The Dragonfly Brooch

by Estella McQueen

  Poised to run if things took a turn for the worse, the group of people clustered on the narrow traffic island in the road, were nevertheless egging the boy on. Eventually he let go, and the bull wheeled and charged away again, leaving the cowboy handlers to catch up with it and herd it towards the rest of the bulls who were heading down one of the avenues beyond. The gathering on the town hall steps now abandoned their vantage point and swarmed down to street level. But the spectacle was almost over and after a few more minutes the gardians gradually brought the bulls back under control. The onlookers slowed down, the running stopped, and the collective adrenalin began to subside.

  The road barriers were already being cleared away as café owners and waiters rearranged the tables on the pavement, as if bull running was a regular daily occurrence; as if the possibility of being gored to death on the town hall steps was a minor inconvenience. Aside from the pungent aroma of warm cattle droppings, there was no sign of the mayhem that had gripped the town mere minutes earlier.

  ‘Valérie, what the bloody hell was that all about?’

  Valérie retied the scarf around her neck and eyed him indulgently. ‘Le festival,’ she said, looping her arm in his and steering him away from the centre of town. ‘I did not expect a brave young man like you to panic so much!’

  He was her captive for the rest of the day, she said. He must do whatever she asked. Being in somewhat of a daze he didn’t argue. They were passing a large building partially obscured from the road by the tall trees of a mature garden. He had never seen these streets before, and yet there was something vaguely familiar about them. As the birds flitted back and forth overhead, he could hear the scrunch of feet on gravel and kitchen noises and a radio coming from an open window. Valérie pointed to the roof where a metal cross was fixed to the gable end. She held her hands in prayer. ‘Religieuse,’ she said. ‘Malade.’ A hospice run by nuns.’ She gazed up at the cross on the roof. ‘My mother and my aunt stayed here after my grandparents’ disappearance.’

  Charlie halted by the kerb. ‘Disappearance?’ he repeated.

  Valérie was vague. ‘There was lots of speculation as to what happened, but nothing concrete. So many people were involved in Resistance activities; I always assumed that they were too.’

  In the upper section of the front door was a pair of rectangular glass panels. Now and again Charlie caught glimpses of movement behind the glass panels, as though people within were crossing back and forth. Little by little the glass dissolved from sight to be replaced by a small square aperture with a sliding cover. This door was made of solid oak, but the weather had penetrated its surface and there were long dark streaks in the wood grain from where it had split, bulged and bloomed. As he continued to watch he saw three figures walk along the gravel path and approach the entrance …

  The girls from the farmhouse are gloomily climbing the steps of the convent in the company of one of the nuns. Both of them are crying but the younger one is distraught. The older girl reaches for her sister’s hand, mimicking the gestures of a mother, but the nun takes over, enveloping them in her dark embrace the way a giant black crow might hover over hungry youngsters in the nest. The nun pulls the iron bell pull and the heavy door opens. Reluctantly they enter the portal, pausing only for a brief glance back over their shoulders before the door closes behind them …

  ‘Charlie?’ said Valérie. ‘What is it? Are you all right?’

  Like waking up in a strange bed, for a moment he forgot where he was. It could be alarming for observers when he suddenly went vacant and Valérie had never seen him do it.

  ‘Valérie,’ he said slowly. ‘What was your grandparents’ name?’

  ‘Grillet,’ she said. ‘Why? Does the name mean something to you?’

  ‘Yes.’ He felt very light-headed. ‘It does.’

  He stuck to the basics, but Valérie was most perturbed by the information; it took her a good while to fully understand what he was telling her.

  ‘Anne Marie’s great grandmother was here, in St Rémy? During the Second World War? And Anne Marie doesn’t know anything about it?’

  ‘That’s right. She was living with your grandparents, Monsieur and Madame Grillet.’

  She scratched her fingernails along the crumbling mortar in the ancient wall. ‘There were networks all over France. I don’t know what they were involved in. It could have been anything clandestine – helping people to escape, organising disruption, transporting weapons, passing messages?’ Valérie regarded him quizzically.

  He may as well tell her what he knew. ‘They were harbouring young men and sending them into the mountains to join the Maquis. But it seems they were betrayed.’

  ‘Ah,’ she said sadly. ‘And probably by someone they knew. There were so many opposing factions, all wanting different things.’ She pondered a moment. ‘I can see why people found it hard to talk about it later on. So many of them must have known more than they let on. But Charlie,’ she said, reaching up to push a frond of hair from his eye and give him a maternal stroke of the cheek. ‘How do you know all this?’

  ‘I’ve been looking into it,’ he replied.

  ‘In that case you must come with me,’ she said. ‘There’s someone I think you should meet.’

  ****

  At the end of a cul de sac bounded with a sparse, poorly maintained hedgerow and a collapsing wire fence was a small urban development comprising four pairs of maisonettes. Climbing a set of concrete steps with an iron railing to the first floor, Valérie knocked at the paint-blistered exterior of maisonette number 3. Without waiting for an answer she used a key to gain entry. The interior was pristine and as he hovered in the hallway Charlie could hear a fan whirring and the faint tinkling of wind chimes coming from a room beyond. ‘Maman!’ Valérie called, ‘we have a visitor! Go in,’ she said to Charlie.

  Inside the lavender-scented room, an elderly woman hauled herself up from the sofa. He recognised her at once.

  ‘This is my mother Hélene,’ said Valérie following him in.

  Hélene’s soft-skinned hands gently took hold of his as he bent down to kiss her on both cheeks. In her smiling face he could clearly see the elder of the two young girls; it was just as she had been when he watched her playing with the dolls or having her hair brushed, or placing the mermaid’s purse in her own mother’s hand. Hélene’s presence had been with him the whole time, right from the very beginning.

  ‘Maman,’ said Valérie, ‘Charlie and I have been to visit the convent.’

  ‘Ah yes,’ said Hélene. ‘It is now a hospice.’

  ‘Tell Charlie what you remember about the convent, Maman.’

  ‘I remember no-one spoke very much. The nuns, very sacred, whispering all the time …’ Hélene put her finger to her lips. ‘Sh!’

  ‘Tell Charlie the rest,’ said Valérie. ‘Tell him about the English woman.’

  ‘Oh!’ She chuckled. ‘La femme anglaise! Très formidable! The Milice were hunting us. I suppose they thought that if they could question us we might let something slip. Give them a name or something.’

  ‘But she helped you, yes? The English lady?’ said Valérie.

  ‘Oh yes,’ said her mother simply. ‘She saved us.’

  ‘From the Milice?’ Charlie asked.

  ‘From everyone,’ said Hélene. ‘The Milice, the Germans.’ She sat down on the sofa and motioned for Charlie to sit next to her. ‘Valérie! Get the man a drink! And something to eat.’

  ‘There’s no need—’

  But Hélene was insistent, shooing her daughter towards the kitchen. ‘You must understand,’ Hélene went on when Valérie returned with coffee and freshly baked madeleines, ‘I was very young when my parents disappeared. My sister and I had to take care of each other. I try not to think about those years. The war was a hard time for everyone. One day we were all together, the next, an aunt we barely knew came to take us away. There was no one else to look after us.’

  ‘Maman,’ said Valérie, ‘speak slower. He can
’t keep up.’

  But the dam had been opened and Hélene’s memories were voluble. ‘She didn’t really want me, she preferred Jeanine. Which was a shame,’ she added without sentiment, ‘but no matter. Our aunt forbade us to ask questions about Papa and Maman, and we stayed with her until we were quite grown up. We never saw our father or mother again.’

  ‘I’m so sorry,’ said Charlie.

  ‘It happened to other children; their parents were lost, a relative came to look after them. People moved away, began new lives.’

  ‘When did you return to St Rémy?’

  ‘After my husband died. I thought one day I might find out what had happened to my parents. I never did. The old family home changed hands several times. I have no idea of the legalities. I imagine it was sold and my aunt pocketed the money. I always felt compelled to watch over it, you understand? Just in case …’

  He reached out to take her hand. ‘And Jeanine?’

  For the first time her manner became stilted. ‘Jeanine died when she was still a young woman. I miss her very much.’

  The note of bitterness made him think the illness hadn’t been physical.

  ‘As children we imagined the worst,’ she went on. ‘Times were difficult. We pretended our parents were on secret missions. We made up romantic stories about them. We did not think they would have abandoned us otherwise.’

  ‘Did you check the town hall records? What about the notary?’

  She answered vaguely. ‘I expected to find a grave somewhere, but there’s no record of any burial. We have very few possessions from that time – a few photos of myself and Jeanine, in the garden, and that’s about it.’

  Valérie interrupted. ‘Charlie thinks your parents were running a safe house. Helping young men avoid slavery in the Service du Travail Obligatoire.’

  Hélene agreed it might be likely. ‘There were several young men staying with us at one time or another. Some were handsome, some weren’t.’

  ‘Oh, Maman,’ Valérie chided.

  ‘What?’ said the old lady. ‘I had eyes in my head, didn’t I? They came for a while and then they were gone.’ She raised her hands in the air. ‘Pouf! I expect some became maquisards and others escaped to the border.’

  ‘They were also involved with the Special Operatives Executive – the SOE. At some point the operation was compromised,’ said Charlie.

  Hélene was matter-of-fact. ‘Someone once told me they’d seen my parents leaving the town with a group of our neighbours. I think I’d worked out why.’ She gave him a significant look and then sighed. ‘I grieved then, I grieve now, I will go on grieving.’

  ‘And the formidable English lady?’ Valérie asked. ‘What happened to her?’

  ‘She was an actress, that’s all I know. Once we were in the convent we never saw her again. We never even found out her real name.’

  ‘Her name was Minnie Etherege Devine,’ said Charlie. ‘And her granddaughter now owns your family home.’

  ‘Ah,’ Hélene smiled. ‘Is that so?’ For a moment she sat in silent contemplation.

  Valérie was regretful. ‘I’ve never been remotely political. I’m not an agitator, I live a simple life. My grandparents would be ashamed of me! Cleaning for a rich woman! Tidying up after her, washing her linen, sweeping her floors, hoeing her vegetable garden.’ She smiled. ‘And yet I am very fond of Anne Marie. Even if she is a little bit …’ She could not think of the word.

  ‘Flaky?’ Charlie said in English.

  She laughed. ‘Yes. Flaky! That is the best way to describe her. But that is why you came here, Charlie. You are supposed to be helping Anne Marie. Not us. As my mother says the house has changed hands several times since the end of the war, but when Miss Devine bought it and advertised for a housekeeper, I thought, why not?’ She gave a doleful smile. ‘It must be fate, how can you say otherwise?’

  He regarded them both. Valérie was right. It was Anne Marie he was supposed to be helping, not them. He didn’t want or need to dig any deeper. And yet it was their story too. Before the Germans occupied Provence in November 1942 the south had remained in the hands of the Vichy government who relied on the Milice and the local law enforcement to keep resistance at bay. In a post-war Europe they would need to be on good terms with the German victors.

  ‘You’ll say it’s far-fetched,’ he began. ‘You’ll say I have no proof …’

  Valérie was puzzled. What was he talking about?

  ‘Tell me what you know,’ Hélene demanded. ‘I will decide if it is far-fetched or not.’

  ‘I’m a psychic historian,’ he said. ‘If you want, I can show you what happened to your parents.’

  ****

  Following Charlie’s directions, Valérie drove them past the church where the wedding had taken place and along a stretch of nondescript road. ‘Here,’ he said, pointing to the spot where the benign, ordinary hedgerow ended and a length of ancient wall began. ‘This is it.’

  Valérie parked the car and turned off the engine. In the back seat Hélene’s face was decidedly pale as he opened the rear door and helped her out. Leaning on his arm she tottered across to the edge of the lavender field. ‘It’s along here,’ he said. ‘Through the gate. Are we trespassing?’

  Hélene didn’t care if they were or not.

  The air was dry and the grit blew in his face. ‘Are you sure about this?’

  Both women nodded. He stood with his back to the wall and gestured, hands wide apart. They looked at his feet. Hélene clutched Valérie’s arm. ‘Ici? Valérie?’

  ‘Oui, Maman. Ici.’

  Charlie’s heart sank. They didn’t believe him. They thought he was a sick fool; conning them, tricking them, playing on their desire for answers. How heartless to mock them like this. It was unbearable, disgusting, outrageous. But Valérie and her mother remained motionless, surveying the patch of ploughed, knobbly soil and said nothing. Hélene’s jaw was rigid; it was Valérie who shed tears.

  ‘Maman,’ Hélene whispered. ‘Papa.’ She placed her hand against the brickwork, and bent forwards as if examining it for faint traces of blood. Valérie laid a small bouquet of flowers on the ground and then turned to embrace her mother.

  Charlie turned aside and went to wait by the car. He’d done as much as he could. Now it was up to them. After a while the women came to join him. ‘My father used a cloth sack to gather the plants,’ said Hélene, waving her arm towards the lavender fields. ‘These days it’s all mechanised.’ She took his hand, gazing up into his eyes. ‘I never did get to visit London. I never saw Madame’s theatre. Or her glittering costume.’

  He took his phone from his pocket and showed her the photo he’d taken of Minnie’s costume, enlarging the image as much as he could. ‘It gives you some idea …’

  ‘Oh,’ she gasped. ‘It’s just as beautiful as I imagined.’

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Back at the farmhouse he poured some coffee and took it outside. He sat in the usual place under the tree, listening to the noises in the dry grass and the birdsong in the branches. He ate a forkful of Valérie’s latest cake and mentally planned another trip into the mountains or a second visit to the coast, but this time heading east to Nice or Cannes. The sun sank low in the sky, the night came on and still he sat there, running the dragonfly brooch through his fingers, twirling it round and round like a tiny majorette’s baton …

  The crunch of the military vehicle’s tyres comes first and then the glow of the headlamps, insects floating in the beams, as they sweep the ground. A small group of German soldiers step out of the car, the engine ticking, and scrunch their way along the path towards the farmhouse.

  The front door opens and a frail-looking woman emerges. She carefully negotiates the steps and then takes a few paces forwards into the garden. She is dressed in a long nightgown and has a shawl around her shoulders as if she has just got out of bed. Her long hair is loose and threaded with grey. ‘Good evening, gentlemen,’ she says. ‘This is a late hour to be abroad.�
�� The SS officer smiles and bears the tedium of the woman’s conversation stoically and with good humour. For the woman is babbling away in English not bothering to conceal her identity, not caring whether they understand her or not. ‘Of course you will try and arrest me! Baxter said it would take all my powers of acting to convince you I’m not a spy.’ She laughs, but it is a false laugh, and her brow furrows. ‘I know what Baxter will say,’ she goes on. ‘Acting, acting always acting. “I told you it was only a matter of time before you were found out …” That’s what he’ll say!’

  The officer listens patiently, while the rest of the men have fanned out into the grounds. Minnie steals a glance every now and then at their retreating forms, as though curious as to their intent, but her general conduct is impassive. ‘Where is he?’ The German asks.

  ‘Who?’

  ‘We know he’s around here somewhere,’ he says languidly. ‘We’ve been watching.’

  ‘I don’t know who you’re talking about! I’m an actress,’ she goes on. ‘I have been staying at the mas for the sake of my health. I’m waiting for a suitable part. Something that will tempt me back on to the stage. Something rather new and modern, perhaps. But not vulgar or obscene. Something where I can show my skill, my experience; a meaty role …’ she clenches her fists, ‘… with plenty of long speeches, lots of emotion, and opportunities to show my range.’

  ‘Naturally,’ says the German.

  ‘I don’t like long runs, you know. They tire me so. Nothing too taxing; a short run of a few weeks would do me very well. I’ll need to pace myself. I can’t do with anything overly physical and strenuous! No long elongated scenes. I need plenty of gaps where I can rest, places where I can catch my breath.’ She plays with the button on her nightgown. ‘And of course, it would have to be a reasonable early curtain call. A brisk one and a half hours, an hour and three quarters at the most. D’Urvaine used to take forever to write his plays, but Farrar Fay could rattle off five acts in a couple of weeks … In fact I really must start packing. Baxter is expecting me.’