Cathy watched in horror as a plastic garden chair flew past. The slight storm she had driven into so blithely had become a maelstrom of broken branches and torrential rain. She’d slowed the car to a crawl, but now she pulled over to the side of the road.
Outside the car, trees crashed to the ground as they were uprooted by the gale. Her predicament was her own fault. The warnings had come over the radio at frequent intervals, and her French was good enough to know that they’d been predicting severe weather conditions.
Villecareau, the last village she’d passed through, had been in darkness, so presumably the trees had brought down the electricity cables.
Through the gloom Cathy saw a light showing in a cottage window, about five hundred yards from the road. She gingerly opened the car door and the wind nearly wrenched the handle out of her grasp. Keeping her eyes firmly fixed on the light, she staggered to the cottage.
By the time she arrived, tears, partly from the wind, but also from fear, blinded her. She hammered on the door, relief flooding through her when it opened.
“Pardonnez-moi, madame, mais la tempête,” Cathy began.
“Entrez! Entrez!” the woman interrupted, dragging her in.
Cathy apologised, but her rescuer merely waved her towards the warmth of the fire. Above the hearth hung a mirror, and Cathy was horrified to see what a fright she looked. Her short blonde hair was sticking out in every direction. Black smudges of mascara showed under her brown eyes, the darkness stark against her pale skin. She looked haggard, which she knew owed more to her inner turmoil than the buffeting she’d taken. Instinctively she tried to straighten her hair and repair the mess her tears had made. Giving up, she turned to find the other woman regarding her.
She looked to be aged somewhere between 25 and 35. Her eyes, which were a vivid blue, looked tired and careworn. Her black hair gleamed in the light from the oil lamp. Tied with a ribbon, it hung down her back in a lustrous coil. She was dressed in a tightly pulled night robe, clearly ready for bed.
Cathy apologised again for intruding, but the woman interrupted her.
“You are English?” At Cathy’s nod she continued: “Please, let us speak in English; ma mère was English and always we would speak in her tongue. I am Yvette Morceau."
The cottage was typical of the region, the entrance door opening on to a large room serving as kitchen and living area. Cathy thankfully accepted a seat in front of the fire. The light, from a mixture of oil lamps, candles, and the fire’s glow, gave a surreal, old-fashioned feel to the room. She felt herself start to relax; it was months since she had been able to feel at peace. She felt that she owed her kind hostess some explanation.
“You must wonder why I was driving in such appalling conditions.”
Yvette shook her head. “Sometimes we do things that are not always so wise. N’est-ce pas? But you need not explain. Relax until the storm, it has passed.” She smiled and her face looked younger. “You must forgive. It is long since I speak English. I do not always have the words.”
“You speak English very well, much better than my French. Unfortunately it was vital that I reach Toulouse this evening. I have a very important meeting early tomorrow. It’s a career opportunity…”
Cathy broke off as she felt Yvette’s eyes on her and was sure that she could see through the half-truths.
“I should have changed the appointment. I knew the storm wasn’t safe, but I’m not thinking too clearly these days.”
At Yvette’s look of enquiry, Cathy continued. “My husband wants me to stop working and start a family. I don’t want children, and I don’t want to quit my job.”
“You do not want children? Are you so sure? You are still very young,” Yvette asked. The words were gently spoken, without judgement.
“I’m 27, and yes, I’m sure. I’ve never been maternal. Derek knew, before we married, how I felt. I told him from the start that I would never want to be a mother. Now he is putting so much pressure on me, and refuses to listen when I try to explain how I feel. He just goes on and on about how unnatural I am.”
A little taken aback by her outburst to a total stranger, Cathy began to apologise but Yvette stopped her.
“Please do not worry, sometimes it is easier to talk when you do not know the other person. I wanted children. I was pregnant when my husband died, and the shock of his death caused a miscarriage."
“I’m so sorry, I shouldn’t have said anything,” Cathy began.
Yvette stopped her with a raised hand. “How could you know? That was long ago. I try not to think of that period. For you it is different. Do you think that your husband has always wanted a child and thought you would change your mind after marriage?”
The buffeting of the wind against the shutters was suddenly so loud that Cathy had to wait before answering. Yvette went to the old-fashioned range to make some coffee. When she returned, she moved her chair closer to Cathy’s.
Cathy was still mulling over Yvette’s question. “Derek felt the same way as I did. We’ve been married for five years and he’s never shown any interest in children. I can’t understand him at all.”
“If you do not want children,” Yvette said, “and you feel that you would resent any child that you had, then how very sad for that child.”
The soft light from the fire’s glow gave an intimacy to their conversation; almost confessional, Cathy thought to herself, and then smiled at the thought. She and Derek were not religious, even though they’d had a church wedding. For Cathy it had signified commitment. She wouldn’t let her marriage go without trying to save it, but she knew in her heart that it would be wrong for her to have children.
“Maybe he is using this argument for some other reason. When did he first talk of babies?” Yvette asked.
Cathy’s face clouded over at the memory.
“It was the day I received my promotion to overseas sales; I was so excited, I couldn’t wait to share my news with Derek. I’d planned a celebration dinner, thinking that he’d be thrilled for me. He merely looked stunned and then said ‘I think we should try to start a family.’ You can imagine how hurt I was. He’d ruined what should have been a great day.”
Cathy was having difficulty in holding back her tears.
“We ended up not speaking to each other that night. We made up the next day, but every few weeks he brings the subject up again. Our marriage is in real trouble and I don’t know how to save it,” she finished, her slim frame wracked with sobs.
“I love my husband, but I’m not going to give in to emotional blackmail and conceive a child I don’t want.”
“When you return home, why do you not tell Derek that if he continues in this fashion he will lose you? If he knew before your marriage that you did not want to be a mother, then he is being unfair. If your husband desires children, maybe you should go your separate ways. Alors. I do not think it will come to that. I am sure that he will tell you the true reason for making this demand.”
The wind continued to howl, but the women were too deep in conversation to hear, it was an absence of sound that finally penetrated their private world.
“Listen. La tempête, she has passed,” exclaimed Yvette.
Cathy looked at her watch and was astounded to find that it was after three o’clock in the morning.
“I’d better push on to Toulouse; it seems that I’ll be able to make my meeting after all,” she smiled at Yvette. “A bath at the hotel, and I’ll feel ready to tackle the world.”
Yvette came with her to the door. The silence after the storm seemed eerie, almost too quiet. She embraced Cathy. “Bon courage. Remind your husband that when you married he agreed not to have a family; he must tell you why he has changed.”
Cathy returned the embrace. She felt as if she had known Yvette forever.
“Thank you for listening. You’ve helped me so much. When I am next in this area may I call on you?”
“Mais oui. I am always here.”
Six months later Cathy returned to the region. She had so much to discuss with Yvette. Whilst in Toulouse last December, she’d found out how dangerous the storm had been. Telephone poles and electricity pylons had toppled like ninepins. Many people had died on the roads, so Yvette possibly saved her life by giving her shelter that night.
She’d certainly helped to avoid a divorce. Taking her advice, Cathy had confronted Derek with an ultimatum; accept her without children, or end their marriage. Once he’d realised that she was serious, they’d had their first real talk in months.
It had been her promotion that was the problem. Knowing that she would be away from home, meeting new people, he’d worried that she would grow away from him. Unable to bear the thought of losing her, he’d thought that if she became a mother she would give up her job. Cathy managed to convince him that he had nothing to fear. The wounds caused by the rift were still there, but they were healing.
She found herself contrasting this pleasant, sunny drive with her previous trip when the village had been in darkness. It was amazing how different the countryside appeared. Before, it had been dark and menacing, and now it was enchanting. But with nothing looking the same, she was finding it difficult to pinpoint where she had stopped her car that night. She reached the next village and realised she must have passed the cottage.
She was turning the car in the village square when she saw an old woman. Cathy stopped the car and walked over, thinking it would be easier to find Yvette’s home with proper directions. She explained her quest and the old lady beamed at her, the gap-toothed smile indicating that she knew Yvette Morceau. She spoke rapidly in the local dialect, and it seemed that she was providing Cathy with a guide, because an equally ancient man left his bench under the walnut tree and came towards them.
He introduced himself, also in the local patois, as Bertrand Morceau. Unused to the accent, she found his speech difficult to follow, but she understood enough to leave her car in the square and go with him.
He kept up a constant flow of dialogue, little of which Cathy understood. From what she could understand, it appeared that Yvette was famous in the area for helping people; often strangers would come to the village, as Cathy was now, to say thank you.
Bertrand was clearly very proud to be related to her. He explained that after Yvette’s husband had been murdered, she had continued with his work.
“Les animeaux came back. When she was dead, they burned down the cottage,” he said.
Cathy realised that Bertrand was talking of Yvette’s death.
“What do you mean? What happened to Yvette?” she demanded.
“Come,” Bertrand said, “we are nearly there."
Through the trees, Cathy could see the ruins of Yvette’s cottage. Few walls remained standing and creepers were growing through the rubble.
“I don’t understand. This looks as though it burned down years ago, but I was here in December. I sheltered in that house from the storm.”
Gently he led her to a brass plaque standing in front of the ruin.
Yvette Morceau - Héroïne de la Résistance 1912-1944
© Lorraine Mace 2004
