The likes of me … How cool and distant he sounded, not at all like the boy she had known.
‘How could you think that?’ she asked him.
He fiddled with the shears in his large square hands, but didn’t answer her.
‘You look well,’ she said, grasping for something to say. ‘You’ve grown.’
‘So have you. But then it’s been ten years.’
‘Yes,’ was all she could think to say.
‘I was sorry to hear about your uncle. He was a good and decent man.’
‘You’ve lost your Suffolk accent,’ she said, noting another change in him.
He shrugged. ‘That’s what happens when you move away.’
‘Where did you go?’
‘Down to the south coast to work for a time, then when my grandfather took ill, I came back. Folks round here made fun of me, said I was no longer one of them. What about you?’ With a subtle sweep of his dark brown eyes that left her feeling stripped to her soul, he looked her up and down. ‘Word is you’ve become quite the singing star in Italy, just as you always said you would. But then I never doubted you’d achieve your dream, that nothing would stand in your way.’
She could have wept at his words.
Chapter Twenty-Two
The fete was held at Clover Field, at the opposite end of the village to Island House.
Florence and Mrs Partridge had been given the afternoon off so they could come and enjoy themselves along with the rest of the village, and watching Miss Romily welcoming everybody to the fete, and knowing how difficult it was for her, Florence was filled with pride. Having deliberately eschewed the wearing of black since the funeral, Miss Romily had opted today to wear an elegant navy-blue dress with a white collar, a wide navy-blue brimmed hat and white gloves. With a stylish pair of sunglasses covering her eyes, she looked like a glamorous film star.
Florence knew that under normal circumstances Miss Romily was very used to speaking in public, but this, up there on the podium, standing in for her husband, was different. Only once did she seem to lose her way and hesitate, and that was when she mentioned Jack by name, saying how much he had liked being involved with the village.
‘I’m sure he’s looking down on us all,’ she said now, ‘and thinking, “Oh for heaven’s sake, woman, do stop rambling and let everybody get on with enjoying themselves!” So that’s what I shall do, but not without thanking you for supporting such a fine tradition as the Melstead St Mary summer fete!’
The crowd clapped enthusiastically and then the Salvation Army band struck up with ‘It’s a Long Way to Tipperary’. In the front row of the band, playing his trumpet, was Billy Minton. He looked very smart in his uniform, quite different to how he looked when he was serving in his parents’ shop, or on his bicycle delivering bread around the village. Spotting Florence in the crowd, he gave her a wink. She smiled back at him shyly.
With Mrs Partridge going off to find herself a cup of tea in the refreshment tent, and no doubt to have a gossip with Mrs Bunch – a woman Miss Romily joked was head of the intelligence corps in the village – Florence went in search of the ice cream seller. She soon found him, and after waiting patiently in the queue, she handed over her 2d for a large cornet. She then wandered about looking at the various stalls of books, toys, bric-a-brac and home-made preserves. After browsing the jars of local honey, lemon curd and strawberry jam, she moved on to the plant stall run by Miss Gant and Miss Treadmill. Florence knew them to say hello to, and gave the ladies a smile and a wave, but with no need of a plant, she pressed on towards the home-produce tent. Mrs Partridge had wondered about taking part to see if she could win Best Cake, but what with having been so busy this last week, she hadn’t had time. ‘Next year,’ she’d said, ‘I’ll bake a cake to knock their socks off, see if I don’t!’
But from what some folk were saying, you’d think there wasn’t going to be a next year. War. It was all people could talk about. And not if, but when. Yesterday they’d been issued with horrid gas masks as well as pamphlets about what to do in the case of war breaking out, but somehow none of it seemed real. How could it? thought Florence, looking about her at all the happy smiling faces in the summer sunshine.
As she finished her ice cream, she passed a crowd of children clustered around a wooden barrel, their arms lost within the sawdust of the lucky dip as they dug down deep for some hidden treasure. Florence was suddenly struck by a memory of doing the same thing a long time ago.
She had been with her mother at a fair, a rare chance for them to be alone together. Her mother had said that it was to be a secret between them, and that if Florence could keep the secret, maybe they would do it again. They’d only been at the fair a short while when they got chatting to a man Florence had never seen before, but who her mother seemed to know. He’d been very friendly and had bought them ice creams and lemonade to drink. She had never seen her mother look so cheerful or carefree. The man had asked Florence if she would like a go on the lucky dip, and in amongst the sawdust she’d found a stick of pink liquorice wrapped in paper, which she’d eaten immediately. Next he had asked if she’d like him to try and win her a doll on the shooting range; he’d said he was a crack shot, so it would be as easy as anything. To her amazement, he’d done just that. Never had Florence seen a doll so pretty or dressed in such fine clothes. But when she and her mother had been on the bus going home, she’d lost the doll and had cried.
‘Please don’t make a fuss,’ Mum had said, trying to calm her. ‘It was only a doll.’
‘No it wasn’t!’ Florence had wailed. ‘She was a special doll because that nice man won her for me.’
Mum had put her arm around her and told her that she had to remember that today had been a secret day, and she mustn’t ever mention it to her brothers or her father. It was later, when she was in bed that night listening to her father yelling at her mother, that Florence remembered something important – she hadn’t lost the doll; Mum had. Mum had been carrying it for her because Florence was so tired. Had she deliberately lost it? Would it have spoilt the secret if they’d brought it home with them?
She never got the chance to ask, because the next day her mother fell down the stairs. Well, that was what she said she had done, but Florence knew that the bruises to her poor battered face had not been caused by a careless tumble. Two days later, Mum disappeared.
In the days and weeks that followed, Florence would often hear the neighbours talking on their doorsteps about her mother. Some said she’d run off and good luck to her; others thought she was more likely dead, her old man’s temper having finally got the better of him. Florence had always hoped that she had run off; that wherever she was, she was happy. Maybe she was with that nice man they’d met at the fair. But then she’d think of the misery of her own life after her mother had disappeared and her heart would harden.
Ahead of her she saw a small midnight-blue tent with stars and a moon painted on it. There was a sign attached to it bearing the words ‘Fortune Teller – Gypsy Rose-Marie.’ Florence looked at it sceptically. It was probably just someone from the village dressed up to look like a gypsy who you paid to stare into a crystal ball, or who would make up some rubbish from looking at your palm. Odds on Florence would be told that she would meet a tall, dark and handsome stranger – who she would marry and then discover he was nothing but a brute, and they’d have lots of children, one after the other, like her poor mother. If that was her future, no thank you!
But curiosity made her waver. What if the gypsy woman was genuine and could really see what the future held? The next thing she knew, she was parting the flaps of the tent and stepping inside. It took a moment for her eyes to adjust to the stuffy darkness, and she jumped when a cackling old voice told her to sit down. ‘Come on, dearie, don’t keep me waiting.’
The voice came from the other side of a small round table covered with a heavy brocade cloth. Illuminated by a single flickering candle was the most gnarled and wrinkled old woman Florence had ever set eyes on. Her head was swathed in a scarf with what looked like gold coins sewn along the edge, and draped over her shoulders was a black shawl.
