Florence opened the recipe book and glanced at the dedication inside it – a gothic German script she couldn’t decipher, although when the book fell open at the page she wanted, the name of the cake was just about intelligible.
‘Berliner Pfann … kuchen,’ she whispered, trying out the strange words.
It turned out that Lord Hambury had been a junior diplomat in Berlin before the First World War and the embassy there had employed a top-notch German chef. At least that was what Florence thought he’d said. Most of the time he seemed to be drifting in and out of the past and Nurse Carol, who came in twice a day, had told her he was heading towards senility. Anyway, the old boy’s wife had learnt his favourite recipe for German doughnuts, and this was it. With tears in his eyes, he’d begged Florence to make them and, feeling such pity for him, she’d agreed. Now she fished out the piece of yellowing paper, no longer pinned to the page, and read through what remained of the English translation.
4 cups flour
1½ oz yeast
¼ cup sugar
¾ cup milk plus 2 tbsp …
5 …
That was all she could make out, plus a few words.
… fried doughnuts … drain on … jam using.
She sighed. At least half of it had been water-damaged. There was nothing for it but the dictionary. She’d only fished out the German-English dictionary from the shelves out of curiosity and hadn’t expected to really need it much. For a few moments she studied the recipe in its original German. She couldn’t understand the words, of course, but also the script was terribly old-fashioned and impossible to read. She glanced at the title page and saw it had been published in 1905.
She checked her watch. This was going to take a while and she had to leave for Exeter on the eleven fifteen bus. Slowly, achingly slowly, she concentrated on making out the words and then looking them up in the dictionary, jotting down what she hoped was the correct translation in her notebook.
A little later she was started by a rustle behind her and turned to see a heavily built, middle-aged woman standing there staring at the books.
‘Hello, Mrs Wicks,’ Florence said, pushing back her chair and rising to her feet. Mrs Wicks was the womanshe’d shared a table with at the WI, the one who told her about the possible vacancy for a cook at the manor. ‘I’m so glad to see you. I must thank—’
‘German,’ the woman hissed, interrupting and pointing a finger at Florence. ‘You’re one ofthem.’
‘What?’ Florence replied aghast, not only shaken by the look of distaste on the woman’s face but also how close she’d come to the truth.
The woman’s eyes narrowed. ‘I’ve heard about people like you.’
‘What do you mean?’ Florence’s voice had come out high and squeaky. She took a deep breath to steady herself.
‘Spies, living amongst us. Why are you reading in German if you’re not one of them? Speak it too, do you?’
Florence tried to stay calm although her heart was racing. ‘Not at all. Lord Hambury asked me to make some doughnuts he liked when he worked at the British embassy in Berlin. That’s all. This is the recipe.’
Mrs Wicks bristled. ‘Well you would say that, wouldn’t you?’
‘Really, if I were a German spy, would I be looking something up in plain view in a public library?’
The woman gave her an angry glare and Florence began to stow away her things in her bag. She had to get out of there.
‘I thought you sounded a bit strange. I thought about it after I met you at the WI and talked it over with my neighbour. You seemed like a nice girl, but there was something. My neighbour said I should go to the police.’
Florence swallowed her anxiety and stood tall. ‘Well,I’m not German and I feel very offended that you should say so.’
Hands on hips, the woman smiled grimly. ‘Prove it then.’
‘Oh, for goodness’ sake!’ Florence said in a fit of pique, completely forgetting to tone down her response. ‘This is ridiculous. I was trying to do Lord Hambury a favour, that’s all. He’s old and he’s lonely and I wanted to make him happy. And if you must know I lived in France for a while, so think what you bloody well like. But maybe that’s why I sounded a bitstrange,as you put it.’
Mrs Wicks smiled in satisfaction. ‘There, you see. I knew it. Around here we don’t have much sympathy for the Frogs either. Letting that Hitler stomp all over them.’
Florence sighed. Dammit. Why had she mentioned France? Goodness knows what lies the woman would be dishing out behind her back. Nothing spread as fast as a good scandal. Before long the whole village would assume she wasn’t English and would maybe even believe she was German if Mrs Wicks repeated her worst suspicions. She felt close to tears, swinging between anger and shame – after everything she’d been through in France to be accused like this, no matter how unfair it was. She’d had to run away from France because of it. Was she going to have to run away from Devon too?
She took the bus to Exeter, listening to the clippy calling everyone ‘dear’ and ‘love’. She couldn’t help overhearing a couple of old biddies gossiping in the seats behind her and felt even more upset. She’d agreed to meet Bruce onthe corner of North Street and the alley where the cinema was located. The exchange with Mrs Wicks in the library had left her seething and miserable, but as she left the bus she saw Bruce looking so pleased to see that her it lifted her spirits a little.
