‘What was the name of the cottage you wanted?’ he added.
‘Little Charity. And I don’t think it’s haunted. My mother said it’s up the hill just after the post office.’
Each house and cottage flanking the quaint high street as it climbed the hill was constructed of the same golden stone, and many of them were swathed in climbing roses or the last of the year’s honeysuckle. Some of the buildings were grand, others less so, but the entire place looked as if it had been forgotten, lost somewhere in a sleepy past. She imagined the people who must have once livedthere: the women in their long dresses and bonnets, the laundress in her oversized apron, her bare arms muscular, the kids playing tag and marbles or rolling their hoops over the cobbles.
When the driver pulled up opposite a small village green just before the street climbed even higher, she paid him, got out, and surveyed her mother’s cottage. Drenched in sunlight, there were three small-paned windows upstairs and two similar ones below. She’d been warned in the last letter that it was tiny, with two bedrooms and only an outside toilet. Florence found it impossible to imagine her poised and very fussy mother coping with that during a muddy English winter. There was a minuscule front garden with a low hedge and as she approached the pillared porch – framed by autumnal Virginia creeper – the front door swung open.
Claudette stood waiting in the doorway, a tight smile on her face, and to Florence it was as though her entire childhood had suddenly appeared there beside her.
‘Chérie, you made it. Come on in. We’re very simple here. I hope you understand.’
Her mother was speaking English, never usually her first choice, but Florence supposed after living in England for so long, especially on her own here, she’d got used to it. Her hair, with a few silver threads in it now, was neatly drawn into a chignon at the back and, elegant as ever, she wore a grey pencil skirt and pale pink twinset with a single row of pearls. Just as she had done when they lived in Richmond.
Florence went to her, pasting a smile on her face despitefeeling a huge distance between them. Her mother looked older, not quite like herself, and was she a little bit thinner too? Seven years was a long time.
After a brief hug, Claudette took her hand. ‘Chérie, I don’t understand why you would travel to England while the war is still going on. You didn’t say anything in your letter. Why did you take such a risk?’
‘It’s a long story, I—’
‘You weren’t happy there?’ her mother interjected. ‘I thought you were happy.’
‘Well …’ Florence paused to think about how to reply. ‘I was happy, Maman, up to a point.’
‘So why come back?’
‘The war changed things,’ Florence said, dodging the question, not quite ready to tell her mother the truth. She spoke brightly as she carried on. ‘I told you how I did all the gardening, baking, preserving, and so on? I really loved it.’
‘Mmm.’
‘You should have seen the garden. It was wonderful. I grew all kinds of vegetables, and we had chickens and goats and—’
Claudette hardly seemed to be listening. ‘Heavens, what are we doing chatting like this and still in the hall?’ she said, interrupting Florence. ‘I’ve lit a fire in the living room. It is a bit cold today.’
Florence frowned.She’dbeen thinking how lovely it was to have such a warm sunny day, just when you thought the summer was fading.
As she put her case down, a simple hall mirror – orlooking glass as her mother would say – caught her eye, placed exactly opposite the front door. How like her mother, never known to bypass a chance to admire her own appearance. This time, however, Claudette didn’t even glance at it, though Florence did, patting her unruly blonde curls.
In the tiny hall a large marmalade cat lay dozing on a chair beside a small table on one side and a grandfather clock on the other. The cat opened one green eye to scrutinise her for a moment and then, apparently satisfied, went back to sleep.
‘You have a cat.’
‘Not mine. Belongs to … well,belongedto an old dear who passed over.’
‘She died?’
‘Such an unpleasant word. Anyway, the cat just moved in. I like it.’
‘What’s it called?’
‘Franklin Robinson,’ she said. ‘I call him Robby. Would you like tea?’
Florence raised her brows. Since when did her mother keep cats and drink tea? Through all the years they’d lived in England growing up, when her father was alive, her mother had been resolutely a Frenchwoman, even though she might have dressed like an English lady of the manor.
While Claudette clattered about in the kitchen, Florence looked around the sitting room. The low-ceilinged room was pretty, and she spotted some of the old familiar furniture from their English home: the yellow and blue needlepoint cushions on the two armchairs and a navy blue and white rug that used to be in her parents’ bedroom. Butwith a roaring fire on the go, it was sweltering, and she longed to throw open a window. After a few moments, her mother returned carrying a tray of tea things.
‘Where’s the bathroom?’ Florence asked, standing up.
Her mother placed the tray on a small side table and pointed towards the back of the house. Florence saw Claudette’s hands were noticeably older.
