The Girl in The Blue dress by Geraldine
Charlotte jumped on her bicycle and started cycling towards Massingy to meet Geneviève.
Spring had put on her best show : so many different shades of green in the fields and along the roadside.
If you imagine all the different shades of green that nature can put on,
I’m not sure that man’s brain can really count them : they must be billions !
The climate had been particularly mild and warm and the different fruit trees had blossomed
without any danger of frost. The bees had done their job hopping from tree to tree and the
fruit crops this autumn would probably be very bountiful.
Charlotte was bringing salad seedlings that she had grown to her friend :
the idea was an exchange of different growths in these days of confinement
when you couldn’t just go and buy them from the local nursery, whereas Geneviève had some
wild garlic and onions to give her . They had agreed to meet half way from their homes.
Which they did.
Standing at a meter apart, each one put her packet down on the ground and then moved
back to let the other one pick it up. And they started chatting at the required distance.
The birds were happyly singing and a slight breeze caressing their forheads and blowing their
hair in the wind.
They thought how stange these times were : they had been warned that « it was war-time back again »
and they couldn’t help but recall the passed days, during the French Occupation when these brave
women met casually with a bit of milk or butter or a few eggs in a basquet.
But under these items, or somewhere hidden, they were passing messages against the ennemy for the
« Resistance ». And, usually on bicycles…
Back home, after this little trip, Charlotte planted her onions in her vegetable patch,
hoping for rain, but not really wishing so : this spring was so beautiful and warm to her body and heart.
Then, she remembered a book – The Blue bicycle », written by Régine Deforge years ago, about
women in the South West of France « resisting ». She sat in her garden, so green, with a few
dafodills still blossoming and the tulips starting their yearly show, and, with a nice cup of tea ,
started flicking through the book she hadn't read for ages. And her mind was stunned by the
strenght of these women, who, although they kept on making the house look nice and clean, `
bringing up and looking after their children, baking their bread, preparing meals with what they
could find during the ration period, had such an engaement in their belief in freedom that they put
themselves at risk to help deliver their country from the enemy…
What a lovely day it had been. Bedtime had occured and Charlotte, happy and warm, ducked into her
confortable bed, kissed her husband goodnight and slowly fell asleep.
Then, these horrible screams came around and woke her up in the middle of the night !
What’s wrong, darling, it’s OK came her husband’s soft voice. Don’t worry, what happened ?
Why are you screaming like this. Calm, calm. Tell me what happened, ! You must have had a bad dream… Don’t worry, you’re in your bed, here with me, safe.
She was clinging to him, at last awaken by his gentle conforting cuddle and his soothing words.
She burst into tears, shaking all over and could still see that dreadfull Gestapo officer, with his horrible grin, in his kaki uniform sceaming at her :
what’s the code, what’s the code ? If you don’t give me the code…. And threatening her of pulling her nails off as it had been done to so many before her. But, she had to keep strong and brave « don’t give in, don’t give in… Think of the other women and men of the resistance cell… don’t betray, don’t betray !
She finally calmed down, cuddling into her husband’s arms and, in a very faint voice said :
-I didn’t give it away, I didn’t give it away !
- What is it you didn’t give away sweetheart ? Tell me, don’t be afraid anymore…
-« The girl in the blue dress » !
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Annemarie's story:
The Girl in the Blue Dress I am a creature of habit.;
I hear the village church sound out the somewhat dolorous midday hours,
I take a short stroll to the end of my lane to check if there is any post -
a rare occasion as I have few friends now. But today there is something;
“ The Garden “ has arrived, a little tardy but welcome nonetheless.
As I walk back to the house I catch sight of sight of a flicker of blue against the deep greens of the
hedgerow. It is the latter part of March and a summer heat has pervaded the last few weeks,
hot enough for me to shed my winter cords and fusty jumpers. The garden is already parched
and rib-hard, impossible to work, tulips bent double as though kowtowing to some invisible
Chinese emperor. I have few interests beside my garden, nature and my regular RHS magazine;
I have no family contact and as I mentioned before few friends, just a few acquaintances.
The villagers regard me as the crusty old foreigner; I get polite nods of the head when we
encounter one another but I have never been invited into any of their homes - but then
no one has been in mine. I pour myself a gin and settle into the lounger, unwrap the magazine,
noting the biodegradable wrapper made from vegetable matter, so perhaps my letter of
reprimand concerning plastics reached the right ears; I am about to light my cigarette but
I’m distracted by a fluttering - a quiver of blue again. It is early for the Adonis blue butterfly
but as the wavering wings settle on a nearby flower I marvel at its beauty. Wings folded
elegantly together, the black speckles on light brown and faintest haze of blue near the
thorax only hint at the spell-binding blue as the butterfly gently breathes open its wings.
The blue shimmers in the sunshine, each exquisite scale catching the midday sun.
And as I sip my gin and languidly contemplate this heavenly radiance I am sinking into a
long forgotten memory, a souvenir of childhood.... Under a warm tropical night the four of us -
our two mothers, myself and my childhood friend are strolling under the jacaranda trees,
their branches dripping with an efflorescence of plump lilac blue flowers echoing the colour
of my eleven year old friend's dress. As we pass under the street lamp my she cries out in
surprise and wonderment, « Peter, look at my new blue dress - it's a true blue but it turns lilac
under the lamplight; that's magic! » I can see her face now and I, too, shared that magic and
wonderment. Much of our childhood was spent together as our two families used to safari
together and we cantered the farmlands of her parents land on tough little ponies.
She was the sister I never had. It was a long time ago and I remember how our friendship
ebbed and flowed like the tide over the intervening years until we lost touch after the death
of our mothers, their own friendship having been the constant thread sewing us back to gather
in the haphazard patchwork of our far apart lives. Our meetings were like sequins on that patchwork -
catching up on our individual news, our children and she was always joyous, generous and
laughing with that same wonderment of the world so contrary to the life I led. I always had a
suspicion that she hankered after me when we were teenagers and in our twenties but I was
after more sophistication and moving up in the world.I thought back to my university days when t
he world was my oyster; I was I a gifted scholar, considered handsome by my peers and on
becoming a lawyer I had the pick of a bevy of beautiful women. Married to a glamorous wife,
we travelled to exotic places, went to expensive restaurants, saw all the latest plays and operas.
Yes you could say she was the trophy wife. One child later my life fell apart when she left me for a richer,
older, more powerful (and dare I say it less attractive) newspaper magnate.
I always held her culpable but now as I reflect on the past perhaps I was too involved
in my own ambitions. By my forties I was divorced, rarely saw my son, and after a very
public drunken and abusive row with my father during his 70th birthday dinner my family
disowned me, I withdrew from public life, moved to a foreign country and my world was
reduced to my garden, gin and translating legal documents. And two uneventful decades
later I sit alone with my third gin in hand, gazing at the butterfly and wonder how different
my life would have been if I had married my girl in the blue dress.
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