Dottie knew that Maude was by her side, waiting to take her turn, then quiet as the engines were cut to slow the plane, not silence because the wind still whistled past. GREEN LIGHT, like the eyes of a monster, JUMP.
The free fall into the dark abyss, the earth hurtling towards you, then the jolt of the chute opening, and euphoria. Then after the relief came fear, the landing came in seconds, the prayers came faster,Let there not be a lookout, no machine guns, a clear spot, no trees… please God…and then she hit the earth, her brain shook inside her skull from the impact as Dottie’s body made contact with the earth.
Winded, she lay still, waiting for the pain of a broken bone but there was nothing more than a dull ache that she knew would soon ease. Her battered brain still functioned and urged her on, so she gathered her parachute and as she did so, heard the sound of another body making contact with the earth – Maude – followed by the other nameless agent. Above them the plane was already heading home, the distant sound of its engine the background music to Dottie’s opening scene. She’d made it, the abyss hadn’t swallowed her whole, machine guns hadn’t pummelled her skin, the ground hadn’t snuffed out her life. She was there, in the dead of night, in the occupied zone of Nazi controlled France.
They used the small shovels attached to their legs and buried the parachutes and jumpsuits, then using a torch, followed the map and compass, heading south-west, walking for ten kilometres through soggy fields, climbing hedges, edging sleepy rural hamlets until they reached the outskirts of what they all prayed was the village of Pontivy, and once they’d located the church of Saint Pierre, rested against its walls and waited in silence for dawn to break. Dottie slept at some point, only for minutes at a time, her head resting on Maude’s shoulder while the nameless agent kept lookout.
Dottie heard every bird in the surrounding trees sing its morning song and wondered how they could sound so cheerful on what she was convinced was the coldest January morning ever. Yet it was a beautiful scene, one Dottie would never forget, of fields and valleys stretching into the distance, gilded by rolling silver mist set aglow by the peachy-gold hue of the rising sun.
When she heard the whistle, three short sharp sounds, Dottie knew it wasn’t one of her feathered friends and nudged Maude and her now sleeping secret agent. It was hard to spot them at first, the figures in the trees that lined the farmer’s field, but as they approached, moving quickly through the mist, Dottie was filled with a sense of wonderment and relief. They were real, not just mythical, mysterious men whose tales of bravery filtered back to England, they were there and she was about to join the fight alongside the Free French, the Maquis, la Résistance.
They exchanged code words and once assured of the others’ validity, Dottie and Maude said goodbye to their fellow agent there and then. He left with one of the guides who mentioned only that they were heading north to Paris, and neither Dottie nor Maude asked anything more. Their own guide introduced himself as Robin and whether that was his real name or not, Dottie didn’t care because from that moment, she was Yvette and Maude became Estelle.
They walked for another few kilometres to a farmyard where a flat back truck containing coal was waiting.
‘This is how you will travel, underneath the coal. It is a good way to get you as close as possible, it has worked many times before. At the safe house you will be able to get cleaned up.’ Robin signalled that they should board the truck. ‘At this time in the morning we should not meet any patrols, but we must go now.’
There was a section to the side of the bed of the truck that had been scraped aside and a blanket to which Robin nodded. ‘Lie down and I will cover you with these sacks and then the coal.’ He pulled four or five from the side panel and held them up. ‘You will still be able to breathe, don’t worry, it is only one layer to camouflage you, now hurry.’
Yvette and Estelle silently did as they were told and lay flat but as Robin flung the sacking on top of them and began to shovel on the ebony rocks, an English voice as clear as cut crystal spoke from beneath.
‘Well, if only Mummy could see me now!’
Had Yvette not laughed, she would most definitely have cried.
They said goodbye less than six hours later. Perhaps it was the heightened sense of urgency and being in the company of surly men of few words that forced them both to reign in whatever they were feeling on the inside and put on a show. Yvette wasn’t too sure who for, but it did the trick. And she knew where Estelle was going, Nantes, and for some reason it made her feel better. Yvette was going to a village near Châteaubriant. If they were stopped and managed to escape, each knew where to head.
They stood in a farmyard, outside a smallholding that appeared to be abandoned but which had enough meagre and ancient facilities to keep someone sheltered and alive. That was the only thing they knew about where they were, it smelt of manure and wood smoke, and it was drizzly and grey and cold.
‘Now you take care, on the journey and always. Don’t get cocky either, remember who and where you are, stay focused.’ Yvette could hear herself talking and couldn’t quite believe she was the one giving advice.
‘And you believe in yourself, you are brave…’ Estelle fell silent, her eyes awash with tears as she grasped Yvette’s hands and squeezed tightly.
Unused to seeing Estelle like this, Yvette had to take up the slack. ‘I will. I promise. I’ll see you soon, one day, I know it.’
An impatient voice intruded. One of the watchful men who had turned up at the farm. ‘Come, the guide will not wait, hurry we must go.’
With that, Estelle gave a quick nod and Yvette did the same and watched as her friend turned and hurried through the open gate and out of sight.
Two hours later, Robin delivered Yvette to her new home, an isolated farm on the outskirts of Renazé village. Here, Tante Helene made her feel immediately welcome with a meal of bread and eggs, washed down by the worst coffee Yvette had ever tasted, before showing her to her bedroom.
As she looked around the clean but sparse room, containing a chest of drawers on which stood a bowl, jug and mirror, and a wooden chair beside a single bed, Yvette didn’t dare picture her family so far away, and allowed only a second to imagine Estelle in a bourgeois apartment in Nantes. Exhaustion, both mental and physical, engulfed her, preventing any more thought or movement. All she knew, as her body flopped onto the creaky bed that swayed slightly when she moved, was that it had begun; a new life. She was part of the fight.
14
The Historians
Renazé, France, 2005
By the time they’d wandered back to the car, the Café des Amis was already full, so they abandoned their plan to eat there and headed off in search of an alternative. The village had a one-way system and as they passed by the cobbled square, not only did Dottie notice the workmen at the hotel securing the site, but also the chap in the wheelchair who had been seated opposite being wheeled away by who she presumed was his carer. It had always been the same, nothing had changed because even during the war everything stopped for lunch, no matter how meagre it was.
Dottie watched them make their way along the pathway while Maude loitered outside the car, texting a message to Lachlan who either couldn’t read or follow basic verbal instructions. That man was a pest and severely tested Dottie’s patience even when he was hundreds of miles away. Every time Maude’s phone buzzed it reminded Dottie of an annoying fly that she’d like to splatter on the windscreen. Bloody men, they were such a hindrance unless you found the right one, and no matter how much Jean pleaded Lachlan’s case or Maude rolled her eyes, Dottie knew he was wrong for her granddaughter.
Maude finally stopped jabbing at her phone, returned to the car and started the engine. Whether she sensed something was wrong, or was merely trying to break the silence, her next question set Dottie’s mind racing once more.
‘So, Supergran, what’s our next move? I really don’t fancy wandering around any more graveyards and let’s face it, from what I’ve seen, every single village has one so it’ll take forever.’
Dottie puffed. ‘I know, but I did a bit of research online and I believe that themaire’s office holds records of where people from their communes are buried so perhaps we should make an appointment with Renazé’s head honcho. He should be able to help and might even pull a few strings with the others in the area.’
