‘If either of you ever speak to me again, I’m going to turn you in, all of you. I hate you both. It wasn’t an accident, I know you killed him, you killed him, you killed him!’
From behind, Yvette heard the sound of Lucille cajoling her hysterical daughter, shuffling feet then the door slam. When she reached the kitchen, Vincent was seated at the table, head in hands, blood smeared across his fingers from behind which he spoke.
‘Do you think she means it?’
Yvette took the tea towel that was hanging from the range and went over to the sink, rinsing it under the water before going to Vincent. Lifting his chin with two fingers, she waited until he moved his hands and then began to clean his face. ‘No, she is angry and upset but even Béatrice understands the cost of collaboration and no matter how crazy and riddled with grief she is right now, soon common sense will kick in.’ Yvette silently prayed this was true.
‘I am not so sure. She has always been wild, but I cannot believe she said those things.’
‘Try not to worry. Your mother will keep an eye on her so even if she does escape and march all the way to town, I doubt she will have the guts to walk into the Gestapo headquarters, let alone turn her family in.’ Yvette continued to clean his face, one she could gaze upon all day and in the moments when their eyes met, their longing for each other was mirrored.
By the time the job was done, Vincent’s scratches looked red but not serious, Lucille returned to the kitchen and began to make coffee.
‘She is sleeping now so please will you stay for lunch? I hardly see you, my son, and I would like the company of you both.’ Lucille’s eyes were raw from crying and she looked tired.
Yvette glanced at Vincent and willed him to say yes, relief relaxing her taut muscles when he smiled and agreed. It was a small thing, but meant the world to a mother, Yvette knew this. For now, Lucille’s family and world was splintered and it would be hurting her deeply. The least they could do was try to heal the wound.
Vincent and Yvette were in the garden behind the house, he was smoking, and she was feeding the chickens with the scraps from lunch before they left. She could tell something was on his mind but presumed it was Béatrice, until he spoke.
‘Will you stay with me tonight? I have to meet Claude first. He is going on reconnaissance, but I won’t be long.’
Then Yvette knew. ‘Of course. I will meet you later. Are you going away too?’
He nodded as he smoked, watching the chickens from the garden wall he sat on. ‘Soon, maybe in the next day or two. To Nantes, to bring the Russian’s brother.’
Yvette’s head flipped around. ‘Please let me go, Vincent, then I can see Estelle. Is he with her?’
Vincent stood and was about to answer when a noise alerted them and Lucille appeared at the back door, a parcel in her hand that Yvette knew would contain whatever food she could spare for her son.
‘You must stay here and take care of our guests. We will talk later… I have to go.’
Yvette watched as he threw the cigarette butt into the field and after taking the parcel and kissing his mother goodbye, he made his way out of the gate and along the lane. They had parted many times before, never showing their feelings in front of others, but this time was different. Perhaps it was the incident with Béatrice that had set her nerves on edge, or the rumours amongst the Maquis of raids, reprisals and internments or the bulletins they heard on Radio Londres, saying the tide was turning against the Nazis. But Yvette felt unsettled, a tinge of panic, or was it the portent of change that hovered on the horizon? Whatever it was, something told her to make the most of it all, Vincent, Tante Helene, France, just in case it was all about to come to an end.
* * *
Pedalling faster now, aware of the sun on her pannier and knowing the food wrapped in cloth wouldn’t fare well in the heat, even if it was covered by her coat which she never left at home, just in case. Her ears listened out for the sound of a vehicle, and if she heard one she would attempt to hide. There had been a marked increase in Boche activity and word along the line was that something big was on the cards, the Allies were gaining momentum, but how accurate that was she had no idea.
They listened with hope and fear in their hearts; the news via Radio Londres told of advances and victories, but the thumping of Boche fists on doors reminded them of the heavy price of being caught. They were getting nastier, if that was even possible, and the twitchy German presence was on high alert, poised for revenge. At this thought Yvette felt her heart lurch, knowing that if they did strike, the blood of many could be on her hands.
For now, the roads were clear. Yvette loved the countryside despite it being a shock to the system at first and to her surprise, she now preferred it to the city of her birth. Fancy that. London was loud, busy, exciting, with smoky exhausts, foggy smoggy mornings, dance halls and cinemas, fancy shops and hotels. But her part of France was like the painting she’d seen at the National Gallery back home. How strange it was that when she’d visited on a school trip, little Dottie Tanner had no idea how her life, or the world, for that matter, was going to pan out. And that one day, she’d be cycling past the fields of gold she once gazed at in awe.
It was also hard to imagine living anywhere else now and she’d spent many an hour lost in daydreams while tilling the earth in the vegetable patch, trying to conjure an image of free France and how life would be if she lived here with Vincent. It wasn’t so far from England and Mémère Delphine for one would love to visit, even her parents, once the scourge had been defeated.
She adored the tranquil lanes, actually being able to hear the hum of insects and birdsong, and the church bells on the hour and the clip-clopping of hooves and voices on the wind. All this would be drowned out by the sound of London. Yes, life would be perfect once the Boche were gone.
Her mind then turned to another event, one surer than independence day, but nonetheless it caused Yvette’s heart to constrict because hundreds of miles away, her family’s thoughts would be on one thing, her twenty-fourth birthday. This was her second one away from home, and again there would be no knees-up in the pub, no home-made cake courtesy of her mum or her dad’s tradition of a pie with a candle stuck in it, something he’d been doing for as long as she could remember.
It didn’t matter about presents or material things because the best gift of all would be staying alive, seeing her family, and Vincent, if he would just hurry up, bring back Anatoly and some news of Estelle. That was all she wanted. And to spend more nights like they had before he’d left.
Despite the breeze, Yvette felt herself blush when she thought of how he looked at her when she appeared at the hut wearing the blue dress Estelle had given her, the ring on her finger, a touch of rouge on her cheeks and lips, scent dabbed on her wrist and behind her ears. She had wanted him to see her as a woman, at her best, alluring, beautiful even. He was used to seeing the countryside version, or the agent, relying on her like one of the men, crawling through mud, doing what they did. She would never forget the night in the wooden hut, how they made love like it was the last time, again and again until, as always, they had to say goodbye.
Forbidding any further thoughts of home or Vincent, Yvette cheered herself with the thought of seeing Konstantin. There was something about him that made her happy, his humour was dry but infectious. He was different, mysterious but in a storyteller kind of way and most of the time she wasn’t quite sure if he was pulling her leg or being serious. It was clear from the time spent with him that his fellow evaders didn’t trust him, or like him that much either, but she did, on both counts.
It would be another long night if Vincent didn’t show, followed by another long day, so in the meantime her evaders could keep her company. Yvette felt her mood dipping. She was fine during the day when she pedalled freely in the sun but at night, all alone in her bed listening for noises, waiting for the Gestapo to pounce, her mind went into overdrive and fear kicked in. Yes, being in the cave while she waited was better.
During the time that Konstantin and the others had been there, Yvette had learned more about how they had ended up in France. Jakob was fleeing for the obvious reasons and Teddy had been shot down and needed to get back to his squadron. She was privately in awe of her Russian evader, and secretly thrilled that he had given her a nickname, Zaya.
* * *
