‘Oh, Polo, you really were such a brave little boy. Vincent will be so proud of you. I’m proud of you.’ Dottie wanted to hug him but didn’t get a chance because Polo had more to say.
‘I watched the chimney for years as it crumbled, knowing that the bag was hidden deep inside its grave. Of course, back then I was glad that it was gone. To me it symbolised death, it was the reason Vincent was gone and why they took your friend Estelle and the others. Its existence threatened my family. I hated it. Then as I got older, I wondered what was inside that was so important. I became curious and many times, during my teenage years I went down to the cave and wondered if I moved the range, I could find it. But it was trapped, somewhere deep inside the chimney and after a while I forgot about it. I left the past where it was, amongst the rubble.’ Polo sighed and continued to stare at the remains of his home.
‘Now I am beginning to understand why you sit here. Are you hoping they will find it amongst the debris?’
‘Perhaps. I did wonder if someone would spot it. Knowing it has been there for so long and will be dug up like a body, well, it made me uneasy so I thought I should sit here and wait, just in case.
‘I am also watching my memories being dismantled bit by bit. I have seen them blast through the walls of our bedrooms and Tante Elise’s salon that she loved so much. The kitchen and guest rooms will be gone soon, then the scullery with the cave below.’
Dottie’s heartbeat quickened. ‘But we must ask them to keep an eye out for the bag. They are almost down to the lower walls and once they take away the chimney, they might uncover it. Don’t you think it’s worth a try?’
Polo wiped his brow that was dotted with sweat. ‘They would think we are crazy if we go over there, and surely it will be in a terrible state now, after sixty years.’
‘Yes, it could be, but Vincent’s bag was made of leather and some of the papers in there could have survived… they are part of our history, Polo, and I for one would love to see them. And I bet you’d like to get the bag back. It’s Vincent’s, after all.’
Polo sat forward in his chair and looked from the site back to Dottie. ‘Do you think we could get it, Yvette? That we should ask, will they take us seriously?’
Dottie shrugged, but before she answered, someone caught her eye, serendipity in the form of Monsieur Lasalle, themaire. ‘No, possibly not. But we both know a man who they will listen to and he’s coming our way.’
Raising her hand to attract the attention of themaire, Dottie smiled sweetly then beckoned him over. She had already decided, from the moment she knew of the whereabouts of Vincent’s bag that even if she had to dig with her bare hands, she would retrieve it for posterity, for Polo and for herself.
Dottie was overwhelmed by the desire to touch something that belonged to the man who had never really left her side since the day they’d said goodbye. She’d read about work being halted when archaeological remains were discovered and as far as she was concerned, Vincent’s bag was far more precious than an old bone, or a fragment of pot. So while she had breath in her body, Dottie was going to do her best to get it back.
39
Béatrice
Renazé, 2005
Maude parked the car outside one of the grander houses in the village of Chaze Henry. Both Dottie and Maude looked up at the double-fronted house with freshly painted cream walls and deep blue shutters, open on the ground floor but firmly closed on the two above, keeping out the heat in preparation for the evening. Dottie always thought it looked so unwelcoming from the outside and knew from experience how dreary it made the house look inside, but it was the continental way and a sensible precaution.
She remembered the searing heat of the summer during the war and the exertion of cycling or walking everywhere, from village to village, covering miles just to deliver a note or make a rendezvous. Dottie marvelled at how fit and healthy she must have been, and probably sweaty too, but nobody seemed to mind how you looked back then, or how tatty and old your clothes were. In a way it helped you blend in, or in the case of visiting Nantes and Estelle, stand out like a sore thumb, as a yokel.
Dottie once again pushed those memories away, it would confuse the issue because the main topic of today’s agenda was telling Béatrice about Vincent and maybe, if she was brave enough, making amends for her own actions.
‘Are you sure you’ll be okay on your own, Gran? I don’t mind coming in with you and from the looks of that house I’m sure there’s somewhere I can wait while you talk.’
Dottie leant across and patted Maude’s leg. ‘I’ll be fine, I promise.’
‘But what if she’s nasty to you? She might still bear a grudge and let’s be honest sometimes your generation don’t exactly mellow with age!’
For that remark Maude received a tap on the leg, which was followed by a chuckle from Dottie. ‘Cheeky… I’ll have you know we’re not all like the grumpy old buggers at the bridge club. I am the delightfully chilled-out exception to the rule.’
Maude’s guffaws were then ignored as Dottie picked up her handbag from the footwell and pulled the door handle. ‘Right, you head off and scout some locations. I’ll ring you when I’m ready to be collected but don’t rush. I can always take a stroll around the village, or down memory lane.’
‘So you’ve been here before?’ Maude sounded unsurprised, more curious.
‘Oh yes, I don’t think there’s a village for miles around that I haven’t spent time in, or passed through. This one is no different, in fact, remind me to tell you about this house later, with the wardrobe with a hole in the bottom that dropped you into the barn below… very useful for moving evaders when the Boche came to call.’ With that, Dottie winked and left a wide-eyed Maude to find her own way out of the village.
The walk up the gravel pathway that split a garden bursting with deep pink rhododendrons and a border of yellow roses, was overshadowed by the notion of being watched. Dottie held her nerve and summoned a bit of the grit and determination that had waned over the years. Thankfully it hadn’t totally expired and only needed a good kick up the bum, the after-effects urging her to ring the doorbell, which she did, quite forcibly.
When the door opened, a much younger woman than Dottie had expected stood before her.
‘Bonjour, Madame, I am Arlette, the daughter of Béatrice. We are expecting you, please come in.’ Standing aside, the friendly woman gestured with her arm and once Dottie was inside, the door was closed firmly on the mid-morning heat. ‘Please would you come with me, Maman is waiting in the salon.’
Dottie hadn’t time to say anything apart from hello, and followed Arlette along a dark corridor, her heels tapping on the tiled floor below. It was hard to take everything in but from what Dottie could see of the polished central staircase and tastefully decorated walls covered in elegant flock, the ornate covings above and the delicate china vase festooned with summer flowers, Béatrice had done well.
At the second door along, a large crucifix hovering above the frame, Arlette stopped. ‘Maman is in here, would you like coffee or tea, she will take tea?’
