The Forgotten Daughter

by Mary Wood

  ‘Doesn’t the cemetery look lovely? The French people have done our soldiers proud.’

  Flora nodded; she knew this was as painful for Cyrus as it was for her, and that he was trying to distract himself from the emotions that threatened to overwhelm them both.

  Flora’s mind showed her her time with Freddy, from first meeting him on the station all those years ago, to when she held him in her arms as he died. A young man, barely sixteen years old, but a brave soldier.

  After a moment they turned away. This was the most difficult thing for Flora to do, because what had just happened was like a final goodbye.

  Cyrus didn’t speak as they got into the car. But as they drove away, his chatter was about vineyards, and in particular the Phylloxera bug that had all but destroyed the wine industry in France some fifty years previously, and which had left many vineyards deserted. This gradually helped Flora to think of other things than the pain of those she had lost. His enthusiasm was inspiring and gave her hope for their future.

  ‘The agent that I wrote to replied, with a particular vineyard for sale in Languedoc-Roussillon in south-west France. He said that at one time it was the best in the region, but the family never recovered after the Phylloxera epidemic. Sadly, the stress killed the father, and the son took his own life. The wife went back to her family in Spain. The vineyard has been run by two tenants since then, but neither really had the funds to restock it properly, and so it is now for sale. I’m very excited to see it, Flora. There is a chateau that is in need of repair, and ten acres of land.’

  ‘Will this Phyll-whatever-it-was come back?’

  ‘Very unlikely, as they now graft vines from North America onto the natural French vine. These North American vines are resilient to the bug.’

  ‘How did you learn so much about it all, in such a short time?’

  ‘It isn’t a short time, darling. It has been a dream of mine for many years, since we studied the subject in our botany class. I became fascinated by how a little bug can destroy thousands of vines. That led to my interest in the whole process of wine-making. It hasn’t been an all-consuming interest, as my music has always been that, but a sort of hobby that I enjoyed reading about. And then, in the prisoner-of-war camp, there were some French officers. With me being able to speak the language, I got along really well with them. One, Monsieur Raynard d’Olivier, was from Languedoc. We spoke for hours about vine-growing. His family owns a vineyard. Sadly, he died of dysentery. I vowed that one day I would visit his family and tell them of our friendship and how it helped us both.’

  Flora put out her hand and laid it on Cyrus’s knee. ‘The lives of so many have been torn apart.’

  ‘Yes, darling. So many gone. But those of us who are left must build a new world. Remember, they are saying that the war was the war to end all wars, so we have brought peace to the world. Now we have to make it an even better place.’

  The French countryside sped by – areas that looked green and peaceful, but that had seen thousands of deaths in their fields.

  It was two days later when they arrived in the Languedoc area. The vineyard they were to look at was in the village of Laurens in Hérault. The houses of the village were large and would once, Flora knew, have been painted white, and their windowboxes would have been full of trailing flowers. Now paint peeled from their closed shutters, and bricks showed through, where once plaster had covered them. Every house was in need of a fresh coat of whitewash.

  Some children were playing near a three-foot-high wall. The boys were dressed in dark all-in-one suits, with the trousers flaring just below their knee. The girls were mainly in navy-coloured frocks with high necklines and long sleeves. One boy had a hoop and stick and was trying to keep the hoop running along the road, while the others laughed at his antics.

  It was a welcoming, if shabbily attired group as the children ran towards them when they pulled up, all of them excited to see such a car in their village. And maybe the first car they had ever seen in their lives, as there was no sign of any other vehicles. A horse and trap were tethered to a fence a short distance ahead, but that was all in the way of transport that Flora could see.

  Cyrus got out and answered their questions, making the children laugh and promising them a ride in the car, in return for the many favours he would need as they settled in. ‘The first favour is for you to take me to the house of Madame Ferrouk, as we are to lodge in her house.’

  The children shouted, ‘Let me show you’, ‘I know Madame Ferrouk’ and ‘This way – follow me.’ One enterprising young boy said, ‘Let me sit in your car and take you there. These others will take you along the paths, but I will take you the route of the road.’

  This seemed the best offer, and so Juan Felipe started his friendship with them.

  ‘My family is from the other side of the Pyrenees, in Spain. But my father came here looking for work.’

  ‘Did he find work?’

  ‘Not yet, Monsieur. But he is a fine wine-grower. His father – my grandfather – lost our land to gambling. He was not a good man.’

  Neither of them commented on this, as the boy looked forlorn.

  ‘Here it is, the house of Madame Ferrouk. I’ll help you with your bags.’

  ‘Thank you, Juan. We are staying for a few weeks, so no doubt we will see you often, and I would very much like to meet your father. I may be able to offer him work in the future.’

  When Juan left them, he had a shiny coin in his hand and a big grin on his face. ‘I will tell my father that you wish to see him. He will be here quicker than a hare can run away from his gun!’

  They both laughed at this.

  Madame Ferrouk’s house was a three-storey building and stood on a corner, with views towards the village, but a backdrop of the magnificent Pyrenees in the distance. Flora caught her breath with the excitement that overcame her, and for the first time in a long while felt a deep happiness and peace enter her. She looked at her Cyrus, his tall, handsome figure climbing the steps to the house, and thought how very much at home he seemed. Eagerness and hope shone from him. How much he deserved them to. They had been through an abyss of misery, separation and loss, but now they had the rest of their lives in front of them. Those lives were shaped by their past, but they were also full of promise. They would work hard to build a better world for their family.

  She didn’t dwell on how fractured that family was, but thought of all they had to look forward to: being together in a place where no one could hurt them or point the finger at them.

  Flora clasped little Freddy’s hand and held her ever-increasing stomach with her other hand as she climbed the steps. Hope filled her heart for their new beginning. At last the happiness she had been seeking was firmly within her grasp.

  Letter to Readers

  Dear Reader,

  Thank you for taking this journey with me; I hope very much that you enjoyed Flora’s story in the first in The Girls Who Went to War series.

  My research for The Forgotten Daughter, and the whole series, took many turns. I had previously visited the Somme and Dieppe, where I trod the path of many of the theatres of war. But though this immersed me in a sense of the place, it sadly didn’t give me much of the story of the women who went there to nurse. The only evidence that they had been there was a picture hung on the wall of a museum of a nurse being presented to the King on his visit to the area.

  I hope there is more of a recognition of the hundreds of young women who valiantly went to France, and many other parts of Europe, to nurse the injured, and that it was just me not finding it. However, I did feel enriched in their history, by taking this trip, as I stood on the same ground that had once run with a river of blood, and was aware of the shadows of tent hospitals where the wounded were tended.

  But, for the details of a voluntary nurse’s life, I had to rely on searching the internet, where there is a wealth of stories to draw inspiration and information from. One piece in particular gave me the basis for this series, a start
ing point of the friendship between the girls. It was the diary of Miss Esmee Sartorius, a nurse who took the journey to Brussels that Flora, Mags and Ella take. It can be found at http://www.firstworldwar.com/­diaries/­august1914.htm and is a story that fills you with admiration.

  The next book in the series is The Abandoned Daughter. This is Ella’s story, from when she and Flora parted, leaving Ella in the thick of the action in France. It sees her become part of a team who provide medical care nearer to the front line, and then takes her journey into her past, following both the harrowing and the uplifting events that take place in her life. This is scheduled for publication in Spring 2019.

  At present, I am writing Mags’s story, The Wronged Daughter, the third book in the series. That, too, begins from her parting with Flora, and takes us on Mags’s journey through changes in her life that have far-reaching consequences. Of all the girls, Mags was the most changed by the Brussels experience. And it is her regrowth that we witness as she takes on life after the war: a life of disappointment, betrayal, sorrow, but ultimate fulfilment. This is due for publication in Winter 2019.

  However, the story doesn’t end there, as the tragedy of the first half of the twentieth century saw the world flare into another conflict, far greater in its impact on the lives and infrastructure of the home front in Great Britain. This is the time of the sons and daughters of Flora, Mags and Ella, a war that will pit sibling against sibling, break hearts and ruin lives as, brought up in what is to become Vichy, the so-called free France, they take different sides in the conflict. I will be writing this book next. Possible publication will be spring 2020.

  If you enjoyed this book, do keep the others in mind for future reading, but also visit my website to learn more about my books and me: www.authormarywood.com

  You can also join me on Facebook. My page www.facebook.com/­HistoricalNovels is a lively interaction with my readers, with laughter and love in abundance, as well as all the latest book news, competitions and guest authors. I would love to see you there.

  Much love to all, Mary x

  Acknowledgements

  An author is nothing without her editors and I am blessed to have the wonderful Wayne Brookes and his team, and Samantha Sharman and her team, at Pan Macmillan publishers taking care of me and my work. Along with freelance editor Victoria Hughes Williams, they take my creation and make it sing off the page.

  To these I can add my son, James Wood, who reads my work before I release it to anyone. James finds the areas where I should have put more drama, or should cut as not needed. He suggests scenes that could be added, and after carrying out his suggestions, I feel confident in sending my manuscript out to my publisher to begin its journey.

  And, besides editors, others within the Pan Macmillan team work very hard on my, and my books’, behalf: publicist Kate Green and her team tirelessly arrange book signings, press releases and blog tours, and make sure I am taken care of while carrying out these events. And the sales team, who work so hard to get my book shelf-space.

  Thank you to you all, from a very grateful author.

  And thank you, too, to my agent, Judith Murdoch, who is always there for me and always encouraging, as her signature words ‘Onwards and Upwards’ testify. Judith, you are simply The Best.

  To my darling husband, Roy, for his love and support. And our children, Christine Martin, Julie Bowling, Rachel Gradwell and James Wood, their partners and the beautiful grandchildren and great-grandchildren, and added family they have given me. And to my Olley and Wood families. All of you give me support, encouragement and above all, love. You all enrich my life. Thank you.

  And to those not involved in this book, but who saw me to this point with their editing and book designing skills in my self-publishing days. You are never forgotten; without you I wouldn’t have made it this far: Rebecca Keys, Julie Hitchin, the late Stanley Livingstone and Patrick Fox. Thank you.

  But no acknowledgement is ever complete without giving my thanks to my very special readers. Especially to those who follow me on Facebook. Each and every one of you brings so much to me. Your eagerness for every book is such an encouragement, seeing me through many hours of writing. Your help with promoting me and my books is invaluable to me, and here I must mention two of you in particular: Beverley Ann Hopper and Anna Saul. Both go above and beyond to recommend my work, by sharing my posts, creating their own for me, and making sure all my news on events and book releases is spread far and wide. But all of you inspire me and bring so much to my life, by sharing yours with me and helping me in so many ways. I wish I could name you all. Without each and every one of you, there would be no ‘Author Mary Wood’. You help me to achieve my dream. Thank you.

  My love to you all x

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