Chapter 25
Florence swung open the library door, nodded at the librarian and headed straight for the reference section.
They were fortunate that Barnsford library was well-stocked, also serving several nearby villages.
It was still early and the place was quiet, so Florence quickly found the dictionary she needed and settled herself at a small table in the corner.
It was close to a side window overlooking the bakery, in a spot where she was unlikely to be disturbed.
She dumped her shoulder bag on the table and delved into it for the ancient, dog-eared recipe book.
Her boss, Lord Hambury, the old boy at the manor, had handed it to her saying, ‘You’ll find it in there, along with an English translation stapled to it. ’
Before she began, she looked up from the books and thought about Bruce.
She’d seen him at a New Year’s Eve party, and then once more when they’d been hoping to reach the coast on his motorcycle, but again it was too cold and the trip had been aborted.
They’d spent the afternoon in a cosy teashop instead, talking for hours and it had felt like being with a friend she’d known for years.
Today was his first day off since then and, a little later, Florence would be meeting him outside the picture house in Exeter.
She hoped the cinema would be showing Casablanca, for Gladys had seen it and with stars in her eyes had waxed lyrical about Humphrey Bogart.
Florence opened the recipe book and glanced at the dedication inside it – a gothic German script she couldn’t decipher, although when the book fell open at the page she wanted, the name of the cake was just about intelligible.
‘Berliner Pfann … kuchen,’ she whispered, trying out the strange words.
It turned out that Lord Hambury had been a junior diplomat in Berlin before the First World War and the embassy there had employed a top-notch German chef.
At least that was what Florence thought he’d said.
Most of the time he seemed to be drifting in and out of the past and Nurse Carol, who came in twice a day, had told her he was heading towards senility.
Anyway, the old boy’s wife had learnt his favourite recipe for German doughnuts, and this was it.
With tears in his eyes, he’d begged Florence to make them and, feeling such pity for him, she’d agreed.
Now she fished out the piece of yellowing paper, no longer pinned to the page, and read through what remained of the English translation.
4 cups flour
1⒈／⒉ oz yeast
⒈／⒋ cup sugar
? cup milk plus 2 tbsp …
5 …
That was all she could make out, plus a few words.
… fried doughnuts … drain on … jam using.
She sighed. At least half of it had been water-damaged.
There was nothing for it but the dictionary.
She’d only fished out the German-English dictionary from the shelves out of curiosity and hadn’t expected to really need it much.
For a few moments she studied the recipe in its original German.
She couldn’t understand the words, of course, but also the script was terribly old-fashioned and impossible to read.
She glanced at the title page and saw it had been published in 1905.
She checked her watch. This was going to take a while and she had to leave for Exeter on the eleven fifteen bus. Slowly, achingly slowly, she concentrated on making out the words and then looking them up in the dictionary, jotting down what she hoped was the correct translation in her notebook.
A little later she was started by a rustle behind her and turned to see a heavily built, middle-aged woman standing there staring at the books.
‘Hello, Mrs Wicks,’ Florence said, pushing back her chair and rising to her feet. Mrs Wicks was the woman she’d shared a table with at the WI, the one who told her about the possible vacancy for a cook at the manor. ‘I’m so glad to see you. I must thank—’
‘German,’ the woman hissed, interrupting and pointing a finger at Florence. ‘You’re one of them.’
‘What?’ Florence replied aghast, not only shaken by the look of distaste on the woman’s face but also how close she’d come to the truth.
The woman’s eyes narrowed. ‘I’ve heard about people like you.’
‘What do you mean?’ Florence’s voice had come out high and squeaky. She took a deep breath to steady herself.
‘Spies, living amongst us. Why are you reading in German if you’re not one of them? Speak it too, do you?’
Florence tried to stay calm although her heart was racing. ‘Not at all. Lord Hambury asked me to make some doughnuts he liked when he worked at the British embassy in Berlin. That’s all. This is the recipe.’
Mrs Wicks bristled. ‘Well you would say that, wouldn’t you?’
‘Really, if I were a German spy, would I be looking something up in plain view in a public library?’
The woman gave her an angry glare and Florence began to stow away her things in her bag. She had to get out of there.
‘I thought you sounded a bit strange. I thought about it after I met you at the WI and talked it over with my neighbour. You seemed like a nice girl, but there was something. My neighbour said I should go to the police.’
Florence swallowed her anxiety and stood tall. ‘Well, I’m not German and I feel very offended that you should say so.’
Hands on hips, the woman smiled grimly. ‘Prove it then.’
‘Oh, for goodness’ sake!’ Florence said in a fit of pique, completely forgetting to tone down her response.
‘This is ridiculous. I was trying to do Lord Hambury a favour, that’s all.
He’s old and he’s lonely and I wanted to make him happy.
And if you must know I lived in France for a while, so think what you bloody well like.
But maybe that’s why I sounded a bit strange, as you put it. ’
Mrs Wicks smiled in satisfaction. ‘There, you see. I knew it. Around here we don’t have much sympathy for the Frogs either. Letting that Hitler stomp all over them.’
Florence sighed. Dammit. Why had she mentioned France?
Goodness knows what lies the woman would be dishing out behind her back.
Nothing spread as fast as a good scandal.
Before long the whole village would assume she wasn’t English and would maybe even believe she was German if Mrs Wicks repeated her worst suspicions.
She felt close to tears, swinging between anger and shame – after everything she’d been through in France to be accused like this, no matter how unfair it was.
She’d had to run away from France because of it.
Was she going to have to run away from Devon too?
She took the bus to Exeter, listening to the clippy calling everyone ‘dear’ and ‘love’.
She couldn’t help overhearing a couple of old biddies gossiping in the seats behind her and felt even more upset.
She’d agreed to meet Bruce on the corner of North Street and the alley where the cinema was located.
The exchange with Mrs Wicks in the library had left her seething and miserable, but as she left the bus she saw Bruce looking so pleased to see that her it lifted her spirits a little.
‘How was the journey?’ he asked, after giving her a brief hug.
‘Fine. Sorry I’m late.’
‘We’re still in time but we’d better get our skates on.’
‘A couple of old women were blethering on about how terrible the Germans are. And the Nazis are, of course they are, but not all Germans are terrible. I hate the way war makes everything us or them.’ She didn’t tell him about the scene in the library.
He smiled. ‘You know you sound very English. I don’t mean your accent. It’s the colloquialisms.’
‘Comes from spending time with Gladys.’
The Gaumont was the only cinema to reopen after the bombing of Exeter in 1942, and today there was to be a showing of a British war film.
She viewed the outing as a stolen hour or so of hope in all the muddle of her life.
The house lights had darkened as they took their seats and the Pathé news was already showing.
The usherette shone her torch in the direction of where they were sitting, about halfway down the stalls, and they whispered their apologies as they sidled past the already seated and now grumbling people in their row.
She was disappointed the film was not Casablanca but an adaptation of a Graham Greene story – Went the Day Well?
As the rousing patriotic music at the beginning began to play, Florence felt very aware of Bruce sitting beside her.
His presence as close as this confused her, and she was wondering if they might spend time together afterwards at his house.
Suddenly the screen flickered for a moment then turned black.
People muttered and complained and there were a lot of ‘bloody hell’s and one or two shouts erupted from the audience.
It wasn’t unusual. Films were always breaking down.
But then the house lights came on and a shrill-sounding woman began to speak to them over the loudspeaker.
‘We apologise for the interruption, ladies and gentlemen,’ she said, and they all groaned. ‘The picture will be restored as soon as possible.’
As the lights went down again and the film stuttered back to life, Florence settled down and tried to enjoy it.
But the subject matter didn’t help her state of mind.
As a group of German paratroopers disguised as British Royal Engineers took over a peaceful English village, she became more and more unsettled.
Gradually it became clear there was a traitor among the villagers who was enabling what they realised was a German occupation.
At that point there was a gasp from the audience as they turned to each other muttering their disapproval.