When Florence returned, her mother was holding the teapot aloft. ‘I’ll be mother, shall I?’ she said. They both laughed.
‘Biscuit? Oat, of course, and there’s never enough butter. I make them for the WI to sell. Raising money for the war effort you see.’
Florence wasn’t sure how to respond. This was an odd version of her mother.
‘And jam. Rhubarb and apple. I grow the rhubarb and there are two apple trees in the garden, though it’s hard to get the sugar. I often use carrots or, in the summer, figs.’
Florence wondered if Claudette had missed their father when she moved up here, whether she missed them, her daughters. She’d never said anything about that in her letters and rarely mentioned their old life in Richmond except to tell them what she’d sold and what she’d kept. Florence wanted to ask how Claudette felt about those days, but her mother never discussed feelings so instead she just said, ‘So, you’re happy here.’
Claudette nodded but looked strained. ‘The house is seventeenth century, you know.’
‘Why did you choose to move here, to this village?’
‘The Cotswolds remind me of the Dordogne.’
‘But Maman, you could have joined us there. While travel was still possible. Then, at least, we could have been together during the war.’
‘No. I could not. You know there was not enough room, not for any length of time. You and Élise would have had to share.’
‘I wouldn’t have minded.’
‘It would have felt cramped. Anyway, you girls were better off being there without me.’
Florence couldn’t help feeling Claudette was avoiding something. Had her mother wanted to be alone so she could see … She paused. Surely not. There had been so many years since her mother had ripped up the red dress. The last time she had seenhim. She lifted up her tea and took a sip. It was delicious – clearly her mother’s impeccable taste had extended even to making English tea while rationing was in force.
‘How are your sisters?’ Claudette asked.
‘They’re well, I believe, or were when I left.’ She hesitated. ‘Did you already know Élise is expecting a baby?’
Claudette pursed her lips. ‘Without a husband, as I understand it. But of course, that’s Élise all over. Always was my wild child.’
‘Maman, the baby’s father was Victor. A brave man, whom the Nazis executed. It was terrible. I didn’t think Élise would ever get over it. I’m not sure she has.’
Claudette sighed and shook her head sorrowfully, but Florence wasn’t sure if it was over Victor’s death or Élise’s unmarried status.
‘It was a dreadfully difficult time for all of us,’ Florencesaid, and her voice shook at the thought of everything that had happened. She steadied her breathing and carried on. ‘Really it was impossible for any of usnotto become involved with the local Resistance. Even Hélène couldn’t sit on the sidelines, and you know how cautious she can be. But in the end, well, you were either on one side or the other.’
Claudette nodded but didn’t speak. Didn’t comment about how awful it must have been for them. Didn’t reach out a hand.
‘You wouldn’t believe how divided the village was. Old friends became enemies. It was horrible, although after Victor was executed a lot of people changed their minds. I think it was the last straw.’
Claudette didn’t respond and Florence felt as if her words were falling into a vacuum. Energy was buzzing through her, not at all comfortably, as she fought for the courage to voice what she really needed to. She took a deep breath and then she spoke. ‘Look, Maman, I know I have to tell you the truth about why I had to leave France and there is something I do have to tell you. Something about me. I—’
‘Not now,’ her mother interrupted curtly. ‘Another time. Florence, I have no time for what happened in France at present.’
Florence felt as if she’d been winded and folded an arm around her middle. ‘I want you to go somewhere for me, to find someone,’ Claudette went on, not appearing to have noticed her daughter’s discomfort. ‘It’s urgent.’
‘I’ve only just got here. Can’t it wait?’
‘No. It really cannot.’
‘But Maman,’ Florence said, trying to remain calm when really she was beginning to panic that her mother might never listen to her, ‘I do need to talk to you – about everything that’s been happening – and about the past.’
But her mother seemed to have barely heard her. ‘Well, the past will have to wait. As I said, I need you to go somewhere for me.’
Florence stared at her, jaw tightening. She’d waited such a long time to talk to her mother about this. But nothing had changed. She might have been her mother’s favourite, according to the others, but Claudette had never allowed any of them to talk about difficult matters.
‘Why have you hidden things from us?’ Florence asked.
