‘Oh,’ she said, her voice choked. ‘It’s terribly sad that he didn’t get to see the very end.’
Jack held out his arms to her and she went to him. She cried then for the American President, and she cried for her mother, for herself and Jack, for her two sisters and all they’d been through, and she cried for a world in which war and so many senseless pointless deaths were possible.
As they waited for an end to the war, Florence swung between a growing sense of relief and anxiety that something might still go wrong. Jack assured her it wouldn’t, and he seemed not to have to go away so much, except for occasional days to somewhere in Dorset when he took only a penknife, a change of clothes, a toothbrush, and a compass. He’d said the SOE wouldn’t be wound up until the end of the year or maybe the beginning of the next,but most of his work would be tying up loose ends. It was the most he’d ever said about what he was doing.
The good news was that Belinda had finally accepted the divorce must happen and had given up insisting on a share of Meadowbrook. Jack seemed happier after that, although he hadn’t known what had changed her mind. Florence suspected that with the end of the war in sight Belinda, like everyone else, wanted to make a fresh start.
Jack was talking about Sicily again and long before any date was set, or even a definite decision about going, Florence began to read about the island, to talk about it, and even to dream about it. Although she had decided to go to Malta alone, it would be so much better if Jack came too. When she thought of Sicily, she saw herself soaring free like some mythical winged creature flying over sunlit buildings and shimmering blue seas. In her dreams she walked barefoot on empty beaches, feeling the warm sand as she wriggled her toes, the water lapping at her feet.
She looked at the island in Jack’s world atlas, followed its contours with her fingertip. Strangely Sicily called to her in a way that, so far, Malta had not. Might Rosalie have felt the same way, stayed on in Sicily, swum in its surging seas and decided to stay put?
‘What do you think of this one?’ she asked Jack and in her mind’s eye pictured the characters from the Sicilian legend she was reading about in her library book.
He murmured something indistinct.
‘The legend of the Fountain of Arethusa in Syracuse, Jack. I’d love to go there. Do you think we might?’
‘Well,ifwe go, and remember nothing is settled yet – this wretched war needs to end—’
‘Yes. Yes, I know,’ she interrupted irritably.
He laughed at her, not unkindly. ‘The ferryboat to Malta sails from Syracuse so I suppose it’s possible.’
Florence glanced down at the book again. ‘The water flows out from a fissure in the natural rock and forms a pool. They say the goddess Artemis changed a Grecian nymph called Arethusa into a spring that flowed underground and emerged at Ortygia to help her escape pursuit.’
‘She had direct access to the goddess then?’ Jack said.
Florence smiled. ‘Doesn’t every beautiful nymph? Apparently the fountain is enchanted, a place where people in love touch the waters and pray for fertility and happiness.’
‘And well they might. I just think the legend of Etna and the giant Enceladus, or the story of Cyclops, is more my cup of tea. I was forced to study classics at school and had to read some of Ovid’sMetamorphoses.’
‘Ugh. One-eyed giants. No thanks.’
He covered one eye and pulled a ghastly face.
She grimaced and threatened him with her cushion. ‘You like non-fiction don’t you? War stories, battles and so on.’
He narrowed his eyes. ‘Not entirely true. I like Graham Greene’s novels and Joseph Conrad’sHeart of Darknessis one of my favourite books.’
‘What else?’
‘Madame Bovary. You’d like that, I’m sure.’
‘Who wrote it?’
‘Flaubert, first published in 1856. It’s about this woman,Emma Rouault, who marries thinking she’ll have a life of luxury and passion. But her husband is dreadfully dull, and she has an affair. But then her lover betrays her, and she spirals into deceit and despair.’
‘Sounds grim.’
‘What makes it wonderful is the way the author reveals a world of flawed individuals with narrow lives and narrow minds. Nobody comes out smelling of roses.’
Florence thought about what he’d said. The mention of betrayal made her itch with guilt. Wasn’t that exactly what she was doing by falling in love with Jack even though Hélène loved him? By not leaving and staying here in Devon, despite the fact he had more or less said he didn’t love her, and she had made her own decision to move on? Yet still had not.
CHAPTER 25
Florence swung open the library door, nodded at the librarian and headed straight for the reference section. They were fortunate that Barnsford library was well-stocked, also serving several nearby villages. It was still early and the place was quiet, so Florence quickly found the dictionary she needed and settled herself at a small table in the corner. It was close to a side window overlooking the bakery, in a spot where she was unlikely to be disturbed. She dumped her shoulder bag on the table and delved into it for the ancient, dog-eared recipe book. Her boss, Lord Hambury, the old boy at the manor, had handed it to her saying, ‘You’ll find it in there, along with an English translation stapled to it.’
Before she began, she looked up from the books and thought about Bruce. She’d seen him at a New Year’s Eve party, and then once more when they’d been hoping to reach the coast on his motorcycle, but again it was toocold and the trip had been aborted. They’d spent the afternoon in a cosy teashop instead, talking for hours and it had felt like being with a friend she’d known for years. Today was his first day off since then and, a little later, Florence would be meeting him outside the picture house in Exeter. She hoped the cinema would be showingCasablanca,for Gladys had seen it and with stars in her eyes had waxed lyrical about Humphrey Bogart.
