‘We are all waiting for that news,’ Sister said, taking out her watch, ‘and I intend to have it broadcast over the tannoy so everyone can listen.’
Ronnie practically tiptoed past several beds, the stringent smell of disinfectant in her nostrils. She smiled at several women who glanced up from their books and magazines, no doubt waiting for their own visitors. Heart in mouth she prepared herself for her mother not looking as good, having been so dangerously ill and not allowed any visitors except Pierre. But there was Maman, propped up by two pillows, her dark hair cascading to her shoulders, and her lipstick beautifully applied.
‘Oh, how delighful to see you all,’ she cooed, her arms outstretched.
‘Oh, Maman, you look so well,’ Ronnie said, kissing her. ‘And we’re dying to see—’
Maman gave a theatrical gesture towards the window.
The three sisters peered over the edge of the cot at the sleeping baby.
‘She’s beautiful,’ Suzanne said, stroking the fuzzy cheek. ‘Blonde, like her papa.’
‘And like you, Suzanne,’ Pierre said, beaming proudly.
‘But she has my eyes,’ Simone said, smiling at her three daughters. ‘Just like violet pansies – that is what Pierre always calls mine.’ She sent Pierre a tender look and he smiled back.
‘Have you named her yet?’ Raine asked.
‘Yes.’ Simone threw them a challenging look. ‘I wanted Victorine because France has victory at last, but I know you will make it short to Vicky. I will not have that. So she is to be called Denise. Your Papa has chosen it. A good French name, and impossible to shorten.’
The baby opened her eyes and stared, unfocused, at Ronnie.
‘Welcome to the family, little Denny,’ she said, turning to her mother with a mischievous grin.
‘I think you are teasing, Véronique,’ Simone said. ‘And you know I do not like to be teased.’
Raine and Suzanne chuckled.
‘Sorry, Maman, but you know us – we can’t help it,’ Ronnie said, joining in the laughter.
‘I gave you all—’
‘Beautiful French names that you refuse to use,’ the three sisters mimicked in perfect harmony.
‘Denny,’ Pierre said, his brow creased in thought. ‘You know, Simone, darling, I rather like it.’ He sent his wife an apologetic look.
‘That’s who she’ll be to the three of us, anyway,’ Ronnie said, laughing at Maman’s fierce expression. ‘It’ll probably even get shortened to Den!’
There was a sudden crackle from the speaker.
Denise lay like an angel in her cot, oblivious to the pent-up anticipation in the ward.
‘This is London. The Prime Minister, the Right Honourable Winston Churchill.’
A few seconds pause. And then the great man spoke:
‘Yesterday morning at 2.41 a.m. at General Eisenhower’s Headquarters, General Jodl, the representative of the German High Command, and of Grand Admiral Doenitz, the designated head of the German State, signed the act of unconditional surrender of all German land, sea and air forces in Europe to the Allied Expeditionary Forces, and simultaneously to the Soviet High Command.’
Ronnie grabbed Suzanne’s hand, squeezing it. She noticed Suzanne had her other hand gripped around Raine’s arm. Pierre was sitting as close as he possibly could to his wife and Ronnie saw him quickly brush her cheek with the tips of his fingers.
Everyone in the ward was silent as the Prime Minister continued until he came to what Ronnie considered the most important bit.
‘The German war is therefore at an end.’
Ronnie gasped with delight and was about to shout out when she caught Sister’s eye. Sister put a warning finger to her lips and Ronnie nodded. By this time everyone in the ward was smiling but still hanging on to Mr Churchill’s every word.
‘We may allow ourselves a brief period of rejoicing, but let us not forget for a moment the toils and efforts that lie ahead.’
He went on to remind everyone that the war was still going on in Japan, but by now the whole ward – visitors and patients – were cheering and the local church bells pealed out for the first time in six years, the sound drifting through the open hospital windows. At the sudden strange noise Denise opened her rosebud mouth and howled. Pierre picked her up from the cot, a tender expression on his face as he gazed at his tiny flaxen-haired daughter, her mouth still open as though she wasn’t quite sure whether to continue crying or not now she was safe in the arms of her papa.
‘Time to go so that Mrs Brunelle can get her rest,’ Sister said, coming over and firmly taking the baby from Pierre, and holding her close to her starched apron. She glanced at Denise after settling her back in her cot, then turned to Simone. ‘She’s timed her birth perfectly.’
‘The fourth victorious sister,’ Simone said with a gracious smile. ‘And you, my girls, must go before this Sister requests you to leave, but I will ask her if Pierre may stay with me a little longer.’
‘Just a little longer,’ Sister repeated, smiling at the beaming parents.
‘Come on,’ Ronnie said, jumping up and giving their mother a kiss, with Raine and Suzanne following suit. ‘The other victory sisters know when they’re not wanted. Besides, they’ve got a street party to go to in Downe.’
Acknowledgements
Anyone who has read one or more of my previous novels will know that I do most of my writing in a cabin in the garden. But they may not know this is a mere substitute for the railway carriage I really wanted. That is, until my husband, Edward, put his foot down, warning me it would cost at least £200,000 just to crane it into the garden, not to mention the restoration it would surely need! Cheap at half the price, I told him, much to his chagrin.
But I do love my cabin. It’s been my refuge when nursing a very poorly husband to grab the opportunity to sit at
