The Hidden Palace, page 35
After they’d eaten the delicious eclairs and were sipping their tea, Florence saw Rosalie take a deep breath as if collecting herself.
‘My sister is unwell?’ she asked.
‘She has incurable cancer.’
Florence saw her aunt’s sharp intake of breath.
‘She asked me to find you.’
‘Why now?’
‘I don’t know. She first asked in 1944, when I arrived in England from France, but we couldn’t travel here till now. I suppose she knew she was ill, though she didn’t admit it and I had no idea.’ Florence stopped, remembering their argument, the harsh words, but then later the way her mother had told her everything.
Rosalie nodded, clearly moved.
‘Of course, that’s why she didn’t tell me. If she had, I could hardly have left her.’
‘And you have a message for me?’
Florence nodded. ‘She wants me to tell you how desperately sorry she is for not helping you when you needed her. She said it’s the biggest regret of her life.’
A tear slid down Rosalie’s cheek and then another. She reached into a pocket for a handkerchief and wiped her face.
A lump formed in Florence’s throat.
Rosalie looked at the ground and then up at the ceiling, blinking more tears away. Then she rose to her feet and so did everyone else. ‘Where are you staying?’
‘In an apartment in Valletta,’ Florence said.
‘You must stay here next time you come to Malta. We have so much to talk about. I want to know everything, although I hardly know where to begin. I never thought I would see any of my family again.’ She paused, clearly finding it hard to speak. ‘And I can’t thank you enough for finding me.’
‘But you could have come back any time.’
Rosalie sighed. ‘I didn’t feel I could. The circumstances of my leaving were so awful. Anyway, you’re here now and I’m delighted.’ She held out her arms to Florence and the two women hugged.
‘We must go to Claudette. Together. Gerry, can we get tickets for Florence and Jack on the same sailing we’re booked on?’
‘We’ve already booked tickets on a passenger ship sailing in six days’ time,’ Florence said.
‘It would be nicer if we could go together,’ Rosalie said.
‘I’ll see what I can do,’ Gerry said. ‘It’s a cargo ship so there aren’t many passenger berths. They sometimes hold back one or two. Failing that we’ll have to go separately.’
‘I didn’t think of asking about cargo ships,’ Jack said. ‘When does it sail?’
‘In three days,’ Gerry said. ‘It’ll take about ten days or so to get to Portsmouth.’
Rosalie kept her eyes fixed on Florence as if not wanting to let her go. ‘Of course, you could stay here for the next couple of days if you like.’
‘Jack?’ Florence said.
‘If we can get tickets on the same sailing, I’ll need to organise a deputy to oversee the work on the apartment, so it might be better to stay in Valletta.’
‘But thank you anyway,’ Florence added as she looked back at Rosalie.
Rosalie took her hand. ‘Not at all, and all being well, we’ll be able to talk all the way to Portsmouth. Don’t worry about wasting the money on your other tickets. They’ll probably resell them for you. And in any case, I’ll be paying for these.’
Florence smiled, feeling light, her heart overflowing with relief and joy at finally having found Claudette’s missing sister.
CHAPTER 52
When the ship finally docked in Portsmouth on a grey wintery day, it was so drab after the brilliance of Malta that Florence felt deflated and apprehensive. They’d eaten a hurried breakfast and now she and Jack were standing on the deck watching the dockside scene unfold while waiting for Rosalie and Gerry.
‘Do you think they are, you know … close?’ she whispered.
Jack shrugged. ‘Just really good friends, I think.’
‘Like us.’
‘Not quite,’ he said and nibbled her ear.
She slapped him away gently. ‘People will see.’
‘Do you care?’
‘No. But none of that when we see Hélène. I don’t want to rub her nose in it.’
‘I’m sure your sister will have long got over any attachment she had to me.’
‘It’s only just over two years, Jack.’
He raised his brows. ‘Come on.’
‘You don’t know Hélène.’
‘Will Élise and her daughter be there?’
‘Yes, by now I think they will be. Hélène said they would be following on after her.’ But Florence wasn’t just worrying about seeing her eldest sister, she was also utterly terrified her mother might die before they reached her. Might even have died already.
‘Okay,’ Jack said, ‘looks like we’re disembarking now.’
Gerry had helpfully arranged a driver to take the three of them and their luggage to the Cotswolds and he had booked them rooms at a hotel in Stanton, all in the few days before they’d departed Malta. He himself was heading for London.
The journey seemed to take forever and as the car swept into Stanton, Florence recalled her previous visit. Each house and cottage constructed of golden ochre stone flanking the quaint high street, some of the buildings grand, others less so. Of course, it was much colder now, and the wind was icy.
‘The entire place looks as if it has been left behind in the past,’ Rosalie said. ‘A bit like Mdina in that way.’
‘That’s what I thought too.’
Florence glanced at her aunt, whose thin, beautiful face was giving nothing away but, just like Claudette when she was feeling anxious, Rosalie’s hands were twisting in her lap.
‘There it is,’ Florence said and burst into tears when she saw a tiny girl with long dark wavy hair standing waiting patiently behind the gate. Her heart caught and she couldn’t speak. Jack, who was sitting in the front, turned round and squeezed her hand.
‘She looks just like Élise,’ he said.
Even through her tears Florence could not stop smiling. ‘Oh my God, let me out. This is it.’
The car came to a halt and Florence leapt out and raced over to the cottage. With eyes the colour of cognac, the little girl gazed up at her aunt. The lump in Florence’s throat was back.
‘Hello darling,’ she managed to say. ‘I’m your Auntie Florence.’
‘J’ai deux ans,’ the little girl announced.
‘English please, Victoria,’ a voice said, and then her sister Élise ran from the door to the gate, swooped the child up and, with her daughter held in one arm, she hugged Florence with the other.
‘Maman!’ Victoria shouted. ‘No squeeze me!’
‘Sorry, darling,’ Élise said and put her down and her eyes were wet with tears.
Florence felt so moved she was struggling for breath. ‘I … never thought this day would come.’
They gazed at each other without speaking. At first sight Élise looked just the same, except that her long dark hair was shoulder-length now, and she wasn’t wearing her usual wide-legged trousers, jumper, and lace-up boots. The orange dress she wore complemented her eyes, the exact same colour as her daughter’s, and when she smiled they lit up and her face looked softer than it ever had before.
Motherhood suits her, Florence thought and smiled back. ‘But here we are,’ she added. ‘Here we bloody well are.’
‘Shhh. We don’t swear in front of the child.’
Florence laughed at the thought of Élise not swearing.
Jack came round to say hello, kissing Élise on both cheeks in the French style and squeezing her arms. ‘Look, I’m going to the hotel to check us all in. I’ll see you later.’
‘You can stay,’ Élise said meaningfully.
‘No, this time now is for you women. And a more amazing bunch of women I’ve never known.’
Élise laughed. ‘Always a charmer.’
‘See you later.’
Élise glanced at the car. Rosalie was still sitting in the back seat but if the driver was to take Jack to the hotel, unless she went with him, she had to get out now. Florence went round to open the door.
Rosalie, her face blanched of colour, glanced up and swallowed visibly. ‘I am very tired. Would it be acceptable if I came to see my sister tomorrow?’
Florence twisted back to Élise. In all the joy of seeing her sister and her niece she’d almost forgotten how sick her mother was.
Élise nodded. ‘I’m sure tomorrow will be all right.’
‘One thing at a time then,’ Rosalie said. ‘Today is for you girls. Tomorrow can be for me.’
But the door opened again and a tall athletic-looking woman, with straight light brown hair and strong features stood watching. Hélène’s nut-brown eyes were not warm or smiling and she gave no sign of acknowledging Florence, but briskly said, ‘Maman is awake now. I think it might be wiser for Rosalie to see her today.’
Florence’s heart started to race. Was her sister not going to greet her at all? She stood awkwardly holding little Victoria’s hand. Élise helped Rosalie out of the car and Hélène gave Florence a perfunctory nod then marshalled Rosalie inside.
‘Can I come up too?’ Florence asked, following them, aware of the tension between Hélène and herself.
Her sister glanced at her, sharply Florence thought, but then she nodded.
‘Don’t crowd Maman,’ Hélène ordered. ‘Stay by the door while Rosalie is at her bedside.’
The three of them went upstairs and Hélène asked them to wait on the landing while she spoke to Claudette. Florence gripped her aunt’s hand.
‘I don’t know who is more nervous, you or me,’ Rosalie whispered.
‘Are you nervous?’ Florence asked.
‘Terribly. I haven’t caught sight of my sister for over twenty years and now she’s dying. I long to see her so much I’m shaking.’
They waited anxiously, listening to Hélène murmuring for a while before she softly called to them. Florence followed Rosalie to the open door. They saw Hélène plump up Claudette’s pillows then help her sit up. Florence heard Rosalie’s sharp intake of breath and fought for her own breath. Ravaged by cancer, Claudette, only in her fifties, looked decades older.
A harsh cry erupted from Claudette as Rosalie entered the room and then she coughed and couldn’t seem to stop. Hélène made soothing sounds and patted her back.
‘Hand me that water, Florence,’ she said without looking round.
Florence stepped forward and did so and Hélène put the glass to Claudette’s lips. Florence couldn’t tell if her mother had swallowed any as Hélène soon put the glass back on the bedside table.
Tears sprang to Claudette’s eyes as she focused on Rosalie’s approach.
Florence stepped back and watched. Some things were impossible to put into words and this moment, as Rosalie sat in a chair beside her sister and took her hand, was one.
‘You never wrote,’ Claudette said, her voice gravelly, but there was no reproach in her eyes.
‘Just the once.’
‘More than twenty years,’ Claudette said, barely audible. She closed her eyes and Florence took a deep breath while Hélène leant over to check her pulse.
But then, seemingly so close to the brink, Claudette drew herself back and her eyes flew open. ‘So, what have you been up to little sister?’ she said, then gave a sad little laugh and Florence could see that while Rosalie had been holding on to herself, she now could not stop the tears from falling. After a few moments she too rallied and wiped her eyes.
‘Oh, you know, this and that,’ she said.
Claudette’s laugh was unmistakable, and she stretched her arms out to her sister. As they held each other Florence and Hélène exchanged glances and in that look Florence hoped that her sister might have forgiven her.
When Claudette coughed again, Hélène stepped in. ‘I think Maman has had enough excitement for one day.’
Claudette gave her a pleading look.
‘Ten minutes more, then,’ Hélène said.
‘So bossy,’ Claudette muttered, and Florence smiled to hear the mother they all knew was still inside her.
Rosalie recited a potted version of her life story ending with where she was living now.
‘And you own a palace?’
‘Ridiculous, isn’t it?’
‘Always landed on your feet.’
Then she closed her eyes.
‘Come on,’ Hélène said. ‘We’ll see you tomorrow, Rosalie. I’ll stay with Maman now.’
She saw them to the front door.
Rosalie patted Hélène’s arm and passed her a note. ‘Please call the hotel if there are any changes. That’s the number.’
Florence was about to kiss Hélène on the cheeks, but her sister stiffened as she neared so she drew back.
As the door closed behind them, she spotted Élise putting a brave face on it, holding Victoria in her arms, both blowing kisses and waving from the sitting room window. Florence gulped back a sob. She could never have imagined this. She and her sisters were already devastated by grief and regret for not having realised about Claudette’s illness earlier. For so long Hélène and Élise hadn’t been able to travel to visit her because of the chaos in France, although maybe that had been an excuse. Surely if you knew your mother was dying, you’d find a way? They were all thinking it. And now Claudette was clinging on to the slightest shred of life while at the same time knowing there really was nothing left to hold on to at all.
Each day was bringing its own challenges. Seeing her mother had been the first, saying goodbye to her would be next. And only after that would she and Hélène be able to talk.
Rosalie, meanwhile, looked ashen as the taxi carried them away.
When she could speak, she said, ‘I would really have liked to have stayed longer.’
‘I know. Me too. But Hélène knows what she is doing. At least this way there’s a chance you’ll be able to talk to Maman again tomorrow.’
‘Please let her still be alive tomorrow,’ Florence whispered to herself. ‘Please.’
CHAPTER 53
In bed at the hotel Jack held Florence in his arms while she sobbed. As day bled into night Florence remained awake, her eyes wide open, feeling the grief beginning to build, weighing her down so that her whole body felt heavy. If only she’d known she could have stayed with Claudette back when she first visited in 1944.
‘Try to sleep, sweetheart,’ Jack murmured and pulled her close.
She did sleep eventually but a victim of her own disturb-ing thoughts, she tossed and turned. Images of Hélène came and went. Hélène red-faced, Hélène angry, Hélène shouting. Even more painful, she pictured Claudette alive, laughing, making elderflower champagne, full of vitality.
After an hour or so of fitful sleep, Florence woke early. In the half-light she listened to Jack’s breathing. Then it changed, grew lighter, and when he woke too, they made love very gently. It seemed important that in the midst of death you had to own the fact that you were alive.
‘You’re thinking of all the times you spent with your mother?’ he asked when it was over, and she lay beside him.
‘How did you know?’
‘I was like that when my grandmother died. I had to revisit every year going further and further back until there was nowhere left to go.’
‘Yes.’
‘There’s no point fighting the memories even if they make you cry. They come whether you want them or not.’
‘Like shadows … But she isn’t dead yet.’
‘No,’ Jack said, ‘but you are preparing yourself emotionally for what is to come. It’s inevitable.’
‘I should have looked after her, instead of coming back to Devon.’
‘Don’t be so hard on yourself. She refused your help. When someone dies, everybody blames themselves.’
‘I had a dream last night. I was running and running but couldn’t get anywhere.’
‘I’ve had that one.’
‘What do you think it means?’
‘Maybe you’re trying to escape your mother’s death?’ he suggested.
‘I thought that, but I wonder if it really means … well I feel like I’ve got too many things going on my mind, and I can’t get away from them.’
‘You mean Hélène, don’t you, on top of what’s happening to Claudette?’
Florence sighed. ‘She hates me. My sister hates me.’
‘Has she said that?’
‘No.’
‘You’re projecting your fear onto her. While she’s nursing your mother, it’s probably all she’s got room for. Imagine how hard it must be for her. Just wait. You’ll get a chance to talk. Give her time.’
At the breakfast table they met Rosalie, who didn’t look as if she’d slept much either. But at least I do have Jack, Florence thought, while Rosalie is alone.
During the following days they all lived under a cloud of anxiety, tense and on edge, offering each other cautious smiles that quickly vanished behind lines of worry. Rosalie sat with her sister for hours, gently reminiscing when Claudette was awake, but most of the time she simply held her hand, or stroked her paper-thin skin. Florence came and went, as did Élise.
One day they all seemed to arrive in Claudette’s room at the exact same time, as if instinct had warned them it wouldn’t be long, the air in the room heavy, the atmosphere sombre and sad. Claudette’s breathing was irregular and seemed to stop for a few seconds. Florence froze. Could this be it? Then her mother’s mouth opened, and she caught a breath. Florence gently stroked her face, cool to the touch, the skin blotchy.
Hélène spoke softly, ‘It is all right to let go, Maman,’ she said.
Then Florence heard little Victoria singing to herself as she lay in her cot in the bedroom she was sharing with Élise. Hélène usually slept on a sofa close to their mother’s bed.
In the silence of Claudette’s room, the words came again in the young child’s sweet halting voice.
Alouette, gentille alouette
Alouette, je te plumerai
It was a French song they all recognised. Claudette, who had looked as if she was sleeping, or even unconscious, opened her eyes, and Florence thought she heard her hum a couple of notes and smile in recognition. Then Claudette’s breath quickened just for a moment, the muscles of her face sagged, and she looked even paler, emptier, not like herself any more. That was it. She was gone. The final invisible thread that had held her to life had been severed. The moment when life had been there and then was not had finally happened.
