Page 31 of The Resistance Book Club

Lucy made herself a coffee at Mémé’s stove, then set up her laptop on the dining table. If she started to type up the letters, it might help her to make sense of things. Create a timeline, maybe, and then she could slot everything together.

Her fingers hovered over the keyboard and she stared at the blinking cursor, before her gaze shifted to the box on the coffee table and the piles of papers and photographs around it. She wasn’t a historian, unless it involved Dior, Schiaparelli or Chanel; surely this was beyond her.

Besides, she didn’t have forever to stay in Cordeval and rummage through old letters and photographs. She had to give Polly her answer and return to London. Although she could’ve taken the box back with her, it didn’t seem right; everything inside it was part of Cordeval’s story and it shouldn’t leave.

She took a long sip of her coffee, then went back over to the box. Carefully, she shifted envelopes and folded sheets of paper, and more photographs, until she reached a notebook right at the bottom.

Unlike everything else in the box, this looked new. So new, in fact, that Lucy recognised the brightly coloured cover, busy with patterns of polka dots and wavy lines, because the very same notebooks were still on sale in the shop.

Curious, she opened the cover.

TWENTY

MARGOT

1941

Margot’s ears rang with the racket of the engines roaring outside and the shouts down in the street.

Her mind immediately went to Esther. ‘Goodnight, Professor Lauterborn,’ she said hurriedly. His expression was closed. ‘I’d better go.’

‘Of course,’ the Professor murmured. Margot wasn’t sure, but she thought there was a hint of almost shame in his expression as he cast his eyes down. ‘Good evening.’

Margot was trying not to shake as she took Beatrice’s elbow and steered the girl out onto the landing. She closed the Professor’s door behind them and made for the stairs.

‘Thanks, Bea,’ she murmured, as the candlelight danced against the wall of the stairwell. ‘I’ll go to Esther’s, and you better go home.’

Beatrice shook her head. ‘No,’ she whispered.

Margot thought of the look of love and tenderness in Joséphine’s eyes whenever she saw Beatrice out with hermother. She couldn’t put the girl at risk. But then again, she knew what Beatrice was like. If she forced her to go home, she’d only find her way down to Esther’s by herself, and that would be even more dangerous.

Only then did Margot become aware of movement in the shadows at the foot of the flight of stairs. Bea dashed away from Margot towards her mother and she heard another voice then, as Joséphine whispered, ‘It’s only me, Margot. I heard a man’s voice and— I didn’t want anyone to see me.’

Margot froze. She felt suddenly sick. They had to hurry, but it was too risky for Joséphine to go with her. Not to Esther’s, not to the home of a wanted resistance fighter.

Then the candlelight caught Joséphine’s face, illuminating her cut lip and a rough bruise on her cheek. One of her eyes was starting to swell. Her mascara had mixed with tears and smudged her face; blood mingled with the red of her make-up.

Margot’s fear dissolved, to be replaced by anger. ‘Who did this to you, Joséphine?’

‘They came into Petit’s and dragged Fernand out from behind the bar,’ Beatrice told her. ‘Mum tried to stop them and Lauterborn punched her in the face. Like she was a bloke brawling in the street!’

Joséphine held her daughter close to her and swallowed hard. ‘They took Fernand because— you know why.’

For a moment, Margot couldn’t think why anyone in the world would hate Fernand. He was friendly, mild-mannered…but then she remembered the rumours about the sailor who often came to the bar to see him. Of course they’d dragged him away; he was a man who loved men.

‘Oh, not Fernand…’ Margot gasped, picturing his friendly wave, which he gave her each time he saw her walking past.

She considered Joséphine, her fine clothes and the blood on her face, the bruises beginning to show; all of them gifts from her Nazi boyfriend. Could she trust her?

‘I’vegotto go to Esther,’ Margot told her. ‘We must warn her.’

TWENTY-ONE

LUCY

2025

Lucy was curled on the sofa with a cup of coffee, and a packet of her favourite French biscuits. But the notebook held her attention.