The Dragonfly Brooch

by Estella McQueen

  The girls are thrown into confusion by all the questions.

  Gaston laughs. ‘Madame you must be patient with them, give them time to get used to you! Girls, you’re as grubby as a pair of baby birds frolicking in a dust bath. Go inside and wash your hands.’ He has caught sight of a person loitering at the garden gate. ‘Tell your mother to make some coffee, would you? Cut some bread. I’ll be in shortly.’

  ‘Who is that?’ Minnie asks.

  ‘No-one,’ he says. ‘Madame, would you go inside with the girls please?’ He is already walking towards the boundary wall.

  Minnie does as Gaston asks, but uses the opportunity to take charge. ‘Now,’ she says, ‘which one is which? You, my dearest,’ she indicates the eldest, ‘are Hélene. And you, my poppet,’ chucking the youngest under the chin, ‘are Jeanine. Am I right?

  ‘You will have to show me where everything is, while I am here. I’m sure you’ll help me, won’t you? I am likely to make lots of mistakes until I find out how your mama and papa like to do things. You won’t mind if I get things wrong now and again, will you?’

  ‘Will you teach us to speak English?’ they ask.

  Before Minnie can answer their mother emerges from the kitchen. Scarcely acknowledging her guest she takes satchels and jackets from the children and hangs them on a hook behind the door.

  Minnie gravitates towards the sofa where she removes a blanket from the chair arm and arranges the cushions to her liking, before taking a seat. From this angle she can see through the window, and she watches her host and the stranger huddled together underneath the tree. Gaston claps the man on the shoulder; business concluded, and he slips away again as discreetly as he arrived. Gaston takes a furtive look around the garden as if he suspects he is being watched. Finally, he enters the house and removes his hat. He stands in the doorway and contemplates the domestic scene: his two children awkwardly avoiding the strange woman and his pensive wife busying herself at the kitchen sink.

  ‘So,’ says Minnie happily. ‘What’s for lunch?’

  Gaston’s wife brings in a large tureen and places it in the middle of the dining table. They sit down and Minnie rearranges her place setting and examines the cutlery for marks or blemishes. Husband and wife exchange glances.

  ‘Madame?’ Gaston’s wife enquires. ‘Can you cook?’

  ‘Oh good heavens no!’

  The girls giggle and nudge each other. Maman scolds them, tells them to be quiet. Gaston says a prayer of thanks and then his wife begins to ladle out generous helpings of soup. The girls tear pieces of bread and scatter crumbs all over the tablecloth.

  ‘Who was that man before?’ Jeanine asks.

  ‘An acquaintance of ours,’ says her father. ‘He will not disturb you.’

  He clasps his hands in gratitude as his wife ladles more soup into his plate. Maman and Papa continue to act as though nothing untoward has happened, but the two girls elbow each other under the table …

  The images dissolved, melting into the fabric of the building; the present interior restored itself to view, and Charlie sat down on the sofa underneath the window.

  The coincidence was extraordinary, if coincidence it was. Links and connections were growing stronger, firmer in his mind, and yet it would appear that Anne Marie knew nothing of these links.

  It seemed too far-fetched. Even for him. And he believed in all sorts of nonsense. And yet, here he was.

  There had to be a reason. Somewhere in the Etherege family archive St Remy must have been mentioned, and that’s what had prompted Anne Marie to visit the region in the first place. How else could she have picked the same Provençal bolt-hole as her great grandmother?

  He opened a bottle of red, and left it on the table to breathe. He went outside. By now it was dusk and lights in the distance were glowing with an orange and aquamarine incandescence …

  A clink of bottles. A glass is placed on the table. Gaston is pouring another glass, this time for his wife. A half moon is visible in the night sky beyond the farm buildings.

  ‘Things are getting more dangerous,’ says his wife. ‘You must keep your wits about you.’

  ‘I’m not stupid, woman,’ he growls.

  She tuts. ‘The Maquis are attacking the Milice; the Milice are looking for reprisals – I don’t like it. What will happen to the children if you’re captured? You keep telling me the less they know the better, but if anything happens to you, and you don’t come back, what am I supposed to tell them?’

  ‘You will tell them that I am away on business, what else?’

  ‘And as for this old woman—’ His wife is still fulminating. ‘I believe you’re half in love with her!’

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous.’

  ‘We have to get rid of her. She is a liability.’

  ‘I disagree. She is more useful with us.’

  Minnie emerges from the farm and approaches the couple. ‘Monsieur, I have to ask you how long I am to remain cooped up in this wretched building! I really must go into town.’

  ‘You will not!’ says Gaston’s wife. ‘You must not set foot outside these walls. You will betray us if you do!’

  ‘There must be somewhere I can go. What if I take the children with me and pretend that I am their aunt?’

  ‘Aunt?’ There is panic in the woman’s voice. ‘You’re old enough to be their grandmother! Tell her!’ She turns to her husband, frantic. ‘She must not. Never! They will think she is a spy!’

  ‘Oh, they know I am not,’ Minnie says airily.

  ‘You would not get away with it,’ Gaston says gently. ‘There’s no question of you going anywhere on your own.’

  ‘My dear man,’ Minnie replies, ‘I speak French like a native! No-one will ever guess.’

  Gaston’s wife clenches her fists and swears at Minnie. ‘Your arrogance is beyond all comprehension. I swear that if you deliberately put my children’s lives at risk I will stab you in the heart with one of my kitchen knives!’

  Minnie is stunned at the outburst, but thinks twice before arguing. She is about to return to the house when Gaston pulls up a chair. ‘Please,’ he says. ‘Take a seat.’

  His wife opens her mouth to protest but Gaston holds up a hand.

  ‘Madame Devine, let me explain something to you. Under the present law all young men who are not miners, farmers or students have to report to the Service du Travail Obligatoire. Do you know what that is?’

  ‘Of course I don’t.’

  ‘Two years forced labour in Germany.’ Gaston shifts in his seat. ‘Naturally, the prospect does not appeal and some of them feel very strongly that they must avoid it at all costs. This, as you can imagine, is quite difficult to achieve. In short, they need somewhere to hide. You understand?’

  ‘I suppose so. Yes.’

  ‘For as long as the men need to avoid conscription to the STO there is no other course of action open to us.’ He waits for her to fully comprehend his words.

  ‘You?’ she says. ‘You are helping them?’

  ‘We are getting them out of the towns and villages and sending them into the mountains.’

  ‘Very well,’ says Minnie. ‘You are a patriotic man. I appreciate that.’

  ‘That is not all.’ He glances at his wife. ‘You remember the friends in London I told you about? Now and again they make contact with us.’

  ‘Well that’s very nice for you, Monsieur, but I hardly think I will have come across them if that’s what you’re getting at! I mix in rather exclusive circles when I am at home.’

  ‘No, Madame, not those sorts of friends.’

  ‘Oh!’ Minnie’s eyes widen in delight. ‘You mean spies?’

  ‘Please, Madame,’ Gaston says. ‘This is serious.’

  She suppresses a smile. ‘Of course.’

  ‘We would be grateful,’ Gaston continues patiently, ‘if you would assist us now and again with our communications with the British … Do you think that is something you would be willing to undertake?’

  Minnie tak
es a moment to consider.

  ‘She thinks she is above us!’ Gaston’s wife objects.

  ‘You must blend in with us,’ Gaston says. ‘Can you do that?’

  Minnie hunches her shoulders in a slumping gait, contracting her limbs in approximation of ancient, weather-beaten crone. ‘I can happily play the peasant if need be.’

  Gaston’s wife is incensed. ‘It is not play-acting!’ But Gaston has massaged Minnie’s ego sufficiently well that she resumes her usual posture with almost visible preening. ‘If you think that I can be of assistance, I would be only too happy to oblige.’

  ‘As my wife says, this is not play-acting,’ Gaston repeats. ‘This is serious.’

  ‘Of course,’ Minnie agrees.

  The man takes a deep breath. ‘Then I have to tell you – Gaston is not my real name …’

  A clap of wings and a shiver of feather rush snatched him out of the scene. A bird was soaring over the roof of the gite. Charlie rubbed his eye sockets with the palms of his hands. He waited, listening out for more, but the cool interior remained quiet and empty, no whispers, no voices, no presence. Neither Minnie nor the family was anywhere to be seen. He poured himself a glass of wine and lay quietly on the sofa while he went over in his mind what he could remember about the French resistance movement in the south. “Réfractaires” – young men desperate to avoid becoming slave workers for the Germans in the Service du Travail Obligatoire, the STO as Gaston had called it – had hidden out in the countryside and in the mountains forming guerilla bands of resistance fighters, the Maquis. The family was somehow facilitating movement of these men into the rural hideouts via their farmhouse. And Minnie Devine, by some strange quirk of fate was being asked to help. It was definitely not what he’d been expecting. As he downed his second glass he realised he was not alone …

  The women are in the house. It is dark; the rooms are lit with oil lamps; their faces are drawn and gaunt in the unforgiving light. The children have come to join them. Maman tries to get them to return to their beds. They refuse. ‘Where is Papa?’ Gaston is nowhere to be seen.

  Their mother is uncharacteristically tongue-tied, unable to come up with a suitable excuse. Minnie tells them he has just popped out to see a friend. ‘Who?’ They ask.

  She makes up a name. The girls declare they don’t know him. ‘Of course not,’ she says. ‘You don’t know all your father’s friends. Now pop off to bed and in the morning he will be sitting at the breakfast table as usual.’

  Unwillingly they slope from the room and up the stairs. When they have gone Minnie takes a covered dish and a bottle from the kitchen and slips out of the front door before making her way along the wall of the house towards the external staircase. She silently climbs the stairs, puts her ear to the door and taps gently. Without waiting for an answer she puts the key in the lock and enters. A young man is standing in the corner. He clasps his hands in gratitude as Minnie Devine puts the dish on the table, and he sidles into a seat. He is rough and unshaven, and the clothes he is wearing are ill-fitting. But there is barely any conversation between them. He says one word: ‘When?’

  Her answer is equally brief: ‘Soon.’

  He eats quickly. Minnie wrinkles her nose as though he gives off an unsavoury odour then reels off a list of requirements. ‘You will need a change of clothes, a canteen, soap, knife and fork, and a torch.’ She eyes his footwear. ‘Those boots will have to do. We can get you a raincoat.’

  ‘What about a weapon?’

  She nods.

  He mutters his thanks, and then Minnie takes the empty dish and locks the door behind her. She goes back down the stairs and re-enters the farmhouse.

  Maman is attempting to distract herself with some mending. It doesn’t work. ‘I can’t concentrate. My nerves are on edge.’

  ‘Your nerves?’ says Minnie. ‘What about mine?’

  Maman gives a start. ‘He’s here! Oh thank God, he’s come back.’

  She goes to the door, lets in her husband.

  ‘Get the boy,’ he says. ‘It’s time.’

  ‘But he doesn’t have all his equipment,’ Minnie protests.

  ‘Doesn’t matter,’ says Gaston. ‘It has to be now. Tonight. Transport is waiting. Vite! Vite …!’

  Chapter Twenty-One

  It was the cold that woke him. He’d fallen asleep on the sofa. He slowly peeled himself off the cushions and stretched his spine. His mouth was sour with stale wine and his head slightly numb. He padded into the kitchen and filled the cafetière. There wasn’t much food in the fridge. He looked at the clock. It was only six. He fetched a jumper and returned to the comfort of the living room to drink his coffee. He listened to the steady beat of the kitchen clock, up down, up down, and the far away rumble of a diesel lorry …

  It is early morning, the air is damp, there is a mist hanging above the bushes. Minnie is stealing about the farmyard, searching for something or someone. She moves away from the gardens and heads for the outbuildings. She moves carefully, distastefully side-stepping piles of dirt and refuse. She shoves at a rickety door, waits for her eyes to adjust to the dim light within and then enters. She avoids the rusty machinery, the petrol cans, the sacks of grain, and swishes through the straw on the ground. She approaches a trailer at the rear of the building. She lifts the blue tarpaulin that stretches the entire width of the vehicle. There is a man hidden underneath; he lifts his head, blinking and pushing the hair from his eyes. He clambers out. ‘Come inside,’ she hisses. ‘Make haste.’

  The farmhouse is empty. They have the place to themselves. She offers him some breakfast which he falls on greedily. ‘Oh that hits the spot! Any chance of a brew?’ He is British.

  ‘There’s no tea, I’m afraid. It has to be coffee.’ She pulls a face. ‘I declare I haven’t had a decent cup of tea in ten years!’

  ‘I don’t doubt it. Where the hell’s Gaston?’ He is stooped over as if still recovering from the cramped hiding place, but he is a handsome man despite the air of weariness. He pats his pockets for cigarettes and lights one up. ‘You want one?’

  She declines. ‘Gaston comes and goes at all hours,’ she says, consulting the clock. ‘The children have gone to school but their mother should have been back by now.’

  He takes a turn around the room, sidling up to the windows. ‘It doesn’t feel right.’

  ‘All I know is you’re to stay here and wait for instructions.’

  ‘What else do you think I’ll be doing? Writing my memoirs?’

  She laughs at the joke and he relaxes. ‘Forgive me. I wasn’t expecting someone like you to be my contact.’

  She flashes him a huge megawatt smile. ‘Oh no one does, dear!’

  She moves forwards and touches his clothes. ‘Such a shame they have to dress you like a peasant …’

  His figure is slight, he is at least twenty years her junior.

  ‘What have you been living on,’ she sighs, ‘air?’

  ‘Air and cigarettes.’ She watches him as he smokes in nervy, anxious puffs.

  ‘I’ll let you in on a secret,’ he says, ‘I saw you once, on stage. In London.’

  She does a little practised fawning. ‘You recognised me?’

  ‘Oh yes, I recognised you at once.’

  ‘What play was I in?’

  ‘I was only a small child,’ he says apologetically. ‘I can barely remember.’

  ‘Of course you were. I’m not offended. It must be ten years or more since I did any London acting.’

  He smiles to himself because he knows it’s more like thirty, but he doesn’t correct her.

  ‘And now here we both are, in France,’ she says, ‘fighting the enemy.’

  ‘A cock-eyed sort of thing for you to be mixed up in, if you don’t mind my saying?’

  ‘It’s no more cock-eyed than Sarah Bernhardt performing on stage with one leg!’

  He bursts out laughing.

  Her face falls, the bonhomie fades. ‘You will be careful, won’t you? Where are they sen
ding you afterwards? Marseille? Quite right,’ she says, in response to his stern face. ‘Best that you don’t tell me. I was only making conversation. Entre nous, I’ve never done a weapons drop before. I understand this is to be a one off. It’s getting too dangerous.’

  ‘You don’t say. Where is Gaston?’ He repeats. ‘He should have been here by now.’

  ‘Oh he’ll be here, don’t worry. He’s a very fastidious man. I’m very fond of him,’ Minnie adds. ‘Less so the wife. Her I could take or leave.’

  The British operative is not really listening. ‘I don’t like it. Can’t we close the shutters?’

  ‘No. It’s less suspicious this way.’

  ‘Well, is there somewhere else you can put me? We shouldn’t wait around in the open.’ There is an engine noise in the distance. He stands stock still. ‘That’s not a farm vehicle. That sounds military.’ His casual tone has changed to one of brisk, ordered determination. He takes a Webley revolver from his belt. ‘This is no good. I’ll have to go.’

  ‘I can get you out the back way if you want,’ she says.

  ‘But I can’t leave you here on your own.’

  ‘Of course you can.’

  ‘What will you say?’

  ‘I’ll think of something convincing. Don’t worry. This way,’ she says. ‘Follow me…’

  ‘Ouch!’ Charlie’s knee hit something hard. He was standing in front of the wooden dresser, confronted with a shelf of bubble-flecked Biot glass ware and a collection of coffee cups. Minnie and the British Operative were gone …

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Charlie walked up the slight incline towards the little church. Just inside the lobby, dozens of fat buttery-coloured candles, guttered in the light breeze. Glitter-encrusted lanterns flickered near the doorway as a bride and groom emerged into the sunlight. The bride wore a light summery dress, with a pearl-encrusted bodice while the groom’s golden tan perfectly complemented his matching white suit. The gentle bump in the front of the bride’s dress indicated that this was a baby-already-on-the-way marriage. She nudged her new husband’s arm. He squeezed her hand. The bride crouched down to speak to two pretty bridesmaids loitering self consciously next to her and then resumed her place by the groom. She half met his eyes; he whispered something; she smiled. A handful of relatives emerged from the church and then the photographer came forward.