Page 32 of The Resistance Book Club

It opened in Mémé’s handwriting:These are stories my mother told me…and Lucy fell into the tale, which described the bookshop back in the war, and how hard it’d been to deal with theListe Ottowhen it went against everything Margot believed to destroy books. Occasionally, another hand appeared, which Lucy realised must’ve been Beatrice’s. She talked about her mother, Joséphine, and the way she was treated in the village, and explained who the women were who met for the book club. As Lucy followed Beatrice’s flowing cursive, she was reminded very clearly of the fact that Beatrice was a living link between that time and this; the last of the women who had gathered in the cellar under the bookshop to read forbidden stories.

Lucy couldn’t resist flicking ahead, wondering if she would get to the core of Mémé’s secret. But she quickly saw that there were large gaps.

It seemed as if Mémé had left them for Beatrice to write down her memories, or as if she was trying to remember a detail from the past and skipped on, but never returned. There were question marks here and there in the yawning spaces, and Lucy began to suspect that they were left empty because Mémé simply didn’t know. Margot wouldn’t have told her everything, after all.

Lucy looked over at the red diary and quailed at the thought of wrestling with the tiny script and Margot’s personal abbreviations. And there’d be detail in the letters that would fill Mémé’s gaps, too, Lucy knew. She’d just have to keep reading and rummaging, until she could find the thread that led seamlessly through everything.

The story in the notebook began in October 1941, and Lucy had felt a horrible premonition as she’d read that date. She thought of the memorial in the square; the resistance fighters had been executed only a few weeks later. Someone in that book club, who Lucy was getting to know through the pages of the notebook, was going to die.

She went on reading, but then her phone started to ring. ‘I bet that’s Andrew!’ Lucy snapped, but then she smiled as she realised it was Hannah. She answered. ‘Hey, Hannah, you’ve caught me with some Wifi!’

‘Lucy!’ her best friend exclaimed. ‘Oh God, how are you? We’re all worried sick!’

‘It’s so good to hear your voice. I’m…’ Lucy sighed. The coffee table in front of her was heaving with sepia photos and yellowed paper. ‘I’m angry and I’m hurt, and I’m in France because I’ve inherited a bookshop. One minute, I was getting married, the next…I’m sitting on my grandma’s old sofa right now.’

‘Yeah, your dad said you were settled at your gran’s,’ Hannah replied. ‘He says you’re coming home. Is that right?’

‘I was going to see if there was a flight this evening andgive Polly my answer about the job,’ Lucy said. ‘But that was before…look, this is going to sound really weird, but my grandma left me a letter telling me that there’s a family secret hidden in the shop somewhere. And now her oldest friend has given me this huge box full of photographs, old letters, you name it, from the war. They must’ve spent absolutely ages putting this all together and I can’t rush back without looking through it all properly.’

There was silence down the line, then Hannah told her, ‘If I were you and I had time off and an arsehole of a cheating fiancé waiting to grovel in England, I’d stay in France. He came round last night with his excuses and I told him to jog on.’

‘I’m glad you told him to get stuffed.’ Exasperated, Lucy dragged her hand through her hair. ‘Oh heck…he’ll be round Dad’s like a shot as soon as I get back, won’t he? If I stay here, maybe he’ll leave me alone. Dad said he’d send you and me and Natalie away on holiday together, but…you don’t mind if I stay here for a bit?’

‘Oh, did he say that? Aww, your dad’s such a love,’ Hannah said indulgently. ‘Just promise you’ll keep in touch, okay? And if you want some company, I can come over whenever you like.’

‘Dad’s great,’ Lucy said. ‘He’s going to talk to someone about selling the bookshop as well, so I don’t have to worry about that.’ But as she said it, she glanced around the room, which was still full of Mémé and Papi’s belongings, and a stone fell inside her. She heard Sébastien’s words again,She wanted you to have it.

But I can’t accept it, Mémé. I don’t belong here.

Hannah went on, telling Lucy that everything was in hand. The wedding organiser was proving to be just as good at cancelling the wedding as she had been at putting it all together. Guests had been informed, and all Lucy’s friends were rallying round. They were furious with Andrew for what he had done. Lucy wondered if she should go back to Londonafter all. But she knew that, just now, Cordeval was where she needed to be.

She was drawn to the comfort of her grandparents’ old home. And it was where she’d find Mémé’s secret, she was sure.

After they’d said their goodbyes, Lucy went down to the bar opposite. As she pushed open the door, for a moment she pictured it as it would’ve looked when the Petits had run it and every table was taken by a German soldier. But the picture dissolved in seconds; locals were drinking their afternoon aperitifs, and tourists were poring over the menu.

And Sébastien was dismantling the piano. He’d removed the lid and the panel at the front. The wires and the soundboard inside were exposed to the light.

‘Oh, what’s happened?’ Lucy asked him.

He glanced up at her, and Galette, who was sleeping beside the piano, lazily wagged his tail at the sound of Lucy’s voice.

‘Something caught in the works. I’ll get it sorted,’ Sébastien replied. Then he added, with just a hint of unspoken disapproval, ‘This used to be in your flat. Your great-grandmother gave it to the bar when Joséphine took over. Bea’s mum.’ He sniffed, then went back to his work with a murmur of, ‘But that’s just ancient history to you, I guess.’

Lucy tried to ignore his disapproval, even though it stung.

‘Isn’t that the piano that the Professor had in his flat when he lived there?’ Lucy replied, thinking of one of the stories Mémé had written down for her. ‘The German music teacher who lived in Cordeval. Have you heard about him?’

Sébastien looked up again, clearly surprised that Lucy knew about the instrument’s history.

‘That’s the one,’ he said. ‘It’s been here for…I don’t know, eighty-odd years?’

‘The Professor must’ve got it working again, then!’ Lucy chuckled.

Sébastien shrugged one shoulder. ‘I’ll have it good as new by supper.’

‘I’ve come to get my things and check out,’ Lucy told him. Before he could say anything withering about her going back to London, she added, ‘I’m going to stay at Mémé’s for a few days.’

He looked at her again, and this time she saw something else in his expression besides surprise. Then he nodded and said casually, ‘Bouillabaisse on the menu this evening, if you don’t have a chance to get groceries in.’