The Seven Letters

by Jan Harvey

  ‘Thank you, Freddy,’ I said softly under my breath.

  On the Eurostar itself I leaned my head against the window frame and watched the familiar fields of Normandy pass by the window, the endless chequer board acres; the rise and fall of buildings and great plane trees lining purple roads. Eventually, I opened my notebook; on the inside of the cover I had written Theo’s number and underlined it, he was collecting me from the Gare du Nord.

  I leafed through my notes about Claudette Bourvil. I was going to start with the Musée de la Résistance and then see where it took me and what I could find out about the women who fought for a free France.

  Chapter Sixty

  Claudette was sitting with Giselle taking afternoon tea. The china was delicate, an old pattern similar to one she remembered from her grandmother’s glass-fronted cabinet. She didn’t admit it to Giselle, but she was heartbroken to have missed Yves. He’d had to go, she realised that, he was travelling with his business partner and they had decided they needed extra time to get to their destination. Giselle had explained that Yves could not drive. His arm muscles had been damaged during the torture and he lived in considerable pain. Claudette knew in her heart that she was also a form of torture to him because seeing her was to revisit old memories he didn’t need to think about.

  Giselle was still the very gentle person she had always been and her soft voice was calm and reassuring. Their small house was on the outskirts of town. It had suffered damage to the kitchen during the war, but Yves had had it rebuilt and it was now light and airy, looking over a vegetable garden that was yielding all manner of produce.

  ‘Yves will be so sad to have missed you,’ Giselle passed a tray of delicate pastries to Claudette. ‘To be honest, though, I think you may have been shocked, he is a very different man. He went through so much, the Nazi who tortured him didn’t hold back. He has nightmares even now, it breaks my heart.’ Claudette felt the twist of her guts as she thought about him, how beautiful he had been, how he looked when he was planning and leading them into action.

  ‘It changed us all,’ she said. ‘No one came out of it unscathed.’

  ‘It changed your name!’ said Giselle with a lightness in her voice that transformed, in an instant, the reflective mood. ‘You are Madeleine now, aren’t you?’

  ‘I will always be Claudette in my heart,’ she said. ‘I haven’t left her behind, I just try to forget what happened to her. It is all best left in the past; the only person I wanted to explain anything to is Yves. Do you think I might write it down for him? I’d like to entrust my story into his care.’

  ‘Yes, of course, I have paper and a pen. You can sit in the bedroom, Yves’ desk is there and it looks out towards the forest, perfect for thinking.’

  ‘Thank you. That is perfect.’

  When she left the house, she hugged Giselle and the boys. ‘Thank you for coming, Claudette,’ said Giselle warmly. ‘It was lovely to see you again.’ The boys had been out playing and their faces were streaked with dirt, their hair unkempt. Louis, the oldest, looked like a small version of Yves.

  She walked up the street to the church. There was a pair of collared doves rooting around in the brush by the back wall. They fluttered away as she walked towards them, but were soon back ready to carry on picking at small red berries that had fallen onto the path, after she had passed by.

  Beneath the shelter of a hedge she found a row of small white crosses and on one were her parents’ names. There were no dates or epitaphs because she hadn’t been there to write something. She touched the cross and stayed like that, resting her hand on it for a few moments. Then she moved on and through the little gate at the back of the graveyard, down the path to the old washhouse.

  There was a man there, in a flat cap. His clothes were shabby, his hair and beard thick, both black, but streaked with white. She saw him in profile because the sunlight was behind him. She followed the path down towards him and, as she drew level, she nodded politely but instead of letting her pass he straightened up and stepped in front of her, blocking her way. His dirty face was familiar but she couldn’t place it.

  ‘Claudette Bourvil,’ he said, his voice even, without tone.

  ‘Yes,’ she answered guardedly, stopping and preparing if necessary to retrace her steps. He looked at her, his thick eyebrows linked together in a scowl. The eyes were sinister above pock-marked cheeks and all of a sudden she knew exactly who it was.

  ‘I’ve come here every year. Spring, summer, autumn. Time after time, nothing, but now you’re here.’ His eyes were empty, they were reflecting his soul.

  The gun had a silencer, a German issue. It made no sound, nothing to alert anyone in the village. She fell to her knees, her eyes staring up at him; the blackness overtook her before she hit the ground.

  Two doves flapped their wings and rose up to the sky and then there was silence.

  Epilogue

  Lucy phoned me to tell me that Bertie had died. She’d passed away in her sleep peacefully and at the grand old age of ninety-four. ‘I thought you’d like to know,’ she told me. ‘I’ve just come off the phone with Harriet.’

  ‘I’m sorry, Lucy, I really am, I liked Bertie a lot. I wish I’d known her longer, she was quite a character.’

  ‘Yes, she was that, I will miss her. I’ve been with her for eighteen years, you know.’ There was a little gap, she was taking a breath before continuing. ‘I found something in the hatbox when I was trying to sort out her papers. It’s a press cutting, in French, I thought it might be of interest to you, shall I read it?’

  ‘Yes please,’ I said. I felt my heartbeat quicken.

  ‘It says that a man called Maurice Joubert was committed to an asylum in Paris following his conviction for the murder of several people since the war. Psychiatric assessments will be ongoing. Joubert, whose wife and children were killed during the First World War by a rogue group of German soldiers, is likely to face incarceration for life.’

  I felt a strange sense of relief. It was closure, no more doors to open, no secrets left to unlock. ‘Thank you for that, Lucy, I think I know exactly why that cutting is important.’ I said goodbye and pressed the end call button. Bertie had had the answer all along. I was lost in my thoughts when Theo came into the salon with a cup of green tea for me.

  ‘Are you all right, ma chérie?’ I love the way he says that, he mixes sentences between English and French all the time.

  ‘Yes, thank you,’ I replied. I took the tea from him and gave him a smile. ‘I think the final piece of the puzzle just fell into place, it’s taken all this time, but it’s finally all over.’

  Theo laid a gentle, reassuring hand on my shoulder. ‘And now you can start writing that book of yours, you have a huge amount of material and the time and space.’

  ‘Thanks to you,’ I said, turning my head to kiss his hand. ‘I do love you.’

  ‘And I you, my darling.’ He ran the back of his finger over my cheek, gentle as a butterfly. ‘Now I’m going to unpack those boxes of books you brought with you and find a place for them all, though only heaven knows where they will all go. Then I will feed Mr C and see if I can make friends with him. If not, I will threaten him with the home for the cats.’

  I felt a warmth rising through me, the feeling was like no other I’d experienced in my life. I watched Theo’s face as he opened the first box of my books. He stroked every spine as if he was welcoming each one to his home, our home.

  This book is dedicated to The Women of the Chabanais

  Acknowledgments

  Without the constant support of my husband, Paul, there would be no novel called The Seven Letters. I am indebted to him for his energy and commitment to this book.

  Arabella McIntyre-Brown began the whole adventure with a simple writing workshop and talk of possibilities. Meg Harper, Janet Gover, Alison May and numerous other kind hearted autho
rs taught me well. I am very grateful to the authors and agents who generously shared their experience and expertise at The ChipLitFest where I learned so much.

  I owe my first readers for their honest feedback and kind comments. Sarah Fitzgerald, Paul Nelson, Annette Rainbow, Max Harvey and Judy Hand. Then there was the lovely French gentleman Yves Cornillon, who came to my Art Exhibition in 2014, and who answered all my questions about life in his country thereafter with great patience.

  During my research in Paris, I was given a tour of the Hotel Meurice by the lovely Sophie who stood by and let me marvel at each room. Deborah, at the Musée de l’Érotisme in Montmatre, provided no end of useful, and eye-opening, information. That was an afternoon I will never forget!

  I am indebted to Morgen Bailey for the initial guidance and Fiction Feedback for the positive critique.

  The image of the Ladies of the Chabanais was supplied for me by Alexandre Dupouy, at Les Archives d’Eros, it was the image that began the whole story. I also owe Michael Neiberg for kindly taking the time to write The Blood of Free Men, which was my go to source on The French Resistance.

  I received huge value for money from Bryony Hall, Contracts Advisor at The Society of Authors, a highly professional lady.

  And finally, to the team at Troubador for publishing this book. It’s taken four years hard work, but what an adventure it has been.

  Thank you.

  Jan Harvey

  About the Author

  Jan Harvey is an artist and author based in the Oxfordshire Cotswolds. She is a tutor in creative writing, drawing and painting.

  In her spare time Jan loves to relax listening to jazz or watching old black and white movies, particularly when they star Cary Grant.

  Jan is married to Paul. She has one son, Max and a large extended family. She owns a rather badly behaved Flatcoated Retriever called Byron.

  Jan would love to hear comments and feedback from readers on her facebook page, Jan Harvey Author.

  www.janharveyauthor.com