Page 27 of The Dressmaker's Gift
And then they began the steep descent into the tiny, concealed cove on the other side of the headland. The bare rock of the cliff face was almost vertical, but Marc pointed silently to hidden handholds and footholds – barely visible in the starlight – that had been chiselled into it here and there, allowing them to make their way down.
The sea had eaten away at the base of the cliffs towards one end of the cove, hollowing out a cave. Usually it could only be reached by wading or swimming through the waves that lapped along the shoreline, but tonight the low water scarcely covered the uppers of their boots.
In the pitch blackness of the cave, all was silent apart from the soft sound of the water lapping against the stone walls. The darkness and the shifting of the sea around her feet almost overwhelmed Claire for a moment, her head spinning with a wave of dizziness, and she might have fallen were it not for her father’s steadying hand beneath her elbow. She jumped, involuntarily, as a match flared, illuminating the faces of two more men, who stood in the darkness alongside a small wooden sailing dinghy, its furled sails the same colour as the ink-black sea. One of the men bent to hold the match to the wick of an oil lamp that had been set down on a rough shelf cut into the wall of the cave, casting a soft glow over the scene.
The boatmen shook hands all round and if they were surprised to see a young woman in the party, they didn’t show it. Claire had no idea how the lines of communication worked within these secret networks, although she supposed messages were passed by notes slipped from hand to hand, as well as by hidden wireless transmitters and the coded messages that were broadcast over the airwaves from the BBC in London. So perhaps they had been expecting her to be there, accompanying Fréd, and he was just the latest cargo to be transported. They clearly seemed to know Marc and her father well, and Claire’s heart swelled with emotion as she realised that they, too, had been playing their part in the Resistance.
As the men prepared to board the boat for departure, Claire drew Fréd aside into the shadows. ‘Here,’ she said quietly, ‘you’re to take this and deliver it to the man who will meet you on the other side.’ She handed him the slim parcel which had been so well wrapped to protect its contents from the lengthy sea journey around the point of Finistère and across the Channel to England.
‘Okay.’ He nodded. ‘I’ll see it gets there. Thank you, Claire, for everything. I could never have found my way here without the help of you and your family.’ He embraced her warmly and then tucked the package she’d given him into his shirt.
‘Bonne route,’ she said. He turned to leave, but then looked back at her as if he were about to say something more. They were both silent for a moment. And then she said, ‘And I’ll give your love to Mireille, shall I?’
He grinned as he climbed aboard the dinghy, saying, ‘So you’re a mind reader too, are you, as well as a fellow commando?’ And he saluted her before taking his seat, as she handed over the lantern which the boatman extinguished. Then Marc and her father pushed the little sailing boat out on to the open water and it was swallowed up by the darkness.
She listened to the sound of the oars until it, too, was extinguished by the hush of the waves which washed on to the sand in the tiny, hidden cove.
Harriet
With each part of Claire’s story that is revealed, I feel as if the foundations of my life are shifting like wave-sculpted sand beneath my feet.
Before I came to Paris, I had created a framework for my life which was built on the few remnants of family that were all that remained after my mother’s death had swept so much away. I’d boarded up rooms within my mind where painful memories were stored, and shored up the walls with my own loneliness. But now I can see how much I shut out, while I was constructing that carapace. The stories of Mireille and Vivi have encouraged me to unlock some of those doors and take down the blackout on the windows of my own history, allowing me to discover more of Claire’s story.
So now I know that a strand of the fragile threads from which my grandmother’s life was woven connects me to Brittany, to a tiny fishing community clinging to the rocky, Atlantic-battered finger of land that points west. That wind scoured sliver of land produced men who were tough enough to take on the ocean and win, and women who were resilient enough to raise their families against unforgiving odds.
When I relay this chapter of Claire’s story to Thierry, over a shared pan ofmoules marinièrein a bistro in the Marais that evening, he laughs.
‘Well that explains a lot about you,’ he says, depositing an empty shell in the bowl that sits between us.
‘What do you mean?’ I ask, immediately on the defensive.
He reaches over and helps himself to a few more of the matchstick chips that accompany the mussels. ‘Brittany is one of the most fiercely independent regions of France, and the Breton people have a reputation for stubbornness and determination.’ He uses the chips for emphasis, pointing them at me before popping them into his mouth. ‘And you are one of the most fiercely independent women I have ever met. It’s obvious that Breton blood runs in your veins. Alongside your Britishsangfroid, of course. What a combination! Now I understand how you had the confidence to come to Paris, fresh out of university, and talk your way in to one of the most sought-after positions in one of the most competitive industries.’
I digest this for a moment, along with another handful of chips from the basket. Is that how people see me? Independent? Confident? It’s the last thing I’ve ever felt. But maybe Thierry is right, maybe it has been there all along, a seam of Breton granite that underpins my temperament.
Claire had it too. Although she had wanted to leave her simple family home for the bright lights of Paris, her Breton roots ran deep enough to anchor her when the storms of war raged.
Now I know that she could be brave. And with that knowledge, instead of envying the courage of outsiders and feeling weak in comparison, I can begin to feel the strength of my own family running in my veins.
Shame has been replaced by self-respect, dishonour by dignity. It’s words that have made this change, the words that tell my grandmother’s story. And I want to know more.
On an impulse – and impulsiveness is another aspect of my character which has lain buried beneath layers of fear, anxiety and protective caution until now – I lean forwards and say to Thierry, ‘How would you like to come with me on a road trip? Maybe next weekend, if you’re free?’
He smiles a slow smile and I notice how it lights up his face, like a sunrise. ‘To Brittany?’ he asks. ‘You and me together?’
I reach across, take his hand in mine, and I say, ‘You and me. Together.’
We check into a bed and breakfast in Concarneau, a pretty fishing port not far from Port Meilhon. The journey from Paris has taken hours so we dump our bags and hurry out to look for somewhere where we can get a late supper. The town has a distinct out-of-season air to it and several of the restaurants are closed, but the lights of a bistro on the quayside beckon us in. We find a table and order bowls ofcotriade, the delicious local fish stew served on slices of toasted bread, and a bottle of local white wine.
Afterwards, thankfully stretching our legs after the long drive, we wander beside the marina which is full of yachts moored up for the winter, tucked safely into the elbow of the harbour’s arm where they’ll be protected from the fury of the Atlantic’s winter storms. The boats’ rigging clinks against masts stirred by the ocean’s soft night-time breath.
We cross the causeway to the little island that sits within the bay and meander through the narrow streets of the Ville Close, Concarneau’s medieval walled town. Hand in hand, we walk past the clock tower and out on to the harbour walls. From a cobbled jetty, we pause alongside the rusted hulk of an immense ship’s anchor and look back towards the shore. The lights of the town are reflected in the dark water, sequins dancing across a bolt of black satin.
Thierry wraps me in his arms and I feel that I have found a harbour of my own, a place where there is shelter from the storms of life. I feel at peace. And the only sounds are the quiet lapping of the water against the sea wall and the beating of our two hearts as we lose ourselves in a kiss that I wish would never end.
The next day, we drive in contented silence a few miles further west along the coast. The hamlet of Port Meilhon is tucked away in a forgotten corner of the craggy Finistère peninsula. It looks as if it hasn’t changed much since the days when Claire’s father and brothers – my great-grandfather and great-uncles – worked the waters in their Breton fishing boat. The pill-box on the harbour wall has been removed and only a few roughened remnants of concrete show that it was ever here at all. But as we stand looking back towards the row of fisherman’s cottages that line the tiny harbour, I can picture in my mind’s eye the guns trained on the men as they stacked their creels on the quayside.
I haven’t been able to find any record of exactly which cottage belonged to Claire’s family, but I imagine it to be one of the middle ones. There are no wisps of smoke rising from any of the chimneys these days, though. Most of the cottages appear to be holiday homes, their shutters securely fastened for the winter.
