The morning of Sandrine’s wedding dawned warm and bright. Flora was up early to finish the last of her laundry and bathe in the little stream. On the bed lay her best frock: an extravagant purchase in Barcelona, with three-quarter sleeves, a boat-shaped neck and straight skirt, in a floral pattern. Custom meant that as a widow, she should wear black, but there was something that made her resist this, and besides which, she didn’t have anything else suitable to wear.
After weeks in dungarees, it was such a pleasure to feel feminine. Christy was now the proud owner of a go-chair with straps to secure him. After years of uncertainty and worry, years of danger and deception, for once, Flora was thinking ahead. She had wept for Kit, yearned for him, but tears would not bring him back, no matter how many she shed. Christy was her life now.
Today the whole village would be celebrating the young couple’s happiness. It was hard not to feel envious. That’s enough, she snapped to herself, you’ve had your moment, so don’t begrudge them theirs.
First, though, she wanted to bake bread for their coming journey and decide what she could give Sandrine as a wedding present. In this time of shortages, setting up a home was not easy. Once she left here, there would be no use for anything. The couple could come and take their pick… She paused, smiling, at a brilliant idea. What if they would like to live here? What better place for Sandrine and Robert to begin married life, to bring up children in such a beautiful spot? She could then leave, knowing the children’s house would not be deserted, but full of new life. Why had she not thought of this before?
Christy’s grizzling broke off her scheming. It was time for his rest. She pushed him in the little pram until he nodded off, depositing him by the cottage door in the fresh autumn air. Now she could get on with her tasks.
*
As Kit drew ever closer to Montze village, he felt his sore leg grumbling at the long walk. It was a relief to see no damage had been done to the pretty streets. He had passed so many wrecked houses, burnt buildings and deserted streets on his journey here. The village seemed empty, which was strange, but then he saw an old man he didn’t recognise, leaning on the bridge over the ravine. ‘Where is everybody?’ he asked.
‘At the wedding,’ the man muttered, sucking his pipe and looking at Kit. ‘You’re not from these parts?’
Kit nodded. ‘Just passing through to see my friends.’
‘You won’t find them at home today… at the wedding, and it’ll go on all night.’
Kit knew enough about French weddings to know they were an all-day affair. He was not going to intrude on such a party, even though it was customary to be welcomed to join in the fun.
Perhaps it was a mistake, coming back to where he’d once been so happy, but tired as he was, there was one place he must see for old times’ sake. He trudged up that familiar stony track, winding ever upwards, until he could see the red tile roof of their cottage. Last time, he had left in a hurry, abandoning it to the mercy of rain, storms and other men on the run. He dreaded to think what state it was in, but to his surprise there was a little vegetable plot newly dug over. He peered in through the window to see a loaf on the kitchen table and washing neatly piled by the stove, with a line of baby napkins drying on a rack above. So, it was lived in. He knocked on the door, but there was only silence. Whoever lived here now was not at home.
Kit looked up at the old barn with pride. No one would mind if he kipped down somewhere, out of sight? He felt deflated and so weary. After all these weeks of travelling towards his dream, the reality wasn’t how he had imagined it to be. That cold splash of realisation washed over him. How could he expect to return to find nothing had changed, that someone would greet him? What was he thinking of? He didn’t belong here anymore. Flora would be safe in Spain by now, so it was only right that the house would have new occupants. They wouldn’t know who he was. Life had moved on, as it should.
He picked an apple from the tree, only to find it was just as sour as always. He filled his flask with cold water from the pump and turned to make his way towards Maurice’s farm. There he would get all the news and be given a bed for the night, but his legs were reluctant to carry on up the stony path. It was no good, better to rest here for a while and pretend that he was back in the old days catching his breath, while the children were playing out by the stream.
*
Flora felt on edge for some reason. The wedding was a simple church affair, sadly without Father Xavier, who had been posted to a bigger parish. Sandrine looked so beautiful and happy in the wedding dress, while Lise clucked around her daughter with pride. Sebastien returned, taller, thinner, from his escapades with the resistance group. They were a family once more, so how could she not feel envious? Was that what was troubling her?
‘Come on, time to take a turn.’ Sebastien held out his hand for a dance.
‘Thank you, but no, not yet,’ she replied, not wanting to stay for the music and dancing. There was a long journey ahead of her, packing to do and a decent rest needed. No one would be offended if she slipped away. Tomorrow she would take a formal farewell of Lise and her family, suggest that the bride and groom might like to take over a cottage in the hills and gift them the furniture.
Christy was much admired, as usual, and basked in the attention, but now he was grizzly, tired and ready for bed. She whispered goodbye to Lise and the bride, who kissed her cheeks. ‘You’re going too soon… stay on. We’re going to miss you so much.’
It was a warm autumn night with a harvest moon as she pushed Christy slowly home. Flora looked up at the leaves, already turning gold. Everywhere looked so peaceful. It was hard to believe that they’d suffered five years of war, with so much loss and grief. She was one of the lucky ones… or was she? Climbing back uphill to the house was never the same; opening the door to silence was daunting. Tomorrow they would begin the long way home, back to Scotland and the family waiting there. At least she would have a roof over her head, when thousands of others would not.
Then her attention was drawn to the shadowy outline of a man making his way towards the farm gate. Who was this stranger, someone bent on looting? Suddenly she felt stabs of alarm. What if he was an intruder? What was he doing here? She made to go back, glancing to see if he was following.
The man turned towards her, hearing the rattle of the rusty pram wheels, and raised his straw hat in greeting, ‘Madame’, as she was hurrying away. ‘Madame, please, I didn’t mean to scare you. I just wanted to rest.’ Then he stopped short, staring down at her. ‘Flora, Flora, is it really you?’
There were no words for this moment of recognition, only arms outstretched as she ran towards him. ‘Kit, oh Kit… you have come home to us at last!’