The Light Between Oceans(45)

And never once had he complained, thought Hannah. Frank’s ready, open smile was undiminished by the time she met him in Partageuse in 1922, when he came to work in the bakery.

She remembered the first time she had seen him, on the main street. The spring morning was sunny but October still brought a nip with it. He had smiled at her, and proffered a shawl she recognised as her own.

‘You left it in the bookshop, just now,’ he said.

‘Thank you. That’s very kind.’

‘It is a beautiful shawl, with such embroidery. My mother used to have one like it. Chinese silk is very costly: it would be a pity to lose it.’ He gave a respectful nod, and turned to go.

‘I haven’t seen you here before,’ said Hannah. Nor had she heard his charming accent.

‘I have just started at the baker’s. I am Frank Roennfeldt. Pleased to meet you, ma’am.’

‘Well, welcome to Partageuse, Mr Roennfeldt. I hope you’ll like it here. I’m Hannah Potts.’ She rearranged her parcels, trying to pull the shawl over her shoulders.

‘Please, allow me,’ he said, draping it around her in one fluid movement. ‘I wish you an excellent day.’ Again, he flashed an open smile. The sun caught the blue of his eyes and made his fair hair shine.

As she crossed the street to her waiting sulky, she noticed a woman nearby give her a piercing look and spit on the pavement. Hannah was shocked, but said nothing.

A few weeks later, she visited Maisie McPhee’s little bookshop once again. As she entered, she saw Frank standing at the counter, under attack from a matron who was waving her stick to make her point. ‘The very idea, Maisie McPhee!’ the woman was declaring. ‘The very notion that you could sell books that support the Boche. I lost a son and a grandson to those animals, and I don’t expect to see you sending them money like a Red Cross parcel.’

As Maisie stood speechless, Frank said, ‘I am sorry if I caused any offence, ma’am. It is not Miss McPhee’s fault.’ He smiled and held the open book towards her. ‘You see? It is only poetry.’

‘Only poetry, my foot!’ the woman snapped, thumping her stick on the ground. ‘Not a decent word ever came out of their mouths! I’d heard we had a Hun in town, but I didn’t think you’d be bold enough to rub it in our faces like this! And as for you, Maisie!’ She faced the counter. ‘Your father must be turning in his blessed grave.’

‘Please, I am very sorry,’ said Frank. ‘Miss McPhee, please keep the book. I did not mean to offend anyone.’ He put a ten-shilling note on the counter and walked out, brushing past Hannah without noticing her. The woman stormed out after him, clacking her way down the street in the opposite direction.

Maisie and Hannah looked at one another for a moment, before the shopkeeper assembled a bright smile and said, ‘Got your list there, Miss Potts?’

As Maisie ran her eye down the page, Hannah’s attention wandered to the abandoned book. She was curious how the dainty volume bound in forest-green leather could have caused such offence. Opening it, the gothic print on the flyleaf caught her eye: ‘Das Stunden Buch – Rainer Maria Rilke.’ She had learned German at school along with her French, and had heard of Rilke.

‘And,’ she said, taking out two pound notes, ‘do you mind if I take this book too?’ When Maisie looked at her in surprise, Hannah said, ‘It’s about time we all put the past behind us, don’t you think?’

The shopkeeper wrapped it in brown paper and tied it with string. ‘Well, to be honest, it saves me trying to send it back to Germany. No one else’ll buy it.’

At the baker’s a few moments later, Hannah put the little parcel on the counter. ‘I wonder if you could give this to Mr Roennfeldt please. He left it behind at the bookshop.’

‘He’s out the back. I’ll give him a cooee.’

‘Oh, there’s no need. Thanks very much,’ she said, and left the shop before he had a chance to say anything else.

A few days later, Frank called on her to thank her in person for her kindness, and her life began a new path, which at first seemed like the most fortunate she could have dreamed of.



Septimus Potts’s delight at the inkling that his daughter had found a local man to step out with turned to dismay when he learned he was the baker. But he remembered his own humble beginnings, and was determined not to hold the man’s trade against him. When, however, he found out he was German, or practically German, his dismay became disgust. The spats with Hannah that had started soon after the courtship began made each of them, stubborn in heart and head, more entrenched in their position.

Within two months, things had come to a head. Septimus Potts paced the drawing room, trying to take in the news. ‘Are you out of your mind, girl?’

‘It’s what I want, Dad.’

‘Marrying a Hun!’ He glanced at Ellen’s photo in its ornate silver frame on the mantelpiece. ‘Your mother would never forgive me, for a start! I promised her I’d bring you up properly …’

‘And you have, Dad, you have.’

‘Well something went up the spout if you’re talking about hitching up with a German bloody baker.’

‘He’s Austrian.’

‘What difference does that make? Do I have to take you down to the Repat Home, and show you the boys still gibbering like idiots because of the gas? Me of all people – I paid for the bloody hospital!’