‘The way women were treated by the French government was so unfair. We wanted, as you say “to do our bit” but times and convention were always against us and what we were permitted to do was quickly swept under the carpet after the war. Doors were closed on a glimpse of independence, the tables turned in the most cruel and unjust manner. Then, when my parents died, my brother took everything. I should have questioned the unfairness of the situation, put up a fight, shown some resistance. If I had a wish now, apart from an end to the war, it would be for women like you, Dottie, to be treated fairly and equally. That is all.’
Delphine sipped her wine and as Dottie swallowed down a ball of what felt like anger and hurt, she noticed her grandmother looked tired and somewhat lost.
‘Well I promise that I’m going to make you proud, Mémère, no matter what it is they have me do, even if it’s only staying up day and night typing notes. Somehow, I will do my bit and prove that we can be just as useful as men and hold our own, they won’t know what’s hit them.’ Dottie leant over and engulfed Delphine in a hug then looked across the table and asked her mother a question.
‘Mama, do you understand a bit better now why I have to go? I don’t want to make you sad and scared but it’s important so please, will you give me your blessing?’ Dottie clung on to Delphine and willed Paulette to smile, say yes, and let her go.
‘Of course, I understand. I am blessed to know two wonderful women, who are braver and stronger than I could ever hope to be, so I promise, I will not let you down. I will hold up my love and shine it so brightly that you find your way back home to us. And I will be proud, Dottie, of you and all the women everywhere who stand together, side by side, hand in hand.’
Paulette reached across the table and took her daughters hand in hers, to have it covered by Delphine’s and once he’d wiped a tear from his eyes, Tommy’s huge palm rested on top of all three.
In the silence of the blackened room, as the grandfather clock ticked and the candle flickered, Dottie silently recited Mr Churchill’s words, the ones she had seen in the secret notes she had typed, a transcript of an order given directly to the leader of a new and secret organisation. They were going to ‘set Europe ablaze’ and the words alone had started a fire in her heart. And unbeknown to her beloved family, she’d decided there and then to put her name forward so if she passed the tests and made the grades, she, Dorothy Tanner, an ordinary girl from the East End, was going to be a part of it.
Ghosts
Châteaubriant, France, 2005
Maude was sitting cross-legged on the end of Dottie’s bed, her brow knotted in concentration as she wrote down everything she remembered from the earlier car-confessionals. Her pen was bobbing up and down while Dottie was beginning to get restless. It had been a long day and she was looking forward to dinner, however, Maude had insisted on making notes.
Propped up against her pillows, Dottie luxuriated in her surroundings and congratulated herself on choosing their hotel well. Their twin room was modern and elegant within the converted stone grain warehouse, an inconsequential building that during the war Dottie would have passed many times, never knowing that one day she would be a guest within its contemporary walls. There had been so much she hadn’t known then, as she’d cycled through the streets on her way to a rendezvous, skirting patrols and risking her life for what was hidden beneath the bread in her pannier.
Dottie allowed a smile as she observed Maude who was almost the same age she had been back then. Regardless of the fact she had made it home in one piece, her dear mama’s torch guiding the way, Dottie would never ever let Maude walk into the lion’s den, of that she was sure. How the tables turned, hindsight bringing with it a glimmer of wisdom and the pain of understanding.
Had Dottie not been a tough old boot she would have wept there and then for Maman Paulette because now she got it, the desperate almost consuming desire to keep your child safe. What she had failed to grasp, maybe stubbornly refused to even consider, was a mother’s innate love, bundled up with fear and hopes and the terror of never seeing your precious child again. On that night in the kitchen as Paulette had wept, she had regarded her twenty-one-year-old daughter as just that. Dottie hadn’t comprehended it then, but she did now.
The past was definitely creeping up on her, like a benevolent spirit seeking to enlighten and remind. In its own way the ghost of days gone by had already begun to sway Dottie, taking her hand and gently pulling her off the course she had set. After the war years, riddled with fear and uncertainty, Dottie had embraced the beckoning future, following the signpost that pointed to self-preservation, resolutely sticking to the path.
Dottie gave a silent tut. This trip was supposed to be a practical way of ticking some boxes, doing the right thing in her inimitable no-nonsense way, not sending her soft. The last thing she wanted was to have regrets and should her body pack in any time soon, Dottie couldn’t bear to be trapped inside it, tormented by a fully functioning brain. That would be worse than the opposite. Anyway, she had planned for either eventuality but at the moment, her demise was way down the list. There was life in this contrary old dog yet.
To that end, knowing that wounds would be opened before they could heal again, Dottie had mentally prepared for the trip, or so she’d thought. What she hadn’t expected was the urge she had to wipe her mother’s tears, to say she was sorry, that had been a complete surprise. Dottie hoped there wouldn’t be any more tears, but it was raking over the past that had done it, however lightly. And this was only the start.
As they’d entered the town earlier that day, the essence of a latter-day scene, set in the kitchen above the shop, careered headlong into the present. Slowly, she began recognising landmarks and buildings, solid bricks and mortar, stubborn memorials holding on to their secrets, guardians of history. It had been like a sensory explosion, a time bomb going off in Dottie’s mind. For this reason, she thought it might be prudent to proceed with caution and watch out for landmines. It was imperative she survived the trip to France, the second time around.
Shuffling slightly to adjust her position, disturbing Maude momentarily, Dottie hoped the little scribbler would hurry up then they could have a nice G&T and watch some television, or maybe listen to the radio. Maude continued in her task, Dottie remained unquenched.
It was too quiet in the room and gave the mind time to wander, daring her to rub shoulders with ghosts who, alerted to her return, were gathering in the corners of Dottie’s memory, not quite uninvited guests, more unexpected or unfashionably early. She’d sensed them as they arrived in the town, standing sentry, saluting her as she passed by.
Once they had checked into the hotel in the centre of Châteaubriant, Maude and Dottie had enjoyed a relaxed lunch in the restaurant and then spent the rest of the afternoon reading in the small garden at the rear. Dottie hadn’t wanted to take a stroll like Maude suggested. She’d done a bit too much in Paris, not that she would admit it so instead, blamed it on the heat of the afternoon and the need to gather her thoughts before they embarked on their pilgrimage.
This was partly true because as they had driven through the outer suburbs, nothing had seemed familiar, the landscape contradicting the images Dottie had held for so long. She hadn’t expected the sprawling housing estates and a large retail park that seemed to go on forever, where restaurants and shops lined the carriageway and camouflaged the older medieval heart of the town. It had been stupid really, considering how the city in which she lived had changed but for some reason, she’d expected the past to have stood still, as though waiting for her return.
It was as they neared the centre that the hairs began to prickle on her arms, recognising instantly the train station, such an important place in her memory. Next, the Gothic spire of Église Saint-Nicolas rose above the rooftops and speared the cloudless blue sky. The imposing church still standing proud and firm, almost as defiant as the residents that had once flocked through its doors to receive blessings and in some cases, safe haven. But it was the sight of the Hotel de Ville that flipped Dottie’s stomach.
The office of the presentmaire, with its creamy walls bathed in midday sun, three Tricolor flags flying high and gently fluttering in the breeze looked serene, a symbol of La Republique, a place of authority. Dottie’s memory flashed back to forlorn grey walls wearing a shroud of shame. If a building could hang its head, then all those years ago, beneath the flags bearing the Nazi swastika, the windows of the occupiedmairecould not bear to look the townspeople in the eye.
Seeing it again, and yes, feeling the evil that had once emanated from the hub of such a fearsome regime had been a shock to the system. Perhaps that was why Dottie had preferred to retreat inside the hotel and take things one step at a time.
Maude closed her journal and clicked the top of her pen, signalling, much to Dottie’s delight, that her jottings were complete.
‘Right then, I think that’s everything. Shall I read it out to you?’ Maude unfolded her legs accompanied by a pained expression.
‘Dear God, no! The last thing I want is to hear it all again. Just get me a drink before I die of thirst, and I don’t mean water.’
Maude rolled her eyes and chucked the journal onto the eiderdown. ‘Oh, flipping heck, my bones have seized up… hold on while I limber up.’ Maude rubbed her shins vigorously. ‘So what’s it to be, a glass of red or a G&T?’
‘I’ll have one of each, and some of those nice nutty snacks they left for us and then we can order room service. I don’t fancy going down to the restaurant again. Is that okay?’
‘Yes, room service is fine although I did spot a kebab shop as we drove in… dare we sneak one up to the room later?’
