Abdication A Novel - By Juliet Nicolson Page 0,123
not to say anything?”
May nodded.
“Well,” Florence began, her eyes now looking down onto the bed. “That person. The one in the picture?”
“Yes.”
“Well, he isn’t my brother. Not properly anyway, just half properly.” And gathering confidence, she continued. “Actually, I’ve never even met him. He’s called Carl and Mum says he belongs to her other life when she was married to a German. She says that was a long time ago and I don’t need to know about it. It was when she was living in Germany. And that husband died ages before I was born. Carl’s uncle and aunt agreed that Carl could live with them when Mum came back to England.”
For a moment Florence’s voice shook. A storm of tears that had evaporated earlier had left behind an intermittent shudder. Florence moved further up the bed and May could smell the sweetness of her breath, like a meadow in early summer.
“Is your father in Germany too?” May asked gently.
“No, he met Mum when she came back to England. My dad was in the army and Mum was an army wife, she says, but Dad died of pneumonia when I was only one. And after Dad died Mum came to work here.”
“So both your mum’s husbands have died? That is so sad for her.”
Florence looked up at May, grateful for her sympathy. “Yes. Sometimes Mum is very sad but she always says at least she has me with her, even if the others aren’t here anymore. That’s why I try and do the things she wants, like the painting.”
A small hand crept across the eiderdown and put itself quietly into May’s own hand. For a few moments they sat there silently, side by side, hands joined, as Florence wavered between loyalty to her mother and a wish to confide long-held secrets.
“Promise you won’t say anything when I tell you that Carl told Mum how to do the letter painting?”
Once more May gave her word.
“Well, he said I should do it too. He said Mum should teach me about the Jews taking over everything and ruining people’s businesses. And he wrote her a letter about doing the painting. They do that over there in Germany.”
“Is that why you didn’t want to go on holiday to Pagham?” May asked.
“Yes. We had to go last year and afterwards all of us children said we didn’t want to paint on the doors anymore. I don’t think Mum would have made me do it on my own but Carl and the other women in the camp at Pagham encouraged her. They said it was easier for children to do it as they could run away more quickly than the grown-ups. I told Mum I didn’t want to but she said it was for England, not for Germany, and that I was English, wasn’t I?”
A second shudder rippled through Florence and May felt the effect of it through their joined hands.
“I didn’t mean to do it to Nat and Sarah and you. I didn’t even know I was on your street till you came out and found us. We were only in that part of London because lots of Jewish people live there. I was trying to tell all the others that we should stop doing it, I knew it was wrong,” Florence spoke calmly now, as if what she was saying was an unarguable fact.
May drew Florence closer. An image of Sarah with Joshua in her arms flashed into May’s mind.
“Florence, what you did was very, very wrong. If I ask you, and you agree never to paint on doors again, will your mother be angry with you?”
“I expect so, but I don’t care. I am going to tell Mum that I don’t want to do it again. If she makes me I will tell her that I will never speak to her again. Ever.”
And Florence got up from the bed and just as she had on their first-ever meeting, kissed May on the cheek.
“I never told Mum about Vera and Lady Myrtle, you know.”
May smiled at her. “I knew you wouldn’t.”
“Will you keep Mum’s secret?” Florence asked. “For me?”
“Yes. I promise,” May said as she watched Florence skip out of the room.
The following morning Mr. Hooch came to find May having breakfast in the kitchen and handed her an envelope.
“Mr. Julian must have left this in the garage before the taxi came to get him.”
Inside the envelope was one sheet of Cuckmere Park–headed writing paper.