Florence wasn’t sure that was true. Surely her mother had plenty to regret.
‘But,’ her mother continued. ‘I know … well, the thing is … I know I let my sister down.’
‘Do you have a photograph?’ Florence asked.
‘Only the one I stuck on the hall mirror in France. You remember?’
‘Yes, I do. She had red hair, didn’t she? The photo was only black and white, but I remember you saying about her hair,’ Florence said, although she struggled to recall the girl’s face.
‘She had wonderful shiny red hair and beautiful deep blue eyes. Her hair curled way past her shoulders when she was young. Our mother always made her plait it. Said it was as uncontrollable as she was.’
Florence absently scratched the back of her neck, unsure what to think. For her mother – her mother! – to have made such a strange request. Her mother, who never apologised for anything, and who had only rarely mentioned her sister, never explained why she’d gone, had even made out it hadn’t mattered. It had been the family mystery that no one would talk about, and Florence and her sisters had got used to it, accepted it. So, why now? After all this time. What had really happened to Rosalie and why was it so important to Claudette now?
CHAPTER 5
Florence spent an unsettled night in Claudette’s spare bedroom, partly feeling sorry for her mother, partly worrying about what to say about the past, and partly feeling annoyed. Hélène and Élise had always accused Claudette of being unfeeling, but Florence hadn’t really understood it until now.
She thought about Rosalie too, and her mother’s request. Rosalie’s disappearance was intriguing, but her mother hadn’t seemed to realise that it was almost impossible to travel while there was a war on. She wished she could ask Jack what he thought about it.
She missed Devon and, thinking how much she longed for Jack’s beautiful cottage, as well as Jack himself, her chest tightened. But she scolded herself, got out of bed and, deciding to brave the outdoor bathroom later, dressed in the clothes she’d worn the day before. This was to be her life now, and the sooner she forgot about Jack, the better.
When she got downstairs Claudette wasn’t in the sitting room or the kitchen. She glanced out of the kitchen window and saw her mother halfway down the garden looking back at her with a blank expression. Florence waved, opened the back door, and went outside. There was nothing for it, she couldn’t put off telling her what she’d discovered in France any longer.
‘Chérie,’ Claudette called. ‘I didn’t want to wake you. Thought you might need the sleep.’
Florence joined her where she was cutting creamy roses, softly flushed with pink.
‘They’re beautiful.’
‘Alfred de Dalmas, I’ve been told, a very old variety and hard to get hold of. But this one was here when I moved in. I didn’t plant it.’
Florence nodded. ‘And where’s your vegetable garden?’
Her mother pointed to the very back of the garden. ‘Behind that hedge. It’s not actually in my garden but in the field behind. The farmer gave me permission because of the war. You see the small gate?’
‘Yes.’
‘Go through, have a look.’
Florence took a step away to do as her mother said, but then turned back. She needed to grasp the nettle no matter how much it might sting. ‘Maman, I wanted to talk to you about France,’ she said.
‘Did you, chérie?’
‘You know I did.’
‘Come and look at these,’ Claudette carried on talking as she walked across to a bed of pink hollyhocks and bluecornflowers. ‘Of course, they’re past their best now but they thrive in the same growing conditions, you know, fertile soil.’
‘In France I used mature compost,’ Florence said, but determined to get on with what she really needed to say, she added, ‘Could we maybe talk over a cup of tea?’
‘All in good time. Come, let me show off my lettuces.’
Florence sighed and followed her through the gate.
‘Here we are,’ Claudette said gaily, completely ignoring Florence, who was growing increasingly frustrated.
But she held it in, and her voice took on a conciliatory tone as she said, ‘You’ve done well, Maman. I never expected you to be interested in growing vegetables.’
Claudette bent down to pick a lettuce and then straightened up. ‘Needs must, as they say over here. This lettuce will make a nice salad for lunch, don’t you think? With some tomatoes from the greenhouse.’
