Back at the cottage Florence wheeled out Gladys’ old bike to cycle to the village. It was early November now and the cold was beginning to bite. The landscape had altered so much since her arrival in the height of summer. Now it was windy, much of the autumnal colour gone and the skeletal trees stood black against a wintery sky.
Barnsford was surprisingly quiet.
First Florence went to the newsagent’s to scan the job advertisement cards in the window. But though she’d hoped to maybe spot someone needing a gardener somewhere she might be able to reach on her bicycle, she found only requests for odd-job men, or plumbers, or other jobs requiring skilled labour. When she spoke to the old man behind the counter, he suggested the local paper, so she bought one and headed for the WI coffee morning Gladys had told her took place in the village hall near the Royal Oak pub.
She bought a cup of chicory coffee and a rock bun. After she sat down and took a bite, she realised how well-named it was. Then she opened the paper and found what they called the small ads page, running a finger down the columns, but with no luck.
A heavily built middle-aged woman, sighing deeply, deposited herself at the same table, almost tipping up her coffee as it wobbled on the saucer. As she caught her breath, she also caught Florence’s eye.
‘Don’t mind me, dear. Just a bit out of puff,’ she said. ‘Not seen you here before, have I?’
‘No, my first time. I’m surprised how quiet it is.’
‘You should have been here before D-Day. You wouldn’t believe it, but we were bursting at the seams. My name’s Mrs Wicks by the way.’
‘Pleased to meet you. I’m Florence. Do tell me more about what it was like it was like before D-Day.’
The woman sighed and took a sip of her coffee. ‘Oh, busy. Our lads coming in from the camps and military training up on Dartmoor. And then in 1943 the Americans started arriving too. Some of their officers were billeted at the manor house up the road, the Hambury place.
‘Oh, I live near there.’
‘Nice part of the world, that. We had dances for the soldiers here in the village hall. You could have come if you’d been here.’
‘Sounds like fun.’
‘Not for the likes of me, but my daughter, Jennifer, she went. Stepped out with an American called Shane for a while. Imagine that for a name. Not that I can blame her. A handsome bunch, if I say so myself, those Americans. Good teeth you know.’
Florence laughed. ‘I’ve heard.’
‘They had money too, though we hadn’t a clue what they were doing here. Come D-Day we knew and overnight the village … poof, just like a ghost town.’
‘You must miss the excitement.’
Mrs Wicks wrinkled her nose. ‘I do, and I don’t. The land girls still come to the pub on a Saturday evening. And when Plymouth was bombed again at the beginning of May this year, a young family came to stay with relativeshere. Their house, you see, gone up in smoke. Destitute. Next door to me now. Noisy bunch.’
Soon after that the woman started to do up her coat, so Florence rose to her feet and held out her hand. ‘It’s been lovely meeting you, Mrs Wicks.’
The older woman got up too and shook her hand. ‘Call me Freda, dear. I live just behind the pub. Number eleven. Pop in any time. I’ll tell you all about Slapton Sands.’
‘What happened there?’
‘Only rumours mind and it was very hush-hush at the time. We only found out in early August.’
‘Found out what?’
The woman drew closer and spoke more quietly. ‘Mass graves, my dear. That’s what. Anyway, I have to be getting back to hang out the washing.’
‘I need to be getting back too.’
‘Off to work, are you?’
Florence sighed. ‘I wish. I’m staying with a friend, and I’ve been trying to find a job.’
‘Why didn’t you say. Any good at cooking?’
‘I love to cook.’
‘Well, there you are. Get yourself up to the manor. My next-door neighbour, Deirdre, she’s cook there, but going part-time on account of her old man being sick. Could be something going.’
