An Ordinary Life

by Amanda Prowse

  The Frenchmen’s faces, however, were bruised and battered, their eyes blackened and sunk in their sockets over sallow cheeks. Their ragged clothes hung limply from bowed shoulders, their emaciated bodies shrunken by hunger. They had wound makeshift bandages around hands, legs and at least one person’s head. The man with the head bandage and a tattered red scarf around his neck briefly held her gaze, his dark eyes imploring, as the troupe limped onward. Molly wanted to give water to each one of these desperate men, with their blistered lips and the downward cast of the exhausted, and offer words of encouragement that this would be over soon, or at the very least that she was thankful for their sacrifice. Instead, she kept her eyes to the front and sang a hymn in her head as a distraction . . .

  The love that asks no question, the love that stands the test,

  That lays upon the altar the dearest and the best . . .

  Anything rather than reveal her sympathy in front of the guards who would have no hesitation in using those weapons on a sympathiser. She walked past and heard shouts of:

  ‘Los! Bewegt euch, ihr Schweine!’

  The loud, guttural instruction sent a shiver down her spine.

  The buildings on the other side of the water were ornate, with wrought-iron balconies and fancy balustrades, but even here the fronts were pitted with bullet holes. It was a shock to see the beautiful town so damaged and so very different to the images of French rural life that lived in her mind. She thought of the houses back home, many of which had had their iron plundered for the war effort. Blinking twice, she erased the image of the car door closing, of Joyce’s foot lifting as it stepped into the car and how she swept the edge of her coat from the kerb, the last thing to be folded inside the confines of the vehicle that would spirit away her baby boy . . .

  Stop it! No sentiment. You are Claudette, off to meet your cousin Violet. You are Claudette, off to meet your cousin Violet at the Café Hubert.

  The air along the river was thick with the smell of cut grass. In the nooks and crannies of the low wall separating the road from the drop down to the river, she saw clusters of tiny purple flowers sitting in fine sprays of green foliage. Gazing up at the deep blue sky and with the warm sun on her face, she could fool herself for a moment that this was any other town on any other day and not a place under occupation where soldiers of an invading army could do as they pleased, when they pleased and with whom they pleased – because there was no one brave enough to stop them.

  ‘I am brave enough . . .’ Johan’s words came to her.

  ‘I picture a generation of young men who don’t know what it’s like to put their hands over their ears to quiet the explosions, who haven’t seen their blood or that of their friends running into the earth of which they will forever be part. I don’t want them to know what it’s like to have to say goodbye to the things and people they love with every fibre of their being, knowing it might be for the very last time. And then to have to erase those things and people from their minds and switch to fighting mode just to enable them to get through the next hour and the next and the next . . . I want them to live in perfect peace.’

  I am brave enough! She gritted her teeth. I am!

  Gripping the wooden handle of her rattan bag, she stared at the ground, tucking her recently chopped hair behind her ear. Her locks were now as sharp as the paper scissors would allow and hung along her jawline in a bluntish, straightish line.

  ‘There we go.’ The man who had volunteered to chop her locks at West Court stood back in the dim light of her bathroom to admire his handiwork. ‘Almost professional.’

  ‘Are you a barber?’ she had asked.

  ‘Good Lord, no! I’m a cartographer.’

  ‘Well, that explains a lot.’

  She had laughed, and the man cutting her hair had laughed. She knew she would remember this, as it was the first time she had laughed since she had handed Joe to her sister.

  And suddenly there it was ahead, just as they had described it, the meeting place. Her gut churned at the sight of it. The Café Hubert was nothing grand or fancy, no Lyons Corner House, but instead had a modest frontage under a striped awning with dark wooden bistro tables and matching bentwood chairs arranged over the cobbles outside the double-fronted windows. There were no tablecloths, just a solid ashtray on each surface and, by the looks of it, the remnants of an afternoon spent drinking. The gilded lettering of ‘Hubert’ above the bar had faded somewhat.

  An elderly woman stood in the doorway, adjusting the waist of her floral apron beneath a fastened-back curtain of green beads. Her arthritic fingers gripped the rim of the dull metal tray under her arm. A limp roll of grey hair sat on top of her head above deep-set eyes, their gaze milky and far off. Creases ran from her nose to her chin, lending her the air of a marionette. She carried a heaviness about her bow-legged frame, as if the world and all that went on in it was more than she could bear, as if the very knowledge crammed inside her head was enough to push her feet further and further into the ground. This Molly could more than understand.

  She swept the seven tables with an apparently casual glance. Four were occupied by groups of German soldiers, all loud, all drinking, hollering and banging the tables without any regard to the old woman’s underlying melancholy. They threw pastis and dark beer down their blond-stubbled throats from thick-ribbed glasses held in square hands equally used to gripping a gun. At one table sat two older women, crudely made-up and flashing a tantalising glimpse of the tops of their stockings. Molly felt a sudden and curious pang of homesickness for the tarts who haunted the alleyways of the West End. The two women avoided eye contact and she did not judge them, knowing that when you and yours were hungry you made your money however you could, and in wartime you did things you could never have imagined during peace. This was never more true of her own situation – here she was in the west of France, miles and miles from her baby, fighting the fight, doing her bit and hoping in some way to make the bastards pay.

  Molly took a seat at one of the free tables, sandwiched between two where soldiers languished. The old woman caught her eye.

  ‘Un café, s’il vous plaît.’

  Her mouth dry with nerves, Molly tried out the dialect for the first time, hoping she had done Belle proud. The waitress nodded and disappeared inside, before returning with a small white cup and saucer, which she placed on the table. Up close, Molly could see that the woman was in fact not nearly as old as she had suspected but simply sad, broken and a little bowed, enough to age the prettiest of faces.

  ‘C’est café?’ She stared down at the brown slightly grainy mixture with fascination; a cup of coffee was a rare thing.

  ‘Oui, si vous voulez, mademoiselle.’

  It was a chicory mixture with goodness knows what else.

  ‘Merci, madame.’ Molly had found it surprisingly easy to switch to French in her head, translating as she went. Belle’s instruction was proving invaluable and, so far, no one had questioned her accent or her intonation. It gave her the confidence to speak fluidly.

  ‘Je vous en prie.’ The waitress almost smiled.

  The Rue St-Martin was wide, with a sweeping bend where the Café Hubert was situated. Opposite was a boulangerie, sadly closed. The windows of a pharmacie had been boarded up from the inside, the jagged stars still visible on the broken glass, the reason for which she could only guess at. The only place open was a boucherie, which seemed to stock nothing but small skinned rabbits and a tray of what could only be identified, according to the handwritten sign, as ‘entrailles’. Molly’s appetite, already diminished, now disappeared almost entirely.

  It was a strange thing, but having thought about this moment on her journey here, she had felt a heart-stopping fear. And yet here she was, surrounded by German soldiers, this close to the enemy she had previously only seen in newsreels and newspapers. She had of course heard their planes fly over her city while she cowered in the Anderson shelter. Right now, she could have reached out and touched them, had she been so minded. And
yet, despite her fear, she felt in control.

  Molly knew from the map she had studied that the market square lay further along the street, where the Église Saint-Martin stood proudly on a rise, keeping watch over the pale stone buildings, cobbled streets and shuttered rooms of the town. Right on cue the church bells rang out.

  One . . . two . . . three . . . four . . . She was in position and on time. Four o’clock.

  Holding her hand steady, she took the cup in her hand and sipped gingerly at the vile and impossibly bitter brew.

  ‘Remember, it’s the smallest things that can give you away – turning left instead of right and then doubling back because you don’t know the way, when everyone in the town knows the way. The detail. It’s all about the detail.’ Molly had pored over the maps of Saintes until she knew them by heart, role-playing with Belle until she was able to give directions to just about anywhere in the town if asked.

  She swallowed the warm drink and even managed a small smile, like a local who was used to the foul concoction, quashing the desire to wrinkle her nose and splutter. As the laughter of the Germans rang out around her and as per instruction, she settled back in the seat with the rattan bag on her lap.

  ‘Don’t let the bag out of your sight. Not for a second. Hold on to it. Grip it tightly. Only hand it over to Pascal.’

  ‘Who is Pascal?’

  ‘He will make himself known and will suggest the bag was a gift from your mother. That’s the code. If anyone other than Pascal tries to take it, act nonchalantly and don’t arouse suspicion. But do everything in your power not to be parted from it.’

  And so she waited, her eyes straying on occasion to the bag as her thoughts pondered on what might lie within, invisible to her eye.

  TEN

  Saintes, Charente-Maritime, France

  October 1944

  Aged 19

  ‘Claudette!’

  Molly looked up, aware she was being addressed.

  ‘Claudette!’ A young woman was calling her loudly from the flatbed of a rickety Citroën truck that drew into the kerb, driven by an unshaven old man in a straw hat. The girl was waving vigorously, but Molly kept her hands firmly on her coffee cup, offering only a small smile in exchange. A wave: that was the kind of thing that could give a person away. The girl in the back of the truck – Molly’s contact, no doubt – grabbed a large black bike with a battered basket on the front and dropped it inelegantly over the side, where it clattered onto the cobbled ground. Germans watching with avid interest from a nearby table burst into laughter.

  ‘Feine Muskeln!’ they called out. The girl ignored them.

  Jumping down onto the pavement herself, she rested the bike against a nearby tree and almost ran to Molly’s table. Even the whores glanced up briefly. There had been nothing subtle about her entry, nothing at all.

  ‘Fearful people act fearfully. The easiest way to hide is to do so in plain sight. Nothing furtive, nothing whispered.’

  Close up, Molly could see they were of a similar age, but ‘Violet’s’ skin was darker, the result of working outdoors in the sunshine, no doubt. Her brows were heavy and her hair almost black, shining blue in the glint of the sun and just visible in snatches beneath the navy cotton scarf tied about her head. She was long-limbed and rangy, with the flat bust and jutting cheekbones of the hungry. Her overalls were the colour of mud and the sturdy boots on her feet looked at least a couple of sizes too big. She rushed to the table, hands outstretched towards Molly and wearing a huge smile of welcome.

  ‘Ah, Claudette, my sweet cousin!’

  And there was the code.

  ‘Violet!’ Molly rose to greet the other girl. Wrapping their arms around each other in a comfortable hug, they greeted each other with the customary kiss on each cheek.

  ‘It’s so good to see you again!’ Violet sighed, sinking into the free chair at Molly’s table with her legs stretched out in front of her. Her manner was intriguing: calm and relaxed, as if they were meeting in an English pub by the river in summertime and she was quite unaware of the throng of drunken soldiers – the enemy – seated at the surrounding tables.

  ‘You too.’

  Violet placed her hand over Molly’s on the tabletop and squeezed gently. It was both familial and reassuring and Molly felt a flicker of confusion, pleased to see this new friend before remembering she was a total stranger.

  ‘Are you well? Did you have a safe trip?’ Violet asked.

  ‘Yes, good, thanks. I’m a bit tired, but that’s only to be expected.’

  ‘Of course. I have to go to work, worse luck – I’d much rather sit and chat with you.’

  ‘Oh, me too, but I do understand.’ Molly felt her mouth go dry – was Violet leaving already? Her heart raced – what was she supposed to do now? She had been told to trust the process and that instruction would follow, but her gut leapt in fear nonetheless.

  ‘But I’ll see you at Grandma’s later?’ Violet asked brightly. ‘How’s Benoît? I bet he’s missing you.’

  ‘Oh, and I him.’ Molly couldn’t help but picture Johan’s face drifting into her mind’s eye.

  ‘Right, well, I’d better get a move on. We’ll catch up properly later!’

  ‘I can’t wait to see you.’ Molly meant it, looking forward to their reunion, if indeed that was the plan. There was something about Violet’s presence that calmed her fears.

  Violet jumped up and dusted off her bottom. ‘Jacques insisted on picking you up; he thought you might have luggage?’ She pointed towards the truck.

  ‘No, just this.’ Molly lifted up the large woven bag on her lap.

  Relieved to be on her way, she reached for her purse to deposit a few centimes on the table in payment.

  Violet walked over to her bike, watching as Molly climbed into the front seat of the truck and slammed the door behind her, placing the bag on her lap.

  ‘See you later, Claudette!’

  ‘Bye!’ Molly waved out of the window as the girl cycled away.

  She nodded at Jacques, the elderly driver in his straw hat, who carried an overpowering scent of tobacco, wood smoke and body odour. Taking shallow breaths, she waited for her nose to acclimatise. One or two of the soldiers were on high alert, studying their every move as the noisy engine clattered into life and the truck pulled away.

  They turned left, rattling through the market square in the shadow of the church, where the front of the mairie was draped in a vast red flag bearing the proud black swastika of the occupiers. This first time she had seen it in real life was enough to make her blood run cold and strike rage into the very heart of her. The truck headed north, following the path of the river, where the buildings began to thin and she again found herself in the French countryside.

  ‘You okay?’ Jacques asked, without taking his eyes off the road.

  Molly nodded, glad that he seemed a man of few words.

  She was immensely reassured at the sight of the farmhouse appearing at the end of a long driveway. Smoke rose from three chimneys standing proud of a traditional catslide roof. The courtyard was busy and parked up with vehicles of various types, dispelling any images of dark and empty chambers where she might be alone with her thoughts. The truck she was now in drew to a halt, parked half inside a three-sided barn. A couple of older men and a middle-aged woman, all in overalls, stood with oily rags, spanners and cans of oil, their heads bent low over engines, while there seemed to be much discussion about the best course of action. It looked more like a garage forecourt than a farm.

  ‘Come!’ Jacques jumped from the vehicle with surprising agility and beckoned her towards the house. She followed, feeling the stares on her back of those who looked up from their tinkering. The low wooden door with an iron latch led through to a large square kitchen with a blackened range running along the back wall on which sat a vast cooking pot, the lid askew and its contents steaming. A huge kettle swung from a hook over the range, while a meagre pile of chopped wood lay neatly piled on the flagstone floor alongsi
de. Brick pillars supported a heavy stone sink in the corner of the room. On another wall stood an ancient dresser on which Molly spied a stack of thick china plates and a clutch of glasses and mugs, next to a bundle of cutlery poking from a slightly rusted blue and white tin with the word ‘RIZ’ on the side. Edging the shelves on the dresser were narrow borders of delicate lace the colour of tea; Molly wondered who had made them and when. It strengthened her resolve, imagining a time when something so frivolous and pretty might once have taken priority over fixing vehicles, the housing of ‘guests’ like her and before the word ‘Maquis’ would have been part of their hushed vocabulary: a time, she imagined, before a red and black flag had come to flutter over the front windows of the mairie.

  A young girl was sitting at the long scrubbed table in the centre of the room, stripping rhubarb leaves from the stalks and placing them in a cooking pot, while the rhubarb itself she chopped into a neat heap on the tabletop.

  ‘There is no need to make conversation, no need to introduce yourself. Try only to speak when spoken to and even then only offer the minimum of information, this again for your sake and theirs. People can’t give information if they don’t have it.’

  Molly avoided the girl’s gaze and followed Jacques as he opened one of two inner doors, finding herself in a cool corridor with a stone floor and very little light. It took a second or two for her eyes to adjust. All the doors leading off the corridor were closed and she saw that the main entrance directly in front of her had been bricked up from the inside.

  ‘This way!’ He turned sharp right and she saw that the layout of the farm was an L-shape. Here the hallway was wider, but similarly dark. Candle sconces had been fashioned out of old tins and crudely nailed into the walls, on which sat stubby mounds of wax with blackened wicks. There was a strong smell of old dust, damp and a faint lingering scent of fresh lavender. Jacques picked up pace until he came to another door, this time leading to a low, wide room that looked to be part office, part storeroom for discarded furniture. Offcuts of wood had been nailed over the window frames and the floor was no more than compacted dirt, lending the room a dank and fungal odour of secret things blooming in dark corners.