The Hidden Palace, page 10
‘One for you m’dear,’ he said and handed her an envelope.
A thick white Basildon Bond envelope. She recognised her mother’s unmistakable handwriting, as perfect as it always had been, and in her mind’s eye she saw the squat bottle of Quink, blue ink, and her mother dipping her fountain pen to fill it. She thanked the man and took the letter inside. With some trepidation she slit open the envelope, and she saw at once that it was little more than a note. From her mother’s very first words, Florence realised it was an apology. This was something new. Claudette never usually apologised.
Chérie,
I hope you will forgive your mother for her breach of hospitality when we last met, and forgive me for my rather bad humour.
Hmmm, Florence thought, ‘bad humour’ barely touched the reality of her mother’s violent rage, but still this was a step forward.
You were honest with me, and my response was not well-mannered. Moreover, I pray that you might understand these matters from long ago are difficult for me. In future I will attempt to amend my response. I had hoped to secure the door on the past, but if you could contemplate visiting again at some point, I will try to be more obliging and maybe talk about what happened to my sister, Rosalie, too. I loved her as you love your sisters, and the thought of not knowing what happened to her haunts me. I hope you will reconsider helping me find her.
You remain welcome here.
Maman
Florence wasn’t sure what to think. She loved Meadowbrook and didn’t want to leave but it wasn’t really her home. And yet her mother’s cottage wasn’t either. She wasn’t in any hurry to return there, but at least when she did it looked as if her mother might be more forthcoming. She felt intrigued by the thought of what might have happened to Rosalie – after all a family mystery was exciting. Who wouldn’t want to know more? But until the war was over there wasn’t much she could do. The next time she visited she would encourage her mother to open up about her sister as well as her affair with her German lover – Florence’s real father, Friedrich. She craved more details about him and about what had happened between them all those years ago.
A little later, as Gladys drove her battered truck to the farm, Florence was still thinking about her mother and about Belinda. Both of them mothers, and both suffering in different ways.
‘You seem quiet, love,’ Gladys said with a sideways glance at Florence.
‘I was thinking about Belinda. I feel sorry for her.’
‘Well of course. It’s terrible to lose a child. I should know. The maps we have in the house, you see, they were all my boy’s. Mad keen on seeing the world he was.’
For a moment Florence froze. Then she found her voice. ‘Oh Gladys, I’m so sorry. I didn’t know.’
‘Early on in the war. Edward. We had him late in life, but all the more special for that. His ship went down. Lost at sea we were told.’
‘Your only child?’
Gladys nodded and Florence reached over to pat her hand. They were silent for the rest of the short distance to the farm. This time, when Gladys pushed open the peeling blue farmhouse door and they walked in, Florence was prepared for the chaos. The cats were there, of course, but on this occasion the wallpaper struck her too. How had she not noticed before? Pictures of carrots, oranges, apples, jugs and jars, in shades of orange and yellow replicated over and over on a spotted beige background, so busy it made her eyes spin. But also, a rather good-looking young man in civvies was sitting at the table and reading a newspaper, his spectacles pushed back on to the top of his head.
‘Bruce,’ Gladys said, sounding pleased as punch. ‘Didn’t know you’d be here. Not on duty?’
He stood up, smiling broadly. ‘Two whole days off. I just dropped by to let you know Mum can’t make it to the WI this evening, so no need to pick her up.’
Gladys turned to Florence. ‘This is my friend Grace’s boy. Bruce, this is my neighbour, Florence.’
He stepped round the table to shake her hand. Florence studied him. Tall and slender with dark curly hair, cut short, he had warm hazel eyes. She liked the look of him and the way he was so comfortable with Gladys.
‘Well,’ he said. ‘Message delivered. Better be making tracks.’
‘On that old boneshaker of yours?’
‘Of course.’ He smiled and pecked her on the cheek. ‘Be seeing you. Cheerio, Florence.’
Gladys had a sparkle in her eyes and, as soon as he had gone, said, ‘Only twenty-eight and a registrar, you know, at the Royal Devon and Exeter Hospital. Known him since he was a nipper.’
‘I’m sure you must be proud. He seems lovely.’
‘You might wonder why he hasn’t been snapped up.’
‘Not really, but I’m sure you’re going to tell me.’
Gladys gave her a studied look. ‘I wouldn’t want to see him hurt, mind, but you could do worse than our Bruce. He was engaged to an Exeter girl, but when he went away to work, she went off with one of them Americans.’
‘Oh dear.’
Gladys pulled a face. ‘Flibbertigibbet she was.’
Florence hid her smile. ‘Sounds like he’s well out of it, Gladys.’
‘Did you know when the bombs rained down on Devonshire towns during the Blitz, expectant mothers in the maternity ward of Exeter hospital were given enamel bowls and blankets to wear on their heads as protection.’
Florence laughed. ‘Goodness. Not sure that would have helped much.’
‘Well as it turns out the hospital wasn’t hit, so we’ll never know. Bruce will tell you all about it if you ask him. Now, would you like to see yours now or later,’ Gladys said, in an innocent voice.
‘Mine?’
‘The little marmalade kitten I’ve saved for you. I’ve called him Bart and he’s adorable.’
Florence smiled. ‘I know what you’re trying to do.’
‘There is one added benefit,’ Gladys added conspiratorially.
‘Oh?’
‘Belinda is allergic to cat hair.’
Florence burst out laughing. ‘You devious so-and-so, but you know I can’t adopt a cat when I don’t even know where I’ll be living.’
As Florence lay on the bed in Jack’s room resting on one elbow and staring at the map of Malta she’d borrowed from Gladys, she felt completely in limbo. Now that Belinda was still here it had changed everything; her own future was unsettled, and she really didn’t know what to do. There was nothing satisfying about this kind of uncertainty. With nowhere to really call home, if she could go to Malta right this minute, she believed she jolly well might. At least it would give her something useful to do with herself. It would make her mother happy too, and Florence liked making other people happy. She’d already written back to Claudette thanking her and saying she would visit again.
Florence loved Jack’s room. It had a window to the front and another to the back. Not as masculine as she expected but, with pleasing honey-coloured beams, striped blue and white curtains, polished floorboards, and a couple of Persian rugs, it had a cheery air. A wooden filing cabinet took up one corner and shelves stuffed with box files and books lined part of one wall. She couldn’t stop herself peeking in his wardrobe but forced herself not to examine everything on, or in, his large desk beneath the window at the back. She curled up on his bed and read for a while, but by late afternoon was hungry so made her way down to the kitchen. No sign of Belinda, thank goodness, but she still felt a bit wary.
She went to the larder and saw that the last bottle of sherry was gone and what had been a small block of treasured cheese was lying under its net cover hacked to pieces. Florence frowned. No prizes for guessing what had happened there.
Hearing odd noises coming from the drawing room, she paused. It sounded like Belinda muttering, maybe arguing with somebody, but when Florence listened carefully, she could hear the woman was arguing with herself. With an anxious fluttering in her tummy now, Florence wasn’t hungry any more. She went into the hall.
‘Ah, there you are. Come in,’ Belinda drawled, her eyes glittering. ‘Drink?’
‘I don’t much like sherry.’
‘There’s whisky.’ She held up the bottle. ‘Oh, not much left. Sorry, darling.’
Florence sighed. ‘Thanks, but I really only drink wine.’
‘Ahhhhh.’ She pointed her finger at Florence. ‘That’s because you’re French. Tell me exactly what you are doing here in England?’
Florence remembered Claudette telling her you had to look your enemies in the eye. Was Belinda her enemy? She drew back her shoulders. She’d had enough of being meek.
‘Look Belinda, I need to tell you I’m not leaving, but that I think that you should go back to London.’
‘Oh, is that so?’ The woman’s voice was thick and she suddenly hiccupped. ‘Scuse me.’
‘What good is staying here doing you, or Jack?’
‘Christ! You ask me that? This is about you. It’s you you’re thinking of.’
‘I’m Jack’s friend.’
‘And I’m his goddam wife.’ And then to Florence’s horror, Belinda began to cry.
Florence froze. Should she attempt to comfort her?
Before long Belinda was sobbing and moaning as if her heart was truly breaking, her hands in tight fists thumping herself in the chest. Florence stepped forward and tentatively put a hand on Belinda’s thin shoulder. Eventually the woman noticed she was there, and Florence handed her a handkerchief.
‘It’s clean,’ she said.
Belinda took it but her face was blotchy and creased, her eyes puffy and rimmed with red, her make-up smudged. She wiped them and then her cheeks too and she tried to run a hand over her hair, but she was still gasping for breath. She doubled over with a fresh wave of sobs, tears running down between her fingers and dripping onto her lap. The depth of her grief brought tears to Florence’s eyes too.
When Belinda managed to stop again, she wrapped her arms around her body and began to rock, keening in a high-pitched tone.
‘It’s my fault,’ she eventually whispered. ‘He blames me, and he’s right.’
‘How can I help?’ Florence asked, but knew there was nothing she could really do.
Belinda didn’t seem to hear. ‘There’s a hole inside me. Never stops hurting, so I drink. It numbs me. Jack doesn’t understand.’
There was a slight pause.
‘I want oblivion. Do you see? I let my little boy die. My own little boy. I let him die. And, you know … I hate myself. I hate myself far more than Jack hates me.’ She’d spoken the last few words softly, haltingly, as if she could hardly bear to say them.
‘I’m sure he doesn’t hate you.’
She laughed bitterly. ‘Are you? Well, he certainly doesn’t love me. Our marriage is over and all I want to do is end it all. There … I’ve said it.’
For a moment Florence wasn’t sure of the other woman’s meaning. Was she talking about her marriage or her life?’
‘Look, if you want to stay here, I can be with you. Maybe I can help.’
‘How? How can you help? How can anyone help? Don’t you understand? I can’t bear to go on living with my little boy dead and knowing he died because of me …’
That night they sat together for hours, Florence keeping hold of Belinda as she lost herself to grief.
The next day Belinda stood on the doorstep, doing her utmost to blink the tears away, her mask of make-up once more firmly in place. She gave Florence a weak smile and a restrained pat on the back. Then she got into the taxi. As Florence watched it make its way up the drive and away from the house, her heart was hammering in her throat. Belinda was beside herself with the most terrible grief imaginable, the enormity of which surpassed anything Florence had ever known. She took a breath and let it out slowly, hoping Belinda would find her way through whatever lay ahead.
She thought about Jack, too. His own grief must be why he held his emotions so tightly inside him. If Jack allowed himself to love, he would also have to allow himself to feel his pain. You couldn’t choose. She’d learnt that from her own experience after the rape. She hoped to have children one day, but along with such all-encompassing love came the risk of an equally all-encompassing loss. She imagined that when a child died, the guilt must be dreadful, an impossible weight to bear. A parent’s job was to protect their child, and if you failed at that, what did it make you?
CHAPTER 16
A week later Florence took a short stroll up the track, gravel crunching underfoot, before heading for the village to look for work. Now that Belinda had gone back to London, she had decided to stay put and she absolutely had to find a job as soon as possible. She loved the peaceful mornings here, but as she walked a burst of movement ahead drew her attention. She froze, narrowing her eyes to see more clearly. A long, rust-coloured tail appeared, and then an entire fox heading towards her through the long wet grass. The animal stopped moving and stared as if weighing her up, its eyes a stunning bright amber, but then with the swiftest of movement it spun around and was gone. She knew how quickly foxes could navigate the woodland, how easily they squeezed through narrow gates, jumped over ditches, or ran along the estate walls. She’d seen them in the daytime before, but it was rare for one to stop and stare. It was a wonderful start to the day. Maybe her luck would be in.
Back at the cottage Florence wheeled out Gladys’ old bike to cycle to the village. It was early November now and the cold was beginning to bite. The landscape had altered so much since her arrival in the height of summer. Now it was windy, much of the autumnal colour gone and the skeletal trees stood black against a wintery sky.
Barnsford was surprisingly quiet.
First Florence went to the newsagent’s to scan the job advertisement cards in the window. But though she’d hoped to maybe spot someone needing a gardener somewhere she might be able to reach on her bicycle, she found only requests for odd-job men, or plumbers, or other jobs requiring skilled labour. When she spoke to the old man behind the counter, he suggested the local paper, so she bought one and headed for the WI coffee morning Gladys had told her took place in the village hall near the Royal Oak pub.
She bought a cup of chicory coffee and a rock bun. After she sat down and took a bite, she realised how well-named it was. Then she opened the paper and found what they called the small ads page, running a finger down the columns, but with no luck.
A heavily built middle-aged woman, sighing deeply, deposited herself at the same table, almost tipping up her coffee as it wobbled on the saucer. As she caught her breath, she also caught Florence’s eye.
‘Don’t mind me, dear. Just a bit out of puff,’ she said. ‘Not seen you here before, have I?’
‘No, my first time. I’m surprised how quiet it is.’
‘You should have been here before D-Day. You wouldn’t believe it, but we were bursting at the seams. My name’s Mrs Wicks by the way.’
‘Pleased to meet you. I’m Florence. Do tell me more about what it was like it was like before D-Day.’
The woman sighed and took a sip of her coffee. ‘Oh, busy. Our lads coming in from the camps and military training up on Dartmoor. And then in 1943 the Americans started arriving too. Some of their officers were billeted at the manor house up the road, the Hambury place.
‘Oh, I live near there.’
‘Nice part of the world, that. We had dances for the soldiers here in the village hall. You could have come if you’d been here.’
‘Sounds like fun.’
‘Not for the likes of me, but my daughter, Jennifer, she went. Stepped out with an American called Shane for a while. Imagine that for a name. Not that I can blame her. A handsome bunch, if I say so myself, those Americans. Good teeth you know.’
Florence laughed. ‘I’ve heard.’
‘They had money too, though we hadn’t a clue what they were doing here. Come D-Day we knew and overnight the village … poof, just like a ghost town.’
‘You must miss the excitement.’
Mrs Wicks wrinkled her nose. ‘I do, and I don’t. The land girls still come to the pub on a Saturday evening. And when Plymouth was bombed again at the beginning of May this year, a young family came to stay with relatives here. Their house, you see, gone up in smoke. Destitute. Next door to me now. Noisy bunch.’
Soon after that the woman started to do up her coat, so Florence rose to her feet and held out her hand. ‘It’s been lovely meeting you, Mrs Wicks.’
The older woman got up too and shook her hand. ‘Call me Freda, dear. I live just behind the pub. Number eleven. Pop in any time. I’ll tell you all about Slapton Sands.’
‘What happened there?’
‘Only rumours mind and it was very hush-hush at the time. We only found out in early August.’
‘Found out what?’
The woman drew closer and spoke more quietly. ‘Mass graves, my dear. That’s what. Anyway, I have to be getting back to hang out the washing.’
‘I need to be getting back too.’
‘Off to work, are you?’
Florence sighed. ‘I wish. I’m staying with a friend, and I’ve been trying to find a job.’
‘Why didn’t you say. Any good at cooking?’
‘I love to cook.’
‘Well, there you are. Get yourself up to the manor. My next-door neighbour, Deirdre, she’s cook there, but going part-time on account of her old man being sick. Could be something going.’
Florence beamed at her. ‘Thank you!’
‘You’re very welcome my dear. See you again, I hope.’
Before Florence left the village, feeling excited about the chance of work at the manor, she nipped into the library, signed herself up and borrowed a book about Malta. Just as she was wheeling the bike to the edge of the village, she noticed a man climbing down from a motorbike with a sidecar attached to it. When he took off his helmet, she recognised him at once. As he looked up, she took a few steps towards him.
‘Hello again. Florence, isn’t it?’ he said, and smoothed a palm over his hair. His very curly hair.
‘Yes.’
He smiled and his hazel eyes crinkled up. ‘We met at the farm,’ he said. ‘I’m Bruce.’
