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.’
‘Of course. Is that your boneshaker?’
‘A Douglas 1936 Aero. Do you know about motorbikes?’
She laughed. ‘Not at all.’
‘My pride and joy. I’d offer you a lift back home but—’ He raised his hands and shrugged. ‘I only have fifteen minutes to nip into the village hall and collect my mother before I have to head to Exeter and start my shift.’
She laughed. ‘It doesn’t matter, and in any case, I have my bicycle.’
‘Another time maybe.’
‘I’d like that.’ She smiled and began to move away.
‘Hang on a minute, Florence. If you’re serious and really would like a ride in the boneshaker …
’ He dug out the nub of a pencil and a little notebook from his coat pocket and wrote in it.
Then he peeled the top sheet off and handed it to her.
‘I share the house with three other doctors; no obligation, but you can leave a message, just let me know when it suits. My Mum sees Gladys so I can get back to you that way. I assume you haven’t got a telephone. ’
‘Sadly not, but thank you.’
‘No problem. Be seeing you.’
While he went off, she twisted to watch him stride away, long-legged, and rangy. Then she cycled home full of hope and smiling to herself. She’d known it was going to be a good day.
As soon as she opened the front door, she spotted a letter on the doormat and picked it up, her heart jumping when she recognised the handwriting.
It was from Hélène and she itched to open it immediately, but first made herself a quick cup of tea and only then sat at the table, tearing open the envelope and reading.
Dear Florence,
I hope you are still well. Please do write again and let us know.
As you already are aware, Allied troops with the help of the French Resistance and led by General Charles de Gaulle, liberated Paris on August 25th.
The thing is that finally, after four years of German occupation, it has taken a little while for it to really sink in.
Gradually we are becoming used to being able to breathe without looking over our shoulders or fearing the knock on the door.
With the Nazis gone our daily lives are improving, shops are open again, and we can go out for a meal.
But I’m afraid some dreadful things have been happening during the liberation and the country is in terrible chaos.
But dear Florence, I have some truly terrible news.
There have been reprisals, vendettas, just as we expected.
You remember Henri, the owner of the chateau?
Well, his wife Suzanne was killed. During the war she had frequently been seen in the village accompanied by Nazi officers with whom she appeared to be friendly.
She’d had no option. They were living in her home, the chateau, and she had to make the Nazis believe she could be trusted.
But all the time she was feeding Violette and élise news of German activities and movements.
élise spoke up for Suzanne when she heard of her capture, insisted she’d been working undercover for the Resistance all the time.
But because Suzanne had been so good at maintaining her cover, the hotheads, not even real Resistance, didn’t believe élise and took their revenge.
As you can imagine. we are all broken-hearted.
I’m so sorry to be sending such awful news. Good news to follow very soon, I hope. We don’t think it will be too long before élise gives birth. Her dates are a bit unclear, but she is already enormous. I will send you a telegram the moment the baby arrives.
Please look after yourself, Florence.
With love from me and from élise.
Hélène
P.S. I know you said he was away a lot but do you see much of Jack?
Florence glanced up, but everything was blurred.
Tears slid down her cheeks and she let them fall.
She wanted to be back there in France. She wanted to be able to hug her sisters at such a dreadful time.
She missed them, missed her life in France, missed her village and the villagers.
Poor old Madame Deschamps, whose daughter Amelie had been killed, ninety-year-old Clément, a stooped old fellow who still carried his chair and accordion out to the pavement and played the classic street music of Paris.
And she even missed brassy blonde Angela who owned the sweet shop and was rather a busybody.
Here, despite growing up in England until she was fifteen, Florence felt like a stranger.
Even with the possibility of a job in the offing, her mood had plummeted.
Poor Suzanne. Poor Henri. She glanced at the book about Malta lying on the table beside Hélène’s letter.
Had Claudette missed her sister Rosalie in the same gut-wrenching way as she was missing Hélène and élise?