Chapter 44
Florence
As the sun rose, Florence stood on the deck thinking about Rosalie and smelling the tang of seaweed and the salt of the Mediterranean Sea.
After all this time, was she about to find her aunt?
Discover her secrets? Find out what she’d been doing all these years?
Would she be able to give Claudette the news she wanted?
She gripped the railings praying for something positive and determined to do everything she could.
She felt hopeful but knew so little about Rosalie and wondered if she’d even know her if she passed her in the street.
All she really knew was that she had bright red hair, had been a wild child, and that she owned the same charm bracelet as Claudette, which she, Florence, now wore every day.
And Florence knew, or thought she did, that at some point Rosalie had probably been in Malta.
But it seemed like such a long shot, and she might well have moved on somewhere else years ago.
It was still early when the ferry from Syracuse dropped anchor in the waters of Valletta harbour. As she heard the shrieking seabirds welcoming them, Florence took in the amazing sight of massive walls, ramparts and bastions, rising like cliffs from the depths of the sea.
‘What a place, Jack,’ she said a few minutes later, and reached for his hand as they climbed into one of the small vessels bobbing in the water.
A dghaisa, they were told. Painted red, blue and yellow, it was a gondola-like thing, with painted eyes on either side of the bow.
As the high-ended little boat – propelled by a standing man with an oar who pushed instead of pulled – reached some wide steps, they climbed out and looked around them.
Florence could smell fish and saw dozens of cats lining up where the catches were being brought in.
But she stared in horror at the destruction of much of the dockland.
‘Oh my God,’ she said. ‘They have so much still to do.’
Edward had been as good as his word and Jack had been given the phone number and departmental address of a government administrator in charge of plans to restore Malta to its former glory. He had also booked them a room at the British Hotel overlooking the harbour.
As they made their way there, they saw the heartbreaking evidence of the bomb damage – rubble, Blitz-battered architecture, and even some of the ancient buildings totally destroyed. There were temporary homes everywhere, or maybe they were shelters.
‘What do you think?’ she asked Jack.
‘These people must have lost their homes.’
The little huts were made of tin and chunks of fallen masonry. Florence could smell charcoal and frying onions and saw a group of women cooking in the street on open fires. Other women nearby were washing clothes in tin tubs, or chopping wood while children dashed around, shrieking.
‘God, but they’ve suffered here,’ Jack said. ‘The RAF operated mainly from an airfield at Luqa, here in Malta,’ he said. ‘It became their Mediterranean Command HQ during the war.’
‘How do you know?’
‘Common knowledge now.’
Their hotel was comfortable, but Florence’s heart sank as she thought of the impossible task of finding Rosalie in all this chaos.
‘I wonder where to start,’ she said while Jack looked out of the window. ‘I’d like to get to know the island a bit, find my feet, and then make a plan. You can talk to people you meet too.’
Jack went back down to reception to call the number he’d been given by Edward and set up a meeting for the following day. He didn’t know if there would be any chance of work while he was here but would give it a try.
‘Come to bed,’ she said much later that day, after they had wandered around the town for a while.
He came to her immediately, picked her up and carried her to the bed. ‘Light as a feather,’ he said.
‘I am not. Gladys spent months feeding me up and I ate like a pig in Sicily.’
He kissed her on the nose. ‘An adorable little pig.’
Early the next morning, Florence wrote to Hélène. She’d been putting it off but now she forced herself to sit down and do it.
My dear, dear Hélène,’ she wrote and chewed her pen.
I am now finally in Malta with Jack, hoping to find Rosalie.
We arrived today. It has been very badly hit – so many beautiful old buildings were destroyed during the war.
Did you know there were 3,000 raids on this tiny island?
Hard to believe but the damage is everywhere.
The people were starving at one point too, as supplies couldn’t get through.
No medicines either. It breaks my heart to think of it. It really does.
But on to other things. I hope you, élise, and my gorgeous niece Victoria are well. I want to see you all so much, but before that happens there’s something I must tell you.
When we were in Sicily before coming here, Jack asked me to marry him, and I accepted.
I do hope this news won’t dismay you. I know you and he were once close.
We only got together very recently while in Sicily.
As you know, when I was living in Devon, he was rarely there.
But during that time, I agonised about my growing feelings for him, and I now know he was doing the same about me.
I’m so sorry, Hélène. I hope you can understand this.
Better still I hope you’ve found someone yourself or will do so soon.
He has given me permission to tell you about a couple of things he couldn’t talk about when he was in France.
Firstly, he was still married then, although now the divorce is final.
It’s terribly sad but he and his ex-wife Belinda had a little boy who died in the war aged four.
I think it explains a lot about how he was when you knew him.
He has been grieving for his son all this time but is coming through it now.
So, there it is.
I’m sending you all my love. Please hug the others for me.
Oh, I nearly forgot … when I last saw Maman, she looked thin.
If the telephone lines are up and running again, could you call her from the surgery and see if you can find out if she is all right?
She’s fanatical about me finding Rosalie so I shall do my best. Maybe we can all finally be together again before too long.
With my love always,
Florence xxx
Jack had already gone out, so she dressed and decided to find somewhere to post the letter.
Lured by the smell of real coffee and baking, she stopped for breakfast at a small café.
After she’d eaten, the café owner came over to ask if she needed anything else and, knowing she’d have to start somewhere, Florence spoke in English.
‘I’m wondering how to find a missing person here.’
The woman sucked in her cheeks. ‘Many missing after the bombing. Most accounted for now. When was this?’
‘I don’t know. She may have been here for years. A French woman. Rosalie Delacroix?’
The woman shook her head. ‘Never heard the name. Sorry. Try the city archives, what’s left of ’em, or the town hall records.’
There was a pause as the woman narrowed her eyes as if thinking. ‘I don’t know if this will help but my cousin’s son, he is a professor at the university. He knows people.’ She scribbled something in her notebook, tore the page out and passed it to Florence.
Back out in the street people were picking their way around heaps of rubble still waiting to be cleared. She asked an old man where she would find the city archives and he pointed in the direction of the town hall.
‘It’s all there,’ he said. ‘What’s left.’
‘Could you tell me where the registry office is too?’
He scratched his head. ‘Not sure now. It was moved during the war.’
When Florence asked to check the records at the town hall, the clerk was unhelpful. Frowning and shaking his head, he sat behind a neat, highly polished mahogany desk, with a painting of Malta looking golden and untouched by war behind him.
She stood her ground and gave him the broadest smile. ‘How beautiful it must have been,’ she said, glancing at the painting.
He muttered something she couldn’t hear.
‘Look, I’ve come all the way from England to find my aunt. I need to know if she survived the bombing. If she was even here that is.’
‘You have authorisation to look at the records?’
‘Where do I get that?’
‘The police. They issue authorisation if you fit the criteria.’
‘What’s the criteria?’
‘Go to the police. They’ll check you out.’
‘Can’t you help me? Just a little bit.’
He shrugged and returned to his paperwork.
‘In that case could you tell me where to find the registry office? Births, deaths and marriages.’
‘First door on the left.’
Well, she thought, pleased it was so near, I hadn’t expected that. But her enthusiasm soon dimmed when, after a lengthy wait on an uncomfortable wooden chair, the heavily set and very slow-moving registrar returned, unable to confirm any record of a Rosalie Delacroix.
‘Anything registered during the war was lost in a fire,’ he said. ‘The office was housed temporarily in Rabat. We weren’t expecting bombs there but we got one all the same.’
‘What about after the war?’
‘I’ve checked the name you gave me. Nothing, I’m afraid.’
Florence sighed but she wasn’t daunted and decided that instead of the police she would first call at the address the café owner had given her.
She prayed the building would still be intact and when she arrived was relieved to see that it was.
She entered the old place, a warren of corridors and rooms, stairwells and lecture halls smelling of cinnamon and beeswax.
She eventually found the room she wanted on the first floor and knocked.
Silence. She knocked again and now feeling a bit unsure of herself, she heard someone moving around.
The door flew open, and as a dishevelled man stood glaring at her, she backed off.
‘Sorry. Have I disturbed your sleep?’ she asked, aiming for a light-hearted tone as she stared at the chunky, tousle-haired fellow.
He studied her face indignantly and then burst out laughing. ‘Guilty as charged,’ he said, dark eyes glittering. ‘Who are you?’
She told him who she was and why she was there.
‘I’m Fleming Camilleri. But call me Cam. Everyone does. So, looking for your aunt you say?’
‘Yes. Rosalie Delacroix. French.’
‘You’ve tried the police?’
‘Not yet. I need to get authorisation to look at the records in the town hall.’
‘That’s easy, I can give you an authorisation slip.’
‘Really? The clerk said the police issued them.’
‘Yes, and so can I, and in fact any professor here. Just wait a minute and I’ll find the paperwork.’
He rummaged around in the desk drawers and eventually pulled out a pad and tore off the top slip. ‘Here we are. Your surname again, Florence?’
‘Baudin,’ she said without thinking and then wondered if she should have said Jackson, if they were to maintain the pretence of being married.
He filled in the form, signed it, passed it to her and studied her face. ‘I don’t know but … would you like me to accompany you?’
‘Would you? That would be a tremendous help. Do you have time?’
‘Free this week. No students you see. Anything to get out of collating all this.’ He waved a hand at his paper-strewn desk and the countless files piled up on the floor.
She laughed. ‘What do you teach?’
‘Wish I knew.’
‘Seriously.’
‘Ancient bloody history.’ He laughed. ‘We call it classics. Come on, let’s go.’
At the town hall they found nothing about Rosalie, so he asked if she’d like a guided tour of Valletta.
She nodded, grateful to have a guide. ‘I’d like to place postcards in some of the shop windows asking if anybody knows of my aunt’s whereabouts or has any information about her. I’ve already made some.’
‘Do you have a photograph of her?’
‘Sadly not.’
‘Pity. Never mind, we’ll stop at shops as we go round. Motorcycle all right? I haven’t got a car. And anyway, with the rubble still piled up, bike is best.’
She smiled, relieved to have found someone willing to help her.
‘Perfect. I’d love to grasp the layout of the Valletta streets and learn where everything is.
’ And so, riding pillion was how she very quickly got to know her way from Fort St Elmo to the Customs House, and from there to the Upper Barrakka Gardens.
He pointed out the library, the police headquarters, and the way from the bombed Opera House to the Hastings Gardens and the Phoenicia hotel and then back to the British Hotel where she and Jack were staying.
And he picked out half a dozen shops where, when she asked, the owners were happy to display her postcards in their windows.
Later, when he took her to see the cliffs, the beaches, and the little inland villages, she fell in love with the island.
She hoped Rosalie had too, and that she had treasured the gorgeous blue sky, the dusty white tracks, and the shimmering turquoise seas enough to have stayed.
You could see the sea from almost everywhere and when Florence felt the warm breeze on her cheeks and breathed in the scent of salt and seaweed, she imagined Rosalie doing the same.
They sped past farms surrounded by fields kept safe within dry stone walls and beyond the walls, prickly pear and carob trees.
Cam was a knowledgeable guide, and the history of the island fascinated her.
As they went inland her mind wandered back in time to when the Order of the Knights of St John were given the island by Charles V.
Everything comes and goes, she thought, and took another breath of sweet-smelling air.
‘Oh, to be a fly on the wall of history,’ she said.
Cam laughed and she liked him. He was one of those people who really seemed to relish being alive. And despite teaching ‘ancient bloody history’ he was light-hearted and fun to be with.
When Jack returned to their hotel room just after she got back herself, she was still trying to brush the dust from her hair.
‘You managed to get out, then?’
She twisted round to look at him. ‘I did and it was marvellous.’ She went on to tell him all about Cam.
‘But no hint of Rosalie?’
She glanced away. ‘No.’
‘Something else is bothering you. What is it?’
Florence sighed. She wanted to find Rosalie for her mother’s sake, but her chest tightened a bit when she thought about maybe uncovering something dark or unsettling.
‘Nothing,’ she said.
‘Well, if you’re sure … I have news …’
‘Don’t keep me in suspense.’
‘Bit of a lucky fluke but I have found us somewhere to stay.’ He picked her up and whirled her around. ‘I saw an advertisement and followed it up.’
‘Put me down, you heathen. Where is it?’
‘Quite near here and we can move in tomorrow.’