own mother, brought with her from Barbados, was still secured facedown by an elastic band in the back of her diary. The visual reality of her mother’s gentle smile was still too painful to look at.
As well as Lady Joan’s unchanging condition and the effect it was having on her tense and overworked husband, several other things had seemed out of kilter to May during those few hot summer weeks. Florence’s puzzling behaviour and the photograph of the beach at Pagham continued to trouble her. Julian had confirmed for her that the sign on the belt was indeed the symbol of the British fascists but although Mrs. Cage’s secret sympathies were now clear, both May and Julian agreed that for Florence’s sake it would be unwise to say anything to Sir Philip. However much they might condemn Mrs. Cage’s allegiance to Mosley’s party, no harm seemed to have been done, beyond Florence’s evident discomfort about her holiday. For the moment Mrs. Cage’s secret was safe.
But Florence’s absence meant there had been no one to accompany May on bike rides and Sam was away in the Mediterranean guarding the Duke of Lancaster, or so Sam had believed when he set off. Miss Nettlefold had divulged to May the duke’s real identity but May did not expect Sam to have any direct contact with the Nahlin passengers. The special nature of the cruise had not remained entirely confidential. A new titivating weekly publication had been left in Oak Street by one of Sarah’s clients and Rachel had been agog at photographs of the king walking down the narrow streets of a town somewhere in the Mediterranean. He was accompanied by a smartly dressed but unnamed lady and they were both laughing.
“I am glad to see the king enjoying himself,” Rachel remarked approvingly, flicking through the pages of the magazine. “Why don’t those other papers that Nat brings home show such nice pictures, I wonder?”
During those summer weeks May missed Julian more than anyone. But she was also furious with him. They had parted in unfortunate circumstances. After she had shown him the photograph of Florence at Pagham he had admitted that he was still planning to spend August in Berlin. He argued that he had no choice. Arrangements had been made. Somehow May had convinced herself that the conversations, the bicycle rides and above all the magical, heady, daring, surprising, addictive hours they had spent secretly in the seaside hut together on probably half a dozen occasions meant that Julian’s relationship with Lottie must be at an end, even though they had never specifically discussed it. Whenever May felt brave enough to ask the question Julian had changed the subject. And yet an inadvertent remark made by Bettina had smashed her optimism. Perhaps men of that class and that upbringing just do things differently, she tried to reason, while all the time nearly broken with disappointment. But every time she vowed to think no more about him, the memory of his laugh and of the touch of his fingertips returned all the stronger.
On the morning before Rupert, Julian and Bettina’s departure by car for Berlin, Bettina had woken to find her stomach covered in red spots. By the time she had scratched them, covered them in thick calamine lotion to pretend they weren’t there and eaten her breakfast, the rash had spread to her arms. She could already feel her forehead and her back beginning to itch. In the practical absence of her mother, she went to find Mrs. Cage.
“Yes, my dear, those blasted chicken pox are the cause of the trouble, without any doubt. I heard from Mrs. Jenkins in the post office that there was an outbreak in the village. Shame you escaped it in childhood when Mr. Rupert came down with it. Grown-ups with chicken pox feel much sicker than children do. So I am afraid it is up to bed with you, my dear,” she instructed in her best no-nonsense tone as if Bettina was still the same age as her daughter.
Bettina was beginning to feel so sick that the thought of cool white sheets, a darkened room and the privacy and freedom in which to scratch seemed at that moment infinitely more enticing than a long journey in Rupert’s Talbot, accompanied by rations of dark beer and fatty German sausage.
“I didn’t want to play third wheel to Lottie and Julian anyway,” she muttered on her way up to bed as May sat at the kitchen table, listening