‘You are awake… I brought food from my mother and some coffee, we can boil water in the can.’ Vincent was holding a small bundle to his chest which he placed on the floor at the door of the cabin, as his eyes glanced quickly at Yvette’s partially covered body.
There was a shift in the dynamic between them, Yvette felt it, and it was as though the world around them was holding its breath, waiting. Stepping forward three swift paces, Yvette flung herself against him, clinging on to his sturdy body and feeling his strong arms wrap around her. When she found the courage to look up, Vincent’s eyes met hers and taking her face in his hands, he kissed her gently, his lips soft on hers. But Yvette wanted more and when she responded, shyness was replaced by desire, and after breaking away, as breathless as she, Vincent took her hand in his and led her inside the cabin.
* * *
It was more than lust or young love, passion or thrill, that Yvette felt for Vincent. It was a combination of all those, along with admiration, awe, respect, and an immense desire to make him proud of her, to see her as his equal, have her stand beside him, a trusted member of the Maquis.
So far, she hadn’t let him or anyone down, their network worked well and within the small group of Maquisard’s that hid in the outlying hills, valleys and forests, she had formed an allegiance.
Perhaps it was borne of mutual respect that she spoke their language fluently, had risked her life to get there and continued to do so. And they seemed to like that she could hold her own, grudgingly impressed when she demonstrated the self-defence moves she’d been taught in Scotland, and she wasn’t afraid to kill. Not that she was proud of this, but when it came to a choice between a sentry and her fellow fighters, her training and survival instinct kicked in.
In the summer it was harder to operate unseen and with more spare time, Yvette and Vincent had loved each other whenever the chance arose, lying in fields of maize with the sun on their skin, or on the bed of straw and jute seeping through the cracks in the roof of the cabin. Their snatched hours together were precious, sometimes hurried kisses in the farmyard, or when they parted and thought nobody was watching. Then there were whole nights of passion and laughter, when they would talk until the dawn broke and bathe in the stream, hungry but starved of nothing they really needed. Everyone knew, of course, but who could deny them their love or happiness?
But it was cold now, winter had them in its grip and whilst it made life hard for the Maquis who lived in the open air, darkness was their friend and kept them busy. While Vincent was away she got on with farm and village life and in between keeping an eye out for little Polo who, in the absence of his hero, gravitated towards Yvette, she attempted to make a friend of Béatrice, Vincent’s sister. It was not a joyous task, simply because his wilful, vain sibling was not an easy person to warm to or get along with. Even her mama Lucille sometimes appeared to dislike her while her papa Raymonde sought an easy life and kept his head down.
But Yvette persevered for two reasons that, unfortunately, soon became three. The first was that spending time in the home where Vincent grew up and still lived before he joined the Resistance gave her great comfort. The second was that she missed and secretly yearned for her own family, so the Famille Matis provided surrogates even if she could have done without a sister. The third crept up unexpectedly and had Yvette not been in the right place at the right time, her observant eyes would have missed something that felt like a slap in the face.
It was a chilly December morning and they had been given a lift on the back of a hay cart to Châteaubriant. It was market day and Yvette had gone along with Béatrice because it broke the monotony of winter in the countryside and wasting hours hoping that Vincent would appear. It was also an opportunity for surveillance and once in town she made sure they took a stroll past themairiethat was now emblazoned with swastikas, and then up past the chateau to count the number of trucks and see how many soldiers marched by. She had been tasked with buying flour for Tante Helene, if there was any, and it was while she was standing in the queue she noticed that Béatrice, too bored and tired to wait with her, had wandered off. By the time Yvette had reached the front and secured her ration of flour, her feet were frozen, and she wasn’t looking forward to the walk back to the village, regretting bringing bicycle-less Béatrice along.
At a loss where to start looking, Yvette retraced her steps thinking that maybe her fickle friend had set off home. The route took her back past themairieand that’s where she spotted Béatrice, halfway up one of the twisting alleyways that ran along and behind the ancient houses of the town, talking with a German soldier.
Immediately stepping back so she could not be seen, Yvette watched intently, reading the body language of both as they smoked and chatted, becoming more convinced by the second that this was not their first meeting and that something was greatly amiss. The way he touched the waves of Béatrice’s yellow-blonde hair, then the stroke along the back of her hand. And she was too close, stepping nearer rather than recoiling from the unwanted advances of a cruel invader. Once their cigarettes were smoked it appeared the conversation was over and after he whispered in her ear, Béatrice giggled then gave him a coy wave before setting off towards the road. The soldier strutted off in the opposite direction. Rather than alert Béatrice to her presence, Yvette raced ahead and then slowed to a stroll, not caring if her flirtatious companion caught up, glad of the time to think.
Yvette heard Béatrice before she felt her hand on her shoulder and along with the whiff of cigarette smoke, caught the smug glint and hint of glee in her eyes and voice.
‘Where did you get to, Yvette? I went to look at the church noticeboard and when I came back to the shop you were gone.’
Liar,thought Yvette as she continued to walk, too angry and astounded to look at Béatrice.
‘I thought you were bored and had set off home without me, that’s all.’
‘Oh, I see. Did you get what you wanted?’
Yvette almost asked,did you? But bit her lip and instead merely nodded as a newly animated Béatrice chattered on about the dress she was going to make from some curtains she’d been given by her friend, Celeste. By the time they’d reached the village, Yvette had some kind of plan in her head.
She would say nothing to Béatrice, give her no hint of what she had seen but, in the meantime and where possible, would watch her like a hawk and if this meant spending more time at Vincent’s home then she would make excuses to pop by. The problem was that Yvette was needed for other things and she couldn’t babysit Béatrice forever. What she could do was clip her wings and a word in her mother’s ear might be enough to curtail the trips into town. Lucille worshipped the ground her son walked on and just a hint that her daughter’s flirtations with the Boche might put Vincent in danger would be enough, Yvette was sure.
There would be no need to alert Vincent or Florian, not yet. The shame the brother would feel over his sister’s betrayal was unthinkable, and when you loved someone you shielded them from everything, if you could. Yvette worshipped and adored the whole of Vincent and she would protect him to the last, of this she was avowed.
18
Love Triangle
La Baule, 2005
They were ensconced at a quieter end of the beach and while Maude made sketches, Dottie forced herself to relax and take in the view. It was a gloriously sunny day and the flat pale-gold sand stretched languorously around the arced bay, white ripples from the Atlantic swell swishing in and out, making eager children squeal and paddling adults wince as it nipped their ankles.
Dottie thought she might chance dipping her toes later, but for now she was enjoying the shade of her parasol, the softness of the blanket on which she sat as it caressed her skin, while her feet poked off the end and wiggled in the sand. Her attention turned to Maude who was away with the fairies. Her eyes scanned the scene, then she gave a few strokes of her pencil before she returned to study shape and form, no doubt committing the colours and atmosphere to memory and added to the photos and video she’d taken earlier.
Lost in thoughts and memories of her own, Dottie had been trying to reconcile herself with one particular fact that she’d either buried on purpose, or that had somehow got lost in the maelstrom of hurt and confusion she’d felt after the war. Yes, she’d clung on to those nights of passion and how it felt to see Vincent’s face and touch his skin, even the laughter of his voice could echo in her ears if she allowed it. But it was the plans for after she’d somehow managed to erase, or was it that in her obstinacy she’d also chosen to forget because to admit she was human, had feelings like lots of women of her time, would have rendered her weak.
Dottie had blotted out the nights they’d imagined after; what they would do, where they would live. They’d believed in victory and the day that Vincent would reopen the forge and she would live in the apartment above, as his wife and one day mother to his children. Yvette would have willingly given up her desk at the War Office and been content with visits to and from her family. She would have tended the garden, cooked Vincent’s meals and washed his clothes, grateful to have survived, to be with the man she loved in a village she had come to call home.
This memory had actually rocked Dottie to the core when it had come to her whilst she was explaining to Maude all about Vincent, but she’d batted it away, only to be reminded later during those irritating hours when sleep evades you. By dawn, when the bedside clock returned to single figures, Dottie had intended telling Maude all about it, and perhaps would have cut her some slack over Lachlan had she not overheard a muted but very obvious row going on between them in the corridor.
She tried not to listen, but it was her grandmotherly duty to make sure Maude was okay so she pressed her ear to the door, only for a second or two, mind.
‘Lachlan, what is your problem?’
