The old lady of Paris

From our Memories of Yesteryear series.

There was a small hotel in downtown Paris, France.

The old lady who ran it was French, well, to most people. She dressed in the classic French middle class style, she spoke the language like someone born in the country.

By the time we heard of her, her hair had gone grey, and she was thinking of retiring for good.

The hotel was a favorite among officials, government workers. The older generation of regulars knew at least some of her background.

That she had been born and raised in the UK, for instance. Some time around the 1920s, give or take a few years. That she had lived in France since the end of the second World War, had raised her first born there, and, obviously, had run the hotel.

How she had come to France was a story told with a big smile.

By plane from England, mon cher, as a surprise, if you will.

At the time, the plane had not come straight from, say, London to Paris. It had taken the long way round because the world war was raging in Europe. South over the Atlantic, down to about Portugal, then a sharp left to the island of Corsica.

She was a young woman then, and she had worked with French resistance fighters back in the UK. One of those she had developed a close relationship with.

As the plane came to a stop in front of the main building complex of the airfield, he had been there, too.

We need to talk.

I'm pregnant.

That's how the old lady behind the reception desk at the small Paris hotel had come to France.