Page 37 of The Resistance Book Club

Lucy hadn’t thought that Sébastien would’ve been interested, but of course, he must’ve grown up on Beatrice’s stories about the bookshop. Her dad had told her that his friend would send an agent to Cordeval to take photos, measure up and advertise the sale. But a local like Sébastien wouldn’t be able to compete if the shop was advertised in Paris. Still, she could put a good word in.

‘Oh, it’d be lovely if you bought the place,’ she said, pouring the coffee into their cups. ‘What are you planning to do with it? You could turn it into a café, selling those gorgeous home-made croissants of yours.’

Sébastien gave a smile and admitted, ‘I only thought about it a couple of days ago.’ He shrugged his broad shoulders. ‘It’s a survivor, that shop. I’d want it to stay what it is: a bookshop. Which might be a challenge, considering I know nothing about bookshops, but I didn’t know how to cook once upon a time, so…yeah. A bookshop.’ Then he tapped his index finger to his chin, thoughtful. ‘I used to go in a little bookshop in Paris that had a café out the back and I wonder about that. Not everybody wants to go to a bar, even one as great as mine, but relaxing with a brand-new book and a really special pastry? That feels pretty Cordeval to me.’

‘I’m sure Mémé would’ve approved,’ Lucy said. ‘Beatrice’s grandson running a café in her bookshop. Dad’s got a friend in Paris who’s going to deal with the sale, so I’ll tell them to get in touch with you, and the bookshop might be yours!’

But as she spoke, the words seemed so final. A bit too final for today, and she put the coffee pot down heavily on the table. What Sébastien had said to her on the beach came back to her: Mémé had wanted her to have the bookshop. But Lucy had a career in London that she’d worked so hard for, and her friends who she’d miss horribly if she moved away.

Steering the subject onto less fraught ground, she asked, ‘Have you managed to fix thepiano?’

‘Yes!’ Sébastien seemed as glad as Lucy that the subject had changed. He sprang out of his seat and headed towards the instrument. ‘It was blocked by a lullaby, if you can believe it. Pushed down into the workings.’ He settled on the piano stool and asked teasingly, ‘Music while you dine, madame?’

‘Alullaby?’ Lucy shook her head, wondering how on earth a lullaby had got inside a piano that lived in a bar. Curious, she left the table with the steaming cup of coffee and went over to stand beside Sébastien at his piano. There was a yellowed sheet of paper on the stand with handwritten notes leaping across the creased page. Sébastien turned the paper over so that Lucy could see a shorter jumble of markings on the other side. ‘Wait – there’s two different tunes!’

He nodded, then spread his finger on the keys and began to play. ‘One’s beautiful. The second…well, it’s really just a random bunch of notes.’ He shrugged, then looked up at Lucy and gave a bright smile as he flipped the sheet over to play the second piece. This time, the music it produced was jolting and tuneless, just a noise.

Lucy leaned closer over Sébastien’s shoulder, trying to make sense of it. Maybe it was an experimental, avant-garde piece? But why hide it inside a piano? She went back to the table and sipped her coffee, musing.

As Sébastien returned to the lullaby and played the tender notes, she tore her croissant and daubed it with golden butter and his jewel-like jam. She knew the tune, and was trying to place it as she ate, while the taste of the croissant took her back to her visits to Mémé and Papi when she was small.

When she was small…

Lucy paused, her coffee halfway to her mouth. Sébastien was still playing, but now she recognised the gentle melody, which came and went like waves whispering against the shore.

‘Sébastien…’ she said, tears pricking her eyes. She hoped they wouldn’t fall. ‘I know that tune. Mémé used to sing it to me when I was small.’

‘It’s called “Isabelle’s Lullaby”,’ Sébastien replied. His fingers were still moving on the keys as he nodded towards the sheet of music that rested on the piano. ‘Signed T.G.Lauterborn, 1941.’

Those names…she knew them from the notebook.

‘So that’s how my grandma knew that tune,’ she said as she realised. ‘Because it was written for Esther’s baby. Margot learned it from Esther and sang it to my grandma too. I wonder what happened to Isabelle?’

TWENTY-FOUR

MARGOT

1941

Margot felt numb as she headed through the dark tunnels alone, carrying Esther’s bag.

The images were playing on a loop in Margot’s mind; she felt too stunned and hollow to push them away.

Finally, she reached the door to her own cellar, and found Joséphine and Beatrice waiting for her with Isabelle in her basket.

‘She’s dead,’ Margot said, her voice flat, as if all her emotion had been scoured out. She looked straight at Joséphine as she told her, ‘Lauterborn. He shot her.’

Joséphine’s gaze fell away as Beatrice let out a wail of sadness. Margot had never heard anything like it, a cry that pierced her heart. Only then did Joséphine speak; she whispered, ‘Don’t, Bea, we don’t want Isabelle to be upset. She needs us all more than ever.’

Margot went over to Beatrice to put her arm round her, but stopped at the last moment. The lantern light showed red onher own clothes, and there was a pause before Margot realised it was Esther’s blood.

‘I’ve got Esther’s bag. I grabbed some other things, too,’ Margot said, her voice strangely matter-of-fact. She took out her handkerchief and tried to wipe the blood away, although it was too small to do much. When she spoke again, her voice was shrill. ‘I don’t know what to do! Esther’s dead. And I’ve no idea how to look after Isabelle!’

‘I do,’ Joséphine assured her. ‘I haven’t done such a bad job with Bea, after all. Don’t worry, Margot, we’ll keep her safe.’

Beatrice nodded. She reached into the basket and stroked the baby’s cheek as she murmured, ‘I’ll be your big sister, Isabelle, don’t you worry about that.’

Margot could see the love in Beatrice’s eyes, but she was worried about Joséphine. What if Lauterborn was so determined to find Esther’s baby that he’d try to beat it out of her? But it was too late now: Joséphine knew where Isabelle was.