Across the square she noticed the bus trundling up Meadow Lane, its destination the bus stop by the war memorial. What if the woman got on it?
‘Flo?’ said Billy again. ‘What is it?’
‘I’ll explain later,’ she said, pushing past him. She had only one thought in her head now: she had to speak to that woman before it was too late. Frantically she barged her way through the startled wedding guests and made it outside onto the pavement, where cold wintry air sliced through the thin fabric of her dress, straight to the bone. But Florence didn’t care. Only one thing mattered.
Over by the war memorial, the bus had now stopped and passengers were spilling out into the square, chatting and laughing and infuriatingly getting in the way of Florence being able to keep track of where the woman in the tam-o’-shanter was heading.
In desperation, she called out her mother’s name: ‘Ernestine! Ernestine Massie!’ When she got no response, she set off at a run, her eyes fixed firmly on the woman.
She didn’t see the truck, not until it was too late and her ears were filled with the deafening squeal of brakes, and she felt the impossibly hard impact of the vehicle slamming into her.
Chapter Forty-Seven
The nurses had told her she’d drifted in and out of consciousness for the last twenty-four hours, since she had been brought to the cottage hospital; to Florence it had felt no more than a blink of an eye. But each time she had floated up from the depths of a deep sleep, another piece of the jigsaw had slotted into place.
Now she could remember almost everything, especially leaving the church on Billy’s arm and thinking she was so proud and happy her heart might burst with love for him. She remembered too the moment at the Half Moon Hotel that had stopped her in her tracks – seeing the woman who looked like her mother through the window – but what was still a blank was how she had not seen the truck she ran into. Apparently it was a military vehicle that had taken the corner faster than it ought to have, but the blame lay entirely with Florence; she simply hadn’t been looking where she was going.
Very gingerly, she sat up, knowing that any sudden movement would result in excruciating pain, not just to her head, which felt like it was being repeatedly shaken, but all over her battered body. The doctor had told her it was nothing short of a miracle that she had got off as lightly as she had. Her injuries included two cracked ribs, more bumps and bruises than could be counted, and a blow to her head that had concussed her and given the doctor the most cause for concern. To her mortification, she had been sick several times, once very nearly on poor Billy. What a way to start married life!
She was looking at the empty chair by the side of the bed and wondering if Billy was still around to visit her when he magically appeared through the doorway at the other end of the small ward she shared with five other women, all of whom had visitors with them.
‘You’re awake,’ he said softly when he drew near.
‘Yes,’ she said.
He sat down, moving the chair closer to the bed. ‘How are you feeling?’
‘I’ve felt better.’
‘Me too.’
‘I’m sorry.’
‘Don’t apologise.’
‘But I spoilt our wedding day.’
He smiled. ‘You made it memorable, that’s for sure.’
‘And I’ve robbed you of your wedding night,’ she said shyly.
He took her hand in his. ‘Plenty of chances for that another time,’ he said.
Whenever that might be, Florence thought sadly. ‘Shouldn’t you have returned to barracks by now?’
‘Trying to get rid of me, are you?’
‘I’ve been trying to do that ever since we met,’ she said with a smile. Then more seriously: ‘You mustn’t worry about me, I’ll be all right when you’ve gone.’
‘But I’m your husband, it’s my job to worry about you.’
‘No,’ she said firmly, ‘your job now is to come back to me safe and sound from wherever you’re posted.’
‘And your job,’ he said, ‘is not to go running after strange women.’
Embarrassed, Florence lowered her gaze from his. ‘I was so sure it was my mother,’ she said quietly.
Before Billy could respond, Florence saw the familiar and striking figure of Miss Romily enter the ward; she looked marvellously glamorous in her fur coat. Trailing in her wake was a sour-faced nurse who could not have looked more disapproving. ‘Be sure to keep the noise down,’ she said sternly. ‘I won’t have my other patients disturbed.’
