by Martin Lake
‘Afternoon tea,’ Dorothy said. ‘With cakes.’ She beamed at the children who rushed over to the young woman and stared wide-eyed at the food on the tray.
Viviane guessed that Dorothy was in her early fifties. She had chestnut coloured hair streaked with grey, cut short with considerable flair. She had a pleasant face, rather round and soft but with sharp nose and even sharper eyes. She must have been pretty when she was younger, although now her skin was dry and lined.
Her clothes, while casual, were of the finest quality. She wore a short linen jacket with a white silk blouse, highlighted by a bright red scarf. Instead of a skirt she wore a pair of slacks which must have been more practical for driving. Her shoes were light tan in colour and low-heeled.
She regarded Viviane with interest and a hint of amusement. She appeared to be completely recovered from her black-out.
‘How are you, madame?’ Viviane said.
‘Absolutely fine. I just needed to get the horse-pills inside me.’
‘Horse-pills?’ Viviane shook her head in confusion.
‘It’s a figure of speech.’
The young woman gave Dorothy and Viviane a cup of pale tea and the children a lemon drink and then made to leave the room. But she paused as she opened the door and gave Viviane a thoughtful almost anxious look before closing it behind her.
‘Is she your daughter?’ Viviane asked.
‘My servant. Marie. A nice kid.’
Viviane had never met anyone with a servant before. She hid her surprise by taking a sip of her tea, which was delicate and refreshing.
‘Madame —’ she began.
‘Dorothy,’ the woman said firmly. ‘I don’t hold with all this formality.’
‘Is that because you’re from Paris?’
Dorothy looked surprised. ‘I’m not from Paris.’
‘But your accent. And the way you act.’
‘No, darling. I’m not even French. I’m American. From New York. And California.’
Viviane gasped. She had only ever seen Americans on cinema screens.
‘So why are you here?’ She knew she shouldn’t be so intrusive but could not stop herself asking the question.
‘It’s a long story.’
‘I like stories,’ Viviane said.
‘Can we play outside?’ Celeste asked. Her mouth was full of cake. David had two, one in each hand.
‘Of course, honey,’ Dorothy said. ‘Play on the grass and keep away from the pond. There’s a cat out there called Groucho who loves being tickled.’
She got up, opened the door to the garden and the children raced out.
‘I still don’t know your name,’ she said, smiling at Viviane. ‘And I haven’t thanked you properly for helping me out.’
‘Viviane Renaud. And there’s no need to thank me.’
Dorothy laughed, a warm, deep chuckle, and held out her hand. ‘I’m Dorothy Pine,’ she said. ‘I hope we’ll become friends.’
Viviane did not know how to answer that. It was not a thing any French woman of Dorothy’s age would even think to say. She ate the last of her cake and took another sip of tea. She was burning with curiosity.
‘You said it was a long story, Madame Pine…sorry, Dorothy.’ She put her cup on the table beside her. ‘I have the time.’
Dorothy looked at her thoughtfully. ‘Well that’s good, then. I don’t get the chance to talk with intelligent people much anymore.’
She poured herself another cup of tea and replenished Viviane’s cup. ‘Tell me, Viviane, do you like the movies? Films?’
‘Very much. But we rarely get the chance to see them now.’
‘Well, honey, I’ve spent most of my life working in films. It was Charles who got me my first job, Charles Chaplin. I’d written a play off Broadway which he saw and he invited me to California to write the scripts for his films. Well, not scripts exactly, because they were silent films. I wrote the explanations of what was happening between scenes.
‘That might seem easy work but getting the nub of the story and communicating it in a few words was a real art. And it paid, pretty well. I made a decent living for ten years.’
She stared at Viviane. ‘Are you sure you want to hear all this?’
Viviane nodded and Dorothy shrugged before continuing. Viviane could see that she was pleased to do so.
‘Well, then came the talkies. Suddenly every movie studio was desperate for writers. I was on the spot and well-respected. The work fell into my lap. I wrote, let me tell you, dozens and dozens of films in those first few years of talkies.’
‘Are your films famous? Would I have seen them?’
Dorothy shook her head and grinned. ‘They were mostly pot-boilers. Second features, sometimes even third. But I was also brought in whenever a big-name Eastern writer couldn’t get the script right. I was never credited for this, because the studious didn’t want to admit they’d hired a famous turkey and besides, I was a woman. But I helped some hot-shot guys get their names on the credits.’
Viviane was enthralled. ‘And did you meet many stars?’
‘Met them, partied with them, loved them. But then I had the bad luck of being introduced to Sebastian Pine. He was a lovely looking guy but no actor, even though he yearned to be. He was a stuntman, and not a particularly good one. But he was a charmer, at least at first, and he won my heart and we married.’
She picked up a cake, looked at it thoughtfully, bit off a chunk and swallowed it with barely a chew before continuing.
‘Unfortunately, Sebastian charmed lots of other women as well as me. He charmed the clothes off many a young starlet. And then he started drinking and taking drugs. And finally, he started beating me.’
Viviane was wide-eyed at this.
‘He hit me because I was more successful than he was, I guess.’ Dorothy shook her head, wearily. ‘Anyhow, after he broke my arm, I finally had enough. I left him and bought myself a little place in Oakwood, as far as possible from Sunset Strip where he hung out. I learnt to type one handed and kept on churning out the scripts.’
Viviane started to ask a question but thought better of it.
‘Were you going to ask if I was rich?’ Dorothy asked. ‘Most people do?’
Viviane nodded, embarrassed that her question had been so transparent.
‘Well, darling, I was rich enough to buy this place. I was sensible, you see, I never bought stocks so when Wall Street crashed it didn’t do me much harm. I just saved and saved my cash.’
‘And what about your husband? Did you see him again?’
‘Only in passing. And then something bad happened to him.’
She took another sip of tea before continuing.
‘I said he was a stuntman and not a good one at that. One day, the studio asked him to do a stunt which lots of the more experienced guys refused. But Sebastian was an idiot and thought too highly of himself. He did the stunt, it went wrong, and his back was broken clean in half.’
Viviane gasped.
‘Sad, but he survived, although he had to use a wheel-chair. His bitch of a mother came west to look after him, because I certainly wasn’t going to.’
She laughed. ‘The old cow, who was sharper with money than the Rockefellers and Vanderbilts combined, decided that the studio was at fault for her darling son’s accident and determined to sue. She didn’t need to, for she was rich as Croesus already. She was widow to a rich man and when the Crash came, she figured that people would always need gas and a place to eat so she bought up lots of gas stations and diners at knock down prices.
‘But despite her wealth she smelled the chance of wringing money from the studio so she set to work. Three years it took and then, just before it went to court, the studio decided to cave in to avoid any bad publicity. They settled quietly, and Sebastian suddenly found he was a rich man. But not for long.
‘A week after the money had been paid into his account, his mother was wheeling him in the Hollywood Hills when she had a heart attack. A doctor was
on the scene but he was too late to save her.’
She chuckled to herself. ‘Sebastian was now one of the richest men in California, not only having the settlement from the studio but also all of his mother’s wealth as well. One of the richest men in California for all of sixty seconds.
‘For while everyone was attending his mother nobody noticed that Sebastian was unwillingly undertaking his final stunt.’
Dorothy leaned forward in her chair, pleased that this story was enthralling Viviane every bit as much as her scripts had enthralled film-goers.
‘The road where his mother died was steep,’ she continued, ‘very steep. Her hands had slipped from the wheelchair, of course, and it began to trundle down the hill. It quickly picked up speed and Sebastian began to holler. Some folk said he sounded scared, others that he was chortling with joy at the speed and the danger.
‘Anyhow, he didn’t stop at the junction and his wheelchair careered into the oncoming traffic. He was hit by a truck and killed instantly. Do you want to know something ironic?’
Viviane nodded.
‘The truck was owned by the studio which had just paid him off. Suspicious, you might say. Even worse, the truck was being driven by a useless distant cousin of the studio boss. Let me tell you, Viviane, it did not look good.’
‘So what happened?’
‘The studio took fright and they paid me a goodly sum to agree that I would never take any legal action against them. And, although I was separated from Sebastian, I was still his wife so I inherited everything he owned, his pay-off and all his mother’s gas stations and diners.’
Viviane’s gaze went around the room.
‘But just remember, honey,’ Dorothy said in a rather sharper tone, ‘I bought this villa out of my own money, out of the money I’d earned writing scripts. Not a cent from him or his ma paid for this.’
‘Of course,’ Viviane said.
‘Not that what I inherited doesn’t help,’ Dorothy added with a smile. ‘I lead a pretty good life, or at least I did until this war came.’
‘So why didn’t you leave when the war started? A lot of the English did.’
Dorothy shrugged.
‘Britain was at war with Germany. America wasn’t. I figured it probably never would be and besides, it wasn’t easy to find a way of getting back to the States from here. I was feeling quite content until that madman Hitler declared war on the US. More fool him, I say.’
She poured them both a third cup of tea, which Viviane thought delightfully extravagant. ‘So I’m stuck here for the duration as they say. I just hope that Mr Churchill and Mr Roosevelt get a move on and liberate us before things get any worse.’
Viviane felt deflated by her words. ‘Surely they can’t get worse? The Maréchal won’t allow it.’
Dorothy frowned and rose from her chair. She went over to a sideboard and poured two large glasses of cognac. She thrust one towards Viviane who took a sip and sighed with pleasure. It was excellent.
Dorothy gave Viviane a rather pitying look. ‘I fear you’ve got a rather exalted view of your Maréchal Pétain if you think he’s gonna protect you from the Nazis.’
Viviane was shocked. ‘But he’s our President. And a war-hero.’
‘Listen, honey, the world is like a school playground. Pétain and Laval may once have been big kids in the playground but then a bigger bully with a Charlie Chaplin moustache came along. He’s the one calling all the shots, now. If Hitler says jump, Pétain and Laval will ask how high.’
The noise of the children chasing a cat floated through the open window.
‘Nice kids,’ Dorothy said, aware that her comment had deflated Viviane and wishing to make amends.
‘Thank you.’ She gave a weary smile.
‘Are they both yours? They don’t look alike.’
‘Yes they are,’ Viviane said quickly. ‘Celeste takes after me, David after his father.’
Dorothy stared at her, thoughtfully. ‘Well, what do you know,’ she said. ‘That’s nice.’
She doesn’t believe me, Viviane thought in panic, wondering what she could say to make it sound the truth. But before she came up with the answer, Dorothy began to speak once again.
‘Do you believe my life story, honey?’ she asked.
‘Of course I do.’
‘Well maybe you shouldn’t. Maybe I was spinning a yarn. I’m a writer after all.’
Viviane looked shocked. ‘But why would you do that?’
‘People tell lies for all sorts of reasons, to make themselves look better than they are, because they like fooling people or just for the fun of it. Or in order to survive.’ She leaned over and touched her arm. ‘If you ever have to tell lies, Viviane, just make sure they’re convincing.’
Viviane felt the breath catch in her chest. The American had seen through her concerning David. Straight away.
‘I need to go, madame,’ she said.
‘Of course. I’ll drive you.’
‘There’s no need.’
‘But I insist.’ She got to her feet and picked up her purse. ‘I hope we can be friends,’ she said. ‘You and your husband. And your delightful children, of course.’
‘I hope so, too,’ Viviane said, although she was desperate to flee from the American.
A SURPRISE
Grasse, August 1942
The door was open when she arrived, which shocked her. She had got used to locking it since the war, because of the danger from looters. Perhaps the strain of David was already beginning to tell on her.
She walked into the house and gave a cry of pleasure.
Alain was sitting on his usual chair, with a bottle of wine in front of him. He leapt up and pulled her into his arms and she breathed in his familiar scent of warm skin, leather jacket and cigarettes.
‘You’ve been gone so long,’ she said.
He nodded. ‘That’s true. But it was a very profitable trip. My contacts proved even better than I hoped, Viv, much better. They were very keen to do business, I can tell you. He pulled a packet of cigarettes from his pocket.
‘Lucky Strike,’ she said. ‘American cigarettes. How did you get them?’
He tapped his finger on his nose and then chuckled. ‘To be honest, I’m not entirely sure. And with the men I was dealing with, I soon learnt not to ask more than the minimum of questions.’
Then he glanced over her shoulder and whooped with delight. ‘Hello, angel. How’s my beautiful girl?’
Celeste giggled and clutched his leg. He reached down and pulled her up with one hand, dragging her into the hug. ‘Home sweet home,’ he cried.
‘Does David get a hug too?’ Celeste asked.
He stared at her in confusion, then at Viviane.
‘There’s David,’ Celeste said, pointing to the door.
For once, Alain was lost for words.
‘You can’t keep him.’ Alain said after a sparse lunch. He spoke quietly but there was no mistaking that he had made up his mind. No mistaking his determination.
‘Do you think I don’t know that?’ Viviane said. She angrily scraped back a lock of her hair but it slipped down her forehead immediately.
‘There’s Celeste to think about,’ Alain continued.
‘I’m not a fool,’ she snapped.
Her eyes slipped from her daughter to the little boy on the couch. He was sleeping, contented, innocent. But he was a danger to them all.
‘The Maréchal’s prudence has kept the Germans off our backs.’ Alain said. ‘We would do well to copy him.’
Viviane nodded. Maréchal Pétain was the father of the nation, she knew that. If it weren’t for him her father would almost certainly have died in the Great War, another sacrifice of blood at Verdun. And now the Maréchal was keeping the Germans at bay, a sure shield for France and its people.
Her thoughts slipped along these well-worn tracks. Over the last few years they had become a litany in her mind, almost a talisman, a token of hope. But then she thought, does the Maréchal know
what his government is doing to the Jews?’
‘We cannot keep a fugitive child,’ Alain continued.
‘He’s not a fugitive,’ Viviane cried. She was astonished at the strength of her feelings, at the words which flooded from her mouth. ‘How can a child be a fugitive? How can he be a criminal? Look at him, Alain, he’s tiny, fragile, vulnerable. How can we think he’s a danger? How can we even think of surrendering him to the police? To the Nazis?’
Her words were manifestation of her pent-up frustration and fury at the long years of privation and hopelessness.
Alain stared at her in silence. She thought for a moment that he looked bitter, accusatory. Perhaps he did although as the silence seethed between them she sensed his look begin to change.
‘But what about Celeste?’ he murmured at last. ‘If we are condemned for taking in this child, then what will happen to her?’
‘Trust me,’ she said.
‘And food?’ he continued. ‘We have little enough to feed ourselves. How will we feed him?’
He took a step towards the sleeping boy. ‘Did his mother give you ration books for him?’
She shook her head.
‘Papers?’
Again, she shook her head.
‘I know his name. His first name at any rate. It’s David.’
Alain sighed. ‘Thank heavens for that. It might have been Moses or Aaron.’
He made the sign of scissors in the air. ‘Has he been…?’
‘Yes.’
Alain shrugged. ‘North Africans are also circumcised. Perhaps we could pass him off as one of them.’
Viviane began to relax. Alain’s practical nature, his love of problem-solving, was beginning to combat his doubts about the child.
But then she began to panic. Did this really mean they would keep the child? That they would put the family, all of them, in danger? That they would run the risk of discovery?
She realised that until her explosion of temper part of her had hoped Alain would persuade her to hand the child in to the authorities. Now, that sensible choice was drifting further out of reach.
‘Are you sure?’ she asked nervously. ‘About keeping the child?’
Alain shook his head. ‘Not at all. And I don’t think you are either. But I can’t see us giving him up to a life in prison.’