Page 79 of Resistance
Dottie had wept when Maude presented her with the one of Vincent and next the one of Old Maude. Konstantin had made them all laugh when he asked Maude to immortalise him too, in his youth, but he wanted to be wrestling a bear. In the end he settled for an image of him sitting on a bench by the side of the Thames, wrapped up warm in his black Crombie overcoat and trilby hat, looking moody and mysterious with a folded newspaper by his side. Konstantin loved that painting and after his death it came to Dottie and was hung in the hallway, keeping an eye on anyone who entered the house. Turning the pages, knowing exactly where to find her old friend, Dottie sighed when she reached the homage to their years together.Oh, I do miss you, Konstantin.
They were all in the album, those who had gone before. Konstantin had succumbed first, he might have fought bears and tsars, but he couldn’t beat a dodgy ticker. Béatrice went next and two years previously Polo, the little shadow. They were never far away though, in her thoughts and by talking of them constantly she kept them alive in her mind, like when she used to go to the schools thereabouts and chat to the children about VE Day. She’d become quite a celebrity once the story of Hugh the Traitor broke and Vincent’s bag went on display.
VE Day was always an important one in France, and it was such a blasted shame that the seventy-fifth celebrations had been ruined by that confounded disease that had swept across the world, an invisible enemy. Not that Dottie could have got out to celebrate like years before, apparently she was too frail and hated that bloody wheelchair so spent much of her time indoors. Had she been able to get up and at ’em, Dottie told Maude she’d have looked that enemy in the eye, unafraid, like she had the last invisible infiltrator.
She rarely gave Hugh or his fate the time of day, but the train of thoughts took her there. He’d run, like Konstantin had expected, before the story broke of a British traitor, a peer of the realm, respected government advisor, political commentator and esteemed author. While the press went wild, the old Russian fox sent his cubs on a mission, tracking Hugh to Cuba, observing him and his odd band of wrinkly evaders with fake names and secrets to hide. And then one night, Hugh the Traitor had an unfortunate accident, falling off the hotel balcony, then the cubs went home to Papa. Hugh’s funeral wasn’t well attended, nobody wanted to be guilty by association, and his legacy was left for Wikipedia to document his shame.
Dottie couldn’t be bothered withhim, so took a sip of her G&T, yawning as she placed the glass on the table. She felt ever so tired all of a sudden, but she put that down to the excitement of the day before. They’d had lots of champagne during her birthday lunch, she and Maude on Zoom toasting her special birthday with Jean and Ralph over in Portugal. Then there was the big socially-distanced surprise, a ring on the doorbell and Maude insisting she came to the door. Realising that something had been planned, Dottie humoured her eager granddaughter, but it took ages to get there using her stick, nobody was going to see her with that wheelie-walker thing.
When Maude flung open the door to a large (and against regulations) crowd, comprising of the children from the school, Gabriel the mayor and so many of the villagers, Dottie actually felt her lips wobble as they all sang happy birthday. The path was strewn with flowers and gifts and after the hip, hip, she could barely manage a simple thank you, so overwhelmed was she by the gesture.
Dottie loved her life in France and had felt at home in the house she’d bought for Maude ever since they moved in. She didn’t even miss the Hackney house although she dreamt of it sometimes, took a wander along the halls and popped her head into the rooms that were no doubt transformed by the students from The Slade who rented it. Maude hadn’t wanted to sell up and Dottie was glad, it would have seemed too final, the end of an era.
She’d passed the photos of her parents and Mémère, George and Eddie the Beagle, so many happy photos of Young Maudie and then to her ragtag friends of the Maquis, images gathered by Maude from relatives still living. She touched their faces one by one, and lingered over Polo the shadow, taken after the war, her brave little Maquisard.
The final page was dedicated to Vincent and although there were only a few and no matter how faded, they were her treasure and his face shone like a diamond. Maybe it was her tired eyes playing tricks but in this light, tonight, it seemed to glow and move on the page, his flesh real and his eyes warm, and yes, he looked happy.
Enough of this you silly old woman, Dottie closed the album and stretched to place it on the table, then snuggled down. She would close her eyes for a while and then Maude would be home, and dinner would be ready. The radio was playing something she recognised… oh yes, it was the song she danced to with Old Maude in Nantes and as her eyes turned from the painting of her friend, in the last moments it rested on the face of a handsome young man. Dottie smiled and reached out her hand, taking his. After all this time of waiting, he was here at last, her one true love, Vincent.
Epilogue
Renazé, November 2020
Everyone was gathered in the packed lobby of themairie. As the eager reporters vied for a front row position the correspondent from the local news channel won the fight. Gabriel stood on one side of the huge frame that was resting on a plinth, covered by a white sheet, while Maude stood on the other. She was suddenly nervous, being centre of attention in front of the crowd who were eager to see what lay underneath.
On the table by the office door stood a pile of books, guarded closely by Francine who was in charge of selling them once Maude had signed them later. Dottie’s biography had been translated into French and due to the furore that the traitor had whipped up many years before, it was already a huge hit in England. There were omissions though, Maude had thought it prudent not to mention certain revelations, some secrets had died with her grandmother.
Maude still couldn’t believe Dottie was gone and found it hard to contemplate a life without her gran in it. If her mind wandered to that evening when she’d come home from the supermarket to find Dottie taking her final nap, Maude cheered herself with the notion that the stubborn old bugger made sure she stayedjustlong enough to celebrate her big birthday.
It was time for the unveiling now everyone had shuffled and squeezed in and Gabriel was making a short speech, explaining the origins and inspiration of the painting, blinking now and then at the flash from the reporters’ cameras. Maude listened intently, understanding most of it now she could speak French and after her grandmother’s insistence. Maude smiled, thinking,That woman always, always got her way.
Then Gabriel gestured with his hand that Maude should do the honours so after stepping forward and with a flourish, more to get it over with than anything, she pulled away the sheet and revealed the painting. There was a gasp from the crowd and then a round of applause as the scene Maude knew so well was uncovered.
On a hilltop overlooking the village of Renazé below, stood the members of the Maquis. Above, in a cobalt-blue sky streaked by clouds edged in grey, flew two spitfires, a lone parachute on its descent into occupied territory, an homage to the evaders they helped to escape, or perhaps the agents and the moon squadrons who leapt into the abyss.
In the forefront, some clutching rifles, all wearing proud expressions, were the brave and defiant men and women who had resisted. Florian, his habitual cigarette hanging from his mouth, Benoit in teashade spectacles, Xavier in his floppy beret, Armand in his white apron, Thierry with his short trousers and braces, Tante Helene in her best flowery dress, and next to his hero, the little shadow Polo holding a brace of rabbits. At the centre, stood side by side was their leader Vincent and his comrade Yvette. But if the voyeur looked closely at the pair, they would see that their hands touched and one of their fingers entwined the other, telling you they were more than just comrades. They were soulmates, parted for a while but now immortalised in oil on canvas and somewhere, together for eternity.
Underneath the painting, attached to the oak frame was a gold plaque bearing the names of each member of the Maquis. Once the applause died down, Gabriel asked for silence and read them out, one by one. When he came to the last, Maude fought hard to hold it together because finally, the moment had come. It had taken seventy-five years, but today they would all hear the name of the woman who jumped into the abyss, who risked her life, who resisted, who fought for freedom and, in so many ways, won.
She was Dorothy ‘Dottie’ Tanner, alias Yvette Giroux, code name Nadine, but to Maude, that brave, wonderful, beautiful young woman in the painting, would always and forever be known as Gran.
The End