‘I mean it, Florence. Malta is a bad idea. The Axis resolved to bomb or starve the country into submission. It will be dangerous. And it’s fine for you to stay here. I’m getting used to you being around. It’s just …’ He paused and sighed. ‘Don’t go. I’ll insist Belinda leaves. She has no place here.’
But Florence feltshewas the one in the wrong place.In France she had looked after the house, the food, the garden, the animals and, of course, her two sisters, and she’d been good at it. It had been her way of doing her bit while Hélène had worked hard as a nurse for their much-loved village doctor and Élise had been helping the Resistance to fight the German occupiers. Nurturing her family had also been Florence’s own salvation when the … when the worst of things happened to her. She still found it hard to say the actual word out loud.
Here, in England, she didn’t know where she belonged. Despite spending much of her childhood near London, it was the Dordogne where she really felt at home.
Jack smiled at her, but it was a weak smile and she could not return it.
As they walked back in silence, she focused instead on Claudette’s request. Rosalie. She tried to picture the aunt she didn’t know, the aunt who had run away and she felt a rush of overwhelming pity. To be so dreadfully alone like that. How had she managed? Her own loneliness derailed her at times, but her situation was only temporary. And at least she knew where her family were. Rosalie had been out of touch for twenty years. Surely she must have made another home for herself? Another family even? What had she been doing for all these years, what kind of life had she led and, if she really was alive, where was she now? Although glad it wasn’t possible to travel anywhere for now and nervous of more secrets coming to light, Florence couldn’t help speculating about what might have happened to Rosalie.
CHAPTER 12
Rosalie
Malta, 1925
‘It’s the Mediterranean fleet,’ Rosalie’s excitable new English friend, Charlotte Salter, said, squeezing her arm. ‘British Navy. Based at Fort St Angelo.’
Enchanted by her first sight of the dancing lights in the harbour, Rosalie soaked it in. Here was a world she could never have imagined.
‘Can it be real?’ she whispered, as she stood on the deck looking at the island ahead of her.
‘Exciting, isn’t it?’
‘More than that. It’s breathtaking. And look …’ Rosalie pointed at the bastions and turrets of the fort. ‘They’re glowing in the moonlight.’
‘Wait till you see the sun rising over the battlements ofFort St Elmo. From the water you’ll see them turn red, scarlet even, so much so you’d think they were on fire, and the sky! Honestly. Shocking pink. We can go out on adghaisaif you like, and I’ll show you.’
‘Adghaisa?’
‘One of the brightly coloured little boats. A man stands at the prow and rows. It’s great.’
Rosalie smiled at her new friend and all at once her remaining doubts faded, and she had the answer to the question she’d been asking herself. Thiswasthe right thing to do and she couldn’t wait a moment longer to begin her new life. She had not foreseen a place as enchanting as this, and here she no longer had to endure her parents’ stifling conventionality and rules.
It was late by the time the ship finally dropped anchor, which meant they had to sleep on board overnight. First thing the next morning, fizzing with excitement and newly acquired freedom, Rosalie climbed down after Charlotte and got into one of the high-endeddghaisavessels bobbing in the water. It was a colourful gondola-like thing, with painted eyes on either side. A water taxi, she realised as they joined the six other passengers already stowed inside it along with their luggage. Jammed up against a large British woman complaining about the smell of fish, Rosalie turned to face Valletta, and the marvellous sight of massive walls, ramparts and bastions, rising like golden cliffs from the ocean. The standing oarsman set off and had soon propelled them across to the dock where they disembarked right next to what he said were the Custom House steps.
The place was buzzing with the clanging and clatteringof frantic activity. Animals everywhere, dogs barking, horses stamping their hooves and snorting, and donkeys standing stock-still but for their ears flicking insects away. Rosalie could smell fish, coal, oranges, and cats – dozens of cats lining up where the fishing catches were being brought in. Dazzled by the heat, the noise and the colour, Rosalie hardly knew where to look. Mooring men were tying ropes to bollards, stevedores were unloading cargo, and porters were rushing to carry their luggage. She heard growly voiced fishermen, customs guards issuing orders, and thin, eagle-eyed, barefoot children begging and trying to scavenge food. She wished she had something to give them, but she had nothing and had to turn away.
‘Phew,’ she said. ‘I thought it would be quiet.’
Charlotte laughed. ‘Fat chance. Where are you staying?’
Rosalie evaded the question. The fact that she hadn’t secured a job yet, nor anywhere to stay, would probably make her sound reckless; all she had was a newspaper cutting tucked safely in her handbag, and she knew the words off by heart.
EXPERIENCED FOREIGN ACTS WANTED
CABARET DANCERS, SINGERS, AND
ACROBATS.
IN THE FLOURISHING HEART
OF VALLETTA, MALTA.
CONTACT: GIANNI CURMI AT THE EVENING STAR,
STRAIT STREET, MALTA.
EXCELLENT REMUNERATION
