When Florence had helped with the sad task of packing up Allegra’s belongings, she had wondered about Isabella’s real father in Italy, a man they knew nothing about other than that his name was Luigi. Some might say he had a right to know about his daughter. Some might even say he had the right to claim the child as his own and take her back to Italy with him.
Florence hoped that the man would never get to hear of Isabella’s presence in the world; she couldn’t imagine not having the baby around. The same was true of Annelise and Stanley. Three children who had unexpectedly come to them, and, like a blessing from God, brought joy into their lives at Island House. But each, she saw now, could be taken from them in the blink of an eye by their rightful parents.
There she went again, as Mrs Partridge would say, fearing the worst. And hadn’t Mrs Partridge been proved right when she’d said that providence would provide when it came to finding a new maid? Lotte couldn’t be a better addition to the household; everything she did, she did quietly and efficiently, without a single word of complaint. Not that she was ever asked to do anything Florence had never done herself.
Much to Florence’s amusement, Stanley had taken a real shine to the girl with her pale porcelain skin, striking blue eyes and dark hair that fell in a cascade of corkscrew curls when it wasn’t pinned up beneath her maid’s cap. Bless him, he could often be found following her around, offering to help her beat the rugs, or put the washing out.
But there was a sadness to Lotte; a burden of sadness she kept very much to herself. She slept in the small room next to Florence’s, and more than once Florence had heard her crying herself to sleep at night. It wasn’t surprising really when you thought about the family she had left behind in Austria, who had probably been interned in one of those awful camps Hope had told Florence about, where Jews and just about anyone else Hitler didn’t like were put to work like slaves. That was if they were lucky.
Luck, thought Florence as she walked back to Island House – or providence, as Mrs Partridge liked to call it – had brought Lotte to them; would it also bring Billy and Elijah safely home? Please God it did.
Chapter Seventy
Later that evening, long after the children had gone to bed and Miss Romily had taken herself off to work in the drawing room, Florence and Lotte were listening to the news on the wireless while washing up together. They had just heard that the operation to evacuate Dunkirk was over, which filled Florence with sick misery. What if Billy wasn’t among the last of the soldiers to be brought back? What if she never knew exactly what had happened to him, just as Hope would never really know how her brother had died?
Behind her, Bobby suddenly gave a low growl and raised himself from beside Mrs Partridge, who was snoring gently by the range. Within seconds there was a knock at the back door.
‘That’s odd,’ said Hope, who was sitting at the kitchen table darning one of Stanley’s socks. ‘We don’t normally have callers at the back door at this time of night.’ With Bobby following closely behind, she went to see who it was.
At the sink, Florence carefully lifted a corner of the blackout curtain and craned her neck to try and catch a glimpse of who it might be. It was probably Bert Cox, the ARP warden, here to tick them off for some blackout misdemeanour. She knew it was his job, but really, he was such an old woman about it; the slightest bit of light from any house and he relished the opportunity to take people to task.
At the sound of barking and men’s voices – voices she recognised – Florence turned away from the window and watched in stunned amazement as, through the open kitchen door, in walked not Bert Cox, but Elijah, and there was Billy right behind him. She let out a cry and flew across the kitchen.
He held her so tightly in his arms she could barely breathe. But she didn’t care; all that mattered was that he was safely home. Tears of joy streamed down her cheeks and she clung on to him, never wanting to let him go ever again.
‘Gawd bless us,’ said Mrs Partridge, awake now and rubbing at her eyes. ‘Am I dreaming, or are you both really back!’
‘We’re back,’ said Billy, releasing his hold on Florence.
‘How long for?’ asked Florence, wiping the tears from her face. ‘And where will you be sent next? Not back to France, I hope. Was it very awful? We’ve heard such dreadful things! Oh my goodness, I can’t believe you’re actually here!’
‘One question at a time, Flo,’ he said, exchanging a look with Elijah. ‘We have to report to barracks tomorrow afternoon, then we’ll have a better idea what happens next.’
‘Well in my opinion,’ said Mrs Partridge, ‘there’s just one question that needs asking. How hungry are you?’
It was Elijah who answered. ‘Starving, Mrs Partridge, and that’s God’s own truth.’
‘Just as I thought. Now sit yourselves down while Florence and I rustle up something for you. There’s some leftover shepherd’s pie in the pantry; it’s not much, with all this wretched rationing, but it’ll have to do. Lotte, perhaps you’d like to fetch that for me. I dare say Miss Romily won’t object to you two boys having it.’
‘Talking of Romily,’ said Hope, ‘I’ll go and fetch her. I’m sure she’ll be delighted to see you both.’
Billy frowned and rubbed at his grubby unshaven chin. ‘We’re not really in any fit state to be—’
‘Billy Minton, don’t talk nonsense,’ interrupted Mrs Partridge, tying on her apron. ‘Nobody here cares a fig if you’re filthy dirty and look like a couple of tramps. Florence, are you going to just stand there gawping at your husband, or are you going to help feed him?’
Florence laughed. ‘You see, Billy, some things never change. Mrs Partridge is still just as much of a dragon as she ever was.’
But some things had changed. Billy was not the same happy-go-lucky lad Florence had waved goodbye to in January.
Alone in the dark as they walked to Winter Cottage, where they were to spend their first night together, he scarcely spoke, and when he did, it was to utter just a few short words before lapsing into brooding silence. With sadness Florence remembered how Billy had always joked around and chatted nineteen to the dozen.
He’s exhausted, she chided herself, just as the ugly screech of a barn owl filled the night stillness, followed by the swoosh of its wings as the bird swooped across the lane in front of them. The next thing Florence knew, she was being thrown to the ground. The air knocked out of her, it was some moments before she realised that she was lying in the ditch with Billy on top of her. He was breathing hard, the weight of his body crushing her painfully.
‘Billy,’ she said, trying to wriggle free, ‘what is it? Are you all right?’
When he didn’t answer, just began to shake, she recalled the sobbing young soldier on the bus on the way to Sudbury and the state he’d been in. In a degree of shock herself, she held Billy in her arms. Minutes passed as she did her best to comfort him, and when eventually his body stilled, he rolled off her and struggled to his feet. He held his hand out to her and helped her up.
‘I’m sorry,’ he muttered, avoiding her gaze. ‘You must think I’ve lost my mind, turned into one of those pathetic ninnies who jumps at the slightest noise.’
