Page 37 of Tides of Resistance
When they had been racing for quite some time, Sophie signalled to stop. ‘We’re about halfway, let’s take a short break and catch our breath.’
She extracted a water bottle from her bicycle basket and offered Lizzie a drink.
‘I was saying this is the perfect day for us to do this. I’d forgotten just how pretty the Brittany coast is,’ Lizzie said, after sipping the water.
‘We’re lucky. At least we’re surrounded by this immense beauty, even in the depths of such evil,’ Sophie said. ‘What is it like in London?’
They spoke in hushed tones, both aware that the question could get them killed. Lizzie had warned Sophie not to say anything in the bookshop or even at home about her beingBritish, and the result was they hadn’t talked much about her life in London.
‘It’s wonderful. I love it more than I ever imagined I would. When we first moved there, I missed Jersey so much, and Nan and Pops. But once I got used to it, I felt really at home.’
‘And you were there throughout the Blitz? That must have been terrifying,’ Sophie said. ‘We haven’t experienced any Allied bombing, thank God.’
Lizzie told Sophie about her experience of the Blitz, and how it had brought people together in amazing ways. She didn’t say, but St. Malo would probably need to be bombed at some point for the Allies to free France from the Nazi regime.
They chatted, happy to be out of earshot of the walled city’s controllers and Sophie told Lizzie the name of the coastal path wasChemin des Douanier. ‘Customs officials have patrolled it for centuries to catch smugglers in the act of shipping contraband to England.’
This reminded Lizzie of the cave she had hidden in upon her arrival. ‘The Corsairs, yes. Your father used to tell us stories about them when we had those marvellous picnics at the smugglers’ cove.’
Once rested, they resumed cycling along the rough surface of the stone and earth path that curved with the shoreline around the clifftops of the Channel, or what the French called,La Manche—the sleeve.
‘This is it,’ called Sophie and slowed her pedalling slightly as St. Lunaire, the charming Breton seaside town with dramatic views of the rugged Emerald Coast appeared before them. ‘I’m sorry to say it’s not the glamourous resort town it was before the war.’
‘Understandable,’ said Lizzie. ‘I doubt anywhere is.’
They cycled past rows of shabby but still elegant Belle Époque villas, pummelled by years of the harsh seaside elementsand few repairs. They symbolised the peaceful era before the Great War, and Lizzie’s heart ached as she considered all that was already lost in this war, no matter the outcome.
In its surrender and subsequent occupation, her beloved France had lost its innocence, and she doubted it would ever be the same.
‘The Grand Hotel is that way,’ Sophie said, pointing. ‘Fabian told me it has been requisitioned, so probably best we avoid that. Let’s cut down this little pathway instead and go round the back.’
After a few minutes of weaving through small alleys, Sophie dismounted, and Lizzie followed.
‘Is this where Fabian lives?’ Lizzie asked, gazing ahead at the grey stone farmhouse nestled against the blue sky.
‘Yes, he’s been here since he came home. Fabian was one of the lucky ones. Many of our friends who fought haven’t returned, and their families don’t know if they are in prisoner of war camps or died in the fighting.’
Sophie’s voice trailed off.
Lizzie touched Sophie’s arm. ‘There is still hope.’
Sophie’s blue eyes filled with tears, and she wiped them with her coat sleeve in a frustrated gesture. ‘You are right. All we have is hope, and we mustn’t lose sight of it.’
They wheeled their bikes through a gate, and before they reached the farmhouse with its turquoise paint-chipped shutters, Lizzie whispered to Sophie, ‘Introduce me as Rose. You never know who might be listening.’
Sophie nodded and raised her hand to rap on the door.
When Fabian saw Lizzie, his eyes sparkled, and he did a double take. She signalled with her finger to her lips before he shouted out her name, just as she had done to Aunt Giselle on the morning of her unannounced arrival.
Sophie hugged Fabian and said, ‘This is Rose Rousseau. She’s the daughter of Maman’s friend in Paris and is staying with us for a while to recuperate.’
Fabian closed his mouth and collected himself admirably. He was another one who was clearly used to secrets and lies. Sophie had said he avoided the German military at all costs, so he must be used to cover stories. He ushered them in, and Lizzie saw he had a distinctive red scar above his eye, that hadn’t been their last time she saw him.
He noticed her looking at it and shrugged. ‘The price of war.’
‘Dear Fabian, it makes you look quite debonair,’ she whispered, hugging him in the safety of the hallway behind the closed door. ‘It is so good to see you.’
Fabian led them through to the kitchen and prepared coffee, which they drank outside, perched on a stone wall in the yard that was littered with pieces of furniture in various states of repair.
