Chapter 5
Florence spent an unsettled night in Claudette’s spare bedroom, partly feeling sorry for her mother, partly worrying about what to say about the past, and partly feeling annoyed. Hélène and élise had always accused Claudette of being unfeeling, but Florence hadn’t really understood it until now.
She thought about Rosalie too, and her mother’s request. Rosalie’s disappearance was intriguing, but her mother hadn’t seemed to realise that it was almost impossible to travel while there was a war on. She wished she could ask Jack what he thought about it.
She missed Devon and, thinking how much she longed for Jack’s beautiful cottage, as well as Jack himself, her chest tightened.
But she scolded herself, got out of bed and, deciding to brave the outdoor bathroom later, dressed in the clothes she’d worn the day before.
This was to be her life now, and the sooner she forgot about Jack, the better.
When she got downstairs Claudette wasn’t in the sitting room or the kitchen.
She glanced out of the kitchen window and saw her mother halfway down the garden looking back at her with a blank expression.
Florence waved, opened the back door, and went outside.
There was nothing for it, she couldn’t put off telling her what she’d discovered in France any longer.
‘Chérie,’ Claudette called. ‘I didn’t want to wake you. Thought you might need the sleep.’
Florence joined her where she was cutting creamy roses, softly flushed with pink.
‘They’re beautiful.’
‘Alfred de Dalmas, I’ve been told, a very old variety and hard to get hold of. But this one was here when I moved in. I didn’t plant it.’
Florence nodded. ‘And where’s your vegetable garden?’
Her mother pointed to the very back of the garden. ‘Behind that hedge. It’s not actually in my garden but in the field behind. The farmer gave me permission because of the war. You see the small gate?’
‘Yes.’
‘Go through, have a look.’
Florence took a step away to do as her mother said, but then turned back. She needed to grasp the nettle no matter how much it might sting. ‘Maman, I wanted to talk to you about France,’ she said.
‘Did you, chérie?’
‘You know I did.’
‘Come and look at these,’ Claudette carried on talking as she walked across to a bed of pink hollyhocks and blue cornflowers. ‘Of course, they’re past their best now but they thrive in the same growing conditions, you know, fertile soil.’
‘In France I used mature compost,’ Florence said, but determined to get on with what she really needed to say, she added, ‘Could we maybe talk over a cup of tea?’
‘All in good time. Come, let me show off my lettuces.’
Florence sighed and followed her through the gate.
‘Here we are,’ Claudette said gaily, completely ignoring Florence, who was growing increasingly frustrated.
But she held it in, and her voice took on a conciliatory tone as she said, ‘You’ve done well, Maman. I never expected you to be interested in growing vegetables.’
Claudette bent down to pick a lettuce and then straightened up. ‘Needs must, as they say over here. This lettuce will make a nice salad for lunch, don’t you think? With some tomatoes from the greenhouse.’
‘I grew tomatoes in France. Don’t you miss it? France, I mean.’
Claudette frowned and brushed a few stray hairs behind her ears. ‘Not especially.’
‘What about when you were younger? When we were little and stayed there in the summer. Don’t you miss those days?’
Claudette turned her back and answered curtly. ‘I don’t think about those days … Heavens, would you look at those weeds!’ And she marched over to the shed as Florence sighed.
When Claudette came back with the weeding fork, she began to prod at a patch that Florence could see didn’t need weeding at all.
‘Did Father ever come to France?’ Florence asked, persevering. ‘He was half French after all. I don’t remember him there.’
Silence.
‘Maman, will you come inside? Please.’ She’d spoken cajolingly, hoping to encourage her mother.
‘I need to do this.’
‘No, for goodness’ sake, Maman, you really don’t,’ she snapped, feeling the storm brewing inside her.
Her mother rose to her feet, standing erect, and with fury in her eyes she said, ‘Do not speak to me in that tone of voice. I need to do the weeding.’
Florence felt something twist inside her. ‘And I need to tell you I’ve met my real father. I know— the truth.’
She covered her mouth, instantly regretting blurting it out. She had wanted to raise the subject sensitively, tell the whole story about how it had transpired a little at a time, but now she had no option but to plough on.
‘I’ve met Friedrich, Mother. My real father. I know he’s German, that you and he had an affair, and I have a half-brother too, called Anton.’ She tried to keep her voice steady, while her heart pounded.
Claudette didn’t meet Florence’s eyes.
‘Maman? My German father is why I had to leave France. Hélène thought there would be trouble during the liberation, afterwards too. They’re already punishing collaborators. It was terribly hard, having to leave. The journey was—’
Florence stopped, overcome as her tears began to fall. Her mother’s face gave nothing away. She only raised a hand to her brow and shielded her eyes for a moment.
‘I didn’t mean to shock you like that. I’m sorry I … but why did you hide the truth from me?’
Claudette turned away, marched towards the house, and opened the back door. To Florence’s astonishment she went inside without saying a word, the door closing behind her. Florence wiped her eyes with her fingers and followed.
She found her mother in the kitchen staring at the floor in silence, her face drained of colour. Then she raised her head and glared at Florence. ‘How dare you come here and speak of such things. And in the garden, where anyone might be listening.’
‘I’m sorry I didn’t mean to. I asked you to come inside.’
Claudette hissed her reply. ‘It was private. You do not speak of a German father in England. I did not expect you to talk of that.’
‘I’m sorry. I’m really sorry, but I need to know what happened. Did you love Friedrich, Maman?’ Florence spoke tentatively, not really sure what she wanted to hear.
Claudette turned her face away.
‘Why are you being like this? I just want to know if you loved him.’
Florence heard what might have been a stifled sob and went to her mother, tried to touch her, reassure her, but Claudette pushed her away. Florence stepped back, hurt. ‘Did you ever love Father? Were you unhappy in Richmond all that time? Unhappy with us?’
Her mother looked increasingly stiff and unyielding. ‘You will desist with these questions,’ she said.
‘I don’t understand. Why are you being so cold? Are you embarrassed that we found out? Is that it?’
The kitchen clock seemed to be ticking too loudly. Claudette did not reply but her fingers were twitching dangerously.
‘Don’t I have a right to know?’
Her mother raised a shaking hand as if to stop her speaking. ‘The past is the past. You have no right.’
‘But Maman, you lied. All these years you lied. How did my English father feel about it? How? And how could you do that to him if you didn’t love Friedrich?’
‘That is enough! You will not speak of this. You will never speak of this again!’ Claudette’s voice was harsh as she spoke through gritted teeth and then delivered such a flood of angry bitter words in French that Florence burst into tears.
‘Stop it. Stop it. Don’t speak like that. Please don’t speak like that.’
Claudette raised a hand as if to strike her. Florence recoiled, stepping back and stumbling at the rage distorting her mother’s face.
And then her mother, who still held the trowel in her other hand, threw it with all her force at the wall. It hit the kitchen clock and as the glass casing shattered and fell to the floor, she marched towards the back door.
‘Please. Isn’t it time we talked?’ Florence called after her, but her mother had already left the room.
Florence ran up to her room where she picked up a pile of her clothes and threw them into her case.
Shattered by the depth of her mother’s fury, tears streamed down her face but, angry and confused, she wiped them away with her hands.
How could Claudette be like this? How had she never fully recognised her mother’s capacity for rage before?
And what did that make her, for not realising?
She remembered élise’s arguments with Claudette.
Once, she’d yelled at their mother, calling her a harpy, a hideous monster of Greek mythology.
A terrifying bird woman. And Claudette had risen from the sofa as if to spread her wings and lunged at her daughter, wild with bitter laughter.
But Florence had always blamed élise for being so unkind to Maman.
Now, for the first time in her life, she saw what her sister had been getting at and felt ashamed.
She should not have judged élise. And deep inside her now a little voice was whispering. Had her mother ever loved any of them?
One thing was clear – if Claudette would not allow her to speak about what she had found out, she, Florence, couldn’t stay here.
She felt too hurt and too upset. She flung her hairbrush on top of her clothes in the case, snapped it shut, then ran down the stairs, glancing into the sitting room for anything she may have left behind.
The front window was open and everything was still but for the breeze lifting the corner of Rosalie’s last note as it lay forgotten on the coffee table.