the letter “V” in Morse code. “V” for Victory,’ he whispered. ‘The Free French transmit these messages every evening from the BBC in London. They always open with these notes, encouraging Europe to resist. And then they let the networks know whether or not certain operations are to go ahead. It drives the Germans crazy – they know these messages are being transmitted but they can’t decode them because they sound like complete nonsense! And some of them are dummies to camouflage the real ones. Listen out for a message about “Tante Jeanne”. That’s the one for us, Monsieur Leroux said. If we hear it, we know everything is in place for tomorrow night.’
She held her breath, as the broadcaster announced, ‘Before we begin, please listen to some personal messages ...’ There followed what sounded to her like a jumbled collection of meaningless phrases.
And then she heard it. ‘Tante Jeannehas won the dance contest.’
Fréd grinned broadly and Marc got up to switch off the radio set, carefully retuning the dial to the German station and turning the volume back up before he did so.
She stood up from the table to clear the dishes, but as she did her father reached out his hand to take hers. ‘You’ve changed, Claire. Your mother would have been so proud of you. For everything. For your work in Paris and the work that has brought you here as well.’
Stooping to kiss the top of his head, she said, ‘We’ve all changed, Papa. I know now that no one can escape the stranglehold of this war on our country. But I’ve come to realise that we might be able to endure it if we stand together. Mireille and Vivi have shown me that.’
‘I’m glad to know you have such good friends in Paris.’
‘And I’m glad I have such a good family in Brittany. I’m proud of my roots, Papa, and of the home you have always made for us here in spite of all the hardships. I don’t think I realised before just how much a part of me that is. You and Mamangave me the security and the love that helped me to be brave enough to leave, and to be brave enough to return now too.’
Her father smiled, then said gruffly, ‘It’s time to turn in now. You must be tired after your long journey. Marc and I have an early start tomorrow to get the boat out before sandbanks in the channel become impassable on the low tide. That means we’ll be back early too, though.’
‘I’ll be up before you leave,’ she promised. ‘I want to make your coffee for you just like I used to.’
Marc stood up too, stretching his lanky frame. ‘Yes, time for bed. And then tomorrow evening we will get Fréd here to the cove for you.’
She gave him a questioning look, raising her eyebrows, and he laughed. ‘You’re not the only member of the family who moonlights, you know, Claire!’
The new moon, whose pull had drawn back the ocean to expose the harbour’s muddy floor, was swathed in the shadows of the night when the four figures slipped silently up the hill from the house. They kept to the maze of back lanes between the clustered cottages, out of sight of the sentries in the pill-box on the harbour wall who, they hoped, would have given up scanning the dark expanse of the sea, knowing that the tide was now too low for enemy warships or submarines to get close to the Breton coast.
Claire’s father held out a helping hand as she scrambled up the side of the rocky promontory, through the scrubby pines that lent an extra layer of cover to the darkness. Marc tried to make her stay behind in the cottage, but she was adamant that she needed to come too, mindful that she had to carry out Monsieur Leroux’s instructions to the letter. The oilskin package crackled in her pocket.
Her scalp prickled with a mixture of sweat and fear beneath the dark woollen cap that she wore to hide her hair. She was conscious that they were at their most exposed here, climbing the slope which faced the harbour, and at every moment she expected a searchlight to sweep the hillside or a harsh voice to shout, ‘Halt!’ followed by the rattle of machine-gun fire cutting them down in their tracks. But they climbed on steadily and there was nothing but silence and darkness and the soft night breeze which smelt of the sea and cooled the nape of her neck.
Marc led the way, moving carefully but with a stealth and speed born of familiarity with the terrain. His feet scarcely dislodged the pebbles on the sandy path that was etched into the heathland at the top of the ridge.
