by Carol Rivers
‘And so it did.’
‘Do you remember the match-girl?’
He smiled. ‘I kept her talisman close. Though I must admit –’ he paused, raising a dark eyebrow uncertainly – ‘there were times in battle, very cruel times, when I was tempted to strike one and light a cigarette.’ His eyes flickered faintly, dark and hard, until suddenly he seemed to see her again and his lips lifted in a quick smile. ‘But my talisman was too precious to use. Instead, I thought of you. And of England. And of when we would be together again. Like this. As husband and wife.’
Flora wanted to tell him that she too had experienced those hours of deep despair. Even now, if she allowed it, a little voice inside her echoed, ‘Will this bliss last?’
‘Michael, sometimes I feel a little afraid. Is the war really over?’
‘Of course it is, my love. The world would be mad to create another,’ he assured her, gently touching her face.
‘And the baby – our baby, will it be safe?’
A frown etched his forehead. His eyes looked troubled. ‘What makes you ask this, Flora?’
She gave a helpless shrug. ‘I remember the patients who came to Dr Tapper, the men with shell shock and dying from the poisonous gas fumes. The crippled and the maimed. I can’t believe we’ve been so lucky to escape with a future before us.’
‘Yes. I, too, feel privileged.’
After the four years of turmoil that left the world changed for ever, Flora still found it difficult not to feel guilty. All those injured men and their sad families. It was not easy to accept that peace had at last come and she and Michael were so happy.
They walked hand in hand together to the factory gates. Lord William would have been very proud of Will had he lived to see this, Flora thought with pride. Will had built a thriving business in only a year. With Hilda’s help, her two friends had established a life for themselves that they could only once have dreamed of. As always, as Flora thought of Hilda, she felt protective. Hilda had been through so much and her secrets were safe with Flora. But, as if Hilda preferred to lock her past away, she never spoke of Adelphi Hall now. Or the child she had miscarried. Flora knew in her heart that Hilda would find it hard to trust again. Even so, Flora held fast to the hope that her dear friend would find love again one day.
‘Hmm,’ murmured Michael, distracting Flora from her thoughts, ‘I can smell something good. Coconut, almond, ginger and spices—’
‘Currants and sultanas,’ agreed Flora, lifting her face to smell the sweet essences of the bakery. ‘And jams and chocolate and perhaps just a hint of treacle.’
They laughed together and walked a little more briskly to the large factory doors. Suddenly, they flew open and Flora waved excitedly to a small, smartly dressed young woman who waited to greet them. Hilda wore a camel-coloured wool suit and grey leather boots. Her face was powdered and rouged expertly and her lips plum-red. She carried herself like the lady she had become. The wealthy young woman that Will and the bakery had made her.
Soon Flora was holding Hilda close. The unmistakeable scent of a Selfridge perfume mingled in the air around them.
‘Happy Christmas, you two.’ Hilda tossed back her luxurious brown waves.
Flora linked her arm through Hilda’s and Michael held open the doors as they made their way through the factory. Flora had visited here many times. But today the walls were decorated with garlands of holly. Each garland was brightened by scarlet berries and words, printed in gold, that read, HAPPY CHRISTMAS FROM BONIFACE BAKERIES.
Hilda grinned. ‘After the party, you must come and see the new ovens we’ve bought.’
‘They’ve arrived in time for Christmas?’
‘Yes, but Will still grumbles. He don’t favour this automated lark.’
‘Do they work?’
‘Not half! The rate they cook, we’ll make more profit in a day than we did in one week.’
‘Hilda, you sound very business-like.’
Hilda preened, her brown eyes sparkling. ‘Here, want to know a secret?’
Flora and Michael nodded.
‘We’ve bought the old flour mill up Aldgate. It was going for a song and is big enough to supply all London’s teashops and High Street bakeries.’
‘Oh, Hilda, well done!’
‘Clever girl,’ Michael said genuinely. ‘Congratulations.’
Hilda nodded, giving a little curtsey. ‘I’d like Mrs Burns to see me now. Though Gracie said she don’t know where Mrs Burns and Mr Leighton have gone. Even though I didn’t care for them, it must’ve been rotten getting the chop after so many years.’
It was the first time that Hilda had spoken of Adelphi Hall in many months. Flora saw the wistful shine in her friend’s eyes.
‘Do you hear from Gracie often?’
‘Once in a while.’ Hilda gave a dismissive shrug. ‘The hospital management kept her and Peter on. But they have their own staff and there ain’t no call for servants. Nor ever will be now. The old earl saw to that.’
‘It was for the best, Hilda, that he bequeathed Adelphi to the nation’s war-wounded. There are still so many in need of care.’
Flora had never told Hilda that Turner had written to her to say that Lord Guy, after hearing of his aunt’s death, had been committed to an institution in Italy. There had been talk of violent behaviour, and Lady Gabriella had returned to England. James Forsythe, Turner had added as a postscript, had been the last to leave Adelphi Hall.
‘Well, then. We’d better get a move on,’ Hilda said briskly and turned on her heel.
Flora glanced at Michael. They both knew that Hilda would never forget her past.
At the end of the long corridor, Hilda pushed open another set of doors. A chorus of voices rose in the air.
‘Happy Christmas!’ the three hundred and twenty bakery staff cheered. Amongst them were the faces of friends and family. People they knew and loved, who had struggled through a turbulent era and had come to celebrate Will and Hilda’s good fortune.
Flora’s eyes filled with happy tears. Here were hers and Michael’s nearest and dearest. Those who had survived the long years of war to make new lives for themselves. Mrs Bell, who was now Mrs Reg Miles, and had retired from Hailing House to live with Reg near Covent Garden. Dr Tapper, who had just returned from a well-deserved six-month stay with his sister in Bath. And her mother-in-law, Flora thought with pride, Lillian Appleby, dressed elegantly in a long, pale-green coat with a fox-fur collar, and to whom she owed so much.
There were newer faces, too. Ones she had come to love and trust. Nurse Sara Parkin, who had moved to East London to be close to Will. Their romance, Flora knew, would almost certainly end in marriage. Sally Vine, still a loyal worker for the suffrage movement. A close friend now, who eagerly awaited the post-Christmas election and the government’s approval of the right for women to vote.
But in the midst of all of them stood Will. Her friend, her brother, her kindred spirit. His chef’s toque hat stood high above other heads, a pleated white symbol of his expertise and skill. His spotless double-breasted white jacket, a knotted white necktie and spotless white knee-length apron. A few blond curls peeped out from under his hat, hair that had grown quickly during his recovery and hid the ugly lump by his ear. And most impressive of all was the false leather arm, fitted with a metal claw. Flora had been amazed to discover that, with this, he could perform any duty he chose to undertake.
Flora clutched Hilda’s hand. They walked slowly forward into Will’s embrace. The bakery staff gathered round and raised their glasses of sparkling champagne.
Flora cast her glance to Michael. Their eyes met.
‘Together again for Christmas,’ she acknowledged softly.
‘Together again for Christmas,’ every voice in the room repeated, resounding clearly with gratitude and joy.
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