Chapter 9
Florence
Florence arrived back at Jack’s cottage to find it locked and Jack absent, so she left her case and walked up to the farm to see if Gladys knew when he’d be back.
When Gladys opened the peeling blue door, Florence blinked rapidly, taken aback by what she saw.
The kitchen was a large and square, black-beamed, low-ceilinged room, smelling of bacon and cats.
A jumble of crockery, magazines, old newspapers, mugs, cups, glasses, electrical equipment filled every surface and, amongst it all, she spotted three cats.
A huge grey one with big round yellow eyes stared at her imperiously from a table covered in an orange and white checked oilcloth, a tabby was curled up fast asleep on a Windsor chair, and a black-and-white smaller one with only one ear was stretching itself inside a soup tureen, between a pressure cooker and a skillet on the dresser.
But what really caught her attention, what made her heart speed up, was Jack standing by the range, eyes wide, looking as startled to see her as she was to see him. Just for a second his face lit up, but a moment later his expression clouded over. Why? Was he not pleased to see her?
‘You’re back,’ she said.
‘Actually, I haven’t left yet. I’ll be off early tomorrow morning.’
Gladys clucked about, insisting that she looked pale and peaky and in need of feeding, before she shepherded Florence and Jack into the sitting room with cups of steaming tea and a plate of Bovril sandwiches and left them to it.
There, in Gladys’ cluttered room with a faint whiff of cats, Florence poured out her heart to Jack.
Told him about her mother’s coldness and complete lack of interest in anything about their lives in France.
And, haltingly, almost in tears again, she told him about Claudette’s rage.
After a few moments of silence he nodded, as if taking it all in.
‘I’m so sorry to put you on the spot like this,’ she added. I—’
But he stopped her. ‘Florence, it’s all right. I understand.’
‘I need to find work, Jack, and somewhere I can begin my life properly here in England. I’ve got the ration book you obtained for me but nothing else.’
‘The passport and papers I got hold of in Spain will be fine here. They prove who you are, either for a job or a place to rent.’
‘You’re sure?’
‘The British Embassy in Madrid was already using fake medical certificates to get hold of Franco’s “sick” British prisoners.
With the false passports, they were then moved to Gibraltar, as were you.
From there they were repatriated to Britain and that’s exactly what John Lyons, the British diplomat with whom I was rather usefully at school, eventually did for us. ’
He gave her a quick grin and continued.
‘Added to that, your grandmother was English, your father half English, and with the record of his work in the Home Office and your long residence in Richmond, it shouldn’t be difficult to obtain legal residency here, if that’s what you’re going to need in the long term. It may not even be necessary.’
‘That does make me feel better.’
‘Make Meadowbrook your home for now,’ he said. ‘I’m going to be away much of the time anyway, so you’ll have the place to yourself. Take your time.’
And she had hoped that he was secretly as glad to see her as she was to see him.
That had been over two weeks ago, and Florence had settled back in while Jack had been away.
He didn’t tell her what he was doing, or where he was, but she imagined he must have been taken under the wing of a Special Operations Branch in a government ministry of some kind.
She was no fool. He’d mentioned he was attending meetings and hinted that they were connected to his old architecture business, but something about his stiff tone of voice hadn’t quite rung true.
Florence doubted that he’d be sent back to France – his injured arm had healed, but it did still cause him pain and wasn’t as strong as his other – so perhaps he was training new recruits or something like that.
Anyway, it was none of her business.
She had become accustomed to the sound of RAF aircraft flying over, no longer looking up every time, and now she was doing something she loved.
Sufficient sugar was hard to come by, but she’d been lucky to find a tiny lemon growing in a pot in a dilapidated greenhouse, and half a bottle of sweet sherry lingering in the drinks cabinet.
She opened the oven door and a tempting aroma of baking filled the air.
Jack had sent a note to let her know when he hoped to be back and, all being well, that would be tomorrow, so she’d wanted to make something delicious to welcome him home.
The combination of lemon, a smidgen of butter, and sherry sweetness was mouth-watering. After all, who could resist a cake?
She went over her final conversation with Jack after she’d returned from her mother’s and before he left.
‘Claudette asked me to do something for her,’ she’d said. ‘It’s odd, but she wants me to find her sister, Rosalie, who ran away from Paris twenty years ago. No one has seen her since.’
‘Where did she go?’
‘Maman showed me a box with something Rosalie sent her. A Maltese Cross attached to a rosary, so that’s where my mother thinks she must be. Malta. Rosalie’s note said nothing, only that she wanted her help. But as it’s been quite a few years since then, I reckon she could be dead.’
‘There isn’t any way you can get to Malta now,’ he’d said.
‘The war. I know. But I don’t even know where I would start to ask. People are missing all over the world.’
‘Why has she asked you now?’
Florence had shaken her head, but whatever the reason, another trip was the last thing she needed.
Her mother’s request had made her feel uneasy and there had already been enough secrets.
If she did go looking for Rosalie, she didn’t know what she’d find and she was still coming to terms with the other terrible events of the year and who she was now.
The landscape of the past had altered irrevocably with the revelation of who her real father was.
She sighed and turned away from the cake, now cooling on a wire rack.
Most foods were covered by the rationing system – butter, bacon, cheese, sugar and so on – so a cake was a rare treat.
They could get hold of fruit and vegetables, and they were fortunate to have Ronnie and Gladys’s farm nearby.
Florence could hear Gladys coming up the garden path right now.
‘Coo-ee,’ Gladys called. ‘Anyone in?’ and she pushed open the door.
‘Hello,’ Florence said. ‘Please come on in.’
‘My, that is a fine smell, dear. Dab hand you are at the baking. Jack’s a lucky man.’
As her duck waddled in behind her, she lifted the striped tea towel covering the basket she was carrying and said, ‘See what I’ve got for you today.’
And Florence glanced down at six large brown eggs, butter Gladys had churned, and a few rashers of bacon from their own pigs.
‘I really can’t accept all this. You only recently brought us all those vegetables.’
‘Poof. Jackie’s like one of the family,’ said Gladys, her dark eyes twinkling, ‘and a war hero. I’ll not see him starve.’
‘You’re very kind.’
‘Leastways, come the spring you’ll have your own veg. But you can count on us for the rest.’
‘You must let us pay.’
‘We’ll see.’
Since she’d been back, Florence had wasted no time in digging up a small section of the garden where she’d now sown mainly leafy crops, including cabbages and spinach, plus onions, radishes, turnips, and broad beans.
It would provide for them in the early spring.
She didn’t dwell on whether she’d still be living there by then, or even when winter came, or whether she would, in fact, have to go back to Claudette before that.
As Gladys chattered on about the weather and the need for Jack to buy some laying hens, Florence began to sweep the floor. Being at the cottage, with a garden and a kitchen, and Jack to cook for, reminded her of home and helped to make this new life less strange.
‘I’ve written to my sisters again,’ she told Gladys.
‘Heard from them, have you?’
Florence shook her head. ‘Not yet.’
She didn’t mention that although she’d told Hélène and élise she was staying in Jack’s house temporarily, she had implied that Jack was rarely there.
Well, it was more or less true, and yet she’d felt the acidic taste of guilt on her tongue again.
She knew Hélène would be looking for mentions of Jack.
Just then, Florence heard the front door open and both she and Gladys looked up.
‘Must be Jack home a day early,’ Florence said with a grin, wiping her hands on her floury apron and straightening her hair a little.
She’d been lonely without Jack these last two weeks.
She’d always had her sisters close by, had never spent much time totally on her own, so had never thought about feeling afraid to be alone.
Not just about the things that went bump in the night, but the inexplicable fear that somehow hid beneath your surface armour.
She’d been careful not to make a fuss when Jack left, certain that he wouldn’t appreciate a woman who made a scene about every little inconvenience, but she had missed him terribly and had been secretly counting down the days until his return.
She opened the door to the hall, ready to greet him.
But it wasn’t Jack. Florence blinked in surprise to see a tall, well-groomed, blonde woman standing there, wearing an immaculate pale blue suit.
It was similar in style to the simple utility clothing most women sported, with padded shoulders, nipped-in waist, and a hem that fell just below the knee, yet this woman looked so much more stylish.
The fabric seemed expensive and, somehow, she was better presented than anyone else Florence had seen in a long time.
And she was standing there, nonchalantly swinging a bunch of keys, with a suitcase at her feet.
The world hung still and then suddenly, before Florence could understand what was happening, it moved too quickly.
‘Oh,’ the woman said, her thinly pencilled brows raised. ‘I didn’t know Johnny had hired a housekeeper. Or are you the cleaner?’
‘Johnny?’ Florence repeated.
‘Jonathan Jackson. He owns the house. Who are you?’
‘I’m Florence. I’m staying here. I thought this was Jack’s house.’
The woman laughed. ‘Well, I just told you that. Some people call him Jackie. I never have.’
‘And you are?’ Florence asked, aware of a layer of discomfort already threatening to darken her day.
‘Belinda Jackson, of course, his wife.’
They were both motionless as Florence stared in disbelief, unable to find any words for this.
Of course Jack wasn’t married, he’d have said.
Wouldn’t he? Could this woman, with her finely chiselled cheekbones, be telling the truth?
Mystified, Florence became aware first of shock and then a deeply unsettling feeling of betrayal.
She glared at the woman, this Belinda. Why should she believe her?
Belinda was still standing in the hall with an increasingly impatient look on her face. ‘God, I need a drink,’ she said.
Florence blinked rapidly. ‘Um. I can make you a cup of tea if you like. It’s already brewed.’
Belinda laughed. ‘Darling. I need something a lot stronger than tea. Don’t worry, I can help myself. I know where the booze is kept.’
At that moment, Gladys popped her head round the door. ‘Wasn’t expecting to see you here again,’ she said, her face grim. ‘Jackie know you were coming, did he?’
Belinda looked down her nose at the woman. ‘Hardly any of your business is it, dear?’ she said, with sarcastic emphasis on the word ‘dear’.
Gladys bristled but didn’t reply.
‘Well, I’ll just pop my case up to the guest room,’ Belinda added.
‘But I’m in there,’ Florence said, aghast.
Belinda looked surprised. ‘Oh, not sharing his bed then? When you said you weren’t the cleaner, I thought you must be Johnny’s latest floozy. So, he’s not got round to that yet. Funny. He was always rather a fast worker.’
‘Actually, Jack brought me across the Pyrenees to escape the Nazis.’
‘Of course he did,’ Belinda said, her voice still dripping with sarcasm. ‘Well run along and move your stuff into the box room, there’s a dear, and I’ll put my case in the guest room. I might just have a little snooze. Clean sheets in the usual place, Gladys?’
Gladys didn’t reply, so Belinda just picked up her case and, head held high, marched up the stairs.
Florence listened to the ancient wooden treads creaking beneath the woman’s clicking high heels while Gladys stood with her hands on her hips, puffed out her cheeks and let the breath out in a rush. ‘Bloody little madam,’ she said under her breath. ‘Jackie will have something to say about that.’
The two women went back to the kitchen, with Florence in something of a daze. The gap between how things were and how she wanted them to be was rapidly widening.
‘Oh, my dear girl, you do look pale,’ Gladys said, concern in her voice. ‘Why don’t you sit down and I’ll pour you a good strong cuppa.’
Florence didn’t need much persuading and silently pulled out a chair.
Sometimes she had the feeling of not being quite real.
As if she’d walked into the world from somewhere else and was doing her best to copy real people.
Be like real people. But she hadn’t quite managed it.
Except when she was with Jack. Then she felt real.
Solid. Properly of the world. This ‘wife’ of his turning up out of the blue had shaken that.
How could Jack have married such an odious, self-absorbed woman?
Gladys looked at her sympathetically. ‘Take it Jackie never mentioned Belinda?’
Feeling more desolate than she ought, Florence shook her head.
‘With good reason,’ Gladys added and nodded knowingly.
‘You don’t like her?’
‘Not after what she did.’
Florence frowned. ‘What did she do?’
‘I think Jackie should be the one to tell you that.’