Kit waited for Flora to write with news of her departure date, but nothing came and he wondered if she had decided to slip away without any farewells. He hoped to goodness that was not the case. Sam was pleased with his progress. The three of them sat listening to the wireless but nothing seemed to be happening after six months; except skirmishes at sea and strict blackout notices. Everything went on as normal there, except for shortages of imported foodstuffs in the shops. The markets sold out early and there were fewer men on the streets.
Consuela was determined to give the Spanish children a traditional Easter celebration. It was going to take some planning. Spring was burgeoning around them, with flowers blossoming in the hedgerows and woods, for the girls to make garlands with. The hens were laying and Consuela stored the eggs away carefully for boiling. How she found the other ingredients for a colourful cake and pies was beyond Kit and Sam. This was to be a secret surprise treat. Holy week was a time of fasting and there was a vat of potaje de vigilia, a hearty soup filled with garden vegetables, spinach, garlic, dried peppers and chick peas.
Kit boiled the eggs with onion skins to turn them a deep golden colour. Later, he showed the children how to decorate them with paint brushes. Chuck found bars of chocolate, but no one dared ask him where from. They were hidden away to share out on Easter Sunday. Kit wrote, inviting Flora to visit again, but she sent a postcard from a place in the foothills of the Pyrenees, where she was helping out. At least she was still in France.
His only other visitor was Frankie. ‘Chuck tells me Mrs Lamont came, after all,’ she said.
‘No thanks to you. What did you do with my note to her?’
‘Sorry, I lost it somewhere. I didn’t know it was important. I told her about you being sick. Has she gone yet? We’ve heard things are hotting up in the north. I suggested she’d be better off in Spain.’
‘I bet you did,’ Kit snapped. ‘Why don’t you like her?’
‘These Limeys, here today, gone tomorrow. Some of them were useless in the office. One gal arrived, took one look at the mud and filth and turned right back. No staying power.’
‘Is that what you think of Flora? I bet she didn’t tell you she scrubbed her hands raw, nursed wounded men on trains, skivvied as a volunteer in the worst conditions imaginable. Her kind saved hundreds of lives, gave us men hope in the darkest hours and watched their own colleagues blown to bits in shellfire. No staying power? Sure, she comes from a wealthy family, but she didn’t hesitate to come back here to serve once more.’
‘Okay, so I didn’t know that. I’m sorry.’
‘It’s Flora you should apologise to, young lady. You’ve no idea what you nearly did.’ Kit was having no truck with her arrogance and watched her face crumple. ‘Don’t meddle where you’re not wanted.’
The children went to mass on Good Friday and Easter Sunday, joining the crowds of worshippers in the village church. Sam, his wife and helpers stayed behind to prepare for the feast. It was a warm spring day and they brought the big table out onto the grass, decorating it with vases of wild flowers. Consuela made her version of the famous Catalan pie: pastry filled with eggs, lardons of pork and chorizo that had hung in the cellar.
The children returned, awestruck by the scene before them. Everyone sat down, excited by the feast. Then came the masterpiece, mona de Pascua, the Easter cake. Consuela found remnants of cooking dye to layer up the sponge and topped the cake with the colourful boiled eggs. Each child received a piece of chocolate, to wolf down before it melted in the sun.
One of the older refugees brought out his guitar and began to play, castanets were found and soon the children joined Consuela in dancing, clapping their hands and swirling. Right in the middle was Marisa, lost in her own world, stamping her feet, twisting in a flamenco dance learned from her lost family.
‘Do you see that?’ Sam whispered. ‘There must be gypsy in her blood.’
Kit was speechless, watching the little girl smiling and laughing. Then she turned to him and beckoned. ‘Come, Papa, come and dance with me!’ He jumped up to join her with tears in his eyes. They were the first words he had ever heard her utter.