Florence beamed at her. ‘Thank you!’
‘You’re very welcome my dear. See you again, I hope.’
Before Florence left the village, feeling excited about the chance of work at the manor, she nipped into the library, signed herself up and borrowed a book aboutMalta. Just as she was wheeling the bike to the edge of the village, she noticed a man climbing down from a motorbike with a sidecar attached to it. When he took off his helmet, she recognised him at once. As he looked up, she took a few steps towards him.
‘Hello again. Florence, isn’t it?’ he said, and smoothed a palm over his hair. His very curly hair.
‘Yes.’
He smiled and his hazel eyes crinkled up. ‘We met at the farm,’ he said. ‘I’m Bruce.’
‘Of course. Is that your boneshaker?’
‘A Douglas 1936 Aero. Do you know about motorbikes?’
She laughed. ‘Not at all.’
‘My pride and joy. I’d offer you a lift back home but—’ He raised his hands and shrugged. ‘I only have fifteen minutes to nip into the village hall and collect my mother before I have to head to Exeter and start my shift.’
She laughed. ‘It doesn’t matter, and in any case, I have my bicycle.’
‘Another time maybe.’
‘I’d like that.’ She smiled and began to move away.
‘Hang on a minute, Florence. If you’re serious and really would like a ride in the boneshaker …’ He dug out the nub of a pencil and a little notebook from his coat pocket and wrote in it. Then he peeled the top sheet off and handed it to her. ‘I share the house with three other doctors; no obligation, but you can leave a message, just let me know when it suits. My Mum sees Gladys so I can get back to you that way. I assume you haven’t got a telephone.’
‘Sadly not, but thank you.’
‘No problem. Be seeing you.’
While he went off, she twisted to watch him stride away, long-legged, and rangy. Then she cycled home full of hope and smiling to herself. She’d known it was going to be a good day.
As soon as she opened the front door, she spotted a letter on the doormat and picked it up, her heart jumping when she recognised the handwriting. It was from Hélène and she itched to open it immediately, but first made herself a quick cup of tea and only then sat at the table, tearing open the envelope and reading.
Dear Florence,
I hope you are still well. Please do write again and let us know.
As you already are aware, Allied troops with the help of the French Resistance and led by General Charles de Gaulle, liberated Paris on August 25th.
The thing is that finally, after four years of German occupation, it has taken a little while for it to really sink in. Gradually we are becoming used to being able to breathe without looking over our shoulders or fearing the knock on the door. With the Nazis gone our daily lives are improving, shops are open again, and we can go out for a meal. But I’m afraid some dreadful things have been happening during the liberation and the country is in terrible chaos.
But dear Florence, I have some truly terrible news. There have been reprisals, vendettas, just as we expected. You remember Henri, the owner of thechateau? Well, his wife Suzanne was killed. During the war she had frequently been seen in the village accompanied by Nazi officers with whom she appeared to be friendly. She’d had no option. They were living in her home, the chateau, and she had to make the Nazis believe she could be trusted. But all the time she was feeding Violette and Élise news of German activities and movements. Élise spoke up for Suzanne when she heard of her capture, insisted she’d been working undercover for the Resistance all the time. But because Suzanne had been so good at maintaining her cover, the hotheads, not even real Resistance, didn’t believe Élise and took their revenge. As you can imagine. we are all broken-hearted.
I’m so sorry to be sending such awful news. Good news to follow very soon, I hope. We don’t think it will be too long before Élise gives birth. Her dates are a bit unclear, but she is already enormous. I will send you a telegram the moment the baby arrives.
Please look after yourself, Florence.
With love from me and from Élise.
Hélène
P.S. I know you said he was away a lot but do you see much of Jack?
Florence glanced up, but everything was blurred. Tears slid down her cheeks and she let them fall. She wanted to be back there in France. She wanted to be able to hug her sisters at such a dreadful time. She missed them, missed her life in France, missed her village and the villagers.Poor old Madame Deschamps, whose daughter Amelie had been killed, ninety-year-old Clément, a stooped old fellow who still carried his chair and accordion out to the pavement and played the classic street music of Paris. And she even missed brassy blonde Angela who owned the sweet shop and was rather a busybody. Here, despite growing up in England until she was fifteen, Florence felt like a stranger. Even with the possibility of a job in the offing, her mood had plummeted. Poor Suzanne. Poor Henri. She glanced at the book about Malta lying on the table beside Hélène’s letter. Had Claudette missed her sister Rosalie in the same gut-wrenching way as she was missing Hélène and Élise?
CHAPTER 17
