‘Why, it is the sixteenth of February.’
‘Goodness!’ Flora sat back and chuckled. ‘Would you believe that it is my birthday today? And you have offered me cake!’
‘My dear! Then I couldn’t have decided to bake it for any better purpose.’ Beatrix sat down and squeezed her hand. ‘Happy Birthday, Flora.’
‘Thank you.’
‘So remind me, how old are you today?’
‘I am . . .’ – Flora had to think about it for a few seconds – ‘twenty-nine.’
‘Still so very young. Just over half my age,’ Beatrix said. ‘I always think of you as older. Please take that as a compliment, if you can.’
‘Oh, I do. I feel as though I have lived a very long time.’
‘Well, you know me to be a woman of the earth, but even I occasionally need to return to civilisation in London, and I wonder sometimes if you should too. Especially as the war is now over.’
‘I am happy enough,’ commented Flora, feeling a hint of irritation.
‘I know you are, dear, but William and I were saying only the other night that we worry for you. You are still young and beautiful—’
‘Please, Beatrix, there is no need to flatter me.’
‘I do not. Flatter you, that is. I merely point out the facts. Will you not think of contacting your family? Perhaps suggest a visit to them down south to lay the ghost to rest?’
‘You know we have talked of this before, and the answer is still no. Aurelia does not wish to ever see me again. What could I bring to her life except a painful reminder of the past?’
‘What about love, Flora?’
Flora stared at Beatrix in confusion. Not normally sentimental, she didn’t understand why her friend was talking of such a thing. She bolted down the rest of the cake and stood up. ‘I must get back now. Thank you for your kind wishes, but I assure you I am well and happy. Goodbye.’
Beatrix watched her young friend leave the kitchen, and as she saw her march off through the snow down the lane, the loneliness and isolation Flora lived in continued to trouble her deeply.
Four months later, on a sunny day in June, a tear-stained Flora opened the front door of the cottage to Beatrix’s repeated knocking.
‘Goodness!’ Beatrix took in her distraught expression. ‘What on earth has happened?’
‘It’s Panther! He went to sleep as normal on my bed last night, but then this morning, he didn’t . . . wake up.’
‘Oh, my dear,’ Beatrix said as she stepped inside and closed the door. ‘I am so terribly sorry.’
‘I loved him so much! He was the only link I had with the past, you see. In fact, he was all I had . . .’
‘There, there.’ Beatrix led Flora into the kitchen, sat her down and set the kettle to boil on the range. ‘He lived a good long life.’
‘He was only ten. I’ve heard many cats can live to be much older.’ Flora lowered her head as her shoulders heaved in silent sobs.
‘Well, the time he lived was healthy and happy. And we both know there’s nothing worse than watching an old animal suffer a drawn-out, painful death.’
‘But it was so sudden! I don’t understand.’
‘No one does, except our Lord above.’ Beatrix poured the water into a teapot. ‘Where is he now?’
‘Still on my bed. He looks so comfortable there, I don’t want to move him.’
‘You will have to be practical, Flora. Panther needs to be buried. Shall I help you?’
‘Yes . . .’ Flora’s eyes filled with further tears. ‘Forgive me for being sentimental. You know I have lost many animals in my time, but Panther was special.’
‘Of course he was. Some animals just are.’
‘Would it be ridiculous to say how alone I feel now without him?’
‘Not at all.’ Beatrix put a cup of tea in front of her. ‘I’m sure you must have a box out in your store cupboard. Why don’t I fetch it and go upstairs and put dear Panther inside it? I’ll bring him down and you can say goodbye before I close it. Then we can go outside to decide whereabouts in the garden you would like to put his grave.’
‘Thank you.’ Flora offered her a wan smile as she left the room.
Having buried Panther, and done her best to console a devastated Flora, Beatrix left Wynbrigg Farm and walked back along the lane to Castle Cottage. Opening a drawer in her writing bureau, she took out the letter she had received some days ago and reread it. Its contents made her weep, a rarity these days in the wake of the Great War, during which so much tragedy had occurred. As they ate supper, she discussed the situation with William, her husband.
‘I went to see Flora this morning to put the idea to her, but I did not feel the timing was appropriate. She was distraught about losing her cat.’
William tapped out his pipe thoughtfully. ‘From what you have just told me, I think it makes your suggestion even more valid. And I would be inclined to simply present her with a fait accompli. She can only say no.’
‘Perhaps you’re right. Thank you, my dear.’
A week later, a still desolate Flora saw Beatrix striding up the path again, holding a large bundle in her arms.
‘Good morning, Flora,’ Beatrix said as she stepped inside the cottage. ‘Your garden borders are looking wonderful, especially the Star of Persia – an excellent addition.’
‘Thank you,’ Flora replied. Although, since Panther had gone, she hadn’t cared much about anything. ‘What . . . is that?’
Beatrix removed the blanket that had shielded the contents. ‘This, my dear, is a baby.’
‘Goodness.’ Flora walked towards Beatrix and peered more closely at the tiny face, its eyes closed fast in slumber. ‘And what exactly is it doing here with you?’
‘It’s a “he” and he is two weeks old. You know that I am a patron of the local hospital and this little mite was brought in a few hours after he was born. A neighbour heard his cries from the homestead next to her up on Black Fell. Sadly, she found the mother had passed away after the birth, but this little thing was bellowing as loud as you like between her legs. The cord that attaches mothers to babies had not yet been broken. She cut it with a bread knife, sent her husband for the undertaker, and brought the baby down the fell to the hospital. May I sit down? He is heavier than he looks. Such a strong little thing, aren’t you?’ Beatrix cooed to the bundle affectionately.
Flora led Beatrix into the kitchen and pulled out a chair for her, marvelling at this new, maternal side to her friend.
‘Where is the father of this baby?’
‘Well now, it’s a tragic tale. The father was a shepherd, sent out to France to fight three years ago. His last leave was in August, and soon after he returned to the front, he perished in the trenches during the Battle of épehy. And this only a few short weeks before the armistice. His body was never sent home.’ Beatrix shook her head, sadness etched on her features. ‘And now, neither of them are here to see their son. I can only pray they are joined in heaven, God rest their souls.’