Chapter 52
When the ship finally docked in Portsmouth on a grey wintery day, it was so drab after the brilliance of Malta that Florence felt deflated and apprehensive.
They’d eaten a hurried breakfast and now she and Jack were standing on the deck watching the dockside scene unfold while waiting for Rosalie and Gerry.
‘Do you think they are, you know … close?’ she whispered.
Jack shrugged. ‘Just really good friends, I think.’
‘Like us.’
‘Not quite,’ he said and nibbled her ear.
She slapped him away gently. ‘People will see.’
‘Do you care?’
‘No. But none of that when we see Hélène. I don’t want to rub her nose in it.’
‘I’m sure your sister will have long got over any attachment she had to me.’
‘It’s only just over two years, Jack.’
He raised his brows. ‘Come on.’
‘You don’t know Hélène.’
‘Will élise and her daughter be there?’
‘Yes, by now I think they will be. Hélène said they would be following on after her.’ But Florence wasn’t just worrying about seeing her eldest sister, she was also utterly terrified her mother might die before they reached her. Might even have died already.
‘Okay,’ Jack said, ‘looks like we’re disembarking now.’
Gerry had helpfully arranged a driver to take the three of them and their luggage to the Cotswolds and he had booked them rooms at a hotel in Stanton, all in the few days before they’d departed Malta. He himself was heading for London.
The journey seemed to take forever and as the car swept into Stanton, Florence recalled her previous visit. Each house and cottage constructed of golden ochre stone flanking the quaint high street, some of the buildings grand, others less so. Of course, it was much colder now, and the wind was icy.
‘The entire place looks as if it has been left behind in the past,’ Rosalie said. ‘A bit like Mdina in that way.’
‘That’s what I thought too.’
Florence glanced at her aunt, whose thin, beautiful face was giving nothing away but, just like Claudette when she was feeling anxious, Rosalie’s hands were twisting in her lap.
‘There it is,’ Florence said and burst into tears when she saw a tiny girl with long dark wavy hair standing waiting patiently behind the gate. Her heart caught and she couldn’t speak. Jack, who was sitting in the front, turned round and squeezed her hand.
‘She looks just like élise,’ he said.
Even through her tears Florence could not stop smiling. ‘Oh my God, let me out. This is it.’
The car came to a halt and Florence leapt out and raced over to the cottage. With eyes the colour of cognac, the little girl gazed up at her aunt. The lump in Florence’s throat was back.
‘Hello darling,’ she managed to say. ‘I’m your Auntie Florence.’
‘J’ai deux ans,’ the little girl announced.
‘English please, Victoria,’ a voice said, and then her sister élise ran from the door to the gate, swooped the child up and, with her daughter held in one arm, she hugged Florence with the other.
‘Maman!’ Victoria shouted. ‘No squeeze me!’
‘Sorry, darling,’ élise said and put her down and her eyes were wet with tears.
Florence felt so moved she was struggling for breath. ‘I … never thought this day would come.’
They gazed at each other without speaking.
At first sight élise looked just the same, except that her long dark hair was shoulder-length now, and she wasn’t wearing her usual wide-legged trousers, jumper, and lace-up boots.
The orange dress she wore complemented her eyes, the exact same colour as her daughter’s, and when she smiled they lit up and her face looked softer than it ever had before.
Motherhood suits her, Florence thought and smiled back. ‘But here we are,’ she added. ‘Here we bloody well are.’
‘Shhh. We don’t swear in front of the child.’
Florence laughed at the thought of élise not swearing.
Jack came round to say hello, kissing élise on both cheeks in the French style and squeezing her arms. ‘Look, I’m going to the hotel to check us all in. I’ll see you later.’
‘You can stay,’ élise said meaningfully.
‘No, this time now is for you women. And a more amazing bunch of women I’ve never known.’
élise laughed. ‘Always a charmer.’
‘See you later.’
élise glanced at the car. Rosalie was still sitting in the back seat but if the driver was to take Jack to the hotel, unless she went with him, she had to get out now. Florence went round to open the door.
Rosalie, her face blanched of colour, glanced up and swallowed visibly. ‘I am very tired. Would it be acceptable if I came to see my sister tomorrow?’
Florence twisted back to élise. In all the joy of seeing her sister and her niece she’d almost forgotten how sick her mother was.
élise nodded. ‘I’m sure tomorrow will be all right.’
‘One thing at a time then,’ Rosalie said. ‘Today is for you girls. Tomorrow can be for me.’
But the door opened again and a tall athletic-looking woman, with straight light brown hair and strong features stood watching.
Hélène’s nut-brown eyes were not warm or smiling and she gave no sign of acknowledging Florence, but briskly said, ‘Maman is awake now. I think it might be wiser for Rosalie to see her today.’
Florence’s heart started to race. Was her sister not going to greet her at all? She stood awkwardly holding little Victoria’s hand. élise helped Rosalie out of the car and Hélène gave Florence a perfunctory nod then marshalled Rosalie inside.
‘Can I come up too?’ Florence asked, following them, aware of the tension between Hélène and herself.
Her sister glanced at her, sharply Florence thought, but then she nodded.
‘Don’t crowd Maman,’ Hélène ordered. ‘Stay by the door while Rosalie is at her bedside.’
The three of them went upstairs and Hélène asked them to wait on the landing while she spoke to Claudette. Florence gripped her aunt’s hand.
‘I don’t know who is more nervous, you or me,’ Rosalie whispered.
‘Are you nervous?’ Florence asked.
‘Terribly. I haven’t caught sight of my sister for over twenty years and now she’s dying. I long to see her so much I’m shaking.’
They waited anxiously, listening to Hélène murmuring for a while before she softly called to them.
Florence followed Rosalie to the open door.
They saw Hélène plump up Claudette’s pillows then help her sit up.
Florence heard Rosalie’s sharp intake of breath and fought for her own breath.
Ravaged by cancer, Claudette, only in her fifties, looked decades older.
A harsh cry erupted from Claudette as Rosalie entered the room and then she coughed and couldn’t seem to stop. Hélène made soothing sounds and patted her back.
‘Hand me that water, Florence,’ she said without looking round.
Florence stepped forward and did so and Hélène put the glass to Claudette’s lips. Florence couldn’t tell if her mother had swallowed any as Hélène soon put the glass back on the bedside table.
Tears sprang to Claudette’s eyes as she focused on Rosalie’s approach.
Florence stepped back and watched. Some things were impossible to put into words and this moment, as Rosalie sat in a chair beside her sister and took her hand, was one.
‘You never wrote,’ Claudette said, her voice gravelly, but there was no reproach in her eyes.
‘Just the once.’
‘More than twenty years,’ Claudette said, barely audible. She closed her eyes and Florence took a deep breath while Hélène leant over to check her pulse.
But then, seemingly so close to the brink, Claudette drew herself back and her eyes flew open.
‘So, what have you been up to little sister?’ she said, then gave a sad little laugh and Florence could see that while Rosalie had been holding on to herself, she now could not stop the tears from falling.
After a few moments she too rallied and wiped her eyes.
‘Oh, you know, this and that,’ she said.
Claudette’s laugh was unmistakable, and she stretched her arms out to her sister. As they held each other Florence and Hélène exchanged glances and in that look Florence hoped that her sister might have forgiven her.
When Claudette coughed again, Hélène stepped in. ‘I think Maman has had enough excitement for one day.’
Claudette gave her a pleading look.
‘Ten minutes more, then,’ Hélène said.
‘So bossy,’ Claudette muttered, and Florence smiled to hear the mother they all knew was still inside her.
Rosalie recited a potted version of her life story ending with where she was living now.
‘And you own a palace?’
‘Ridiculous, isn’t it?’
‘Always landed on your feet.’
Then she closed her eyes.
‘Come on,’ Hélène said. ‘We’ll see you tomorrow, Rosalie. I’ll stay with Maman now.’
She saw them to the front door.
Rosalie patted Hélène’s arm and passed her a note. ‘Please call the hotel if there are any changes. That’s the number.’
Florence was about to kiss Hélène on the cheeks, but her sister stiffened as she neared so she drew back.
As the door closed behind them, she spotted élise putting a brave face on it, holding Victoria in her arms, both blowing kisses and waving from the sitting room window.
Florence gulped back a sob. She could never have imagined this.
She and her sisters were already devastated by grief and regret for not having realised about Claudette’s illness earlier.
For so long Hélène and élise hadn’t been able to travel to visit her because of the chaos in France, although maybe that had been an excuse.
Surely if you knew your mother was dying, you’d find a way?
They were all thinking it. And now Claudette was clinging on to the slightest shred of life while at the same time knowing there really was nothing left to hold on to at all.
Each day was bringing its own challenges. Seeing her mother had been the first, saying goodbye to her would be next. And only after that would she and Hélène be able to talk.
Rosalie, meanwhile, looked ashen as the taxi carried them away.
When she could speak, she said, ‘I would really have liked to have stayed longer.’
‘I know. Me too. But Hélène knows what she is doing. At least this way there’s a chance you’ll be able to talk to Maman again tomorrow.’
‘Please let her still be alive tomorrow,’ Florence whispered to herself. ‘Please.’