‘Still is really,’ he said. ‘At times. But life goes on. And I don’t even know if that’s good or bad.’
She almost didn’t dare to speak. After an appalling loss like this, well … it was no wonder he hadn’t wanted to tell her or anyone else either.
‘What happened to Charlie is why you kept things close to your chest in France.’
‘It was easier in France. And don’t forget I was there as part of the SOE.’
They walked on in silence for a little while, Florence staring at the ground, her head and heart bursting with anguish for Jack. She wanted to reach out and help him. Somehow. But maybe this was not the time.
‘After Charlie died this is where I used to come,’ he said. ‘It helped.’
‘I’m glad.’
He smiled and held out his hand. And just for a second there was that wonderfully deep moment of connection between them again. ‘The plovers have gone,’ he said, looking up at the sky again.
And then he pulled his hand away.
CHAPTER 15
Jack was away and although he had said Belinda would be leaving too, she still had not and now Gladys was due to pick Florence up in the truck. She was certain they had a map of Malta or maybe Italy knocking about somewhere at the farm, and she’d suggested Florence might like to see the kittens while they were there. This despite Florence reiterating that she didn’t know how long she’d be at Meadowbrook, although at Jack’s insistence she had agreed to stay for a while longer at least.
Just as she was putting on her coat, she heard the postman’s familiar knock at the door – three sharp raps followed by a pause and then three more.
‘One for you m’dear,’ he said and handed her an envelope.
A thick white Basildon Bond envelope. She recognised her mother’s unmistakable handwriting, as perfect as it always had been, and in her mind’s eye she saw the squatbottle of Quink, blue ink, and her mother dipping her fountain pen to fill it. She thanked the man and took the letter inside. With some trepidation she slit open the envelope, and she saw at once that it was little more than a note. From her mother’s very first words, Florence realised it was an apology. This was something new. Claudette never usually apologised.
Chérie,
I hope you will forgive your mother for her breach of hospitality when we last met, and forgive me for my rather bad humour.
Hmmm, Florence thought, ‘bad humour’ barely touched the reality of her mother’s violent rage, but still this was a step forward.
You were honest with me, and my response was not well-mannered. Moreover, I pray that you might understand these matters from long ago are difficult for me. In future I will attempt to amend my response. I had hoped to secure the door on the past, but if you could contemplate visiting again at some point, I will try to be more obliging and maybe talk about what happened to my sister, Rosalie, too. I loved her as you love your sisters, and the thought of not knowing what happened to her haunts me. I hope you will reconsider helping me find her.
You remain welcome here.
Maman
Florence wasn’t sure what to think. She loved Meadowbrook and didn’t want to leave but it wasn’t really her home. And yet her mother’s cottage wasn’t either. She wasn’t in any hurry to return there, but at least when she did it looked as if her mother might be more forthcoming. She felt intrigued by the thought of what might have happened to Rosalie – after all a family mystery was exciting. Who wouldn’t want to know more? But until the war was over there wasn’t much she could do. The next time she visited she would encourage her mother to open up about her sister as well as her affair with her German lover – Florence’s real father, Friedrich. She craved more details about him and about what had happened between them all those years ago.
A little later, as Gladys drove her battered truck to the farm, Florence was still thinking about her motherandabout Belinda. Both of them mothers, and both suffering in different ways.
‘You seem quiet, love,’ Gladys said with a sideways glance at Florence.
‘I was thinking about Belinda. I feel sorry for her.’
‘Well of course. It’s terrible to lose a child. I should know. The maps we have in the house, you see, they were all my boy’s. Mad keen on seeing the world he was.’
For a moment Florence froze. Then she found her voice. ‘Oh Gladys, I’m so sorry. I didn’t know.’
‘Early on in the war. Edward. We had him late in life, but all the more special for that. His ship went down.Lost at seawe were told.’
‘Your only child?’
Gladys nodded and Florence reached over to pat her hand. They were silent for the rest of the short distance to the farm. This time, when Gladys pushed open the peeling blue farmhouse door and they walked in, Florence was prepared for the chaos. The cats were there, of course, but on this occasion the wallpaper struck her too. How had she not noticed before? Pictures of carrots, oranges, apples, jugs and jars, in shades of orange and yellow replicated over and over on a spotted beige background, so busy it made her eyes spin. But also, a rather good-looking young man in civvies was sitting at the table and reading a newspaper, his spectacles pushed back on to the top of his head.
‘Bruce,’ Gladys said, sounding pleased as punch. ‘Didn’t know you’d be here. Not on duty?’
