In the summer of 1939, when Flora and other volunteers were searching the camp at Saint-Cyprien, she came across two women in the first stages of labour. Slowly they extricated them from the beach, demanding their release from the guards in order to get them back to the chateau at Brouilla. The sun was blazing, and flies buzzed over them, attracted to their sweat. The stench from the makeshift latrines was overwhelming. The sooner Flora and her helper could get them away from there, the better. She parked their truck as close as she could, but the crowded tracks were dusty, throwing sand into her face, blinding her eyes with grit.
Another truck with children sitting in the back went past them slowly, the children’s hands hanging over the sides, their dark little faces scowling into the sun. At least they were being driven away from the crush of the beach. The driver paused, caught up in the queue. As he wiped sweat from his face, his beret slipped down the back of his head, revealing a mop of sandy curls. He leaned out of the window to see what the hold-up was and for a second caught Flora’s eye, as she stood waiting to cross over to the other side. Flora froze. How could a dead man be driving a truck full of refugee children? How could a dead man be here in this hellish hole? Who was the ginger-haired man with the russet beard? It couldn’t possibly be…
Flora had to know if she was seeing a ghost, or just another aid worker with reddish hair. She left the women with her colleague and raced alongside the truck.
‘Kit? Kit Carlyle?’ she shouted. As the lorry picked up pace, so did she. She had to know. Was this a never forgotten face from her past, a face lined with age, and leathered by sunlight but still recognisable? She was running.
‘Kit, it’s you!’ The driver stared ahead, trying to ignore her.
‘Stop the truck!’ she ordered, but he edged away, shaking his head at the man in the seat beside him. The co-driver leant over. ‘Out of the way, lady. Chris, she’s a crazy woman. Drive on.’
How dare they run away? Flora flung herself in front of the truck and it screeched to a halt. ‘Get out and face me, Kit Carlyle, or I’ll climb on the bonnet.’ She could hardly breathe, her voice cracking with shock and emotion. ‘It is you.’
The stopped truck was attracting a crowd. Kit climbed down, his eyes avoiding hers. The face was thinner, but the tell-tale scar on his cheek was visible through his beard. They stood in silence for what seemed like an age. Flora found her throat was dry. ‘How could you?’ was all she could croak.
Kit bowed his head, raising both hands. ‘Flora, I’m sorry.’
‘Sorry? Is that all you can say, after all these years? I thought you were dead. What the hell are you doing here?’
‘Flora, I can explain, but not here. I have to get the children away to the port. I can explain.’
‘No, you bloody well won’t. I never want to see your face again, you… hypocrite, you coward. You should be ashamed of yourself…’ The crowd closed in, realising the altercation was getting interesting. ‘You just carry on with all your lies. Drive on and don’t look back!’ she yelled, beside herself with fury as she turned back through the crush, her limbs fuelled by anger of a ferocity she had never encountered before.
She heard his voice yelling, ‘Flora… wait…’ She ran.
All these years of secret mourning for a lost lover and now here he was, alive and well. Was this some dream? Her heart was thumping, limbs wobbling and her head spinning with heat and panic. She felt she would faint and needed to sit down to catch her breath.
‘Are you all right?’ Anita, the aid worker, came running. ‘What was all that about, standing in front of a truck? You could’ve been run down! Someone you know?’
Flora brushed down her slacks, mopped her brow and gathered what dignity she had left. ‘I don’t want to talk about it, not now, not ever… where are our mothers? We must see to them.’
‘They’re fine, waiting in the truck.’
Flora stumbled through the crowds, feeling sick, desperate to be alone to gather the shattered bits of herself, to blot out the scene, the look on Kit’s face, a look of bewilderment, shock and shame. You have a job to do, so get on with it. There were two frightened women who were depending on her. She drove back slowly, distracted, crashing the gearstick, but once in the safety of her cabin, she pulled out her battered suitcase.
Her first instinct was to pack up and leave on the next train to Paris, to flee from the filth, the noise of the camps. The thought of sharing the same district with a man such as Carlyle was unbearable. She wanted no further explanation, excuses, apologies. Her hands trembled, her legs cramping with lack of water and shock. Collapsing on her camp bed, tears welled up, tears of pity for herself and frustration at such an unexpected encounter in the full view of an audience. She had made an utter fool of herself. Perhaps it wasn’t him after all?
Who was she fooling? How many tears had she shed in dark places after news of his death reached her? The letter from his commanding officer, the pain of recalling those tender moments and caresses on the beach by the Rose Villa, the passion of that first lovemaking, the innocence of their bodies, were real enough. This betrayal was beyond words, humiliating, unbelievable. To fake his own death, to abandon her to face Matron’s wrath. It still rankled. What cruel fate had brought them face to face in this borderland of chaos? There was nothing for it now but to leave, to find a hiding place to lick her wounded heart.
*
‘Look out, Chris, steady on! You nearly crashed into those vans. What’s gotten into you? Better let me drive. You’re all over the show,’ yelled Chuck Hauser, Kit’s American co-driver, grabbing the wheel. ‘Who was that crazy dame, calling you Kit, flinging herself onto the bonnet? You in some trouble with her? Just pull over, let’s give the kids in the back a break. Tell Uncle Chuck all about it. I won’t say a word.’
I bet you won’t, thought Kit. Chuck was a good worker but young. He tried to make everything into a joke, to hide his shock at the job they were doing.
‘Shut up, just give me another cig and keep your nose out. None of your damn business who she is and don’t call Flora a crazy woman.’ Kit jumped out of the truck, furious with himself for putting the kids in danger by reckless driving.
‘Flora, so that’s her name. Have you been having fun?’ Chuck joked, but seeing the fury on Kit’s face, he walked away. ‘Okay, okay!’
Kit wanted to punch him but they let down the back of the truck in silence, so the children could let off steam. The Spanish nurse followed her charges into a field, leaving Kit to storm off alone to gather his thoughts. It had felt like a killer punch to his chest when he saw her staring at him from the crowd. The only girl he had ever loved was standing before him, recognising him after twenty years. He wanted to crawl into a hole and howl. The day of reckoning had come and now he must face the worst of himself. Just when he thought he was being useful here, he had been found out. Dragging on the cigarette brought no relief. The cheap tobacco made him cough, the smoke choked his throat. What excuse could he make that didn’t sound trite and unconvincing? All he felt was for Flora. It pierced his heart like a spear to know how he had hurt her. He could hardly breathe, spluttering on his fag, spitting it out in disgust.
After her challenge, she had just walked away with dignity, vowing never to speak to him again. Kit knew she deserved an explanation, even if she would never comprehend why he had been so weak. Anyway, why was she here, in the chaos of this filthy transit camp? Once a nurse always a nurse, he supposed. How brave of her to be battling with all that poverty and disease. An image of her in her VAD cap and cloak flashed into his mind, blushing as they touched hands in secret, all those years ago.
How could he not recognise her? She was older, of course, but the years had been kind. She was still a striking woman, with hardly a grey hair. Those dark eyes pierced him with an accusation all too accurate. He could not bear it.
He thought he had escaped but here was the dies irae, the day of wrath was upon him now. He could disappear again, whispered a tempting voice at the back of his head. Oh no, you don’t, not this time. That was the old me, he argued. He was needed here. People were relying on him to help rescue families and children. Sam’s children’s house was a colony for these orphans, a respite before long journeys into the unknown. He would not be deserting them as he had deserted those loved ones in the past.
‘On our way…’ he called to Chuck.
‘I’ll drive then.’ Chuck made for the driving seat.
‘No, I’m fine.’ Kit wanted to concentrate on the task in hand and push that shattering encounter to the back of his mind for now. He needed time to think, to prepare, to face Flora, but not yet. What to do next needed planning. There was a good man who might help him own up to twenty years of deception, one man he trusted to hear his confession with compassion. He would do nothing until he had spoken with him.