‘I grew tomatoes in France. Don’t you miss it? France, I mean.’
Claudette frowned and brushed a few stray hairs behind her ears. ‘Not especially.’
‘What about when you were younger? When we were little and stayed there in the summer. Don’t you miss those days?’
Claudette turned her back and answered curtly. ‘I don’t think about those days … Heavens, would you look at those weeds!’ And she marched over to the shed as Florence sighed.
When Claudette came back with the weeding fork, shebegan to prod at a patch that Florence could see didn’t need weeding at all.
‘Did Father ever come to France?’ Florence asked, persevering. ‘He was half French after all. I don’t remember him there.’
Silence.
‘Maman, will you come inside? Please.’ She’d spoken cajolingly, hoping to encourage her mother.
‘I need to dothis.’
‘No, for goodness’ sake, Maman, you really don’t,’ she snapped, feeling the storm brewing inside her.
Her mother rose to her feet, standing erect, and with fury in her eyes she said, ‘Do not speak to me in that tone of voice. I need to do the weeding.’
Florence felt something twist inside her. ‘And I need to tell you I’ve met my real father. I know— the truth.’
She covered her mouth, instantly regretting blurting it out. She had wanted to raise the subject sensitively, tell the whole story about how it had transpired a little at a time, but now she had no option but to plough on.
‘I’ve met Friedrich, Mother. My real father. I know he’s German, that you and he had an affair, and I have a half-brother too, called Anton.’ She tried to keep her voice steady, while her heart pounded.
Claudette didn’t meet Florence’s eyes.
‘Maman? My German father is why I had to leave France. Hélène thought there would be trouble during the liberation, afterwards too. They’re already punishing collaborators. It was terribly hard, having to leave. The journey was—’
Florence stopped, overcome as her tears began to fall. Her mother’s face gave nothing away. She only raised a hand to her brow and shielded her eyes for a moment.
‘I didn’t mean to shock you like that. I’m sorry I … but why did you hide the truth from me?’
Claudette turned away, marched towards the house, and opened the back door. To Florence’s astonishment she went inside without saying a word, the door closing behind her. Florence wiped her eyes with her fingers and followed.
She found her mother in the kitchen staring at the floor in silence, her face drained of colour. Then she raised her head and glared at Florence. ‘How dare you come here and speak of such things. And in the garden, where anyone might be listening.’
‘I’m sorry I didn’t mean to. I asked you to come inside.’
Claudette hissed her reply. ‘It was private. You do not speak of a German father in England. I did not expect you to talk ofthat.’
‘I’m sorry. I’m really sorry, but I need to know what happened. Did you love Friedrich, Maman?’ Florence spoke tentatively, not really sure what she wanted to hear.
Claudette turned her face away.
‘Why are you being like this? I just want to know if you loved him.’
Florence heard what might have been a stifled sob and went to her mother, tried to touch her, reassure her, but Claudette pushed her away. Florence stepped back, hurt. ‘Did you ever love Father? Were you unhappy in Richmond all that time? Unhappy with us?’
Her mother looked increasingly stiff and unyielding. ‘You will desist with these questions,’ she said.
‘I don’t understand. Why are you being so cold? Are you embarrassed that we found out? Is that it?’
The kitchen clock seemed to be ticking too loudly. Claudette did not reply but her fingers were twitching dangerously.
‘Don’t I have a right to know?’
