‘Home is about the people you love,’ Mo added. ‘It is where you feel loved.’
‘Do you miss India?’ I asked, hoping that my English sounded okay.
‘Of course,’ he said, ‘but I miss England too. The people have been very kind since I arrived.’
‘Why did you come?’
Mo shrugged, wincing as he did so.
‘To help,’ he said. ‘The British rule my country, and we are subjects of His Majesty, the king. I felt it was my duty.’
I shrugged this time.
‘We have no kings in France,’ I told him. ‘And I do not understand why anyone does.’
‘Hush, Joelle!’ said Maman. ‘Mo is our guest. You will not interrogate him.’
‘Please,’ said Mo. ‘I am happy to answer Joelle’s questions.’
I sat and ate a breakfast of hard bread and cold sausage, with a little coffee from the pot. Papa had hidden a supply of coffee beans when the war started, but they were running out. Soon, only the chicory-laden muck that passed for coffee under the Occupation would remain. I had heard others complain about it, call it mud water and sewer juice. So, I savoured what we had left.
‘Have you heard from Beatrice?’ I asked in French.
Maman nodded.
‘There’s no need to keep this from Mo,’ she replied in English. ‘I have told him all about our work.’
‘I am very heartened to hear of the Resistance,’ Mo told me. ‘In England, news of France is always dire. And with the Dunkirk evacuation and the German bombing campaign, there seems little to be happy about. I admire your bravery.’
‘It is the least we can do,’ I told him, parroting my papa. ‘When I am older, I want to be proud of what I did in these times. To feel like I helped.’
‘Such deep thoughts for someone so young,’ said Mo. ‘I despair at what this world has done to our children.’
Our children, that’s what he said, with sincerity and passion. That was the first inkling I got of his moral character, his belief that all of humanity was one and the same. I would soon learn that he meant every word.
I went for a bicycle ride just after midday, as Papa returned with a bag of black-market goods. I was feeling trapped and in need of the outside world, as awful as that had become, and I wanted to check on someone dear to me.
‘Extras,’ said Papa, as we passed in the lane that led from our house, back towards town.
‘Real bread?’ I asked.
‘I’m afraid not,’ said Papa, dashing my hopes. ‘I will try to get some soon, my love. I promise.’
‘I’m going to see Mrs Moreau,’ I told him. ‘I won’t be long.’
‘Take these for her,’ said Papa.
He took some bread and a package of butter from his bag and placed them in my bicycle’s pannier.
‘Make sure she accepts them,’ he told me.
Mrs Moreau ran a tiny bookshop in town and I loved to read. She was in her late seventies and widowed, and she treated me like a lost granddaughter. Her back was hunched now, and she moved slowly, wrapped in her dark shawl like a sickly blackbird. Her shop had closed for business when the Germans arrived, and very few people were allowed in. I was one of the exceptions, and when I knocked on the door, she peered through the dusty glass and smiled.
‘Chérie!’ she exclaimed, as she let me in. ‘Oh, I have missed you. Where have you been?’
‘I’m sorry,’ I told her. ‘I wanted to come sooner, but there was too much to do.’
Mrs Moreau pulled me into a hug.
‘That other business?’ she asked.
‘Exactly,’ I replied with a wink.
We walked through the dusty bookshop, past piles and piles of old books and several stuffed animals that Mr Moreau had collected when he was still alive. When I was younger, the animals had frightened me, but now I found them comforting – another reminder of our old lives.
‘Excuse the mess, my dear,’ said Mrs Moreau. ‘I no longer have the energy to clean up. And I have not ventured upstairs since last summer.’
I could hear mice and somewhere I knew that Mrs Moreau’s huge black cat, Roland, was stalking them, ready to pounce. No doubt he would bring us his latest catch, and purr with pride when he did.
‘We’ll sit in the kitchen,’ said Mrs Moreau. ‘Would you like something to eat?’
I shook my head.
‘I’m fine,’ I replied. ‘I just wondered if you needed anything.’
Like most people, my parents often came by food and other necessities on the black market. Some of that food made its way into Mrs Moreau’s hands. In return, she let me take books home and never asked for their return.
‘What can an old lady need?’ she said, just as she always did.
I took the bread and butter from my jacket and set them down. The kitchen was a mess, overflowing with unwashed dishes and littered with rubbish. I began to clear up, as Mrs Moreau fussed about me, telling me to leave things be.
‘Please,’ I insisted. ‘You only need to ask. I can come and clean up more regularly.’
‘You’re very good to me,’ she replied. ‘Now, tell me what’s been going on. Are we winning yet?’
On the way home, with two tattered but interesting books nestling in my bicycle basket, I wondered how Mrs Moreau would survive the Occupation. I worried for her, and often dreamed of moving her to our house. But she was a stubborn old goat and would not leave her bookshop until she was carried away in a coffin. The thought of it saddened and angered me. So, as I passed a German vehicle, I swore under my breath – a curse I had often heard my mother use, when she thought I was not listening.
At the edge of town, I turned down the lane that led home. A bell tinkled behind me, and Beatrice appeared at my side, riding her own bicycle. She wore the same clothes as the day before, and I wondered what she’d hidden in
