The Dressmaker's Gift Page 15

  While their supper simmered on the stove, Claire asked for news of Jean-Paul and Théo. But her father just shook his head sorrowfully. ‘There’s been no word for months now. We just have to hope that they are together and that they are keeping their spirits up. They’d be proud to know that their little sister is playing her part in getting this war finished so that they can come home to us.’ Despite the warmth of his words, offering hope, it seemed to Claire that a darkness shadowed his eyes, betraying his anxiety.

  Later, over hearty bowls of fish stew, Marc, Claire and Fréd talked about the war and about their experiences, while Claire’s father, who had always been a man of few words, watched his daughter’s face with an expression of bewildered wonder at having her back in the family home so unexpectedly.

  Marc checked his watch. ‘It’s time for the broadcast, Papa.’ He got up from the table and crossed to where a wireless set sat in the corner of the room. It took a few seconds to warm up, but then the crackle of static cleared and the sound of a German propaganda station filled the cramped room. Very carefully, Marc adjusted the dials, turning down the volume and retuning the set. There was a snatch of dance music and then it stopped. After a brief silence a voice said, ‘Ici Londres! Les Français parlent aux Français . . .’

  And then the distinctive opening bars of Beethoven’s Fifth Symphony played: three short notes followed by one more, stronger and more sustained. Claire looked at Marc in surprise. He held a finger to his lips.

  Fréd leaned close to her, to explain. ‘It’s the letter “V” in Morse code. “V” for Victory,’ he whispered. ‘The Free French transmit these messages every evening from the BBC in London. They always open with these notes, encouraging Europe to resist. And then they let the networks know whether or not certain operations are to go ahead. It drives the Germans crazy – they know these messages are being transmitted but they can’t decode them because they sound like complete nonsense! And some of them are dummies to camouflage the real ones. Listen out for a message about “Tante Jeanne”. That’s the one for us, Monsieur Leroux said. If we hear it, we know everything is in place for tomorrow night.’

  She held her breath, as the broadcaster announced, ‘Before we begin, please listen to some personal messages . . .’ There followed what sounded to her like a jumbled collection of meaningless phrases.

  And then she heard it. ‘Tante Jeanne has won the dance contest.’

  Fréd grinned broadly and Marc got up to switch off the radio set, carefully retuning the dial to the German station and turning the volume back up before he did so.

  She stood up from the table to clear the dishes, but as she did her father reached out his hand to take hers. ‘You’ve changed, Claire. Your mother would have been so proud of you. For everything. For your work in Paris and the work that has brought you here as well.’

  Stooping to kiss the top of his head, she said, ‘We’ve all changed, Papa. I know now that no one can escape the stranglehold of this war on our country. But I’ve come to realise that we might be able to endure it if we stand together. Mireille and Vivi have shown me that.’

  ‘I’m glad to know you have such good friends in Paris.’

  ‘And I’m glad I have such a good family in Brittany. I’m proud of my roots, Papa, and of the home you have always made for us here in spite of all the hardships. I don’t think I realised before just how much a part of me that is. You and Maman gave me the security and the love that helped me to be brave enough to leave, and to be brave enough to return now too.’

  Her father smiled, then said gruffly, ‘It’s time to turn in now. You must be tired after your long journey. Marc and I have an early start tomorrow to get the boat out before sandbanks in the channel become impassable on the low tide. That means we’ll be back early too, though.’

  ‘I’ll be up before you leave,’ she promised. ‘I want to make your coffee for you just like I used to.’

  Marc stood up too, stretching his lanky frame. ‘Yes, time for bed. And then tomorrow evening we will get Fréd here to the cove for you.’

  She gave him a questioning look, raising her eyebrows, and he laughed. ‘You’re not the only member of the family who moonlights, you know, Claire!’

  The new moon, whose pull had drawn back the ocean to expose the harbour’s muddy floor, was swathed in the shadows of the night when the four figures slipped silently up the hill from the house. They kept to the maze of back lanes between the clustered cottages, out of sight of the sentries in the pill-box on the harbour wall who, they hoped, would have given up scanning the dark expanse of the sea, knowing that the tide was now too low for enemy warships or submarines to get close to the Breton coast.

  Claire’s father held out a helping hand as she scrambled up the side of the rocky promontory, through the scrubby pines that lent an extra layer of cover to the darkness. Marc tried to make her stay behind in the cottage, but she was adamant that she needed to come too, mindful that she had to carry out Monsieur Leroux’s instructions to the letter. The oilskin package crackled in her pocket.

  Her scalp prickled with a mixture of sweat and fear beneath the dark woollen cap that she wore to hide her hair. She was conscious that they were at their most exposed here, climbing the slope which faced the harbour, and at every moment she expected a searchlight to sweep the hillside or a harsh voice to shout, ‘Halt!’ followed by the rattle of machine-gun fire cutting them down in their tracks. But they climbed on steadily and there was nothing but silence and darkness and the soft night breeze which smelt of the sea and cooled the nape of her neck.

  Marc led the way, moving carefully but with a stealth and speed born of familiarity with the terrain. His feet scarcely dislodged the pebbles on the sandy path that was etched into the heathland at the top of the ridge.

  And then they began the steep descent into the tiny, concealed cove on the other side of the headland. The bare rock of the cliff face was almost vertical, but Marc pointed silently to hidden handholds and footholds – barely visible in the starlight – that had been chiselled into it here and there, allowing them to make their way down.

  The sea had eaten away at the base of the cliffs towards one end of the cove, hollowing out a cave. Usually it could only be reached by wading or swimming through the waves that lapped along the shoreline, but tonight the low water scarcely covered the uppers of their boots.

  In the pitch blackness of the cave, all was silent apart from the soft sound of the water lapping against the stone walls. The darkness and the shifting of the sea around her feet almost overwhelmed Claire for a moment, her head spinning with a wave of dizziness, and she might have fallen were it not for her father’s steadying hand beneath her elbow. She jumped, involuntarily, as a match flared, illuminating the faces of two more men, who stood in the darkness alongside a small wooden sailing dinghy, its furled sails the same colour as the ink-black sea. One of the men bent to hold the match to the wick of an oil lamp that had been set down on a rough shelf cut into the wall of the cave, casting a soft glow over the scene.

  The boatmen shook hands all round and if they were surprised to see a young woman in the party, they didn’t show it. Claire had no idea how the lines of communication worked within these secret networks, although she supposed messages were passed by notes slipped from hand to hand, as well as by hidden wireless transmitters and the coded messages that were broadcast over the airwaves from the BBC in London. So perhaps they had been expecting her to be there, accompanying Fréd, and he was just the latest cargo to be transported. They clearly seemed to know Marc and her father well, and Claire’s heart swelled with emotion as she realised that they, too, had been playing their part in the Resistance.

  As the men prepared to board the boat for departure, Claire drew Fréd aside into the shadows. ‘Here,’ she said quietly, ‘you’re to take this and deliver it to the man who will meet you on the other side.’ She handed him the slim parcel which had been so well wrapped to protect its contents from the lengthy sea jo
urney around the point of Finistère and across the Channel to England.

  ‘Okay.’ He nodded. ‘I’ll see it gets there. Thank you, Claire, for everything. I could never have found my way here without the help of you and your family.’ He embraced her warmly and then tucked the package she’d given him into his shirt.

  ‘Bonne route,’ she said. He turned to leave, but then looked back at her as if he were about to say something more. They were both silent for a moment. And then she said, ‘And I’ll give your love to Mireille, shall I?’

  He grinned as he climbed aboard the dinghy, saying, ‘So you’re a mind reader too, are you, as well as a fellow commando?’ And he saluted her before taking his seat, as she handed over the lantern which the boatman extinguished. Then Marc and her father pushed the little sailing boat out on to the open water and it was swallowed up by the darkness.

  She listened to the sound of the oars until it, too, was extinguished by the hush of the waves which washed on to the sand in the tiny, hidden cove.

  Harriet

  With each part of Claire’s story that is revealed, I feel as if the foundations of my life are shifting like wave-sculpted sand beneath my feet.

  Before I came to Paris, I had created a framework for my life which was built on the few remnants of family that were all that remained after my mother’s death had swept so much away. I’d boarded up rooms within my mind where painful memories were stored, and shored up the walls with my own loneliness. But now I can see how much I shut out, while I was constructing that carapace. The stories of Mireille and Vivi have encouraged me to unlock some of those doors and take down the blackout on the windows of my own history, allowing me to discover more of Claire’s story.

  So now I know that a strand of the fragile threads from which my grandmother’s life was woven connects me to Brittany, to a tiny fishing community clinging to the rocky, Atlantic-battered finger of land that points west. That wind scoured sliver of land produced men who were tough enough to take on the ocean and win, and women who were resilient enough to raise their families against unforgiving odds.

  When I relay this chapter of Claire’s story to Thierry, over a shared pan of moules marinière in a bistro in the Marais that evening, he laughs.

  ‘Well that explains a lot about you,’ he says, depositing an empty shell in the bowl that sits between us.

  ‘What do you mean?’ I ask, immediately on the defensive.

  He reaches over and helps himself to a few more of the matchstick chips that accompany the mussels. ‘Brittany is one of the most fiercely independent regions of France, and the Breton people have a reputation for stubbornness and determination.’ He uses the chips for emphasis, pointing them at me before popping them into his mouth. ‘And you are one of the most fiercely independent women I have ever met. It’s obvious that Breton blood runs in your veins. Alongside your British sangfroid, of course. What a combination! Now I understand how you had the confidence to come to Paris, fresh out of university, and talk your way in to one of the most sought-after positions in one of the most competitive industries.’

  I digest this for a moment, along with another handful of chips from the basket. Is that how people see me? Independent? Confident? It’s the last thing I’ve ever felt. But maybe Thierry is right, maybe it has been there all along, a seam of Breton granite that underpins my temperament.

  Claire had it too. Although she had wanted to leave her simple family home for the bright lights of Paris, her Breton roots ran deep enough to anchor her when the storms of war raged.

  Now I know that she could be brave. And with that knowledge, instead of envying the courage of outsiders and feeling weak in comparison, I can begin to feel the strength of my own family running in my veins.

  Shame has been replaced by self-respect, dishonour by dignity. It’s words that have made this change, the words that tell my grandmother’s story. And I want to know more.

  On an impulse – and impulsiveness is another aspect of my character which has lain buried beneath layers of fear, anxiety and protective caution until now – I lean forwards and say to Thierry, ‘How would you like to come with me on a road trip? Maybe next weekend, if you’re free?’

  He smiles a slow smile and I notice how it lights up his face, like a sunrise. ‘To Brittany?’ he asks. ‘You and me together?’

  I reach across, take his hand in mine, and I say, ‘You and me. Together.’

  We check into a bed and breakfast in Concarneau, a pretty fishing port not far from Port Meilhon. The journey from Paris has taken hours so we dump our bags and hurry out to look for somewhere where we can get a late supper. The town has a distinct out-of-season air to it and several of the restaurants are closed, but the lights of a bistro on the quayside beckon us in. We find a table and order bowls of cotriade, the delicious local fish stew served on slices of toasted bread, and a bottle of local white wine.

  Afterwards, thankfully stretching our legs after the long drive, we wander beside the marina which is full of yachts moored up for the winter, tucked safely into the elbow of the harbour’s arm where they’ll be protected from the fury of the Atlantic’s winter storms. The boats’ rigging clinks against masts stirred by the ocean’s soft night-time breath.

  We cross the causeway to the little island that sits within the bay and meander through the narrow streets of the Ville Close, Concarneau’s medieval walled town. Hand in hand, we walk past the clock tower and out on to the harbour walls. From a cobbled jetty, we pause alongside the rusted hulk of an immense ship’s anchor and look back towards the shore. The lights of the town are reflected in the dark water, sequins dancing across a bolt of black satin.

  Thierry wraps me in his arms and I feel that I have found a harbour of my own, a place where there is shelter from the storms of life. I feel at peace. And the only sounds are the quiet lapping of the water against the sea wall and the beating of our two hearts as we lose ourselves in a kiss that I wish would never end.

  The next day, we drive in contented silence a few miles further west along the coast. The hamlet of Port Meilhon is tucked away in a forgotten corner of the craggy Finistère peninsula. It looks as if it hasn’t changed much since the days when Claire’s father and brothers – my great-grandfather and great-uncles – worked the waters in their Breton fishing boat. The pill-box on the harbour wall has been removed and only a few roughened remnants of concrete show that it was ever here at all. But as we stand looking back towards the row of fisherman’s cottages that line the tiny harbour, I can picture in my mind’s eye the guns trained on the men as they stacked their creels on the quayside.

  I haven’t been able to find any record of exactly which cottage belonged to Claire’s family, but I imagine it to be one of the middle ones. There are no wisps of smoke rising from any of the chimneys these days, though. Most of the cottages appear to be holiday homes, their shutters securely fastened for the winter.

  Hand in hand, Thierry and I climb the hill to where we’ve left the car. As we pass the little grey stone church that watches over the harbour, I hesitate.

  ‘Come on,’ he says. ‘Let’s go in.’

  The thick oak boards of the salt-scoured door are silvered with age and the ironwork is rusted, but with a little encouragement the handle turns and we step inside. The interior is simple, with whitewashed walls and wooden pews, but the chapel has an air of serenity, symbolising the quiet dignity of the generations of fishermen’s families who have come here to give thanks for the safe return of boats from the sea, or to grieve for those lost to the ocean’s cruel force.

  Outside, a tiny graveyard has been created on a terrace scratched into the hillside behind rough granite walls. And it is here that I find the stones that bear the names of my family. Thierry spots them first. ‘Harriet,’ he says quietly. ‘Come and see this.’

  First there is Aimée Meynardier, née Carlou, beloved wife and mother, and beneath her name is carved that of her husband, Corentin: my great-grandparents. Claire’s father die
d in 1947, it says, so he survived the war. But then I read the names on the stone that stands alongside theirs and my heart breaks. ‘To the memory of Luc Meynardier (1916-1940) killed fighting for his country, beloved son and brother; to the memories of Théo Meynardier (1918-1942) and Jean-Paul Meynardier (1919-1942), killed at Dachau, Germany’; and beneath these three names has been added another – that of Marc Meynardier, Claire’s fourth brother, lost at sea in 1945.

  So my great-grandfather buried all four of his sons. Or rather, he didn’t bury any of them. None of their bodies were ever brought home to rest alongside their parents. They lie in unmarked graves, or as ashes scattered in a German forest, or as bones picked bare on the ocean floor, and only this stone records their names.

  And who was it that buried my great-grandfather, Corentin? Did Claire stand here, with her English husband beside her, and weep for the entire family that she had lost?

  As I lick my lips, I taste salt and I can’t tell whether it’s from the Atlantic wind that blusters through the gravestones or from the tears that run down my face.

  Thierry gathers me into his arms and kisses them away. He holds me close, sheltering me, and his eyes search for mine. ‘Those were terrible times,’ he whispers. ‘But they are over now. And you are here, to visit your family and to honour their memory. How proud they would be, Harriet, if they knew you had come to find them. How proud they would be to know you. And to know that, through you, they live on.’

  1942

  The summer heat was oppressive. The sun blazed through the tall windows, turning the sewing room into an oven. The curtains couldn’t be pulled to shut out the glare as the seamstresses needed the light to sew by. The smell of scorched starch and the steam from the ironing tables made the air even hotter and heavier, until sometimes Mireille felt she could scarcely breathe. She longed to sit beneath the willow tree on the riverbank back home, cooled by the dappled shade cast by the graceful arch of its branches overhead as she listened to the hushed song of the river.