Chapter 45
The airy second-floor apartment in Valletta was an absolute gem.
It belonged to an English banker who had shipped back to London when the war began and was not planning on returning just yet.
Jack had been told about it when he visited the planning officer who had placed the advertisement for someone to oversee the work, and it had seemed just the ticket.
Once fabulous, with high ornate ceilings and large windows, it had been partly damaged during the war but was still habitable.
Some of the plasterwork needed repairing and one of its balconies was hanging dangerously.
They had the place rent-free with the proviso that Jack supervised and aimed to have it finished within three months.
A couple of large bedrooms overlooked the street of baroque sandstone townhouses, each with its coloured wooden gallarija, while a bathroom, kitchen and living space had views of the courtyard at the back, which seemed to be where everyone hung their washing.
The owner had wired cash over to the planning officer, who would release funds to the builders on receipt of invoices.
‘I love it,’ said Florence when she first saw it.
‘It’s pretty fantastic,’ said Jack. ‘Just don’t try stepping onto the balcony in the second bedroom.’
They settled in and the next day he asked about her plans for finding Rosalie and whether she needed his help today. She felt excited to be out of the hotel and getting going on this properly, even if there had been no clues so far.
‘No. I’ll be fine. I’ve got somewhere else I want to see before I try to work out what to do and the order in which to do it. How about you?’
‘I’m meeting someone at a small church. Apparently it’s in Rabat, not far from a place called Mdina.’
‘Mdina is where I was thinking of going today.’
‘With your friend Cam?’ He gave her a look of fake indignation. ‘Should I be jealous?’
She laughed. ‘Don’t be ridiculous. I’m going to take the bus as soon as the builder has left.’
‘Sorry to leave you with that.’
‘It’s fine. I might be able to walk to your church afterwards if it really isn’t far. Give me the address. Maybe we could meet there at lunchtime.’
The builder the planning officer had recommended arrived soon after Jack had left, a muscly Maltese man, red-faced, with a moustache and sparkling eyes.
She quickly recognised he spoke just a few random words of English, though he seemed to be fluent in Italian, which was not much use to her as she was not.
However, Jack had already met the man and told him what was needed, and now he was scrutinising the building for cracks, shaking his head and pulling faces.
When she gave him a glass of water, he thanked her by nodding repeatedly and smiling.
Then he held up three fingers. She nodded and he seemed pleased.
But she had no idea what he was really saying.
After he left, she took a bus to Mdina, which Cam had said was worth a look, and felt awed by the sight of the centuries-old bastions, high golden walls, domes, towers and cupolas.
It looked utterly unspoilt, and completely unassailable.
Once past the huge arched entrance she wandered the labyrinth of narrow streets where she became aware of someone watching her from a small window at the very top of one of the stone buildings.
Although the ancient city was extremely beautiful, Florence shivered.
There was something ghostly about its silence and she couldn’t imagine Rosalie would be living in a place like this.
‘Who lives here?’ she asked an old man who was walking a dog.
‘Maltese nobility,’ he said gruffly and walked on.
Then she hitched a ride with a passing fruit truck to Rabat, where she met Jack at the church he was giving the once-over. He was covered in dust and grime but smiled when she walked in.
‘Get anywhere?’
She shook his head. ‘I’m still just getting my bearings, but it’s a lovely island even with the bomb damage. I’m ready to work out a plan now.’
‘Well, I’ve got us both second-hand bicycles and had them delivered here. That might help you get around more easily. We can cycle back to Valletta together if you don’t mind hanging on for half an hour.’
Later, after they cycled back to their apartment, Florence made a simple lunch of omelette and salad and then she wrote her list.
‘What’s first?’ Jack asked.
‘Well, I’ve got hospitals, churches and newspapers on my list for tomorrow but I’m going to the police this afternoon.’
At the police station a burly, heavily moustached man behind a desk openly laughed at her.
‘You think I can find someone who went missing, let’s see …’ he looked up at the ceiling, ‘you don’t know when, you don’t know where, and maybe she wasn’t even here at all? All you can tell me is that she was French.’
‘Is French,’ Florence corrected, bristling. Then, sighing, she changed tack and decided to flatter the man. ‘I heard the police here are especially efficient.’
He nodded. ‘We do our best.’
‘They told me that at the hotel.’
‘You visiting?’
Florence bit her lip and tried the damsel in distress look, whereas in reality she felt annoyed and wanted to give the man a good shake. ‘I’m trying to find my aunt, you see. My mother’s terribly upset about her disappearance.’
‘Sorry to hear that, my dear.’
She gave him a helpless wide-eyed look. ‘My mother just wants me to find her sister.’
‘Very sad. So many people lost during the war, even my own cousin. But there it is.’
‘She might have been a dancer. Could you possibly go through your records?’
‘I’m sorry but this is not our normal station. Temporary, you see. Most of our records went up in smoke. And to be fair you really are looking for a needle in a haystack.’
‘But it’s such a small island.’
This time he bristled. ‘It may be small, but many people pass through, legally and illegally, I might add.’
She bowed her head and blinked again to make her eyes water, then looked up through damp eyelashes.
It worked because he immediately relented. ‘Look, if she was a dancer, you should ask around in the clubs of Strait Street one evening. What’s your best bet for when she was here?’
‘A few years ago.’
‘Ah well.’ He shrugged. ‘I wish you luck.’
Back in the apartment Florence made a few small posters to put in shop windows and at dusk she went with Jack to Strait Street.
It looked very run-down, with peeling posters on the crumbling walls and dozens of stray cats and dogs.
They climbed over rubble and Florence almost choked on the awful smell of boiled cabbage mixed with stale beer, urine, and cheap perfume.
She felt tired and sweaty and needed a long bath but despite all that, they called at every club that was open.
There were many that weren’t, and they were just about giving up hope when in one of the clubs an old boy seemed to want to talk. ‘French, you say?’ he remarked.
Florence nodded.
‘We had foreign dancers, French to begin with and then mainly Hungarian and, of course, the foreigners had to go when the war began. The British stayed and some of the French. But there was a big old fuss in the Thirties.’
‘What kind of fuss?’
‘Buy me a beer and I’ll tell you.’
Jack bought him a beer and Florence settled down to listen.
‘Human trafficking, they call it now. We called it the white slave trade.’
Florence gasped, feeling sick to the core. Is that what had happened to Rosalie? Is that what she meant the only time she contacted Claudette saying she needed help?
Jack put an arm around her shoulder.
‘Sorry, love,’ the man said. ‘Didn’t mean to upset you.’
‘No, I’m all right. Who should I ask about her?’
‘Try the newspaper archives. We had an enquiry and it was reported in the newspaper. If she was interviewed there might be something.’ He shrugged.
‘It’s a long shot and, like everywhere else, the Times of Malta was bombed.
And, of course, you could try the churches too.
She might have got married, or buried, I suppose. ’
She nodded slowly, hoping it wouldn’t turn out to be the latter.
‘You’ll have to phone the Times,’ he added. Make an appointment.’
The man had been right. When she finally walked through the doors for her appointment a week later, an officious-looking man with terrible teeth, a small mouth, and bad breath led her to a poky office that smelt of stale tobacco.
He told her that yes, the Times of Malta had been bombed, along with their archive, although part of the building was considered safe to use.
After she explained what she needed she was told to put her request in writing and their archivist would get back to her once he’d been able to investigate.
In the intervening week before seeing this man she’d had no luck at the churches, nor the hospitals in Valletta either and now felt completely frustrated.
She’d been to Strait Street again, had spoken to a few of the dancers there but no one had heard of Rosalie or the enquiry except to say it was before their time.
And she’d been back to the police to ask if Rosalie had ever been arrested. Nothing there either.
Much later and time was rapidly passing.
Florence was running out of options and still nothing had come back from the archivist at the Times.
Now she was gazing at an airmail letter arrived from France.
Jack had collected it from the poste restante, and she turned it over in her hand several times, having recognised the handwriting and feeling nervous about opening it.
She sighed then she opened the envelope carefully, her eyes misting over as she began to read.
Dear Florence,
I have spoken to our mother and you are quite right.
She is unwell. I’m sorry to be blunt but Claudette has incurable cancer.
I don’t know how long you are planning to say in Malta, but I believe she only has a few months left.
Maybe three or four, maybe less. Now that travelling is possible, I am going to England to care for her, but élise and Victoria are staying here in France until closer to the end.
As for Jack, I’m sorry to hear about the loss of his child. Please pass on my condolences.
élise sends her love.
Hélène
Florence read it through several times. Her mother was ill, seriously ill.
Oh God, she should have stayed with her, should have looked after her when she had the chance.
Only a few months left. How could that be?
She could feel an ache in her chest and her tears welling.
Oh Maman, why didn’t you tell me? Why did you send me on this wild goose chase when I should have been with you?
She turned to Jack. ‘It’s awful news. Claudette is ill. Really ill. Cancer. Hélène says she only has a few months left. Look, read …’ She almost choked on her words and passed the letter to Jack.
As he read it, Florence sat with her head in her hands.
She longed to be with her mother and it hurt to be so far away from her.
It felt like they were never going to find Rosalie, so going home to Claudette was the only thing to do, just as soon as she possibly could.
She pictured her mother restored to health, cheeks glowing, lips painted her favourite shade of pink, her eyelids shimmering blue.
Her chignon perfect. But then another image took hold and she choked back a sob.
Claudette, thin, grey, dying, and she, her daughter, not with her at her bedside.
She covered her mouth with her hands and screwed up her eyes.
Then she thought of how Hélène’s letter had sounded so formal and cold and remembered that Hélène would be at her mother’s house.
She began rocking, holding her face in her hands again, her sobs tearing her apart, as the thought of Claudette dying before she got home completely broke her.