Page 20 of The Resistance Book Club

Bertrand, the man with the beard who had led the way, gave a keen nod. ‘And Arielle’s mother had her own little army of children before her. After school, the village children would rush down here for her stories and games. This place is the heart of Cordeval.’ He put one hand on the counter and told Lucy with a cheeky wink, ‘And now the bookshop is in safe hands!’

Every face in front of her was beaming. ‘Ah, well, you see…’ Lucy began, but the words petered out.

‘We were so relieved when you came to the party last night,’ said a woman with short grey hair, wearing a stripy Breton top. ‘We were worried about who’d run the shop after Arielle passed away, then you walked in. We all said,there she is, Arielle’s girl, she’ll keep the bookshop going!’

Some of the group had broken away and were looking along the shelves of books. A man with blond hair streaked with grey had gone down to the children’s section, and was on his way back with a toddler’s board-book telling the story of The Little Prince.

‘We’ll have to have a shop-warming party for you!’ said Bertrand. ‘It’ll be a great excuse for us all to eat Sébastien’s cooking.’

‘Oh, that’s so sweet of you!’ Lucy said, embarrassed.

‘I’ll get this one for my grandson,’ the man with the Little Prince book said, as he laid it down on the counter.

He produced his wallet from his pocket and smiled expectantly at Lucy. She realised she was about to make her first sale – in a shop she couldn’t keep.

‘Oh, isn’t that a lovely edition?’ she said to him, admiring the illustrations and the cursive style of the lettering on the cover. She had always loved books, both as places to find stories and as beautifully designed objects.

She rang it through the till and counted out the change. It was strange, handling the very same coins that had been carefully counted into each compartment of the till drawer by Mémé before she passed away. Her hand trembled as she slipped the book into a paper bag withLes Pages d’Espoirprinted on it.

As Lucy handed the book to him, she realised she had a queue. Arielle’s Army had chosen their books and, one by one, she served them, tapping at the till, the bell ringing merrily as if Mémé was back behind the counter again. Although it felt utterly surreal to have suddenly become a bookseller, Lucy found she had something to say about every book they chose. She recommended another book by the same author, or commented that she hadn’t read that one yet and would have to add it to her list.

Once the last book had been sold, Lucy came out from behind the counter.

‘We’ll be back soon!’ the lady in the Breton top promised. She kissed Lucy, first on one cheek, then the other. Lucy smiled, but she didn’t deserve their affection, because she wasn’t going tostep into Arielle’s shoes.

One by one, Arielle’s Army kissed Lucy goodbye and headed out of the shop. Lucy closed the door behind them, her shoulders heavy.

She was going to disappoint so many people, especially if the bookshop was bought by someone who decided to turn it into something else entirely. She had to start the selling process soon, get it over with and return to her old life and her new job.

But if she turned her back on Cordeval now, she’d never find out what secrets from the past were hidden within the bookshop’s walls, just waiting for her to find them.

TWELVE

MARGOT

1941

Margot hadn’t slept well after seeing the plane smashing into the clifftop. It came to her in nightmares of violence and fire, where books burned in the flames. She had woken up again and again, her legs tangled in the bedsheets, her rose-sprigged satin quilt sliding off the double bed and onto the floor. She laid her alarm clock face down on the little stand beside her bed to hide the luminous arms of the dial taunting her with how few hours she had left to sleep.

Even in the darkness, she knew that Serge was watching her from the photograph she kept by the bed. It was at times like this that she missed him even more. There were no arms open to her for a comforting embrace, no warm body to curl around to feel safe from her nightmares. She was alone, in a bed that was too big for her.

She tried to comfort herself: at least Esther was safe. The fire had lit up the night enough for Margot to see that the cottage had been preserved, but it had still shaken her to think that her friend and her baby had been in such mortaldanger. And as for the Professor, he couldn’t possibly have survived.

That morning, wrapped in her cardigan and a warm woollen skirt under her winter coat, Margot went to stand in the queue outside the baker’s again. Queuing had become a daily feature since the occupation had begun. Margot had stood outside the baker’s in driving sleet one day last winter and had shivered for the rest of the day. The women all carried wicker baskets on their arms, or had string shopping bags gripped in their hands, as they waited to fill them with whatever they could find.

The cold breeze, which made the women’s scarves flutter, was welcome at first, chasing away her exhaustion from a broken night’s sleep. But the horrific sight she had witnessed and had haunted her dreams still lingered, playing on a loop in her head.

Some German soldiers pushed in at the front of the queue, and a ripple of complaint ran through the locals of Cordeval.

All that violence, driven by hate and division, and that was how it ended; in flames.

Professor Lauterborn was dead. She felt numb. She’d miss him coming into her shop. She’d miss him, even though he was a German.

The queue hadn’t moved for five minutes, because the gossip about the plane that had smashed into the cottage was fascinating enough to keep everyone from the business of the day. At the counter Madame Losier, her arms folded across her plump stomach and propping up her enormous bosom, was making her feelings known to the nodding women who surrounded her, looking this way and that as she held court.

‘Well of course, we’re sorry to lose him, but he was an odd fish,’ she said. ‘Barely showed his face in the village, and when he did he had that funny eye looking at you.’

At her shoulder, Madame Michaud agreed. ‘Although hetaught our Francine to play a lovely piano,’ she said. ‘I always told him, make more of yourself, Professor. Get out and have a drink, maybe get a nice lady on your arm, but all he thought of was that piano.’