‘Mamaaan,’ Victoria complained. ‘J’ai froid.’
‘I know, sweetheart, I know. Shall we run? See who gets to the top of the hill first?’
‘Oui.’
And they ran, swinging the little girl between them.
Over the next few days, ordinary tasks kept them busy. Once the doctor issued the death certificate, Élise contacted the funeral director, who came the same day. She contacted the vicar, too. Hélène seemed to have crumpled, all her energy consumed by making her mother’s final weeks comfortable. In France, Hélène’s insistence on everyday rituals had held them together. Now she seemed undone. The shopping, cooking and most of the washing-up fell to Florence but she felt as if she was walking on eggshells around her sister. Élise called the vicar, organised the flowers and with Florence’s help devised an order of service. Élise and Florence played with Victoria, fed her, kept her relatively happy in a house that was full of sadness and regret. Jack mainly stayed out of the way at the hotel, keeping a broken-hearted Rosalie company.
The news of Claudette’s death had circled the villageand people came to the door with condolence cards and bunches of winter flowers from their gardens. Some brought food – cakes and biscuits – and others came with offers of assistance.
‘Your mother was a great help during the war,’ one older lady said as she handed over a ginger cake. ‘We all did our bit for the WI.’
‘I’m so glad to hear that,’ Florence said. ‘And thank you.’
Although crisp and cold, the sun shone on the day of the funeral, the sky so blue it almost hurt, and the church was packed. They held the wake in the village hall because Claudette’s cottage was far too small. Towards the end, while Jack took Victoria to the swings, and once people had begun drifting away, Élise took Florence aside.
‘Did you know she was so popular here?’
‘I knew she was involved in the war effort. I suppose it must have brought the villagers closer together. Something like that might.’
‘And, they weren’t occupied by the bloody Boche here.’
‘It must have made a difference. They were all on the same side. In France we weren’t.’
‘Have you spoken to Hélène yet?’
‘She doesn’t seem to want to.’
‘No. Maybe not yet but once all this is over, and it nearly is, neither of you will have an excuse not to speak.’
Florence sighed as Rosalie came up to the sisters. ‘Well, this sherry is ghastly, isn’t it? Coming to the hotel for a decent drink?’
They nodded.
‘I’m so glad you found me … in time, Florence,’ Rosalie added.
While Rosalie went to look for Jack and Victoria, Florence waited for her sisters but after a few moments only Élise turned up, shaking her head. ‘Hélène won’t come.’
‘Where is she?’
‘Still standing by the grave. Reading all the cards.’
‘You go ahead. I’ll talk to her.’
After Élise had gone to join Rosalie, Jack and Victoria, Florence headed to the grave at the back of the church. It was a beautiful location looking out onto cattle grazing in the open countryside.
‘Hélène,’ she said hesitantly as she drew close. ‘Could we talk?’
Her sister looked up and Florence’s throat constricted at the sight of the distress in her sister’s intelligent eyes.
‘What is it?’ she asked as gently as she could.
Hélène’s eyes suddenly blazed. ‘You don’t know?’
Florence didn’t know what to say. Was her sister talking about Jack?
‘Then I’ll tell you,’ Hélène continued. ‘Can you imagine looking after our mother alone, watching her die day after day all on your own?’
