by Julia Kelly
“He’s been necking with one of the girls in the base’s command office. Bet she saw our paperwork come through late yesterday,” said Williams around his cigarette.
Louise cast a quick glance at Nigella. Her friend was staring hard at her knitting.
“Why are we only finding out about this now?” Mary asked.
“Because he meets her around the back of the garage at her tea break every afternoon,” said Cartruse.
“Her commanding officer likes to take a snooze in his office, and no one notices if she’s gone for twenty minutes,” said Hatfield.
“Hatfield, you sly dog,” said Charlie with a laugh.
“Wait, that means you waited all this time to tell us?” asked Louise.
“And I had to drag him here to do it,” said Lizzie.
“No secrets in B Section,” said Cartruse, clapping Hatfield on the back.
London. They were going to be sent to London. Yes, it was dangerous, but as Paul had pointed out in all of his recent letters, her entire job was dangerous. And she would be in London. Wonderful, centralized London, where he was planning to start his leave. She wouldn’t have to travel to him. It would be so easy.
“You look happy, Louise,” said Charlie, as the others chattered excitedly amongst themselves.
“I was just thinking that I won’t even need to worry about train schedules now when Paul comes,” she said.
“It looks as though the ATS is determined to play cupid for you.” Vera glanced at Nigella and dropped her voice. “It’s a shame I can’t say the same for all of us.”
“Do you think she’ll be okay?” Louise asked. Nigella had started knitting again, but the needles trembled in her hands.
“She’ll be right as rain soon enough. A shame her falling for one of her own section though,” said Charlie.
“I don’t think she’s had much experience with men,” said Vera, in a way that told Louise that Vera had had more than she might care for.
“She wouldn’t, would she, what with her parents shutting her up in Catholic school,” said Charlie.
“Well, she has to learn. We all have our hearts broken at some point. It might as well be now,” said Vera.
Hatfield’s lady friend in the clerk’s office proved to be a reliable source of information. In just seventy-two hours, the men and women of B Section, 488 Battery, were on a train from Oswestry to London, headed for the Woolwich Depot, where they would be stationed for the foreseeable future. It was a long, slow journey, with several changes to be made, and rolling into Birmingham as dusk fell, they got their first real look at the devastation the air raids had left behind.
“There are whole houses gone,” Mary muttered, her hands braced against the train window.
“What did you expect?” Charlie asked, but the way she shivered when they passed the skeletal remains of buildings told Louise that, for all her bluster, the most outspoken one of their little band was just as affected as the rest of them.
“That’s what we’re going to London to stop,” said Vera with a firm nod. “That’s our job.”
“My mum wrote when I was in basic training,” said Williams, as he rolled a cigarette, then clamped it between his lips. “Said whatever we think we know about the Blitz, it was worse. People buried under buildings. Whole neighborhoods bombed off the face of the earth.”
“Oh . . .” Nigella whispered softly, the pain in her voice easy to hear.
“And then even when people think they’re safe in a shelter, you never know,” Williams continued. “Look at Columbia Road in Shoreditch. Bomb went straight down an air shaft of a shelter. Killed entire families.”
“Lay off, Williams,” said Hatfield, as Lizzie shot Williams a hard look and looped an arm around Nigella’s shoulders. It only made the girl tuck her chin further into her chest.
“Sorry, Nigella,” said Williams with a small, crooked smile. “I read too many papers.”
“I know Bombardier Barker said we need to be tough, but all of those children,” said Nigella.
“I know, pet,” cooed Lizzie. “I know.”
None of them spoke again until the train shuddered to a stop at the platform and the car doors were thrust open, the sound like a gasp of relief. Louise checked the letter from Paul that had come along with one from Kate and another from Da just before they’d loaded up to head to the station. She hadn’t had a private moment to read any of them yet, but there was comfort knowing Paul’s was tucked securely in her jacket pocket, a piece of him protecting her.
As Louise stepped off the train, her kit bag slid on her back, sending her off-balance. She grabbed for one of the long metal handles on the side, but another force swept her back on her feet. She looked down and found a man’s hand around her waist. Glancing back, she saw Cartruse shoot her a rueful grin.
“Can’t have one of our predictors out of this war with a broken arm before she even gets to London.”
She nodded, and he set her down. Straightening her cap, she readjusted the straps on her shoulders and marched into the station with the others to wait for their train to London.
In basic training, Louise had been deeply jealous of the women who could drop off to sleep at a moment’s notice. The most she’d ever been able to manage was to doze in a strange limbo, not entirely awake and yet not sleeping. It was in one of these states, lulled yet kept awake by the methodical rocking of the London train, that she felt the first rays of dawn come through the windows as they approached the city. She rubbed the sleep from her eyes, patted her hair into place, and craned her neck to look out the window.
A tall plume of angry gray smoke billowed to the east, scenting the air like a campfire, except a campfire would’ve offered comfort. Mixed in this smoke was the acrid, harsh smell of metal, chemicals, and other things she’d rather not think of.
As the train rolled on, she saw not just buildings with partially collapsed walls or missing roofs. What had once been entire blocks were now nothing more than smashed bricks and wood lying in a tangled heap in the middle of the streets. Between gaps in the buildings, she saw an ambulance swerve hard to the right to avoid a crater left by a bomb, and women in tin hats with long brown coats would appear in the hazy light. They were the air raid wardens she’d read so much about. Armed with nothing more than their helmets and a healthy dose of courage, they patrolled the streets, ensuring the blackout was done so no light shone through windows and helped the Germans.
From the seat across from her, with his hat still pulled down over his eyes, Cartruse said, “Won’t be easy being here.”
“No, it won’t,” she agreed, wondering for the first time since they’d been told they were coming to London if they were ready. They’d improved so much in training that they’d all arrogantly thought their one little unit could make a huge difference, but faced with the extremity of the destruction to the city, it was hard not to wonder if there was anything left to save.
“Williams was right, even if he goes about it in the wrong way,” said Cartruse.
“I know, but does it really do anyone any good—”
“Doesn’t it, though? Hearing about why we’re all in the middle of this bloody war.” He paused. “I’m sorry for cursing.”
She laughed softly, mindful of not waking the others. “We’re about to shoot planes down together. You can say ‘bloody,’ Cartruse. And it is a bloody war.”
“I’m from London, you know,” he said, turning his head to look out the window she’d been gazing out of.
“No, I didn’t.”
In truth, she hardly knew anything about him, because he hadn’t exactly been forthright with details. Instead, he’d stood aloof, smoking away and shaking his head at their mistakes until finally they’d made fewer of them. Now, every once in a while, they would all get a “Good job” from him, but little else.
“Where did you grow up?” she asked.
“Over the river in Putney. It’s seen its share of bombing, just like everywhere,” said Cartru
se. “We’ve been lucky so far. No damage except a few broken windows, but my mum was a wreck the last time I came home on leave. A house four streets over took a direct hit.”
“We saw some air raids around Haybourne, but they were hardly anything like this,” said Louise.
“It’s going to be worse than any of us expected. We’ll need to be ready,” he said with a shake of his head.
They were going to be stationed in an area of London that had seen some of the worst bombing. Even though the newspapers never showed bodies and the message from the government was one of pulling together and soldiering on, it was impossible to avoid the murmurs. East London had been devastated, and although the bombing wasn’t as fearsome now that the Blitz was over, the Luftwaffe still flew, trying to hit strategic locations throughout the city. Like the Woolwich Depot they would be defending, with its rota of trains coming in to pick up carriage loads of munitions.
“Well then,” she said, pulling her shoulders back, “we will.”
He grunted, touched the brim of his cap, and crossed his arms to try to sleep just a little more before they made it to the depot.
11
CARA
It had been three weeks since the trip to dispose of Lenora Robinson’s estate, and Cara had been run off her feet sorting, listing, and shipping the contents of the house. And it looked as though it was only going to become busier.
Just that day, the phone on Jock’s massive mahogany desk had trilled, and after a few minutes he’d walked out of his office and said, “I hope you enjoy the Cotswolds, Miss Hargraves. We’ve an appointment at Summerson House in Fairford next Monday morning.”
“Another estate?”
His eyes twinkled. “That of a Mr. Nigel Egerton. His father, Bernard Egerton, was a popular Edwardian landscape painter, but his work fell out of fashion in the thirties. Mr. Nigel Egerton’s son tells me that his father left him the bulk of the contents of his grandfather’s studio. Sharpen your skills, Ms. Hargraves, and remember: F-S-P.”
Then Jock had marched out, announcing that he was going out for a celebratory pastry and cappuccino. When he’d returned, he’d placed a steaming cup of Earl Grey on her desk.
It had been a good day.
At five, she slung her purse over her shoulder and called out, “I’m visiting my gran today, so I’m off.”
“Give Mrs. Warren my regards,” said Jock.
On the street, Cara checked her phone. She had more email notifications than she wanted to think about, as well as a handful of texts from Nicole, her old colleague Monica from the events and marketing firm, and a couple of London friends. She was just about to answer Nicole when a notification flashed up. It was from Liam. She’d given him her number after they’d run into each other at the pub just in case he needed to reschedule their diary investigation dinner. That he’d actually used it warmed her.
Making progress on our mystery. Think I can connect some dots for you.
Her pulse kicked up as she fired back a quick response:
What did you find?
Almost immediately he started typing:
Best to tell you in person. Fancy stopping by my office?
She stared at the phone. Going to his office felt intimate, like crossing a barrier she’d spent so much time erecting. It had been necessary after Simon. She’d pulled in on herself, walling herself off from any more hurt as she processed what he’d done and accepted the fact that—even without his betrayal—she’d fallen out of love with him long ago.
She shook her head. She was being ridiculous. Liam wasn’t her ex-husband. He was just her neighbor, offering to help her with a project because he was kind and as curious as she was. That she liked him . . . Well, she didn’t really know what to think about that. Their dinner together could’ve been an unmitigated disaster, awkward and stilted, because she’d felt awkward and uncertain. Instead, he’d made her laugh and she’d relaxed—even enjoyed their dinner-but-not-a-date.
Taking a deep breath, she messaged back:
Tell me where to go.
Cara climbed the creaking, carpeted stairs to the second floor of Salisbury House, where Liam had his office on campus. The receptionist downstairs, a young woman with spiky pink hair and doe eyes, had told her that he might still be with a student. Sure enough, when Cara approached the office with a brass doorplate that read “L. McGown,” she could see a young woman scribbling furiously in a notebook as she sat across from Liam.
“It’s an issue of trying to do too much with such a limited amount of space,” he said. “What you have is a topic for a graduate thesis. What you need is a focused topic for a research paper.”
“There’s so much to be written about the role of women in the church during this time,” said the girl, pushing up her cat-eye glasses.
Cara heard Liam’s chair creak, and although she couldn’t see him, it was easy to imagine him leaning back, hands laced behind his head as he eyed this ambitious student.
“Then, Miss Okafor, I think you’ve hit on something. Refine your ideas a bit further and hone your argument, and you’ve got a head start on a chapter for your final thesis. Not bad for your first week back at Barlow.”
The student began gathering up her things, so Cara rapped on the door frame. Liam looked up, a smile spreading over his lips when he spotted her.
“You’re here already,” he said.
“The shop is just in the center of town. Is now a good time?” She glanced from him to Miss Okafor.
“Yes, yes. Let me know if you have any further questions,” he said to his student.
Cara stepped back to let the young woman out and then slipped inside the warm, comfortable office. There were already little personal touches: a photograph of him with three other men on top of a snow-covered mountain, a black baseball cap with an orange bill and a stylized “SF” embroidered in the same shocking color, a stack of Moleskine notebooks teetering on the edge of the desk. Every inch of wall space was taken up by already-filled bookcases, and his desk was a study in controlled clutter. Liam looked happy here, she decided. At home.
“Close the door, would you?” he asked as he flicked on the plug for an electric teakettle set up on a bookshelf. “If it’s open, students tend to come crashing in. Tea?”
“Yes, please. I’m surprised you’re already seeing students. I thought lectures only just started.”
“They did,” he said, dropping a tea bag into a blue stoneware pot with a chipped spout. “My predecessor left me some notes on some of his stars, and Miss Okafor was among them. She has ambitions to get her doctorate one day.
“Now . . .” He let his hands hover over the stacks of paper before snatching up a manila folder. “Here we are. I still haven’t identified who our mystery diarist was, but we’re closer. How far are you in your reading?”
She laughed. “When you ask it like that, I feel like I’m back in school.”
The tips of his ears turned pink. “Sorry, force of habit.”
“It’s okay. I liked it,” she said, before blushing herself, because the way she said it made it sound as though she liked him as well. Quickly she added, “When I fell asleep reading yesterday, her section had just arrived in London.”
He nodded. “Then you’ll already know that the white shoulder lanyard in our girl’s photo means that she was attached to the Royal Artillery as part of the Ack-Ack Command. Those mixed batteries were sent all over Britain and the Continent at various stages in the war, and the ones sent to London would’ve been in place to try to defend key depots, artilleries, and factories, as well as the East London docks.”
“She said she was stationed at the Woolwich Depot,” said Cara.
He nodded. “South of the Thames. It was one of the key distribution points for munitions to and from the factories operating in that area of London, not to mention for ferrying troops to and from the capital. It sustained serious damage during the first stages of the Blitz in September 1940 and was hit several times afterward. As
you can imagine, it was a valuable asset for the British, so the Luftwaffe did its best to blow it up.”
“She names some of the other women in her unit. If we can find them in the ATS or RA records, we should be able to find her through process of elimination, right?”
“You read my mind,” said Liam, spinning in his chair to pour boiling water into the teapot as soon as the kettle clicked off. “If there’s one thing the military is good at, it’s keeping personnel records. My colleague Felix is on sabbatical doing some research for a book at the Imperial War Museums’ archives. He drove a hard bargain, but he said he’ll look for us.”
“What did you offer in return?” she asked.
“I’m picking up one of his Western Civ rotations next year,” said Liam cheerfully. “Now, about Paul, our flier. Finding him may prove a little more straightforward. Coastal Command had four Pauls on base at Trebelzue in February 1941. Sergeant Paul Stephen Jackson. Flight Lieutenant Paul Edward Bolton. Flight Lieutenant Paul Charles Letchley, and Flight Captain Paul Harrow Yarlow.”
Cara frowned. “She said he was an officer, so the sergeant is out.”
“So either Bolton, Letchley, or Yarlow is our mysterious romantic pilot. I’ll see about pulling their service records. Do you take milk?” Liam asked.
She nodded. “Enough to make the tea the color of a ginger biscuit.”
She watched him fix her a cup of tea. When he handed it to her, his fingers brushed hers, and a little frisson of interest fluttered in her stomach. Their eyes locked for a second, but then Liam looked away, leaving her to wonder if there’d been anything there at all.
“There’s something else,” he said, pulling a laptop across the desk and typing in a password. “I wasn’t able to find any online record of a shop called Bakeford’s in Cornwall, so I reached out to a local historian.” He clicked the trackpad a few times. “No email back yet, but we’ll keep our fingers crossed.”
She looked down at her perfect cup of tea with just the right amount of milk, suddenly a little overwhelmed at his enthusiasm and all he’d done. “This is so much more than I’d have been able to do on my own.”