This timehebristled. ‘It may be small, but many people pass through, legally and illegally, I might add.’
She bowed her head and blinked again to make her eyes water, then looked up through damp eyelashes.
It worked because he immediately relented. ‘Look, if she was a dancer, you should ask around in the clubs of Strait Street one evening. What’s your best bet for when she was here?’
‘A few years ago.’
‘Ah well.’ He shrugged. ‘I wish you luck.’
Back in the apartment Florence made a few small posters to put in shop windows and at dusk she went with Jack to Strait Street. It looked very run-down, with peeling posters on the crumbling walls and dozens of stray cats and dogs. They climbed over rubble and Florence almost choked on the awful smell of boiled cabbage mixed with stale beer, urine, and cheap perfume. She felt tired and sweaty and needed a long bath butdespite all that, they called at every club that was open. There were many that weren’t, and they were just about giving up hope when in one of the clubs an old boy seemed to want to talk. ‘French, you say?’ he remarked.
Florence nodded.
‘We had foreign dancers, French to begin with and then mainly Hungarian and, of course, the foreigners had to go when the war began. The British stayed and some of the French. But there was a big old fuss in the Thirties.’
‘What kind of fuss?’
‘Buy me a beer and I’ll tell you.’
Jack bought him a beer and Florence settled down to listen.
‘Human trafficking, they call it now. We called it the white slave trade.’
Florence gasped, feeling sick to the core. Is that what had happened to Rosalie? Is that what she meant the only time she contacted Claudette saying she needed help?
Jack put an arm around her shoulder.
‘Sorry, love,’ the man said. ‘Didn’t mean to upset you.’
‘No, I’m all right. Who should I ask about her?’
‘Try the newspaper archives. We had an enquiry and it was reported in the newspaper. If she was interviewed there might be something.’ He shrugged. ‘It’s a long shot and, like everywhere else, theTimes of Maltawas bombed. And, of course, you could try the churches too. She might have got married, or buried, I suppose.’
She nodded slowly, hoping it wouldn’t turn out to be the latter.
‘You’ll have to phone theTimes,’ he added. Make an appointment.’
The man had been right. When she finally walked through the doors for her appointment a week later, an officious-looking man with terrible teeth, a small mouth, and bad breath led her to a poky office that smelt of stale tobacco. He told her that yes, theTimes of Maltahad been bombed, along with their archive, although part of the building was considered safe to use. After she explained what she needed she was told to put her request in writing and their archivist would get back to her once he’d been able to investigate. In the intervening week before seeing this man she’d had no luck at the churches, nor the hospitals in Valletta either and now felt completely frustrated. She’d been to Strait Street again, had spoken to a few of the dancers there but no one had heard of Rosalie or the enquiry except to say it was before their time.Andshe’d been back to the police to ask if Rosalie had ever been arrested. Nothing there either.
Much later and time was rapidly passing. Florence was running out of options and still nothing had come back from the archivist at theTimes. Now she was gazing at an airmail letter arrived from France. Jack had collected it from the poste restante, and she turned it over in her hand several times, having recognised the handwriting and feeling nervous about opening it.
She sighed then she opened the envelope carefully, her eyes misting over as she began to read.
Dear Florence,
I have spoken to our mother and you are quite right. She is unwell. I’m sorry to be blunt but Claudette has incurable cancer. I don’t know how long you are planning to say in Malta, but I believe she only has a few months left. Maybe three or four, maybe less. Now that travelling is possible, I am going to England to care for her, but Élise and Victoria are staying here in France until closer to the end.
As for Jack, I’m sorry to hear about the loss of his child. Please pass on my condolences.
Élise sends her love.
Hélène
Florence read it through several times. Her mother was ill, seriously ill. Oh God, she should have stayed with her, should have looked after her when she had the chance. Only a few months left. How could that be? She could feel an ache in her chest and her tears welling. Oh Maman, why didn’t you tell me? Why did you send me on this wild goose chase when I should have been with you?
She turned to Jack. ‘It’s awful news. Claudette is ill. Really ill. Cancer. Hélène says she only has a few months left. Look, read …’ She almost choked on her words and passed the letter to Jack.
As he read it, Florence sat with her head in her hands. She longed to be with her mother and it hurt to be so faraway from her. It felt like they were never going to find Rosalie, so going home to Claudette was the only thing to do, just as soon as she possibly could. She pictured her mother restored to health, cheeks glowing, lips painted her favourite shade of pink, her eyelids shimmering blue. Her chignon perfect. But then another image took hold and she choked back a sob. Claudette, thin, grey, dying, and she, her daughter, not with her at her bedside. She covered her mouth with her hands and screwed up her eyes. Then she thought of how Hélène’s letter had sounded so formal and cold and remembered that Hélène would be at her mother’s house. She began rocking, holding her face in her hands again, her sobs tearing her apart, as the thought of Claudette dying before she got home completely broke her.
