‘Ammunition and some vehicles,’ replied Rachelle. ‘Probably troops as well.’
‘We need specifics,’ said the man, who I decided was British. I could just detect that twang in his voice that differed from an American accent.
‘He’s trying, but he won’t get the inventory until tomorrow,’ replied Rachelle.
‘We don’t want to waste time and manpower on something that’s not worth it,’ said the British man.
‘Any form of resistance is worth it,’ said Rachelle. ‘It’s not just one big act, it’s lots of little ones.’
‘There’s always a price to pay afterwards though,’ said the British man who I now pinned down to being English.
‘Marcel is right,’ said Gaston. ‘We need more detail.’
‘I’ll do my best,’ said Rachelle. I could tell she wasn’t particularly happy.
‘So, who is this?’ asked the Englishman as if noticing me for the first time. His eyes quickly looked me up and down.
I was a bit fed up with this question, but it seemed everyone here was on edge and liked to know who was who, especially an unannounced stranger. I spoke first. ‘Nathalie Leroux. Gaston and Rachelle are my cousins.’
‘I’ve not seen you before,’ said the man, clearly dispensing with any formalities or niceties.
‘You wouldn’t have done,’ I replied. I don’t know why, but his attitude annoyed me. ‘I’m from Paris. I’m here visiting my cousins.’
He raised an eyebrow. ‘Paris. Is that so?’
‘Yes, it is.’
‘What do you do in Paris?’
I wasn’t sure what relevance this had, but I answered. ‘I’m a seamstress. My father has a tailoring shop.’ I couldn’t help my gaze flicking down to the ill-fitting trousers. When I looked back up at him, there was an amused look on his face.
‘As you can tell, I didn’t go to a tailor for these,’ he replied. ‘So, you’re the famous seamstress I’ve been hearing all about.’
I looked at my cousins in confusion, wondering if he’d lost something in translation. ‘What does he mean?’
Gaston put his arm around me. ‘We need your help to make a few adjustments to some clothing.’
Now I really was confused. ‘You need me? But you didn’t even know I was coming.’
‘That’s not strictly true,’ said Gaston. ‘By the way, this is Marcel.’
Marcel gave a nod of acknowledgement to me. ‘Mademoiselle.’
I didn’t reply as Gaston carried on talking.
‘We knew you were coming. Rachelle had told me, but what we didn’t know was that we’d need your help. You see, our official tailor here at the camp isn’t available to us anymore, and he was in the middle of a project.’
‘You’re talking in riddles. What do you mean?’ I asked.
‘What he means,’ said Marcel, lighting a cigarette, ‘is that our old tailor got himself shot, and he hadn’t finished making some adjustments.’ He waggled his leg around. ‘Just in case you were wondering. Plus, we need a uniform altered. Gaston tells me you’re pretty good with a needle and thread.’
‘Shot?’ I repeated.
‘Yes, not here. Back in the village,’ said Marcel. He said it so matter-of-factly.
‘Dead?’
‘Oui. Dead.’ Marcel blew a smoke ring out. ‘So, as you were on your way, we thought you could finish what he was doing.’
