Chapter 40
The next day their host Edward knocked and then called out as he opened the door and entered the sitting room.
‘Out here,’ Florence replied.
He walked out to the little patio she shared with Jack. ‘I found these,’ he said and handed her some newspapers. ‘They’re mostly old Maltese papers. Thought you might find them interesting.’
She read that although the Constitutional and Nationalist parties were undecided about the role of women, the Church was strongly opposed to female delegates being allowed to be included in the National Assembly.
And strongly opposed to women having any political presence that would affect their traditional role as mothers and homemakers.
‘And they still haven’t,’ she said, throwing down a second more recent newspaper in disgust as Jack came into the room. ‘Even now. Two years later.’
‘What’s two years later?’
She picked up the newspaper again and held it out to him. ‘Read it. Women still don’t have to right to vote in Malta. Can you believe it? They finally have it in France now, but not Malta.’
‘Perhaps before we go haring off on what might well be a wild goose chase, we should think about what your mother told you about her.’
‘How do you mean?’
‘Claudette said she was independent and wilful, didn’t she? Maybe Malta is so old-fashioned it really wouldn’t be the type of place she’d want to live. At least not for long.’
‘Let’s go to Noto and have a think about it.’
A little later, as the bus crawled along winding roads passing olive groves, small vineyards and orchards full of ripe pears and apricots, Florence hung her head out of the window and smelt eucalyptus and something else. Wild fennel, she thought.
This bumpy old bus with its metal seats was so different from an English bus to Exeter, with the cheery female conductors, or clippies as they were called, nattering away.
This was full of Sicilian voices, and she couldn’t make out a single word.
Eventually they arrived in Noto, where the maze of old stone buildings led off from its two main arteries, the Corso Vittorio Emanuele, and the Via Camillo Benso Conte di Cavour.
‘Some of the Allied troops landed nearby in the Gulf of Noto,’ Jack said. ‘Tenth of July 1943 was when it began.’
Florence closed her eyes for a second, imagining what it must have been like. ‘At least the bomb damage here doesn’t seem as bad as it was in Palermo.’
They approached the baroque cathedral from a flight of wide steps, but the midday heat was building and Florence was sweltering, her thighs sticky with sweat.
‘It’s beautiful,’ she said, peering up at its magnificent facade. ‘But perhaps we could find somewhere cool for a drink.’
The nearby café was cool and peaceful inside and she was happy to kick off her shoes and relax as Jack made himself understood somehow and ordered a simple meal of enormously fat tomatoes, delicious sheep’s cheese and crusty bread washed down by local wine.
‘There must be so many stories here,’ she said. ‘In Sicily, I mean. The history never quite disappears does it?’
‘Did you know the Sicilians rebelled against the French in the late thirteenth century?’
‘I did not.’
While they lingered in the café the two of them thought about where they might start their search in Malta.
‘Well,’ Jack said, ‘the government offices would be a start, and the police of course.’
‘They’ll have records of who died in the war, won’t they? And there will be newspaper archives.’ She paused. ‘They might even have a census.’
‘Guess we’ll find out. It’s a shame we don’t know more about Rosalie.’
‘All I really know is that she was the wild child of the family,’ Florence said, ‘gave their parents no end of trouble. Rebellious, just like élise.’
Jack smiled. ‘A force to be reckoned with.’
‘And, as you said, Malta does seem very traditional.’
He nodded. ‘Not the kind of place a woman like Rosalie would like. It’s up to you, of course, but I wonder if we should just go home to England when I’m done here and forget about Malta.’
She didn’t reply. Wasn’t sure what she thought about that, although surely for her mother’s sake and to satisfy her own curiosity, she had to go through with trying to find Rosalie, especially having come this far?
No matter how tempting the attraction of Meadowbrook might be with its familiar routines and feeling of stability.
Later, as they sat on their little patio sipping wine, the scents of early evening drifting in the air, she felt the collision between her hopes and her fears. Hopes for herself and Jack, fear of upsetting Hélène, and also of not finding Rosalie. So much was uncertain.
While she was lost in these thoughts, she was vaguely aware of him reaching into his satchel on the floor.
‘Florence?’
‘Sorry, I was miles away.’
He opened his palm and her breath caught when she saw a tiny blue velvet box.
‘Florence Baudin. Would you …’ He paused and she stared at him. ‘Would you … What I mean is, shall we get married? Would you like to?’
Tears filled her eyes.
‘Oh God. I didn’t mean to make you cry.’
She laughed. ‘These are happy tears, you idiot. And I would.’
He smiled almost bashfully then opened the box and lifted out a sapphire engagement ring which he then slipped onto her finger. ‘It was my grandmother’s.’
‘How did you know it would fit?’
‘I had it altered. A while ago.’
‘You’ve been deliberating about this?’ Given how reluctant Jack had been to confront his feelings, she was surprised.
‘I have, though not about you. I always knew you were perfect, but about me. I worried that I couldn’t give you what you deserved.’
She shook her head, reflecting on all the time they’d wasted, but maybe it wasn’t wasted, maybe this was how it was always meant to be. A proposal in the most beautiful place she’d ever been.
‘How did you know the right size?’ she asked.
‘You had taken off a ring to do the washing-up. I borrowed it.’
‘The ring I thought I’d lost and then found again in the soap dish.’
He grinned.
‘Honestly, Jack, you really could have just asked me then. You didn’t need to half drown me in a cave in Sicily to persuade me to say yes.’
He laughed and she laughed with him. Then she lifted her hand to the light streaming in through the window. ‘It’s a beautiful ring.’
‘From Ceylon,’ he said.
‘How marvellous. How utterly bloody marvellous.’
‘I have another ring for you. A wedding ring.’
She laughed. ‘Isn’t it traditional to wait until we’re actually married?’
‘Malta is such a conservative place. If we do go there it would need to be as man and wife, I think. Might be best if you wore it even before we actually marry.’
‘I wouldn’t want to tempt fate.’
‘I understand. We could have separate rooms, of course.’
‘Not likely. It took me long enough to get you into my bed, I’m not letting you go that easily.’
‘You, Florence Baudin, are a wicked siren!’
While she changed for supper, Florence decided she must write to Hélène and soon. Of course she had to hear about the engagement from her first, but the thought of her eldest sister triggered another fleeting moment of misgiving.
She heard crockery being laid on the table outside, laughter too and someone clapping. Along with the smell of roasted octopus with garlic, her unease melted away.
And when, as the sky turned golden and then to a flaming red, she joined everyone at the supper table, Edward and Gloria were immediately on their feet beaming while Jack uncorked a bottle of champagne.
‘Congratulations,’ they chorused while Jack turned beetroot.
Florence felt so ecstatic she thought she might burst. Things would go well now; she was sure of it. Their roots were strong enough. She and Jack would be married, and Hélène would accept it.
Even before Jack had proposed, Sicily was a place that had spoken to her. Now she would never forget it.
In bed that night he kissed her palm. ‘I couldn’t be happier, you know.’
She smiled, feeling the warmth curling inside her. ‘We’ve not spoken about what will happen.’
‘How do you mean?’
‘Will we carry on living in Devon?’
‘I had thought so … but look, if you don’t want to …’
‘I want to,’ she said, nodding vigorously. ‘I love Meadowbrook.’
He talked a little bit more about Devon, the places they might go together, things they might do. Hope Cove, Lannacombe Bay, Bantham. Just listening to Jack talking about the South Devon coast soothed her, even when she felt so hot and sticky.
She thought about Rosalie too. Although going straight back to Devon was very appealing, she still itched to know what her aunt might have done with her life, whether in Malta or elsewhere in the world.
And she thought, perhaps naively, this might be her chance to restore a part of her family that had been broken.
‘So,’ she said with a grin. ‘When are we going to set off for Malta?’
‘You’re still determined to go?’
‘Of course. I haven’t come this far to give up on Rosalie now.’