The next day, when Jack answered a knock at the door, a messenger boy stood there. Jack took the telegram from him and called Florence.
‘For you,’ he said as she came running down the stairs having seen the boy from her window.
With her heart pulsing in her throat, she ripped it open. Good news or bad, you never knew.
Then Florence gasped in delight. ‘Oh my gosh. It’s brilliant news. Élise has had her baby.’
‘When?’
‘Two days ago. A girl,’ she squeaked. She gulped and then exploded into exuberant laughter. ‘We have a niece. Hélène and me. We have a niece.’
Jack beamed at her.
‘I can’t believe it. I must write straight away. I’ll send Élise my congratulations and tell her about the snow.’
‘Did you tell her you have a job?’
‘Yes, in my last letter.’
She didn’t tell him how surprised Hélène had been to hear she was staying on in Devon. But Florence had written back emphasising how peaceful it was, and reiterating that Jack was rarely there – which had been true, at the time. She’d already written about Claudette asking her to search for her long-lost sister, Rosalie. She had mentioned the row too, but reassured Hélène that things with their mother seemed to be on a better footing now.
Once she finished the letter of congratulation to Élise, she danced around the kitchen unable to fully absorb the news. It felt like such a miracle.
‘I’m an auntie,’ she said, whooping. ‘I’m an auntie.’
And then she began to cry.
‘Whoa,’ Jack said, drawing her towards him. ‘It’s all right.’
As he held her to study her face, she looked back at his eyes so full of compassion and felt something deep inside her. She began laughing and crying at the same time, not even knowing what it was, like a child giddy with joy who then can’t then help bursting into tears. ‘I wish I were there so much, Jack. It hurts not to be with them.’
He wrapped his arms around her. ‘I know. A new baby, a new life in a family is so significant and not to be there must be awful.’
‘Yes.’
He let her go and stepped away. ‘Well, I think a celebratory glass of port is in order.’
‘You have port?’
‘I’ve been saving it. Oh, and Ronnie gave me this.’ Hehanded her a tin. ‘It’s Christmas cake. And he let me have a small chicken, six eggs, four slices of bacon, a tiny chunk of cheese, bread, potatoes, apples, and some root vegetables.’
This time Jack had insisted on using his ration coupons. Florence was thrilled because the vegetables she was growing were now hidden somewhere beneath the snow and wouldn’t be ready yet anyway. While Jack was away, she had been living on oats, winter cabbage from Gladys, and the odd fried egg, so this was bounty.
‘I’m going to make us a sumptuous celebration meal for supper tonight,’ she said.
He narrowed his eyes. ‘Let’s just wait and see how you’re feeling later.’
She nodded but wasn’t really listening. She felt full of beans, as if she could climb the highest mountain. Well, perhaps not that. She’d had enough of mountain climbing to last a lifetime.
A little later, though, and Florence was surprised by how weary she had become, as if the plug had been pulled suddenly. So, telling Jack she would take a short nap, she left him lighting the sitting room fire.
She undressed, put on her nightdress, and fell asleep instantly. When she woke, she couldn’t believe it was already dark outside. She fumbled for the switch on her bedside lamp, turned it on, and as low light flooded her room, she yawned. How long had she been asleep? She located her slippers, grabbed her thick candlewick dressing gown, then headed for the stairs but, pausing at the top, she sniffed. Roasting chicken. Jack was roasting the chicken.
‘Hello, sleepyhead,’ he said when she entered the kitchen.
‘Sorry.’
He smiled at her. ‘Not at all.’
