Jack did look. So did Florence.
‘It’s all right, Jack,’ she said, ‘let’s just find somewhere else.’
A few locals were wandering in and out of the pension and, apparently not ready to give up, Jack frowned. ‘Madam, if you do have any space, we can pay you well.’
Margarita narrowed her eyes and then she shrugged. ‘Most of the wiring and plumbing has gone. My beautiful rooms … well you see for yourself.’
Jack and the woman agreed a price and she took them out into a garden with a large terrace. The scent of roses tumbling from a pergola took Florence by surprise. How, amid all this destruction, had it survived? Dazzling geraniums cascaded from pots as well and two broken stone benches sat either side of the terrace beneath a couple of palms. Margarita led them through a pint-sized orchard of gnarled olive trees to the end of the garden and a small barn that had no door. Florence felt hot, dirty and hungry but all she wanted was a bed.
‘There is a well.’ The woman pointed to one side. ‘It is good water. So, there is your room.’ She nodded at the barn. ‘After the Germans, the Allies. Now only the homeless or destitute.’
She sighed heavily and left them to it.
Jack entered the barn first and turned to Florence. ‘You okay to bivvy up here?’
‘Sure. I don’t mind straw for beds,’ she replied, keeping up the appearance of being fine with them sharing the space but aware there was still a trace of awkwardness between them. ‘Sheer luxury.’
‘Are you sure? We can go elsewhere. There’s bound to be something better.’
‘I’m too tired, Jack. I just want to sleep.’
‘I’ll check out the well.’
She lay down on the straw relieved to be on dry land at last, but instead of falling instantly asleep there was too much going on in her mind and she lay awake wishing she could write it all down in her journal. Over the last year, she had begun to write a novel too, inspired by herlife in the Dordogne, and she was itching to return to it. She sighed. It would have to wait and with that last thought she fell deeply asleep.
When she woke in the morning, she had to shade her eyes from the brilliance of the day. She glanced around the barn for Jack then went outside and saw he’d filled a pail of water and was chewing on what looked like a bun. ‘Here,’ he said and handed one to her. ‘They’re still warm.’
‘Thank you. What is it – some kind of brioche?’
‘Sicilian style, with almond paste inside.’
She took a mouthful and chewed. ‘Delicious,’ she said, savouring it.
‘I have milk too. Goat’s milk.’
He handed her a tin mug full of it.
She drank it rapidly.
‘I can make myself scarce while you wash and change.’ He pointed at the bucket of water. ‘Did you sleep all right?’
‘Like a baby.’
He wandered off and after a cursory wash she dug out a clean dress from her bag and dragged a brush through her tangled curls. When he came back, she began packing and said they’d better plan the day.
‘We need to get a bus to Milazzo,’ he said. There we’ll find someone to take us across to a small port on Lipari. There are ferries, but none today.’
She straightened up. ‘Can you never tell me anything about what you were doing while I was in Devon and you were away? Now that the war is over.’
‘Still classified,’ he said and pulled a face. ‘But Icantellyou I was working in association with the SIS and the Free French. And I was offered a job with MI6.’
‘You turned it down?’
‘I’m an architect, remember?’
She laughed. ‘So you say. And I am still going to Malta to find Rosalie. You too, the minute you’ve finished here?’
‘Absolutely but for now, let’s just focus on the job in hand. I know so little about where we’re headed. My friend Edward’s place is on the north coast of Lipari but it’s a tiny island so shouldn’t be hard to find.’
