‘Right,’ she said a bit too briskly. ‘I suppose we’d better get weaving.’
He nodded and something twisted inside her as he gave her a look she couldn’t decipher.
CHAPTER 4
Gloucestershire, mid-September 1944
Florence nervously brushed down her dress, glad she’d not worn anything long-sleeved. You couldn’t be sure of the temperature in September, and her choice of outfit was perfect for a day like this. She wiped her brow and approached an elderly station porter to ask about catching an onward train to Toddington or Broadway.
‘Sorry, miss, both gone,’ the old boy said and began to turn away, bustling with self-importance.
‘Wait … I mean, please. Could tell me when the next train is due?’
‘Ah. That’ll be tomorrow mornin’. Sorry, love. Taxi outside. Or hotel of course. We ’ave lots of ’em ’ere in Cheltenham.’ He spoke with pride and a strong Gloucestershire accent. ‘Carry your case?’
She shook her head. If she had to pay for a taxi, she’dneed every penny; anyway she had so little her case wasn’t heavy.
‘How far away is Stanton?’ she asked. ‘By road, I mean.’
‘Couldn’t rightly say. Twelve, thirteen miles. Never been there meself. They say it’s pretty. Visiting someone?’
She nodded. ‘My mother.’ Thanking him, she picked up her case and headed for the exit.
The taxi was available and after agreeing the price she settled herself in the back. They set off, wending their way past the elegant buildings of the Regency town centre before reaching a road signposted, ‘Winchcombe’.
‘I thought all the signposts had been taken down,’ she said.
‘They have. Best to confuse the enemy, eh?’
‘Why’s that one still up?’
‘Search me, love, we’ve all seen one or two been forgotten. My son’s going round ripping them down hisself. You from round here?’
‘I’ve just come up from Devon.’
She saw him glance in the mirror to look at her.
‘Just you have, well … sort of an accent I suppose.’ He shook his head. ‘Maybe not an accent exactly. Perhaps just a look.’
‘I see.’ Florence was surprised. She didn’t believe she had an accent at all, and nobody had ever mentioned it before.
‘Sorry, love. Don’t mean to offend. Can’t be too careful these days.’
A little further from the town she wound down the window and, feeling the breeze on her cheeks, she glancedup and took in a lungful of fresh country air. The earlier mackerel sky had given way to a hazy blue wash, dotted only by thin wispy clouds and in the warmth, she let her mind wander. It was such a relief to be out of the noisy train. Two children had squealed with laughter as they raced out of the carriage and up and down the corridor, chased by a harassed mother. There hadn’t been so many servicemen going home on leave this time, so at least it was less smoky than the train from Southampton. It still felt a bit odd hearing the unfamiliar English voices around her, and she couldn’t quite get used to not having to look over her shoulder for the inevitable German soldiers. Nor the fact, as they passed a village of thatched cottages and half-timbered houses as well as some larger Victorian and Georgian ones, that it looked nothing like France.
‘Prestbury,’ the driver said, twisting round to glance at her.
She viewed the lush, still green countryside as they drove on. The road wound upwards, steadily climbing, the hedgerows bursting with berries and now she could see the early signs of autumnal red and gold dusting the trees.
‘Warm for the time of year,’ he added. ‘Indian summer. Though I like it better when there’s a bit of a nip in the air.’
He seemed to want to continue passing the time of day, but Florence didn’t feel like talking any more. Her head was spinning as she went over what she was going to have to say to her mother, Claudette, about why she had come back to England. She hadn’t seen her since well before the war. Hadn’t even been to this cottage. Claudettehad sold their old Richmond home after their father’s death, saying they couldn’t afford it. Their family holiday house in France was too small for all of them, she had said, so Florence, aged fifteen, along with her older sisters, had gone to live in France while Claudette had moved into the cottage in England. She had helped settle them in France to begin with and promised to visit occasionally but had never quite got round to it and then the war had kept them apart. But now the time had come.
The landscape turned flatter, more open, with the hay already stacked and cattle and sheep grazing contentedly in the fields, and before long they reached the first honey-coloured stone cottages of Stanton.
‘That’s the manor house,’ the driver said, ‘on your left. In 1543 it passed to Catherine Parr in her dowry. I’ve heard tell it’s haunted.’
‘By her?’ she asked, and he chuckled. She pictured a croquet lawn, a walled garden and the ghost of Katherine Parr wandering around in a long white dress.
