‘And you promised that once we left Paris, you’d tell me all about your time here in the war otherwise I won’t understand it properly. I’d like to look at it from your eyes, not through tourist goggles and seeing as you’ve been so blooming secretive all these years, I think it’s about time you explained.’
Still Dottie held her tongue. Not because she didn’t agree with Maude; more because she wasn’t really sure where to start. Instead she let her granddaughter soldier on, cajoling her into sharing a story she had the fullest intention of telling, when she was ready.
‘After all, I did let you talk me into leaving my fiancé, although I do think Mum was a bit relieved you didn’t ask her to come with you. The actual thought of you two stuck in a car for longer than it takes to get to the supermarket makes my eyes water.’ Maude chuckled at her own observation.
At this Dottie responded. ‘It’s not like I dragged you kicking and screaming, did I? Anyway, we won’t be gone forever and I’m sure Lachlan will manage just fine, camping on Henman Hill. Fancy him liking tennis. I thought it was all rugby and cricket over there.’
‘Dottie, I wish you’d stop generalising about Australians, one of these days you’ll get arrested by the PC police, I mean it.’
Dottie huffed and looked out of the window, reading the graffiti on a concrete bridge and not for the first time wondering how they managed to dangle upside down and spray paint with such accuracy and flair.
Maude persisted. ‘And stop changing the subject. I’m up to speed with the husbands so why don’t you start right at the beginning, with my great-grandparents. You’ve only ever told me about the café and Broadway Market. It’s my heritage and if you think about it, their story brought us here.’
Silence ensued. Dottie knew that Maude knew the score. Plant the seed, wait for it to grow then when, and only when Dottie was ready, would she pluck whatever bloom sprung from her mind. Checking the map and speedo, she estimated that they had over two hours before they reached their hotel and as the road meandered into the distance, Dottie succumbed to the inevitableandthe stupidity of making a promise, especially to Maude.
‘I suppose it would be sensible to tell you how it started, not the war because youshouldknow all about that from school at the very least. You’re right though, it began right here in France when my dad went on a day trip to St Malo and met my mum. He said it was love at first sight.’
Maude interrupted. ‘Maybe we should have started our trip there, not Paris, or could we go now, is it far?’
Dottie reached out and placed her hand on Maude’s leg in order to silence her. ‘Don’t worry it’s all in hand, and on the itinerary.’
Maude glanced over quickly. ‘But you said that apart from visiting Renazé and Nantes we would play it by ear, see where the fancy took us, no firm plans.’
‘That’s correct. I want to be free to go where my memory takes me, not march around chateaus and museums like I’m on an organised coach tour. It’s all up here, Maude.’ Dottie tapped her forehead. ‘Pictures, faces, places, words. They’re all jumbled in a pile and I need to sort through them, lay them out in some kind of order which is why I have to take it a step at a time. Do you understand?’
Maude nodded and this time it was she who squeezed Dottie’s hand.
‘My parents are part of the story, so is St Malo, at the beginning and end, which is why I’m saving it till last, if we go there at all.’
Another squeeze from Maude, and then a question. ‘I understand, I really do… it’s like an onion and you have to remove a layer at a time. Are you sure you want to talk about it though? I feel bad now for pressing you. We could just go and look at things, like the camera-clicking sightseers back home.’
Dottie shook her head. ‘No, no. Like you said, this is part of your history too, and your mum’s. I think I owe it to her to explain why I’ve been cantankerous and a proverbial pain in the arse since the poor woman popped out of the womb. First though, I have to work it out for myself and as they say, lay a few ghosts to rest.’
‘Okay, if you’re sure. I’ll try to remember everything then I can tell Mum whenever we get home… that’s if you do intend on letting me go home and not holding me hostage forever, or until Lachlan gets fed up of waiting for me to come to my senses.’
Dottie inclined her head slightly and regarded Maude who was smiling, sunglass-covered eyes firmly fixed on the road.
‘Whatever do you mean by that? Of course, you’ll be going home, eventually, and I’m sure Lachlan will be waiting when you get there, ofthatI have no doubt.’ Sometimes Dottie just couldn’t contain her sarcasm. It had a will of its own.
Maude sounded unconvinced. ‘Mmm… we’ll see. I’m onto you, Dottie Tanner, even though you think I’m a pushover.’
‘I think nothing of the sort. You’re just a sweet, kind-hearted girl who adores her gran and is devoted to making her twilight years as happy as possible.’
‘Twilight zone, more like.’ Maude sniggered.
Dottie allowed herself to laugh at that. ‘Anyway, less of the cheek and back to your devotion and our pilgrimage. So that you don’t forget anything and one day, when I’m gone, your mother can read her family history, you’re going to write down everything I tell you. And it might come in quite handy if I go gaga, then at least I’ll know who I am.’
When Maude responded she sounded shocked and a bit put out. ‘Write it all down, are you being serious?’
‘Yes, of course I am. You can write it in the journal.’
‘Gran, what blood… blooming journal?’
Sighing loudly, Dottie answered in her exasperated tone, the one usually reserved for Jean. ‘In the bloody journal I bought for you. It’s in my case along with some lovely new pens and a brand-new box of gouache, nice ones by the way, my treat.’
Maude didn’t respond immediately, instead she made a huffing noise, then a snorty laugh as she shook her head and concentrated on the road. ‘Okay, fine. I will write down whatever you tell me, so it’d better be damn good.’
Dottie smiled then adjusted her seat belt which was rubbing her neck. ‘Excellent, that’s settled then. You’ll need to catch up and make notes about the husbands. We can’t leave them out, which is a shame where Morris and William are concerned.’
